by Amber Smith
A breeze floats through the room, raising the hair on my arms and the back of my neck. I hear people talking down below, from the courtyard of our building. The light in my parents’ bathroom is on. The window was left open—the fan never did work properly, so they always kept that window cracked while they showered. I walk across the floor, the carpet changing to cold tiles against the soles of my feet as I enter the bathroom. All their things have been left out around the sink—Mom’s hairbrush and makeup, Dad’s electric razor still plugged in—like they knew for sure they’d be back, using everything again the next morning.
Just then a quick, sharp bolt of lightning cracks inside my head, splintering along the surface of my skull. It nearly knocks me off my feet. I stumble out of the bathroom and make it to their bed. Hunched over, I hold my head in my hands, pulling my stupid JACKIE’S hat off slowly, my hair snagging as it tugs my ponytail loose. I let myself lie down on my back, my legs dangling over the side. I close my eyes. Just a second, I tell myself. Only until the pounding stops.
Someone shouting “God—fuck—dammit, Brooke!” is what wakes me, sends me sitting straight up, my eyes wide open. Aaron stands in the doorway, brandishing an umbrella. “Don’t ever do that again!” he shouts, tossing the umbrella to the floor and dragging his hands over his face. “I thought someone broke in. I thought you said we’d meet outside?”
“What?” I manage, still foggy as I look down at the hat clenched in my fist and remember how I came to be lying in my parents’ bed.
“Do you know you left the door wide open?” he asks, still standing out in the hall, like he senses that same invisible barrier to this room, preventing him from entering.
“Shit, I did?” I ask, the ratio of profanity to regular words seeming to rise involuntarily whenever it’s just us. I quickly get up off the bed and smooth my hands over the wrinkles I’ve made in the bedspread.
He moves aside so I can pass, eyeing me suspiciously. Then he follows me back out to the living room. “So, what are we doing here?” he finally asks.
I shrug. “I just wanted to check on things, since we’re allowed back in now. I thought we could do it together. Plus, I wanted to see you.”
“I’ve been meaning to stop by Jackie’s place,” he says. “I’ve been working a lot.” Aaron always has an assortment of random part-time, sometimes under-the-table, seasonal, fill-in-for-the-regular-guy jobs. I can never keep track of where he’s working or when.
“Thanks for coming,” I tell him, turning around to face him. “Is this the first time you’ve been back?”
He crosses his arms and says, “Yeah.” He takes a quick look around the room, his eyes twitching when they scan the doorway to the kitchen.
“I haven’t gone in there yet,” I tell him, because I know that’s the question on his mind, the fear in his heart—I know because it’s mine, too.
Keeping his arms tightly folded across his chest and his eyes on the floor, like he’s concentrating on counting his steps, he walks slowly toward the dining room. He stands at the entrance to the kitchen for a second, the way he stood in the doorway at the funeral home, checking first to make sure it’s safe. Or safe enough, anyway. He unfolds his arms like he’s taking off some kind of protective armor, and steps inside the kitchen, so that I can’t see him anymore.
My feet begin to follow but stop short at the dining room. “Well?” I ask, growing more nervous, more impatient by the second, but also thankful he’s here, that he’s the one checking it out first.
“It’s okay,” he calls back.
I take the final steps into the kitchen, still bracing myself as I assess the scene, examining the walls and floors, the countertops and the sink—everything shiny, cleaner than ever before, better than new. Wiped clean like my sister’s memory.
“Do you believe her?” I finally dare myself to ask.
“Who?”
“Callie. Do you believe she really doesn’t remember what happened?”
He sighs and leans against the counter, bringing his hand to his mouth like he’s trying to prevent himself from answering. “God,” he murmurs, drawing the word out into a sigh, a groan. Then, meeting my eyes, he says, “I don’t know. I have no fucking idea what to believe anymore.” He cracks a laugh but stifles it immediately, shaking his head. “Do you?”
I shrug, because that’s the best, most honest response I can manage. Then I go stand next to him, and we both stare at the flour, sugar, coffee, and tea canisters that line the opposite counter, running from large to small, in perfect order, like the kids in the picture frame at Jackie’s house.
