These Things I’ve Done

by Rebecca Phillips

  “I guess,” I tell her, because what else can I say? I’m the reason my parents work so much. The least I can do is make it easier for them.

  After Mom leaves, I wander out to the kitchen. Tobias is at the table, squirting glue onto cotton balls and then sticking them into an open shoebox.

  “What are you doing?” I ask as I open the fridge and take out a carton of orange juice. My voice sounds falsely bright, even to my own ears.

  “Making a diorama.” He uses his finger to remove some excess glue from the edge of the shoebox. “I have to do an animal habitat for science. I picked a polar bear.”

  “Oh.” This explains the mass of snowy-white cotton balls. “Do you need any help?”

  “No.”

  Something twinges in my chest and I have to force myself to swallow the juice in my mouth. Tobias doesn’t even answer when I tell him to stay put for a few minutes while I go take a shower.

  We don’t speak again until lunchtime, and only because we have to figure out what we want to eat. Tobias decides on grilled cheese and I make one for each of us, piling on the cheese the way I know he likes. We eat at the table amid the diorama mess and awkwardly try to make conversation. I ask him about school, and then he asks me something that almost makes me spit out my sandwich.

  “Are you better now?”

  I clear my throat and wipe my buttery fingers on a napkin. “What?”

  “Mom and Dad keep saying you’ll be better soon.” He picks up a pair of scissors and starts cutting out a kidney-shaped body of water he’s drawn on a sheet of blue construction paper. “Are you better yet?”

  I watch him cut for a moment, trying to figure out what I can possibly say to him. “Not yet, Tobes, but hopefully soon.”

  He glances up at me, surprised, and two things hit me at once. One, I called him by his nickname for the first time in ages. And two, his eyes are on me and not on his hands, where they should be when he’s using a pair of sharp kitchen shears instead of the safety scissors he’s supposed to be using.

  Like everything else horrible, it happens in slow motion, yet quick as a blink. The scissors slip and collide with the index finger of his left hand. Blood immediately spurts out, rolling down his hand, dripping on the table, spattering the cotton balls and construction paper and the leftover crusts of his sandwich.

  Tobias drops the scissors and screams.

  My throat aches to do the same, scream and scream until someone comes, someone who can deal with this. Someone who can act quickly and confidently instead of sitting here like a statue, too stunned to even move. But no one is coming, and all my brother has right now is me.

  “Tobias,” I say, but my voice is too weak to carry over his panicked crying. So I say it again, louder, and the force behind it propels me out of my chair and over to his. As I get closer, I can see the skin on his finger, gaping wide like a mouth. The copper tang of blood hits my nostrils and I hold my breath, willing myself not to faint.

  “I want Mom,” Tobias wails, staring wide-eyed at his sliced finger.

  Instinctively, I grab a clean dishtowel from the drawer beside the sink and fold it into a thick rectangle, then wrap it around his finger. He flinches, which makes me flinch, but I keep going, pressing the cloth snugly against the cut.

  “Hold that there so I can call Mom,” I tell him, snatching my cell off the table. “And keep your hand up high, okay? It’ll help with the bleeding.”

  Mom doesn’t pick up, and my call goes to voice mail after a few rings. I hang up and try Dad, but his voice mail kicks in after only one ring, which probably means he’s precariously balanced on a high roof somewhere, unable to take calls. I try Mom again, anxious sweat gathering along my hairline as I wait. When she doesn’t answer the second time, or the third, I take a deep breath, try to ignore my rising panic, and force myself to think.

  Tobias needs stitches. That much I’m sure of. Stitches require a doctor, and seeing a doctor requires a trip to the hospital. But how do we get there? It’s too far to walk, and I don’t have any cash for a taxi. A cut finger isn’t serious enough for an ambulance, even with all this blood. The bus takes too long, and even if I did have my license, I don’t have access to a car.

  The only option left is asking someone to drive us.

  “Dara?”

