by Zoey Castile
They say that you become your parents, no matter how hard you try to avoid it. I did everything I could to delay that. I was top of my class and obsessed with getting straight As. I didn’t date, no matter how hard the boys in the neighborhood tried to mack on me. I didn’t go to parties with my girls, except for one time I let my friend persuade me to go to an all-ages day jam on Lefferts Boulevard where old men would wind up behind girls young enough to be their daughters. Hard pass.
Point is, I worked so that I could get into a good school, and I did all of that. I got into SUNY Purchase for art. By then, I wanted to honor my mother’s memory and make something of myself while also doing what I loved. It changed after my dad got sick, and no matter how hard I tried, I pushed myself to the point of exhaustion and the world pushed back harder. Turns out, no one cares about your grief and your art when there are bills to pay.
I never wanted to be my mother, and here I am, swiffering the home of a rude-ass millionaire who hasn’t left his house in who knows how long.
Patrick texted me last night at two in the morning. He was sorry about yesterday. Thanks for the pizza, he wrote.
If I were back home and a guy was trying to text me at two in the morning with some bullshit apology, under no circumstance would I ever text him back. But it’s not a normal circumstance, and even if Scarlett is my boss, I’m staying on his property and have to make the best out of this situation. There was no way I was sleeping, so I saw no reason to not respond.
I replied: Not NY pizza but good.
I saw him starting to type. Then stop. Type. Stop. Whatever he was trying to say ended up as: I’ll be in my study all day tomorrow.
Me: What do you want for breakfast?
Patrick: Don’t worry about breakfast or lunch.
Me: Scarlett told me you have to eat.
Patrick: Dinner is fine.
Me: Any allergies?
Patrick: No.
Patrick: I don’t like weird flavors.
Me: Define weird.
Patrick: I don’t know. Just make meat and potatoes.
Me: Keep it basic, got it. Are you allergic to salt?
Patrick: What? No.
Patrick: Feel free to use the grounds.
Me: Okay.
Patrick: Okay.
Me: Good night, Patrick.
Patrick: Good night, Lena.
* * *
I ended up having strange dreams about a grumbling voice that yelled at me from the shadows, then followed to the fire I ended up making with instruction from Scarlett. As I finish with the kitchen and downstairs living room, I move on to the room at the farthest end of the house.
I’ve spent so much time assembling furniture for friends that I should probably get a job at IKEA. His stuff is a little more high-end, but I can imagine the delivery trucks arriving and Patrick scaring them away before they could even get to work. I find a box cutter and tear everything open. Packing peanuts litter the floor as I get started on a small bedside table in a distressed white wood.
For a while, I work with nothing but the sound of screws twisting into wood. Then, when I accidentally apply a piece backward and there’s the sound of that screw being cranked out and removed. I don’t dare touch the central air in case it sends Patrick into another screaming frenzy, but it’s hot and I’m sweating. I use a bathroom hand towel around my neck and tie my hair into a ponytail.
As the hours pass, the silence unnerves me. I usually work to music or the background noise of Friends reruns. I grab my phone and search for a playlist. Because I’m particularly homesick, I pull up a playlist of old-school salsa songs. I sing along to the lyrics about men longing for women that left them, men longing for a kiss by the most beautiful girl they’ve ever seen, men longing for youth and their dead moms and their country.
Wow, I never realized salsa songs were basically about men longing for things they can’t have. But I still sing along because these are the songs I grew up with. They’re the ones that remind me of my parents dancing at weddings and quinces and backyard barbecues.
I dust my hands and stand to turn the table over and examine my work. One thing finished and only an entire house to go.
I head to the kitchen to make a list of the things that need to be done and realize I have a text from Patrick.
Patrick: Do you have to sing so loudly?
I march to the bottom of the stairs but I think twice before taking a step. For a second, I consider complaining to Scarlett, but this is something I have to deal with on my own. Whatever this man went through changed him. That’s what Scarlett said. But aren’t tragedies supposed to bring out the best in people? Or have I watched too many Hallmark movies?
I growl to myself and decide to reply in text instead of shouting.
Me: If you can hear me singing then you know I’m still on my shift. That means you stay in your corner and I stay in mine.
Patrick types and stops. Types and stops. It’s infuriating watching and waiting to see what he might say. It stitches anxious little knots on my skin. Maybe I was too brash in what I wrote. Maybe I’m about to get fired for a second day in a row.
Patrick: Can you at least sing something in English?
I don’t bother texting this time. I simply shout, “No!”
With my heart rattling in my chest like a single coin in a glass jar, I return to the bedroom I was working on.
Patrick: I’m saying you could change it up a bit. Don’t you know any Kenny Chesney?
Me: What?
Patrick: Country.
Me: The only country I know is mariachi and banda.
Patrick: That’s not country.
Me: That’s country music in MEXICO.
Patrick types and stops. Types and stops. Four more times.
Me: Oh my god spit it out.
Patrick: Never mind. I’m going to work out and put my headphones on.
Me: Fine.
Patrick: Fine.
Patrick: Where are you in the house?
Me: Room in the far end downstairs.
