by MC Lee
The sun slanting through the window illuminated the dust motes he’d disturbed as they floated lazily around his head. It was warm in here, airless from being shut up too long. It smelled faintly of her perfume, the scent still clinging to her clothes piled on the bed. She had taken practically nothing with her but the clothes she wore and a few seemingly random tokens of a life she no longer wanted.
I’d combed the house in the days after she disappeared, some perverse part of me needing to know what a person who was about to walk away from everything had decided would be useful to take along. I’d tried to put myself in her place as I’d drifted from room to room, pulling out drawers, opening cupboards, shame spiking as the evidence of her remote inner life was laid bare. She’d taken her reading glasses but not her toothbrush; she’d left the small plastic bottle of Zoloft beside her bed but taken the pack of herbal sleeping pills; she’d passed over all the photos of Jamie in his uniform, of the two of us in our teens, of the few stiff Sears’ family Christmas portraits, and had taken just a single snapshot of me and Jamie as toddlers.
She left her blood donor card, the spare change she kept in a cracked cookie jar, and two pairs of white ankle socks still in their packaging. She left her address book, her wedding ring, and her hairbrush. She left the crushing weight of Jamie’s death; she left her rapidly fading husband, and she left me.
I threw her photograph on top of the bed, wincing at the little gasp that escaped Dad’s lips. I turned my head slowly, taking in the room and all its jumbled contents. We weren’t the kind of people who kept Jamie’s room just the way he’d left it, but I’d managed to create a shrine after all—to my mom instead of my brother.
When Dad turned toward me, he seemed so frail and shrunken. He was only forty-nine, but he looked twenty years older.
“What’s happening to me?” he asked, his voice worn thin and wavering. “Why can’t I remember my own goddamned life?”
“You’re sick, Dad.” I could give him this truth, at least. Something to explain the black hole his mind had become.
“Sick?” For a moment his dull eyes cleared, and he straightened his shoulders. It was something tangible, something he could understand. “Is it serious?”
I shrugged. “It messes with your head. Makes you forget shit….” I trailed off, not knowing how much more I should tell him. I didn’t know a whole lot myself, just what I’d researched on the school computer and what I’d seen on a Lifetime movie of the week. And I’d found Mom’s hidden stash of pamphlets, most likely things she’d picked up at the doctor’s office or the leaflet stand at the pharmacy. “You haven’t forgotten everything,” I tried to assure him. “It’s just a few things here and there—”
“Like my own wife! What else has slipped my mind if I can’t even remember my own wife?”
I choked back Jamie’s name, because if it was lost, I didn’t want to be the one to remind him. For one horrible moment I thought he saw through me as his eyes widened and his nostrils flared, but then the bright, alert look left his face, as quickly as a light switch being thrown, and he was gone again.
He shrank back down, the tight lines of concentration smoothed, and the fog once again closed in. He looked around, confused this time, as though he had no idea why he was here—or even where “here” was. I grabbed his sleeve and tugged gently.
“Let’s go downstairs. Maybe take a walk. You haven’t been out for a couple of days.”
He frowned, but he let himself be led out of the room. I closed the door firmly, vowing to make more permanent arrangements for all the crap that had accumulated there, persuading myself it was because all that junk was dangerous.
We got to the bottom of the stairs, and I tried to steer Dad into the living room, but he resisted me and walked into the kitchen instead. I followed and watched as he pulled open the fridge door and began rooting around.
“Jesus, your mother forgot to pick up the goddamned beer,” he said. He took a step backward and slammed the door shut. “Where the hell is that woman?” he growled.
“She went out to buy some,” I said quickly. “She’ll be back in a few.”
His eyes narrowed again as he stared at me, and I took an involuntary step back.
“A man could die of thirst in his own home,” he said sourly.
He walked out, brushing past me as though I wasn’t even there. Leaving me to wonder all over again which was the real man and which was the disease.
“I’VE BEEN thinking about a second date,” Noah said. He leaned back slightly and looked me in the eye, if not an outright challenge, a really obvious dare.