  Ethan’s voice sets off a blast of conflicting emotions inside me—relief and confusion laced with sharp pangs of longing. We haven’t seen or spoken to each other since I walked out of his house four days ago, interrupting a conversation that begged to be finished. And unlike the first time I walked out on him, on New Year’s Day, he hasn’t attempted to reach out to me even once. I know he’s probably just giving me time to think and figure things out on my own, but his absence still hurts. Missing him is an ache that never subsides, not even now, when my mind is overwhelmed with urgency.

  Finding my voice, I tell him about the scissors and Tobias’s finger and my inability to get ahold of my parents. He’s silent through it all, listening and evaluating.

  “What do you need?” he asks when I’m through.

  I glance at Tobias. He’s still sitting at the table, his wounded hand exactly where I told him to position it, raised above his heart. His scared blue eyes are fastened on me, waiting for me to make this okay. “A drive to the ER,” I tell him. “I’m sorry, but you were the first person I thought of.”

  A long pause follows, and if I weren’t so desperate I’d probably feel like a total idiot. But there’s no time right now for awkwardness and leftover tension. Not when my little brother’s blood is quickly soaking through his dishtowel.

  “Well,” Ethan says finally. “I’m grounded, so I’m not supposed to be going anywhere in my car . . .” There’s another pause, but this one is much shorter. “Fuck it. I’ll be right there.”

  I spend the entire ride to the hospital watching Tobias, monitoring his color, making sure he’s not going to puke or pass out. My mind is so focused on him, I don’t even have a chance to dwell on the strange, edgy vibe between Ethan and me. I’ll do it later, when my head is clearer and my senses aren’t overwhelmed with blood.

  “Thanks,” I say when Ethan stops in front of the emergency entrance. I push open the back door. “Let’s go, Tobias.”

  Ethan twists around to look at me. “Are you gonna be okay?” he asks, like I’m the one with the gaping flesh wound.

  I nod quickly and get out, then reach inside the car to help my brother. His dishtowel is soaked through again, the blue and yellow stripes obscured with bright red. I wonder how much blood an average-sized nine-year-old boy can lose before he collapses. I don’t want to find out.

  The second we enter the busy ER waiting room, I forget about Ethan and focus on the tasks at hand. First, I get Tobias registered, using the insurance card I keep in a safe section of my wallet. After he’s been triaged and we’re back in the waiting room, I pull out my phone again. No messages from either of my parents, so I send Mom a text, explaining what happened.

  As I’m typing, I dimly notice someone sitting down in the chair next to me. The place is packed, so I assume it’s another patient until I catch Ethan’s familiar woodsy scent.

  “I thought you left,” I say, surprised.

  He shrugs carelessly, but his shoulders are tense. “Figured I’d keep you company while you wait.”

  Looking at him, it occurs to me that he probably hasn’t been in this hospital since Aubrey died. The ambulance brought her here, even though it was too late, and one of the doctors had to break the news to him and his parents. Being here can’t be easy for him.

  On my other side, Tobias shifts in his chair and whimpers. The triage nurse redressed his cut with tape and gauze, but even that’s not keeping the blood from seeping through. “It hurts,” he whispers, his eyes glassy with tears.

  “It’ll feel better soon,” I assure him, even though I have no idea if it will or not. “Remember the time you fell off your bike and scraped up your knees? It only hurt for a
little while, right?”

  He nods, bottom lip wobbling. “Mom cleaned the scrapes and put stuff on that made them sting.”

  “But then you felt better, and you were back on your bike a few minutes later. It hurts now, but keep reminding yourself it won’t last forever.”

  He nods again, but I’m not sure he’s all the way convinced. My words seemed to have calmed him, though, and he sucks in a breath, steeling himself against the pain.

  I look over at Ethan, meeting his eyes for the first time since he sat down. “I’m sure my parents will be here soon,” I tell him. “You don’t have to stay. I got this.”

  He holds my gaze. “I know you do.”

  Tobias’s name is called, making me jump. I say good-bye to Ethan and lead my brother over to the waiting nurse, who leads us to an emergency room bed. Tobias settles on the crisp white sheet while I sit next to him in a chair.

  “What are they gonna do?” he asks, going pale again.

