All That's Left

by Emma Doherty

  Ethan leans over and turns down the music I’ve not been paying attention to. He casts a glance at me. “There are a few people getting together at a friend’s house tonight,” he starts hesitantly. “I thought we could stop by? You could meet some people before you start school tomorrow.”

  I don’t bother to turn my head away from the window. “I’m tired.”

  “Oh…um…do you want me to see if anyone can come up to the house? Then you don’t have to go out.”

  “I’m tired,” I repeat.

  His mouth sets into a thin line, like it’s a personal insult to him that I don’t want to meet his friends after a massive journey where I also have jetlag to contend with. “I just thought it might be easier for you at school tomorrow if you already know a few people.”

  School. My stomach clenches at the thought of it. In the UK, you start school a year earlier than the US, and you finish high school at sixteen. Then you pick four subjects to study in sixth form before going to university at eighteen. I love it. I love focusing on my favourite subjects and not having to deal with the ones that don’t interest me. The thought of returning to high school and having to pick up a full timetable of all subjects angers me beyond belief. It feels like a step backwards, another thing I can’t control, another decision that has been taken away from me.

  Ethan clears his throat, and I realise he’s waiting for me to answer him. I don’t bother to respond. I have no interest in meeting his friends. I have no interest in anything in this town. All I have to do is get through the next nine months, graduate, and then leave this place and never look back. I don’t need his friends to do that.

  He lets out a long sigh, and after another minute, after we’ve reached what looks like the main strip, he pulls over to the side of the road, right outside what looks like the diners I’ve seen in American movies. He informs me that this “Bob’s” place does the best fried chicken in town, like that’s supposed to interest me, and when he gets no response, he lumbers out, telling me he’ll get takeout.

  I watch him walking across the road, his stride long and confident, and it feels almost strange seeing him like this. This is the first time I’ve been alone with my brother in a long time. Things have never been the same between us since he decided to live away from us and move back to the US. When he did visit, our mum was always with us, trying to ease any tension between us, and even at the funeral we had all her friends there trying to take over that duty. Then at the start of summer he turned up one day, telling me he was there to spend his break with me. It was stupid, really; US school holidays are different to the UK, so I was still in sixth form classes—well, I was supposed to be—and I had no interest in spending time with him. At that stage, I was barely even attending lessons. All I was doing was going out and chasing oblivion in any way that I could. He got the message that I wasn’t interested after a week and returned home. That was the last time I spoke to him.

  He swings the door to the diner open, and my gaze shifts back to the road in front of me. It’s so quiet. In London, the roads are never quiet. Even in the middle of the night, there seems to be a steady stream of traffic, and during the day when everyone is busy trying to get somewhere, all you can hear are beeping horns and agitated voices complaining about other people’s driving. I got so used to hearing road rage that I barely even paid attention to it anymore.

  The rest of the street looks exactly like it does in the movies of small-town America. There’s a post office, a women’s clothes shop, a beauty salon, and a couple of restaurants farther down. Then there’s a supermarket, what looks like a bar, a barber, and not much more. I remember my mum telling me whenever she came to visit Ethan, she had to drive everywhere because there was no public transport, which is going to be an absolute nightmare for me. Whilst I know Kellan itself isn’t that big, it is surrounded by similarly sized towns of varying degrees of wealth and status, and I know the high school is actually pretty big because it covers all the kids from the surrounding area, up to an hour away.

  I check my phone, but I still don’t have any messages. No one cares where I am. Can’t say I blame them. There was a time when I was glued to my phone, always sending and receiving messages and pictures. It’s amazing how quickly everything can change and how my phone now sits quiet and undisturbed. I lift my head up, trying to block out the overwhelming sadness I feel, the sadness I always feel.

  I try to block out the emotion, telling myself it’s just because I’m tired and jetlagged, because if I think of everything I’ve lost, I might just lose it right here, right now. I hate thinking how my life has changed so much in such a short space of time and how everything I used to know is now changed. I force myself not to think about it because I can’t do anything about it.

  I’m powerless. So, so powerless.

  A huge banner that’s hung between the barber on the left side of the street and the right where the diner is catches my eye, my eyes quickly flitting over it. It features a huge image of Ethan being lifted up in the air by his celebratory teammates. He’s wearing his American football uniform and has a ball raised triumphantly in his right hand. His skin is tanned, his hair slicked back with sweat, and his eyes are gleaming with happiness as his friends hoist him into the air. He looks euphoric, but it’s not the picture that turns my stomach. No, it’s the date underneath it that makes me want to scream with an anger so intense my hands turn into fists, clenching so tight my nails dig into my palms and I think I’ll break the skin and draw blood.

  The driver’s side door opens and Ethan climbs in, the smell of fried chicken entering with him, and he leans back and places it on the seat behind us. I don’t move my eyes from the banner. I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from it, from his face alight with happiness. He looks so happy.

  He must see where my gaze falls because he lets out an embarrassed chuckle. “Yeah, they put that up after we won state. They love their football in this town.”

  I eventually look over at him.

  “I know they don’t have it in the UK, but you’ll get used to it.”