He’d dragged me to the jocks’ lunch table in the cafeteria, even though I’d tried to dodge his grasping hand and go my own way. Foster had looked up, his expression clearly telling me to move on, though he never actually said the words.
Noah stood by my side, his loaded tray clasped in front of him, and made a statement that turned my legs to jelly.
“Emmett’s with me.”
An expectant hush fell, first over the jocks’ table and then spreading out slowly as heads swiveled and all other conversation died out. It only took a moment to register which faces hardened against me, whose eyes lit up with undisguised hope, and which expressions turned neutral, waiting for Foster to make a pronouncement. I feigned indifference, but inside I was shriveling up.
Foster looked me up and down in silence and then turned his eyes on Noah, who stood unmoving as a statue, calm but resolute. I watched as Foster considered all the angles, clearly trying to decide whether to take the cheap shot and crap all over me, or try to stay on Noah’s good side. The silence stretched so long, I thought we’d stay suspended like this forever. But then Foster waved a hand.
“Emmett’s part of the team, man. Of course he’s welcome.”
It sounded like the whole lunchroom let out a collective breath, and the noise level suddenly spiked as people resumed their conversations. Noah took his rightful place, and I slid in next to him, feeling at once totally alien—and like I was coming home.
We’d eaten our lunch, the whole table gradually thawing until every one of the team had sent me a silent acknowledgment, some more welcoming than others. Our conversation had been carefully muted, until Noah leaned over and began discussing our next date, as though it was the most natural thing in the world.
“I’m thinking practice, pizza, and sneaking a couple of cold ones with the team.”
I quirked an eyebrow. “And I’m thinking it ain’t gonna happen.”
Noah looked disappointed. “Which part?”
“None of it for me,” I said.
He looked genuinely dismayed.
“Come on, Easy,” Cal said. “You know you want to.”
Yes, I really did. But that didn’t change the fact that it wasn’t going to happen.
“Can’t,” I said. “You guys have a great time.” I picked up my tray and dumped the garbage, and then walked out without looking back. It wasn’t a surprise when Noah suddenly appeared and fell into step beside me.
“Tell me what’s going on with you,” he said. It didn’t sound like an order, but it got my back up anyway.
“Nothing to tell. I have to get home tonight, that’s all.”
Noah sent me a sidelong look, so clearly trying to figure things out it was almost painful to watch. I felt my heart sink. I ached to tell him the only thing in the world I wanted was to spend time with him, but I couldn’t bring myself to say the words. I knew he thought I was bipolar. So hot for him one minute and cold as ice the next.
“Can you at least come watch practice?”
He said it with such gentle care I almost puked. I wanted to apologize for being an asshole, to tell him he’d be better off trying to befriend somebody who wouldn’t waste his time, but I was too damned selfish.
I tried a smile. “First twenty minutes, you’ll have my undivided attention.”
His smile was more genuine. “That’s great, Emmett.”
We made it throug
h the afternoon schedule, and I hit the bleachers as soon as classes finished. It was another warm afternoon, smelling of freshly mown grass, and it felt good to just sit quietly for a few moments before the team poured onto the field with their shouting and joking and boisterous, bone-deep love of the game. I knew how each and every one of them felt.
Noah waved when he saw me, his wide smile visible from space, and for a moment life was perfect. I stayed for twenty minutes, pushed it ten minutes more, could feel the yearning to stay singing through my veins as I pretended another five minutes wouldn’t make any difference.
I used to think this was why God had invented Friday night—football, grease from a pepperoni pizza dripping down your chin, smuggled beer out of the battered blue cooler in the trunk of Dave Chapman’s Impala adding a mellow buzz.
When I finally pried myself off the bench, Noah trotted over, pulling his helmet off and shading his eyes from the sun as he looked up at me.
“You sure about the pizza? My treat.”
“I’m sure. Maybe next time.”
He scrubbed a hand through his short hair. “Do you think you’ll make it to the game tomorrow?”