  Before I can answer, a doctor in blue scrubs slips between the privacy curtains. He’s absolutely huge, with bushy hair and hands the size of dinner plates. He introduces himself as Dr. Thayer and shakes Tobias’s hand. Tobias gapes at him, entranced, while I wonder how a man with fingers the size of sausages is going to put intricate stitches in my brother’s skin.

  “It’s a clean cut,” Dr. Thayer says as he examines the wound. “A few stitches and you’ll be good as new.”

  Tobias glances at me, terrified. “Can my sister stay with me?”

  “Of course she can.” He smiles at me. “Be right back.”

  Once he’s gone, I climb up on the bed beside my brother. “You can squeeze my hand,” I say, offering it to him. He takes it, folding his grubby little fingers around mine, and all the distance and wariness that’s built up between us over the past few months melts away. I didn’t realize how much I miss this, being his big sister. Having him rely on me for comfort instead of circling me cautiously, like he’s been doing for so long.

  Tobias handles the stitches better than anticipated. For most of it, he’s the one comforting me as I cringe with each stab to his skin. But Dr. Giant does a good job, and we leave with an even bigger bandage, along with instructions on how to keep it dry and clean. And Tobias is smiling, suddenly thrilled with the whole ordeal.

  Back in the waiting room, I’m surprised to see that Ethan still hasn’t left. I’m so focused on him, I almost fail to notice my mother.

  “Mom!” Tobias lets go of my hand and runs over to where she’s standing, in front of the reception desk. “Mom, I cut my finger with the scissors and Dara took me to get it sewn back together. Look. I got three stitches.”

  He holds up his dressed hand, but Mom’s too busy hugging him to give it more than a cursory glance. “Are you okay?” she asks, straightening up and patting his shirt, which is stiff with drying blood. I understand her alarm. He looks like he’s been shot.

  “It doesn’t hurt much anymore,” Tobias reassures her.

  Mom looks at me, standing next to Ethan and watching them. “My phone died,” she says, sounding close to tears. “I didn’t get your messages until I plugged it into my charger. I just got here two minutes ago. Ethan told me what happened.”

  All three of us over look at him, and he stuffs his hands into his pockets, embarrassed. “I should get home,” he says, his eyes skimming mine as he backs away.

  “Ethan, wait.” I follow him and we stop a few feet from the main doors. “Thanks again for everything. I’m sorry if I got you in more trouble with your parents.”

  He shrugs lightly and gives me a small, quick smile. “You’re worth it,” he says, and turns and walks away before I have a chance to respond.

  As he’s leaving, he almost collides with my father, who’s on his way in. Dad eyes him warily as they pass each other, and Ethan nods at him once before picking up his pace. I can’t blame him. Dad looks extra intimidating, his face red from the cold and his clothes filthy from working. He spots us right away and strides over, his boots leaving wet prints on the floor.

  “What the hell happened?” he demands.

  It takes me a few seconds to realize he’s directing this question to me. I look up at him, my mind suddenly blank.

  “He cut his finger and needed a few stitches, Neil,” Mom says as Dad’s gaze sweeps over Tobias, pausing on each splotch of blood. “Not a big deal.”

  “Dara saved me, Dad,” Tobias says, waving his mummified hand. “Can we go home now? I wanna ride in the truck with you.”

  Without a word, Dad lays a hand on Tobias’s head and points him toward the exit. The four of us separate in the parking lot, my father and brother to the truck, my mother and me to the car. As soon we’re settled in our seats, Mom places her finger under my chin and tilts my face toward hers.

  “Your brother is fine, Dara. You did everything right. Okay? No one is mad at you.”

  I think of my father, glaring at me like I purposely sliced my brother’s skin myself, and something in me snaps. “Yeah, right. Dad’s mad at me. He’s been mad at me since I came back from Aunt Lydia’s. I know he didn’t want me to come home, but how long is he going to hate me for it?”

  Mom pulls back a little, color rising in her cheeks. “Dara,” she says firmly. “Your father does not hate you. How can you even think that?”

  “I heard you guys, months ago. Fighting in the kitchen. I heard Dad say I should’ve stayed there, graduated at Somerset Prep. He didn’t want me to come back.”