“She’s not getting any better. I can’t get through to her. I’m trying, I really am. But I can barely get her to look me in the eye, and if I do manage that by some miracle, I just end up blowing it anyway—say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing.”
He looks at me, at a total loss, not seeing that there’s something he could do to solve all our problems. “She’ll get there,” he says uncertainly.
I’ve been crafting a new plan for us over the past couple of weeks, and I tell myself now’s the time to deploy it. “She talks, just not to us.”
“She’s talked to me,” he admits. “A little, anyway.”
I take a breath, try to fortify myself. “I think we need to come home, Aaron.”
“But . . . how?”
“You. Don’t you see it? You’re nineteen, you’re an adult. You could technically be our guardian.”
He stares at me, squinting. “Brooke, I don’t think . . .” He pauses, and because I can’t handle hearing him finish that sentence, I keep talking, try my luck with the honesty card once more—time is running out, after all, the summer nearly over.
“Aaron, I don’t want to live at Jackie’s, okay? Maybe that’s selfish. But I don’t. Not for another day, not for however long this whole thing is going to take. She’s fine. Ray’s nice. The house is perfect, I should be grateful. I get that, all right? But when I’m with them, all I can think about is how we don’t fit in there, how we don’t belong, how we’re these giant charity cases.”
“You know that Jackie and Ray don’t feel that way—they love you guys.”
“We don’t know that,” I argue. “Jackie and I don’t even get along. Besides, that’s not the point. I’m saying I feel like shit around them. I know I should feel so safe and secure, but it’s the complete opposite. And I know Callie feels the same way,” I lie, remembering that convincing Aaron hinges on her welfare. “And I really think she’d be doing better if we were all together.”
He sighs loudly, shakes his head. “You honestly think it would be better for Callie to be here—after everything that’s happened?”
“I don’t know. It’s still our home, isn’t it? I’m just saying we have to try something. She’s not getting any better at Jackie’s. It seems like she’s only getting worse. She acts like she hates me.” I pause, afraid I might be losing him. “And what happens when Mom comes home? Are we just going to sit back and lose the apartment?”
“We don’t know when she’s coming home,” he says, looking at me like I’m stupid. “If she’s even coming home.”
“She’s coming home, Aaron—of course she is.”
“There’s a real possibility that things won’t go the way we think they should.”
“Look, I called Mom’s lawyer, and he said that we could—well, you could—apply for Dad’s social security benefits. That would help with expenses. And you have your jobs. And I’m working now too. And he said that the temporary-guardianship thing can be changed so that you’re our legal guardian.”
“Jesus, Brooke—what are you doing calling Mom’s lawyer about this stuff?”
“I’m trying to figure out a way to keep us together. Because I’m telling you, it’s not working—none of it is working. Not at all.”
He’s nodding, though he’s stopped looking at me and now has his eyes fixed on the floor.
“Please think about it before you say no,�
�� I plead. “You know, I never thought I’d say this, but I want to be here—in my own room, with my own things, in my own home. It’s like too much is changing, I—I can’t even keep up.” I have to stop because I can feel the tears starting to simmer behind my eyes, obstructing my throat, making it harder for the words to find their way out of my mouth. “It wouldn’t have to be like you’re really taking care of us. I mean, we’d be doing it together—you and me.” My voice catches, in spite of my best efforts to hold it together. “Remember, you and me? Remember when there was a time we used to get along, when you still liked me? It wasn’t that long ago.”
“Hey,” he finally says, snapping out of his trance. “Look, I know we haven’t been tight in a while,” he says, pulling me into an awkward hug. “It didn’t have anything to do with you. I wanted to get out of here, that’s all. I wanted to get away from him. Never you.” I can’t help but wonder if he’s talking about moving out or if he’s talking about that day on the roof. “I’m sorry,” he adds as we pull apart. “Maybe I never actually told you that, but I didn’t think I had to.”