I hear his heavy footsteps stomp down to the first floor and stop. I wonder if he’s testing me. I wonder if he half expects that I’m going to stick my head out that door to try to get a look at him. After all, part of the NDA says that I can’t take pictures of or inside the house, and it says I can’t go into his room or gym, but it says nothing about getting a peek. That’s the NDA. But test or no, if he doesn’t want me to see him, I won’t. I’ll respect his space even if he doesn’t respect my music choices.
He keeps going downstairs.
I can’t help but wonder aloud, “What happened to you, Patrick?”
I open the box with the bed frame in pieces. I search for an Allen wrench and get to work.
PAT
“Hey, Jack,” I say.
There’s silence on the other end of the phone line and there’s a heartbeat when I think that maybe he isn’t going to answer. Maybe he’s not done hating me.
“Hey, Pat. How’s it going?”
“Just, you know, the same.”
“Lies.” He chuckles. How can he laugh? The accident left him nearly dead. After the surgery that saved his life, he was transferred to the Kessel Institute for Rehabilitation on the Upper East Side of New York City. It’s the least I could do to help my brother’s recovery. At first, he needed ’round the clock care, and now he’s learning how to walk again. And yet, he’s laughing.
That slick, hot feeling spreads across my chest again and I just let him laugh and keep talking. “Scarlett said she hired you a babysitter.”
“Scarlett called you?”
“She calls me once a week,” he says. Silence spreads and fills in the blank, unlike you.
“So, she’s ratting me out now?” I say, trying for light but ending up somewhere in disgruntled.
“Oh, you know. Something about an incredibly gorgeous art student who quit on her first day because you made her cry.”
“I did not—” Did not what? Make
her cry? I did. I heard the way her voice choked up when I yelled. But the thought of her walking in and looking at me made my body react violently against my own impulses. I wanted to scream and run away from her. I didn’t mean to scare her, to drop the glass I was holding, to say those things. “I didn’t know she was so sensitive.”
“People generally are that way. It’s a people thing. Human reactions. Even I know that and I’m a newborn calf.” His words drip with self-deprecation.
“Jack . . .”
“Look who’s getting all sensitive,” he says. “When am I going to see you?”
My mouth is suddenly dry. I can barely swallow each and every excuse that comes to my mind. Because I’m out of excuses. I don’t have anything to do except run and lift weights and listen to my new housekeeper sing off-key in Spanish.
“What is that sound?” Jack asks.
“See? She sings so loud,” I say.
“It’s kind of nice. What song is that?”
“I don’t know. Some Latin music.”
“Better brush up on your high school Spanish.”
“She’s from New York.” I don’t know why that’s relevant, but all I know about her comes from her application. Going to school in Bozeman. Had a ton of jobs that don’t quite make sense. Likes to yell at me. Has legs muscular enough they could crush a man’s head. I clear my throat. “Maybe that’s why she’s so rude.”
Jack laughs. “Sounds to me like the only person being rude here is you. At least you’re not alone in that big old glass box you call a house.”
“That’s our house, too, Jack.”
“I know.”
“No one has been here except for Scarlett.”
“Don’t you think it’s about time you change that?” I can hear Jack moving around, the sound of sheets and bedcovers. Maybe he’s trying to sit up. He could barely move for two months straight with an entire body cast encasing him. “I mean, look at me.”
I’m sorry, Jack. I should say that. I should apologize for not being strong enough to walk out that door and onto a plane. I should apologize for not going to his side. For burying myself so deep that I can’t dig myself back out. I just can’t.
“I’m going to leave her alone to do her work,” I say. “That’s why Scarlett hired her.”
“That doesn’t mean you pretend like she doesn’t exist. She’s not a faceless body walking around your house.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t. You say you do but you don’t. It’s been six months, Pat. You’re not the one laid up in bed. Instead, you’re the one who pushes every single person away. Your boys. Even me.”
“I didn’t push you away.”
“Do you know when the last time you called me was?” he asks, his voice wound up so tight I’m waiting for the snap.
There’s the crackle of dead air as I don’t answer.
“A month ago,” he says. “I remember because that’s the day I took my first fucking step.”
I’m sorry, Jack. I should say it. I want to say it. But it isn’t enough.
“I’ll get better at it,” I say.
“I’m sorry, Pat,” he replies. “I know it’s not easy, believe me.”
How is it so simple for Jack to apologize to me? Why can’t I ever say the words without feeling a great strain coming from every part of my body, like trying to move in a weighted gravity ride at a carnival?
“Go easy on her, okay? Maybe you’ll make a friend,” Jack says. “My PT is here. I gotta go.”
He hangs up and I sit on my workout bench staring at my phone for a long time. I listen to the sound of Lena’s voice for what feels like hours. I swallow the knot in my throat and take the stairs one by one.
I have to prove to my brother that I’m going to try for him. I can walk into that room and look into her eyes and introduce myself properly. Hello, I’m Patrick Halloran. This used to come so easily to me. Not just the part about talking to women but talking to people in general. My mother used to tell me that I had a gift for making people laugh. That ever since I was in elementary school I wanted to be an actor. I’d put on skits for her and use Jack as a prop. That was so long ago it might as well have happened in another life to a different person.