  Her mouth twitches and she fusses with her scarf, adjusting it against the front of her coat. “Yes, he said that,” she admits. “But of course he wanted you to come home. He just didn’t think you were ready. He thought staying away would be best for you.”

  I shake my head, unconvinced. She can’t deny what I heard with my own ears.

  “Listen,” Mom says, leaning toward me again. “You have to understand something about your father. He’s a fixer. He fixes things for a living, but he can’t fix you. He can’t make everything better for you, Dara, and that eats him up inside. He loves you and your brother more than anything in the world, and watching you suffer makes him feel frustrated and helpless.” She smooths my hair, tucking it behind my ear. “Try cutting him some slack, okay? He was just scared for Tobias. He knows it wasn’t your fault, and you shouldn’t blame yourself either.”

  She’s not going to let it go until I agree with her, so I force myself to nod. Still, I can’t help beating myself up just a little. “I shouldn’t have let him use those scissors.”

  “True.” She faces forward and starts the car. “But it still could’ve happened to anyone. It could’ve happened to me or his teacher or even your father. Remember when Tobias was a baby and he fell off the couch while I was changing him? I took my eyes off him for one second to get the diaper cream, and the next thing I knew he was on the floor, screaming. I thought I gave him brain damage or something. It took me months to forgive myself.”

  I do remember. He ended up in the ER for that one too.

  “Mistakes happen,” she continues, turning back to me. “We can hate ourselves for them all we want, but it doesn’t help anything. It just ends up hurting us too.”

  My anger dissolves as fast as it arrived and all of a sudden I’m crying. Mom gathers me into her arms and holds me tight as big, gasping sobs shudder through my body. I’m not sure if I’m crying because of her words or because of my father or because the stress of the day chose this exact moment to catch up with me. Maybe it’s none of those things. Maybe it’s everything at once. All I know is, it feels good to finally let go.

  twenty-nine

  Senior Year

  TOBIAS BURSTS INTO MY ROOM LATE SUNDAY morning while I’m still in bed to show me his finger in between dressing changes. He seems fascinated by its gruesomeness.

  “You were really brave, Tobes,” I tell him, remembering how still he sat in the hospital, his eyes staring resolutely ahead while his fingers stayed locked around mine.


  “So were you,” he says, flashing his big-toothed grin. He hasn’t smiled at me like that in so long, the sight of it now makes me want to hug him. Before I can even think about it, that’s exactly what I’m doing. I breathe in his little boy smell of sweat, kid shampoo, and peanut butter, and something in me unravels.

  “Ahhh,” he yelps, wriggling free. “You’re crushing my bones.”

  “You mean these bones?” I tickle his ribs and he runs for the door, giggling.

  After Tobias leaves, I take a long, hot shower. By the time I’m dressed, my stomach is growling and there are strange noises coming from downstairs. Banging sounds, like metal clanging against metal.

  I shuffle downstairs to the kitchen and almost trip over my father, who’s stretched out on his stomach on the floor in front of the dishwasher with a flashlight in his hand. Various tools are scattered on the tile around him.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, grabbing a bagel and popping it in the toaster.

  “Dishwasher’s leaking.” He sticks his hands into the opening at the bottom and moves some tubes around. “Looks like the drain hoses are cracked.”

  “Where are Mom and Tobias?”

  He lifts himself into a kneeling position and wipes his hands on his jeans. “Grocery shopping. Your brother wants homemade pizzas for dinner tonight, and he insisted on being in charge of picking out all the toppings.”

  My bagel pops, and I’m glad for the excuse to turn away. It’s the most my father’s said to me in weeks and I’m not sure how to react.

  “I have to go to Home Depot for new hoses.” He gathers up the tools, his back to me. “Feel like tagging along?”

  I concentrate on buttering my breakfast, feeling torn. Clearly, Mom told him what I said in the car yesterday, about him hating me for coming home, and now he’s trying to prove me wrong. But then I think about what she told me about him, that he’s a fixer who can repair everything except people, and how helpless it makes him feel to watch me suffer. Seeing me broken probably eats at him the same way guilt eats at me, and there’s no quick cure for either of us. All we can do is avoid being devoured completely.