I’m relieved to hear him say it finally—to acknowledge the fact of it, that all of that really happened, that he really did turn away from me and it wasn’t my imagination. “No, you forgot to tell me that part!” I say, uncertain if I’m angry or sad, or both. Then an old reflex takes hold. My arm extends involuntarily and I punch him in the shoulder too hard, catching him off guard and sending him reeling backward.
He winces and yelps, “Owwshit!” catching the handle of the refrigerator door, which swings open fast, making him stumble like he’s on roller skates, falling down directly on his butt.
I smack my hand over my mouth and mumble, “Oops,” unable to stop the laughter erupting from somewhere deep in my center. I reach out my hand to help him up, but he pulls me down along with him. I trip over his legs. And suddenly we’re both keeled over on the floor, cracking up, wheezing, contagious, like it always used to be when we were kids, our laughter filling in all the rooms and the empty spaces that were afraid they’d been forgotten.
Every time our laughter slows and I think we’re going to stop, all we have to do is look at each other and we start up again for no reason. My abdomen expands and contracts too violently, sending waves of nausea through my body, which hasn’t laughed like this in years. “Okay, stop—ow, stop, my stomach hurts!” I gasp.
By then we’re both sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor. It feels like something has shifted, like some jagged edge of bedrock in our foundation has just now settled into place, and perhaps, at last, we’ve reached a cease-fire in our ongoing cold war.
He sighs as he extends his arm toward me, holding his hand with his pinkie sticking out. It takes me a moment to understand the meaning of this gesture, uncertain what exactly we’re pinkie-swearing over. This is another thing we haven’t done in years—I guess somewhere along the way we must have learned that pinkie promises were not, in fact, the most binding of agreements.
“What?” I ask, squinting at him.
“Come on.” He tips his head toward the space between us, extending his arm a little farther. As I reach my hand out and lock my pinkie finger with his, he looks me in the eye, no trace of playfulness in his voice when he says, “I’m in.”
FALL
ARTIFACTS
JACKIE CAME THIS MORNING armed with muffins and pastries, coffee, juice, and old cardboard boxes from the shop that previously contained bulk shipments of things like napkins and paper cups, plastic eating utensils, and coffee beans. It’s the very last weekend before school starts up, and Carmen and Jackie have been here all day helping us get the apartment in order, getting our things moved back in and making room for Aaron in our parents’ room.
I pull on the string that hangs from the ceiling of their closet and step inside as the light flickers on. Mom’s dresses and blouses and skirts take up at least two thirds of the space. Her shoes are laid out on the floor, left and right, in two neat rows. On the other side are Dad’s clothes, his uniforms lined up one after the other. I reach out and run my fingers along the sleeve of one of the black police shirts he wore every day. I carefully press my face against the starchy fabric, realizing that this is the closest I’ve come to hugging my father since I was in elementary school, and it’s the closest I’ll ever come again. Then, like a reflex, I stretch my arms wide and gather all my mom’s clothes up at once and fall into them, breathing her in, missing her so much it feels like she’s the one who died.
“Oh!” Jackie says, suddenly standing behind me.
I turn around, letting go of the clothes so abruptly one of Mom’s dresses slides off the hanger, the entire wardrobe left swinging back and forth on the rod.
“I’m sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” she says, holding out a stack of garment bags folded over her arm. “I was just bringing you these.”
“Thanks.” I take them from her and lay them down on the bed. Then I scan the room, trying to devise a plan for how to go about clearing the jewelry and spare change from the tops of their nightstands, how to empty the dresser drawers, and then there’s the perfume and cologne and makeup and toothbrushes in the bathroom. It has to be done, but as I run my fingers over these mundane items, they feel more like artifacts, remains of another life and another time, that should not be disturbed.
Jackie was against the whole thing, naturally. But Aaron and I went to see Mom and we explained everything. She heard us out, and while she didn’t seem particularly thrilled with the idea either, I don’t think she had the energy to debate the issue. She looked back and forth between us, lost in her thoughts. Then she shook her head and said, “I don’t know. You kids do what you think is best for everybody. I don’t know,” she repeated. “Not anymore.”