  I don’t respond.

  “Most of the town turns out to watch the games on Fridays. I can talk you through the rules if you want?”

  I feel like I’m choking, like I can’t get enough air into my lungs.

  He looks alarmed. “Are you okay?”

  I don’t answer him as I try to breathe, as I try to stop the panic attack that is coming, that always comes when I think about the day I lost her, the day she left me all alone. Doesn’t he see the date on that banner?

  “Izzy!” he demands. “Are you okay?”

  “You think I care about you and your friends throwing a ball around a field?” My voice is low and spiteful and defies any hint of the emotion I’m feeling deep inside.

  His whole body stiffens, and hurt flashes across his face before he turns away and resumes the impassive expression he’s always worn when he doesn’t like something. It made me want to kill him when we were little. It has the same effect now.

  He turns the key in the ignition and pulls away from the curb.

  My father is an arsehole.

  Even if you’d never met him, you’d know it the second you saw the house he has in here in Kellan. He’s a living, breathing example of money not buying you class. From the outside, it doesn’t look too bad. In fact, it looks nice, like something you’d see on the cover of one of the interior design magazines Kristen’s mum was always looking through, although this is bigger than any of those houses—so much bigger and totally unnecessary, especially since officially, only my dad and Ethan live here. There’s certainly no need for the stables (which sit empty) next to the eight-car garage, or the servant quarters Ethan points out when my gaze drifts behind the house and I see the smaller structure at the back that is still three times the size of the flat I lived in with my mum. Ethan tells me no one actually lives in it anymore; instead my dad has people come in every couple of days to keep up with the maintenance of the
garden and the house, and there’s a cleaner who comes in other day along with a housekeeper who comes four times a week to cook and make sure the inside of the house is running okay. From the way he says it, he makes it sound normal, like it’s a totally normal thing to have people washing up after you and tidying your things. But then that’s the thing about Ethan and me—we’ve lived completely separate lives the last five years, and whilst I thought that was just mainly where we were living, it’s also been our lifestyles. I’ve certainly not had everything handed to me.

  Ethan parks in front of the garage door closest to the front of the house, in between an old silver Fiat and a brand-new, sparkling, black Porsche. I glance back at the house and assume he must be having some people over after all.

  “The silver one is Maria’s,” he tells me, clearly planning on ignoring my reaction to his football offer. “Our housekeeper. She’s great. She used to live here at the house but she had health problems last year and has cut back on her days and moved back to her old place. She wouldn’t usually be here at this time, but she wanted to stay and meet you since tomorrow is her day off.”

  I nod and unbuckle my seatbelt, reach for my bag, and climb out of the car. I guess I’ll see who the owner of the Porsche is when I get inside. I don’t hold high hopes for them with such a flashy vehicle. I go to the boot of the car and start to pull out my bags, not saying anything when Ethan takes them from me and starts pulling them up to the stairs that lead to the main entrance. It’s not like I’m strong enough to do it myself, and if he wants to act like the helpful sibling and pretend everything between us is normal then that’s up to him.

  He moves towards the door, fishes in his pocket for his keys, and then opens it and steps through as I follow him.

  My jaw almost hits the ground.

  White marble is everywhere in the wide lobby, the sort of marble I’ve seen in European palaces. It covers the floor with large pillars dotted throughout, massive oil paintings cover the walls, and expensive-looking curtains hang above the windows. My eyes scan around in wonder, and I can’t help but compare it to the first thing you’d see when you walked into my mum’s flat in London: a picture of her with Ethan and me when we were three. Here, there isn’t a single family photo on display. The only thing that lets you know somebody might actually live here and call it a home is the life-sized portrait of my father that immediately meets your gaze when you walk in the door. It looks to be a few years old, and the sheer audacity and arrogance of my dad having a painting of himself as the first thing you see when you walk in the door reminds me just how much of a dick he really is. I turn my attention back to the room and see a large table too big to be counted as a coffee table yet too small to be a dining table. On it sit three large vases filled with white roses and chrysanthemums that fill the room with a sweet floral smell, and behind the table starts the sweeping spiral staircase that circles around the whole room. I have to turn my head to see where it ends up. It doesn’t look like a house at all; it looks like a museum or something. No, scratch that—it looks like this could be the entrance to the White House.

  Ethan chuckles at the look on my face. “A bit much, isn’t it?” I turn to him. That’s the understatement of the year. “Come on, I’ll give you the tour.”

  He starts outside, and I’m amazed to see a swimming pool, tennis courts, and what feels like acres and acres of grass leading down to a lake. Outdoor furniture is dotted around for people to sit on, but I get the feeling it’s just there for show. I doubt anyone actually uses it. He ducks back inside and I follow him to the left, walking through room after room of formal space filled with expensive furniture and without an ounce of warmth. It’s honestly like nothing I’ve ever seen before. There’s no need for any of it, but my dad is rich—crazy rich—and he wants everyone to know it. It’s how he makes himself feel important.

  It’s only when Ethan loops back around and finishes his tour in a slightly smaller room with a widescreen TV, gently worn comfy sofas with warm-looking blankets slung on the backs, an Xbox on the floor, and a load of school textbooks scattered on the coffee table that I feel like someone might actually live here. From the look of the room, I realise this is his space.