I shoved my hands in my pocket. “I’ll try.”
Noah nodded. “Maybe see you then.”
He sounded hopeful, the same note that crept into Cal’s voice when he extended the invitation, as though maybe this time it would actually happen. The few times I’d been able to come out and watch the game, Cal had acted like the president had turned out, and I’d felt embarrassed and shitty.
I jumped down off the bleachers and gave Noah a half wave, wrestling with envy as he turned and trotted back onto the field. Cal humped over and slapped me on the back, and he didn’t need to say the words because I knew what his wide-eyed look was asking.
“I’m going to try,” I repeated. For reasons that were pretty easy to figure out, I really meant it this time.
I peddled home hard, my stomach churning the closer I got. I knew I’d pushed it, knew I should have left at least twenty minutes earlier. I hoped that Dad had been able to keep it together, but the acrid smell of urine hit me the minute I opened the front door, and Dad’s fist followed soon after.
I saw it coming and mostly ducked in time, but he caught me high on the cheek. His mind might be deteriorating fast, but there was nothing wrong with his muscles, and the punch hurt like a bitch.
“Where the hell have you been?” he thundered. “I told you to come straight home after school. Your mother needs help with the groceries. I’m not running a fucking hotel here.”
The only thing to do was play along until he slipped back into it. I guess it made me even more of an asshole than usual that I hoped it would be soon.
“I’ll just go grab a sweatshirt—”
He shoved my chest and backed me up against the wall. “She’s waiting, you lazy son of a bitch. Get the hell out there and help.”
He pushed me outside before slamming the door in my face. Luckily, it was mild outside because I was only wearing a T-shirt. I wasn’t sure how much time to give him to cool off or switch off, but I felt like an idiot standing on the porch like this, so after five minutes, I quietly opened the door and poked my head around it.
It was quiet now. I heard him moving around in the living room, so I tiptoed forward and pushed open the door. He was standing in the middle of the room, his soaked sweatpants pooling on the floor around his ankles, with a look of such confusion on his face that my heart turned over in my chest.
“Hey, Dad. You okay?” I asked.
His head turned, and blank eyes stared out at me.
“Emmett?”
“Yeah, Dad. It’s me.” It was safe to walk into the room, so I crossed the floor and knelt down, coaxing his legs out of his sweatpants. “Let me get you some clean clothes,” I said. “Why don’t you hop into the shower?”
I stood up and gave his arm a gentle tug, and he followed me upstairs as docilely as a child. I made sure he undressed properly and then I gathered up all the wet clothes and tossed them into the laundry basket. It was overflowing and smelled of stale piss. I knew I’d have to do a load of laundry tonight after I’d taken care of him.
His clean clothes were piled on the chair in his bedroom. We’d both given up using the closet and the dresser. Mom was the only one who’d insisted everything had to be folded and put away after the laundry was done. I pulled out a pair of pajamas and grabbed his tatty robe from the hook on the back of his door, and then I hurried back to the bathroom. He was shivering, with just a thin towel tucked around his waist. I’d thought he hadn’t lost any of his bulk, but that wasn’t true. I could see the way his skin sagged around his arms and chest, and the hollowed-out curve of his belly. I knew he didn’t always eat properly when I wasn’t around in the middle of the day. It was one more way I was failing him.
Still, we’d made it through to another weekend without disaster, and I’d be able to make sure he ate properly for the next two days.
I handed him his pajamas, and he climbed into them. I held out his robe, and he stepped forward, his hand coming up shakily to touch my cheek. I’d almost forgotten it was bleeding, though it throbbed so hard I knew there would be a bruise.
“What happened to you?” he said.
“I walked into a door.” Might as well start practicing the lie. It was going to get a good workout in the coming days.
His fingers unexpectedly slid around to cup the back of my neck. “You need to learn to defend yourself, Emmett. Your brother isn’t always going to be around to look after you.”