“How about I help you in here?” Jackie says, looking around the room at everything that still needs to be done.
Also lacking the energy to debate the issue, I tell her, “Sure.”
We’re all at it for hours; small fragments of conversation punctuate the time, bringing us out of our minds and back into the present for a reprieve. We manage to box things up we won’t be needing. I make so many trips up and down the stairs to our tiny storage unit in the basement that my legs begin to feel like putty.
The last remnants of daylight are streaming in through the open windows, painting a band of gold light across the living room wall. Jackie has postponed leaving for as long as humanly possible. She stands in the living room clutching her purse, reminding us for the thousandth time: “Your mother agreed to this on a trial basis. I’m only twenty minutes away, if you need anything—really, anything. And I’m going to be checking in. I’ll be a pain in your ass,” she tells us, wagging her finger.
“We know. Thank you for everything, Jackie,” Aaron tells her.
“Bye, Callie,” Jackie calls across the room.
Callie raises her hand and waves. Another small victory for us all.
“And, Brooke,” she says, directing her attention at me. “See you tomorrow for your shift?”
I nod.
At last she leaves. I think we all take her exit as the cue we’ve been waiting for, the one that allows us to cave into our exhaustion. We each find a place to sit, simultaneously. Me on the floor, Carmen on one end of the couch and Callie on the other, and Aaron in the armchair that used to be Dad’s spot. It feels wrong to see Aaron sitting there—and maybe he feels it too, because he sits there for only a second before he sinks down to the floor with me.
Carmen’s been making polite small talk with me all day, but she’s been acting like Aaron is invisible. Which means they’re in some stage of fighting; I can’t tell if it’s the beginning or the end.
“So, Brooke,” Carmen says, breaking up the groggy silence that’s washed over us. “Getting excited about school?”
“I guess!” I say it with the same level of enthusiasm as if I’d said, Yes, absolutely! I can’t wait. But the thing is, I’m not excited.
I’m glad, sure. This was never about excitement. It was about strategy, about creating a way for me to exit, to leave, to get out. I can tell from her puzzled expression that my answer wasn’t good enough. So I try again. “I mean, yeah. Yes,” I repeat. “I’m excited.”
That earns me a smile.
“And, Callie, how ’bout you, babe?” Carmen says, louder. “How’s your summer been?”
She’s been talking more and more every day since we decided on coming home, but Aaron and I sit up straighter, silent as we wait to see what will happen. Callie stares at the coffee table, her face unchanging, as if she hasn’t heard, her arm dangling off the edge of the armrest, too still. And just when it seems like one too many seconds have passed and she isn’t going to answer, we hear the two most marvelous words pass across her lips: “Fucking hot.”
Aaron and I share a triumphant smirk—of course no one is going to reprimand her use of the f-word.
“That’s for fucking sure, right?” Carmen says, giving me a wink. She shifts her gaze to Aaron, who’s smiling at her with soft eyes. She purses her lips, then stands abruptly. “I guess I should get outta here too.”
Aaron stands up slowly and sighs. “I’ll walk you out.” Their footsteps on the stairs fade until Callie and I are alone again.
I open my mouth to speak, but all the things she’s still not telling us sit like a giant wall around her. She raises her eyebrows at me, making her eyes wide, as she crosses her arms, silently asking, What? I walk over to the couch and sit down. “It’s good to be back home, isn’t it?” A stupid, generic question, but it’s the only thing I can think of to say.
She stands and looks out the window, focusing in on something. I turn around so I can see too. Down below, on the sidewalk in front of our building, Aaron and Carmen look like they’re arguing, their voices too faint to hear what they’re saying. Carmen keeps her hands on her hips, and shakes her head as she looks off into the distance. Aaron throws his arms out to his sides, then turns away from her, taking a few steps in the opposite direction. She stares at his back for a moment, then spins around and walks away. When Aaron realizes she’s leaving, he starts walking after her fast, but then stops short and stands there, frozen.
