by Kyla Stone
He looks nothing like how I remember him. When I was little, I used to shadow him like a spy. I sat for hours behind his blue La-Z-Boy when he crashed in front of the television, creating my little menagerie of origami creatures and waiting for him to wake up.
I followed him to the kitchen or laundry room, creeping at his heels. I hid in his closet, crouched among his shoes, the bottoms of his dress shirts curtaining my head. Sometimes I hid under his bed, lying flat on my belly, my cheek pressed into the carpet, trying not to sneeze as I breathed in the dust.
Occasionally, he would notice me. “Hey, Shortcake, you scared me,” he’d say, placing his hand over his heart. “Don’t get lost in there.” He would pat my shoulder or ruffle my hair.
Sometimes I went through his things, dumping out the hamper when no one was around, smoothing the wrinkled clothing, or picking through his drawer in the bathroom.
I explored his pockets, fingering the quarters and dimes, a rubber band, bits of lint, crumpled receipts from meals and hotels on the road. Certain things I tucked away in the top drawer of my dresser: a chewed pen cap, a paper clip, a stale, unused stick of gum.
If someone asked me back then, I couldn’t have explained why I did those things. It was a game, a mystery, the only way I had of knowing my father. It made me feel close to him, like we shared a secret. He belonged to Lena, the same way my mother belonged to her. She stole their love and attention with her talent, her art. All I could do was make useless shapes out of stupid paper.
I stare at my father. He could be dead but for the labored rise and fall of his chest, the hoarse sounds as air grates from his lungs. He’s my father. The only parent I have left. And he’s about to die.
The black hole opens in front of me. Dark, dense gravity pulling me in. I’m teetering on the edge. Then toppling, falling, spinning down, down, down.
I back out of the room and flee the house.
31
Lena
Death is near.
I’ve spent most of the last three days sitting by my father’s bed, holding his hand or reading to him. I sleep curled in the navy armchair, my nightmares punctured by the constant rattle of Dad’s breathing.
His hands and feet are frigid, mottled a sickly whitish-blue. Half the time, he’s no longer aware of my presence. He slips in and out of consciousness, sometimes waking up confused or frightened. Several times he’s called me Eve.
I contacted the hospice doctor. He told me this was normal, a common part of the process. How is death normal? I wanted to scream. But of course, it is. It’s the most normal thing in the world.
When I called Ellie, she offered to come straight over. I declined. Only family should be here. It is what Dad wanted. I can do this, I can bear witness to his pain.
It’s Lux who should be here. She’s a ghost, coming home to sleep or grab food or change her clothes. I’m the one taking care of her cat, making sure it has food and water, cleaning out the litter. I’ve texted and called her dozens of times, but she won’t respond. I don’t know how to reach her.
I’m so emotionally exhausted, I can barely spare a thought for anything other than Dad, other than this slow, horrific process of dying.
It’s six thirty in the evening on Tuesday night. March 28th. Four hours ago, I received the email I was waiting for.
The committee loved my work.
I’m a finalist.
I should be happy. I will be. I know I will be, but now? It registers in my mind and slips away like everything else that suddenly seems meaningless.
I grip my father’s cold hand, staring out the window at the rectangle of gun-metal gray sky. I wait. My eyes are hot and grainy. My eyelids keep sliding like a cool black curtain over my vision. I doze for a few moments and jerk awake.
I examine Dad’s face, reassured by his irregular grunts and wheezes that he’s still among the living. For now. I haven’t prayed in years, since I realized God wasn’t going to come down and bring my mother back to life.
But now I do. I plead with God to make it easy for him, to make it quick, to give him that peace he craves. He’s suffered enough. We’ve all suffered enough.
I lean my head against the back of the chair, rubbing my eyes with the forearm of my free hand. My eyes drift closed.
“Lena.” Dad’s voice is weak, barely a whisper.
I squeeze his hand. “I’m here. I’m right here.”
His breathing is labored, his lips purple. “It’s time.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Tell your sister … I’m sorry.”
“Tell her yourself. Just hold on a little longer. I’ll—I’ll try to find her. She’ll come. She has to.”
He squeezes my fingers, so weakly I might have imagined it. “I wish I could undo … so many things.”
My heart is splitting in two. “There’s nothing to be sorry for anymore, Dad.”
He chokes, then manages to clear his throat, making a gurgling sound like something thick and wet in his lungs. “I need to tell your mother …”
“She knows.”
He closes his eyes. “Tell her I’m . . . sorry.”
I feel loosened, my bones and ligaments coming unglued. My head is wobbly on the stalk of my neck. I thought I’d be ready, but I’m not. I’m not ready at all.
“Your sister … Please—forgive her.”
There’s a roaring in my ears, loud and pulsing and ugly.
“Take care of her … Promise me …”
“I promise.”
“I love you … to the moon …”
“I love you all the way back,” I whisper.
I hold his hand, utterly helpless to do anything else.
An hour later, he’s dead.
32
Lux
“How’s your cat?” Jayda asks, glaring at me with her fists on her hips. She’s wearing white skinny jeans and a thin, tight jacket that shows off her slim waist.