I get to the first-floor landing. Lena is singing and I recognize a single word from her off-key song—corazón. I don’t know what it means but I know I’ve heard it before.
I press my hand over my chest because there’s a gurgling feeling right there. Is that normal? Is that heartburn from the two hundredth frozen sausage egg and cheese sandwich I’ve microwaved since January?
The bottom stair wheezes beneath me and Lena stops singing.
I can speak to her like a normal guy. I can make this living situation better for the both of us. But when my feet won’t move forward, I know that I can’t keep going. Instead, I freeze with the memory of waking up in the hospital, my head covered in bandages and a searing pain slashing across my face, my chest, my legs. I remember trying to move and not being able to. I remember being alone for hours in a dark room with no one there to answer me as I shouted, “Hello?” Over and over again without a reply.
I remember.
“Patrick?” Lena says my name like the wrong note on an otherwise perfect song.
I can see her shadow elongating, spilling out into the hall.
And I do the bravest thing imaginable. I turn and run back upstairs.
LENA
I take a quick trip to the supermarket to get the basics. Scarlet left me cash for incidentals in an envelope. It feels a little sketchy, like money passed under the table, but it’s easier than having to handle someone else’s credit card or front money I don’t have. I get a couple of chickens, ground beef, veggies, and some snacks. When I moved to Bozeman, I brought five supersize bottles of Adobo Goya with me. Ariana said it was an excessive amount of seasoning considering I barely cooked on my own now. Mari told me that it was unreasonable that I own more condiments than I do lingerie, but we all make tough choices.
I clean the place out of its sea salt, pepper, paprika, and all kinds of herbs. Despite everything that’s happened in the last couple of months, the single thing that’s been reliable in my life is cooking. Where painting has failed me, chopping onions never does. Plus, I can blame the crying on the vegetables.
When I pull up back at the ranch, I notice Pat’s shadow at one of the top windows. I’d be lying if I say I’m not curious about his situation. What would it take for me to lock myself away for six months? This house has no pictures of other people. No family. Not even friends. Other than a box of Scarlett’s books I came across, it’s haunted in the most chilling way because the owner is very much still alive.
My phone beeps, and I grab for it after I park in the garage. Because we’ve been trading texts back and forth, I instantly frown and wait to see what Patrick has waiting for me. Maybe I’m parking my car too loudly.
But it isn’t Patrick. It’s Ariana.
Ari: I’m not mad just disappointed. Mom’s turning this place into a nail salon party at night. I can’t even concentrate and the fumes are terrible.
Me: Want to vid chat?
Ari: No, I have to do homework and I wouldn’t be able to HEAR YOU ANYWAY.
I grip the steering wheel and let the flash of anger run through me. It’s like a wave crashing over my head. It pins me in place. For a moment, I can’t even breathe. The thought of my stepmother is enough to get me to turn on this car and hit the gas until I’m all the way in New York. I take deep breaths, each one like swimming to shore in bright, clear water. I remember that Selena wouldn’t make the trip across the state of Montana after the mileage I’ve put in her. Besides, what would I do to my stepmom? Smack her in front of her own daughter? What would my mom think of me? What would my dad? There’s something heavy in my chest that settles like an unmovable stone, a mountain that somehow gets bigger every day.
My phone buzzes again.
This time it’s my bos
s.
Patrick: Something wrong with your door lock?
I type furiously. Me: It’s a little creepy that you can watch me and I can’t see you.
He types and stops. Types and stops. Patrick: I was closing the curtain and noticed you struggling to make the drive up. Wasn’t sure you were going to make it.
Me: This car is a piece of crap but it’s a piece of crap I bought with my very first paycheck. Be nice to Selena.
Patrick: You named your car Selena? Is your bicycle named Justin Bieber?
It’s my turn to type and stop because what I really want to say is HOW DARE YOU?! And you know what? I do.
Me: HOW DARE YOU? It’s Selena Quintanilla as in Bidi Bidi Bom Bom.
Patrick: I have no idea what you’re talking about.
Me: I guess I know what playlist we’re listening to tonight.
Patrick: Great :/
I get out of the car and carry the groceries inside. I’m still startled by how new the house smells. Is it like that with all houses? The apartment we lived in when I was little was a relic from the 1960s in New York City complete with thick white walls, each coat of paint just rolled one on top of the other as families came and went. The floors were hardwood and glossy but still scuffed. A great, giant radiator hissed in the corner of the living room and there were thick iron bars on the windows for safety. It wasn’t much, but it was home. Even when I’d go over to a friend’s house, decorated by Pottery Barn or IKEA or West Elm, they smelled lived in. Patrick’s house has no traces of the old ranch that it was built on top of.
Is that something that just happens when people move through a house? When people pick out paintings and rugs and vases to fill with flowers. When people burn scented or prayer candles and cook and track in dirt and leave fingerprints on every surface. I wonder.
Before I get to work on dinner, I plug my phone into the fancy kitchen speaker system and turn the volume at a medium.
Me: Warning you, I’m about to play music and start cooking if you want to hide in your torture den or whatever it is.