by T. J. Klune
“I’ll dry,” I say, coming to stand beside her.
She sighs and her shoulders slump. “If you must. There should be a clean dishtowel in that drawer. I did laundry last week.”
There is, and it’s worn and frayed, but it’s clean. She scrubs out a coffee mug, rinses it, then holds it up to her face and squints as she inspects it. Her tongue sticks out between her teeth in concentration. It must pass inspection, because she hands it off to me. “Top cupboard,” she says. “By the fridge.”
I take it without a word and dry it before putting it back in its rightful place.
“Why are you here?” she asks after this goes on for a while.
“I don’t know,” I admit.
“That’s comforting,” she says. “Do you often travel hundreds of miles and show up at people’s houses without some kind of thought as to why?”
“Constantly. It’s sort of my thing.”
She stops and looks over at me, cocking her head. “You’re weird,” she finally says. “You’re lucky I like weird.” She hands me a fork and points to a drawer near the sink.
“Very lucky.”
“I’ve never had a brother before,” she says.
“You have two of them.”
“How’s Bear?”
“In general or right at this specific moment?”
She makes a face. “What’s he like?”
I think hard on this. “Like a verbal hurricane,” I finally say. “But in the best way possible.”
“I don’t think hurricanes are considered good things, much less verbal ones.”
“This one is. I don’t know how else to describe him. He’s the greatest thing in the world.”
“That’s quite a lofty proclamation.”
“And it’s not made lightly,” I tell her. “What grade are you in?”
“Sixth.”
“You speak very well for a sixth grader.”
“That didn’t sound condescending at all.”
I roll my eyes. “I was giving you a compliment.”
She shrugs it off. “I like to read,” she mutters. She pops a bubble in the soap.
“What do you like to read?”
“Books,” she deadpans.
“It was just a question.”
“From a strange man who happens to be my brother, who until fifteen minutes ago I hadn’t ever met before.”
“My favorite is Brave New World.”
She laughs. “How pretentious. You don’t have to try and impress me.”
“I’m not.” She’s got a bit of a chip on her shoulder. Reminds me of me at her age. Unfortunately.
“Wuthering Heights,” she says. “That’s mine.”
I snort. “Talk about pretentious.”
“It’s romantic!”
“It’s not romantic. It’s about two fucked-up people who love each other so much they want to destroy one another.”
“Romantic,” she sighs. “And it sounds like you’re just projecting.”
I still. “What’d you say?”
“Projecting. It means—”
“I know what it means. I’m just… surprised you do.”
“I am pretty smart,” she says.
“I can tell. I was, too, when I was your age.”
“But not anymore?”
I shrug. “I suppose that remains to be seen.”
“Weird,” she says again.
“You still like weird?”
“For the most part. Your taste in books could use some work.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“So you don’t know why you’re here,” she says as she washes the soap away from the sink. “And you’re not smart anymore. And you like fences. Anything else I should know? Any diseases that run in the family?”
“Bear and I tend to speak without thinking sometimes. Well. All the time.”
“Because your mouth works before your brain?” she asks. She sounds delighted.
“Yeah.”
“I do that too. I think it’s just because I have a broken filter.”
“Manic, most likely.”
“It’s good to have an official diagnosis.” She steps away from the sink. “Want to see my room?”
“Sure, kid,” I say without even thinking.
SHE SHOWS me her ant farm (“I’m breeding them,” she tells me, but for what purpose, she’s adamantly silent).
She shows me her collection of books and poems by the Bronte sisters (“Maybe you should branch out a little more,” I tell her. “Like, Twilight or something.” She punches me in the arm).
She shows me her poster of Nikola Tesla (“He was so selfless and so dreamy,” she sighs).
She shows me her yearbook. She’s in the Chess Club (“Pretty much the only one,” she says). She’s in the Botany Club (“President and treasurer. I could embezzle dozens of dollars and they would never know”). She’s in drama (“I can’t act for shit,” she says. “But I like to pretend.”). She’s in choir (“Have you ever heard someone running over a bike horn? Imagine that, and you’ll know what I sound like.”). There’s a signature or two in her yearbook, but they’re mostly from teachers. I ask her about it, and she closes the book and puts it away, averting her eyes. “It’s hard to have friends when you’re so busy,” she says. There’s a challenge in her voice, daring me to question that. I don’t need to. I know better.
“It’s hard being the smart one,” I tell her instead. “I skipped a few grades.”
“Yeah, well, I could if I wanted to,” she says, fiddling with her fingers. “I just didn’t want to leave all my friends behind.” She won’t look at me.
“Yeah, that can be hard. I didn’t have that many friends, though. I had my brother. And Otter.” I sigh. “And Dom.”
“Who’s Dom?”
“This guy.”
She grins. “This guy,” she says. “Must be some guy if you get all swoony.”
“I’m not swoony!” I sort of am.