She stands in front of the dilapidated front door of the old abandoned warehouse out on Highway 9. They used to make pencils or erasers or something back in the 80s. Now it’s a place to escape, to party, hook up, get high, and do pretty much anything you want.
I raise my voice over the pulse of the music blaring from inside. “She’s bitchy and spiteful. Seriously reminds me of someone I know.”
Jayda purses her lips. “Whatever. You ever planning to return to school?”
I shrug, hunching against the wind. Above me, the sky is black, the stars obscured by low, ominous clouds. The weather is warming up during the day, but the nights are still frickin’ freezing. “Haven’t you heard? The man uses structured education to turn us all into zombies. You want to turn out like your parents? Like your parents’ parents? I don’t. I’m so over it.”
“What are you even talking about?”
“Going to school is terrible. Just think about it. You sit on your butt all day, listening to people drone on for hours about dates and wars and formulas that are useless to everyday life—any rational, logical person would detest it.”
“You’re seriously dropping out your senior year,” she says, incredulous.
“Label it however you want. I’m experimenting with the vagabond lifestyle. You can enjoy your three hours of homework a night slaving away for a piece of paper. I pass.”
Jayda throws up her hands. “Sometimes you sound really mental, you know that? Like off-the-wall bonkers.”
The wind howls around the corners of the warehouse. I jam my hands under my armpits, stomping my feet. “You gonna let me in or what? It’s freezing out here.”
Jayda steps back. She tucks her purple-streaked hair behind her ears and chews on her lower lip like she’s got something to say.
“What?”
“You should stay away from Felix. He doesn’t want to see you.”
I flinch at the sound of his name. “You aren’t the queen of the world, Jayda. You aren’t his girlfriend either, last time I checked. Unless you’ve already moved in
on my sloppy seconds?”
I don’t wait for her reaction. I don’t need to. I push past her into the fray. The warehouse has been empty so long, moss and weeds and even flowers burrow their way up through the crumbling concrete floor in spring and summer. The first tendrils of green peek between several cracks. Moonlight glimmers through several gaping holes in the roof.
It’s still frickin’ cold even though it’s almost April, but the walls keep out the wind chill. That’s a big deal in Southwest Michigan.
I’m dressed to impress and when I walk into the party, I feel the approval of everyone’s eyes on me, guys and girls. The top I’m wearing is all silvery and falls in glittery folds around my cleavage. I’m moonlight on water, I’m turned all the way on.
Jamal Harris always brings a portable generator, so we have music. String lights are draped along the concrete block walls. I shout, “Hey” to a bunch of people, including Dominic and Owen, and the girl with the shaved blonde hair, Astrid something or other. Then Eden is at my side.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” she shouts.
I grab her arm, squeezing tight. I missed her more than words can say. “You drunk, Skittles?”
She holds up a red Solo cup and leans against me. “I’m mostly sober. Cross my heart. You wanna dance?”
People are already dancing in the center of the room. More are clustered around the keg table in the back or sitting in the rusted metal chairs lining the walls.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it, wrapping my jean jacket tighter around myself. It’s Lena. Again. I’m not in the mood to deal with her. I just can’t.
I scan the room for available guys, but most of the decent ones are already taken. I catch sight of Felix standing to the side of the keg table, a cup in one hand as he gestures wildly to a few of his buddies. Probably explaining string theory or debating the original origin story of Nightwing or Aquaman or something.
My stomach drops.
“Let’s get plastered,” I say to Eden. “Come on.”
We down at least three beers each while we dance to the frenetic, pulsing music. Eden doesn’t have any sense of rhythm, but I try to mimic her anyway, and we nearly choke on our laughter.
I catch Simone staring at me from across the room. She still hasn’t forgiven me. Screw her. She can pout in her corner until the apocalypse if she wants to. I’m here to have fun.
After a few minutes, the warm buzzing liquid flushes through me. It’s thrumming through my blood, humming in my bones. My body untethered, my head light as air, light as a balloon floating up toward the ceiling.
I just want to forget. I need to forget.
Eden bumps my arm, gesturing with her cup in the general direction of Simone. She’s dancing now, her mane of spirals shaking, brown skin gleaming with sweat. A gaggle of guys surround her, all trying to get her to dance with them. But Simone goes into her own world when she dances.
She doesn’t see anyone else.
“You know what that reminds me of?” Eden asks.
“No, but I’m guessing you’re about to tell me,” I yell over the thumping music.
“When anacondas mate, up to fifty males form a writhing ball around a female. The orgy can last up to a month.”
“Geez Skittles, sex is all you think about, isn’t it?”
She ducks her head, her hand fluttering to her face. “I’m just saying.”
Dominic strides up to us and slips his arm around my shoulder. He smells like Axe spray and cigarette smoke. “Dance with me.”
I motion toward Eden. “I’m already taken. You’re welcome to join us.”
He raises his eyebrows and grins. “Oh, a threesome. I’m in.”
Eden has to turn away so he doesn’t see the mortified look on her face. I grab her arms. “Shake it off. Let’s dance.”
We dance through a bunch of songs, until my heart is pounding and the warmth of my body heat drowns out the chill. Dominic keeps trying to grind against me, but I swing my hips and whirl away. There’s no way I’m gonna mess up like that again.