  “This is the only room I really use,” he confirms, like he can read my mind. “I hardly go in the others unless there’s a party and I’m trying to kick people out.” He chuckles. “A couple of years ago I had a party and my buddy Chris was sleeping in one of those other rooms all day, and I had no idea until he woke up and scared the crap out of me on Sunday night.”

  “Does Dad not care about you having parties?” There’s no denying it—I’m curious to see their relationship together. I want to see what was so special about it that he picked him over me and Mum.

  Ethan snorts. “He’d have to be here every once in a while in order to give a crap about it.”

  I don’t say anything to that, although I think he expects me to. He pauses, like he‘s waiting for me to jump in with bitching about my dad so we can bond over it, but I don’t say anything. There’s nothing to talk about. If he expects anything at all except stilted conversation and money being thrown at any problem then he’s the stupid one.

  “Come on,” he says when he realises I’m not going to say anything, and he holds up the takeout box of food he’s still carrying. “Let’s eat this before it gets too cold.”

  He leads the way through the opposite door to the one we’ve just entered through, and we end up in a large kitchen—a very, very large kitchen, and despite it being way bigger than necessary and clearly incredibly expensive with the top-of-the-range appliances and pristine granite countertops, I find myself liking this room. It might have something to do with the spicy smell of tomatoes and chilli coming from a pot on the oven.

  The second I step inside the kitchen, I’m swept up in a hug by a tiny Mexican woman who is saying something in Spanish that I can’t understand. Ethan chuckles next to me and says something back in Spanish, surprising me. I didn’t know he could speak the language.

  The tiny woman is now pulling me away from her and holding me at arm’s length whilst she inspects me. I try to shrug away, but she holds on tight. She says something else in Spanish, and Ethan takes pity on me. “She says you’re beautiful,” he tells me. “The prettiest girl she’s ever seen.” She mutters something else and he snorts with laughter. He grins over at me. “She says together we look like angels and could get anything we wanted from anyone.”

  This time I do shrug away from her, forcing a polite smile on my face. I don’t like it when people bunch Ethan and me together, no matter how obvious it might be for them to do so. I haven’t liked it since the second he told me he was leaving us.

  “English, Maria. You have to speak English,” Ethan tells her, and I try not to bristle at the fact that he can speak a language I can’t.

  “You don’t speak Spanish?” she asks.

  “Um, no. We did French and German at school.”

  She scoffs like those languages are completely irrelevant. “I’ll teach you,” she tells me. “I taught Ethan and now he speaks so well he can come to my house and speak only in Spanish.”

  Ethan smiles at her affectionately, and I realise he cares about this lady. “Izzy’s way smarter than me, Maria. She’ll pick it up in no time.”

  Maria scowls. “What did I tell you about saying stuff like that? You are smart.”

  I don’t look at Ethan when she says this, but I can feel him stiffen up beside me. This is a battle I constantly heard my mum having with him, reassuring him that his dyslexia didn’t make him stupid and that actually he was smarter than so many people because he found the solution to a problem in a whole different way and he could see things differently to everyone else. I used to tell him that stuff too, back when we still lived together and he would get so frustrated that it took him three times as long to complete his homework as it would me, when he’d get angry when I wouldn’t revise and yet aced every test. His dyslexia isn’t
severe and I know it’s gotten better over the years, but I know it’s always been a source of stress for him.

  Maria turns back to me, a huge smile on her face. “It is good to have you here, Izzy. We have been waiting for you.”

  “Maria’s here four times a week,” Ethan explains. “When she’s not looking after her grandchildren.” He smiles over at her. “She makes sure I don’t starve or run out of clean clothes.”

  Makes sure I don’t starve? He makes it sound like Dad isn’t here at all, like it’s Maria who is solely responsible for looking after him and making sure he’s fed and watered.

  Maria is looking at the takeout box in Ethan’s hand with disdain. She takes it from him and shoves him towards the table. “I made chilli,” she admonishes him. “You don’t need to eat this crap,” she announces before throwing it away in the trash. I manage to stop myself from reacting, but I’d definitely be pissed if I were Ethan and I’d just spent money on that takeout. Ethan looks annoyed for all of one second until she puts a plate of rice and chilli down in front of him and he turns his attention to that. He starts devouring the food immediately, showing no signs that he’s annoyed he’s just wasted his money, whilst Maria places another plate down in front of me. I don’t really feel like eating. Truth be told, my appetite has been absent for the last couple of months, and now that I’m here in my dad’s house so far from London, I actually feel slightly sick.

  It’s actually happened.

  The thing that’s been threatened for months that I never thought would really come to pass has happened. I now live in America. I now live with the twin I’ve ignored for years in the house of the parent I can’t stand, and it makes me feel sick to my stomach.

  Maria clears her throat, and I snap out of my thoughts and see she’s watching me. She nods in the direction of the food. “It’s okay. Ethan told me about your allergies. We spent the whole morning getting rid of any trace of nuts from the house.”