I didn’t know where his mind had taken him, but he’d plucked a kernel of truth out of the chaos. Jamie had appointed himself my guardian from the moment I dragged myself up onto two wobbly legs and took my first teetering steps across the green shag carpet and straight into his waiting arms. Though only six years older than me, he’d been my protector ever since. Callaghan boys were tough, and he’d taught me how to fight dirty my second day of kindergarten after Dante Agani stole the cookie out of my lunch bag, so I didn’t need a lot of looking after. But just knowing I could always go to him—no matter what—was everything I needed.
He was the first person I came out to, the only person in the family I ever told. He knew when I was in trouble at school and helped me hide it. He knew every time I was crushing on a boy, and every time I had my broken heart handed to me. He stood between me and Dad and never, ever backed down. The day he joined the Army, I felt empty and afraid, abandoned by the only person who’d ever understood me. He left for a tour of duty in Iraq, and I thought things couldn’t get any bleaker. When pieces of him came home in a body bag, I realized how wrong I’d been.
Dad shook me roughly and then dropped his hand, and something of the old sneer contorted his expression. “Your brother would have kicked ass if anybody tried to lay a finger on him.”
It wasn’t entirely true. Jamie had worn his fair share of Dad’s black eyes when he’d been my age, including way too many that had been aimed at me.
THE BRUISE on my cheek was ugly, but I knew nobody would mention it. Say what you wanted about Whitmore, we all knew how to mind our own business.
All of us except Noah Davis and his family.
I missed the first half of the game while I took Dad for a walk around the block and ducked into the corner store to stock up on supplies. Dad walked slowly, his eyes darting warily from side to side. It was obvious he didn’t know where he was, but he was keeping it together gamely.
There was no point trying to hurry him, these days there was no such thing as doing anything quickly, so I resigned myself to missing the beginning of the game, though I had high hopes I’d catch the last hour. After a good breakfast, I made sure he’d gone to the bathroom and then I settled him in front of the TV. I felt the usual pang of guilt that came with encouraging this mindless waste of time, but it was one of the few things that calmed him. He was engrossed in a basketball game when I slipped out of the house, l
ocked the door behind me, and hurried to the field.
There was quite a crowd, but I found a seat on the bottom bench of the south bleachers and immediately got pulled into the excitement of the game. Noah played really well, with a grace and power that were thrilling to witness. I was so caught up in watching him I didn’t notice his sister until she was standing right in front of me.
“Hi, Emmett,” she said breezily. Without waiting for an invitation, she plunked down on the bench next to me, even though there wasn’t really room, and she wriggled around until I’d moved over and made space, ignoring the complaints from the guy I had to shove over.
“What happened to you?” she asked, pointing to my face.
“Accident,” I mumbled.
“What kind of accident?”
I should have known she’d ask. “I walked into a door.”
“You must be pretty clumsy.”
I turned my head and pinned her with a stare. “I am.”
She looked doubtful and opened her mouth to speak again, but I jumped in quickly. “How’s school?”
She waved a dismissive hand. “Pretty okay. There are some nice people in Whitmore.” She paused for a moment before adding, “Some crappy ones too.”
For some reason, the thought that anybody had messed with her bugged me. “Has somebody been bothering you?”
Hannah laughed out loud. “Nobody bothers me. Especially when they find out Noah’s my brother. I meant whoever did that to you.”
“I told you—”
“I don’t believe you,” Hannah cut in. “I hate bullies, I really do.”
I smiled, despite myself. “You think I’m being bullied?”
She turned her head and gave me a frankly assessing look. “How else do you explain that bruise?”
“Maybe I was the one doing the bullying?” I suggested.
She laughed again and shook her head firmly. “Noah wouldn’t like you if you were a bully. And he really likes you.”
I felt my face flush with embarrassed heat. I didn’t know how she managed it, but she had an uncanny way of digging at my weak spots. I was glad when I saw the teams head back to the dressing rooms, sure Hannah would take it as a cue to move on. Instead she waved a hand and called out, and a moment later a handsome couple was approaching, and I wanted to curl up in a corner.