Dominic refills my cup. But it’s not enough. There’s something off. The darkness still skims beneath the surface of my skin. Guilty thoughts flutter flap against my skull. Lena’s unread texts burn a hole in my pocket.
I stop dancing and pull Dominic aside. “Do you have anything?”
He digs his hand into the front pocket of his hoodie. “Wanna share a joint?” He lights it and hands it to me.
I grab the joint and take a long drag. But even this isn’t enough. I need that spinning underwater nothing. “Molly? Oxy or K? Anything?”
He frowns. “No, sorry. I’ve only done Molly a few times. It messes with my head. Dance with me. Whatever’s on your mind, I can change it.”
“Forget it.” I stalk off. I need Reese. I despise him, but I need him. I lean against the wall, the cold of the cement seeping through my jacket. My phone buzzes again. Damn it.
I fumble for my phone, about to tell her to leave me the hell alone.
Only I don’t. I stare down at the screen, my gaze glued to the last text.
33
Lena
I lie in the chair for what feels like hours, my body bent in on itself, my chest heaving. I grieve for my father, my mother, for all of us—for what we were and what we should have been.
I grieve because I am an orphan, abandoned by my parents. Because they were lost to me even when they were still alive. Because I was just beginning to find my father, and now he’s gone.
He lies in the bed. I can barely bring myself to look at him. His flesh looks waxy. His limbs aren’t yet stiff with rigor mortis, but he is a corpse. He is no longer my father. I force myself out of the chair and stumble from the room.
The house is silent and dark, the walls closing in on me. I am completely, utterly alone. Without parents, without a sister. Fresh grief washes over me, sucking me under. I sag against the wall, forcing myself to breathe. My whole body’s shaking, shuddering. I don’t want to be alone. I need to talk to another human being. I need my sister.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and send her a text, another one to join the dozens I’ve already sent her today. I wanted to tell you in person. Dad is… I hesitate. Typing the words seems like some kind of betrayal. But I have to. She has to know. Dad is dead.
I have several unread texts from Eli. He’s messaged me off and on for
the last three days, his words like a lifeline connecting me to the outside world.
He answers on the second ring. “Hey, you.” I sink down to the cold tile floor.
“Hello? Are you there?”
“My—” My throat clogs. My voice comes out in a rasp. “He’s dead.”
Eli blows a mouthful of air into the phone. “I’m so sorry, Lena.”
“He’s just lying in his bed. He’s dead and he’s just lying there like everything’s normal, like he’s just sleeping.”
“I’m coming over.”
“No. I mean, you have Hadley.”
“She’s already sleeping. My mom’s home. I’m coming over. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“No, really. Don’t worry about it. I just—I needed someone to talk to.”
“Just hold on, okay? Hold on.” Eli hangs up. The phone slips from my fingers and clatters to the floor.
Everything inside me is raw and throbbing. I try not to think, not to feel. I focus on the uneven tiles, imagine composing an image through the Nikon’s viewfinder. I can almost discern different shapes in the mottled, discolored squares. I’ve found a top hat, a dragon, and half a face when the doorbell chimes.
Eli doesn’t say anything when I answer the door. He pulls me into his arms.
I stiffen. I haven’t been held like this in years. Instinctively, I try to pull away, but Eli squeezes tighter. He’s so strong, his biceps flexing beneath his sweatshirt as he hugs me. Warmth trickles down my spine, like something deep inside beginning to unfreeze.
Eli pulls back and
peers into my face. “You okay?”
“Thanks for coming. I don’t—I don’t want to be alone. I’m sorry. I know that’s stupid.”
“It’s not. You’re not alone. I’m right here.”
I take a step back, ducking my head so my hair falls across my face.
“Let’s go inside.”
He waits with me while I call the hospice nurse and the RoseHill funeral home director. My stomach hardens into an iron brick. I can’t imagine the long list of tasks awaiting me: calling the insurance company, the IRS, credit card and mortgage companies, notifying everyone of my father’s death, arranging the funeral, picking out the casket.
I slump at the kitchen table, my hands clenched in my lap. Eli sits next to me, a warm, solid presence. Just the nearness of him is comforting.
“Do you think he found peace, before he died?”
“If your father never found his peace in life, he will now.”
I close my eyes, will the tears not to fall. “You believe there’s more? After this?”
“I do. I’m not going to tell you it’s God’s will. Death is never God’s will. But I believe in faith. I believe death isn’t the end.”
He seems so sure. I long for that, for something as simple as faith. Something to hold on to. “How do you have faith, when everything’s falling apart around you?”
He touches my shoulder. “I believe faith is seeing light with your heart, when all your eyes see is darkness. We have hope.”
Right now, I can’t see any light, only darkness. I’ve been frantically swimming in a black sea of grief, struggling not to go under. And now I’m sinking down, down, down into the depths. I want to have faith that there’s more. More than this.
I raise my head, suddenly heavy as a fifty-pound weight.
“You’re exhausted.”
Things are going blurry, getting fuzzy around the edges. “Lux means light. Did you know that?”
“You need to rest,” Eli says. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”