“Totally swoony. Like, boy-band swoony.” She giggles to herself, and it’s a happy sound, a carefree sound. A little girl sound. It hurts. It hurts to know I’ve missed this. That I’ve missed all of this.
“Maybe a little,” I say.
“He’s pretty rad?”
“Very rad.” The most rad ever. He might even be gnarly. “Well, for the most part. He’s not a vegetarian.”
She laughs, long and loud. She holds her sides, and I can’t help but smile at her. She’s pretty, this girl.
“What’s so funny?”
“You’re a v-v-vegetarian?” she asks me, wiping her eyes.
“Yeah. Why? Are you one too?” I ask, astonished.
This sets her off again. “Of c-c-course not!” she howls. “I’m not a h-h-hippie! This is so funny! My long-lost brother shows up and he’s s-s-scared of bugs and m-m-m-meat.”
“Oh, har har,” I say as I scowl at her. “And why does everyone call me that? I’m not a hippie!”
She finally calms. “So, where is he?”
“Who?”
“Dom. Wow. Great memory. Maybe eat more meat, huh?”
“At the hotel,” I say, somehow resisting the urge to give her an Indian burn.
Her eyes go wide. “He’s here? Why didn’t you bring him?”
“Thought I should do this on my own. I don’t know.” It sounds stupid now that I’ve said it aloud.
“That’s stupid,” the little psychic (psycho) says. “You should never be alone. It sucks.”
Oh Jesus. “You’re not alone,” I tell her lightly.
She looks away again. “I didn’t mean me,” she says.
I think quickly. “You have a cell phone?”
“No. Mom says we can’t afford it. She has one, but it’s from Walmart. You can’t even download apps on it.” She says this like it’s the greatest travesty man has ever known. “I don’t even have e-mail. How archaic is that?”
“You have a piece of paper? Something to write with?”
> “Why?”
“God, do you have to question everything?”
“Yes,” she retorts. But she scrounges on her desk and then hands over a scrap of paper and a Bic pen, the end pocked with teeth marks.
“Gross,” I say with a grimace.
“Oh please,” she says. “You’re gay. I’m pretty sure that’s not the worst thing you’ve ever touched.”
I gape at her. She stares back.
“Sisters,” I mutter and begin to write. Once I finish, I hand it over.
She looks down and mouths the numbers and words. “What is it?”
“My phone number. The address of the Green Monstrosity.”
She frowns. “Why would I need this?”
“In case you ever need help.”
“Help from what?”
This life. “Anything. Or just to talk. Whatever you want. Bear and me are here. Anytime.”
“You’ve never been here before.”
“I don’t think we knew how.”
She ignores this. “What’s the Green Monstrosity?”
“Our house.”
“Why is it called that?”
I pull out my own phone and flip through the pictures. There’s one of Bear and Otter standing in front of the house, their arms around each other’s waists. I show it to her.
Her nose wrinkles. “Your house looks like someone got sick and threw up on it.”
I laugh. “Isn’t it great?”
“And it’s at the ocean?”
“Close enough.”
“I’ve never seen the ocean,” she says.
“Maybe you can come see it one day,” I say, though we both seem to know that won’t happen for a long time. If at all.
Izzie holds the phone closer to her face. “Is that Bear?” she asks.
“Yeah. And Otter. He’s kind of like my dad. They both are, I guess.”
She touches Bear’s face. “They love each other, huh?”
“Very much.” And I miss them terribly. It’s only been days, but it feels like years.
“And they love you?”
“Yeah,” I say. “They do.”
Her finger slips and the phone scrolls to the next photo. “Who’s that?” she asks.
“That’s Dom,” I say. “Dominic.”
“Dude,” she breathes. “He could squash you with one hand!”
“Dude,” I agree. “Totally.”
“And he loves you too?”
I turn away as my eyes burn. “Yeah. He says so.” And while I don’t know what I’m going to do with it, I’ll figure it out. No more wasting time. I hope.
She hands me back my phone. “Seems like things are pretty good.”
And they are. It’s just taken me this long to realize it. I don’t need to be here. I didn’t need to come here. I’m glad I did, because Izzie is a force of nature, but I need to leave. It’s time for me to go home. It sucks to leave her behind, but I’ll only make things worse for her. I can’t have that. And I have people who need me. And who I need.
“Look, Izzie—”
The front door opens. “Izzie? I’m home. Do I have any more cigarettes here?”
“Well,” Izzie says, “this is probably going to be slightly awkward.”
25. Where Tyson Says Hello, Where Tyson Says Good-bye
I WALK down the hall, following my little sister. It’s the longest walk of my life.
And yet, even though I’m approaching approach the woman who hurt me so in the past, all I can think of is Dom and my future. Funny how that works.
It’s because you’re strong, Bear says.
It’s because you’re brave, Otter says.
It’s because you’re mine, Dom says.
So just keep on walking, it says. Keep on walking right out that door and never look back. Get Dom and head west, young man. Head west until you see the ocean and smell the salt and hear the cries of the birds above and the feel of the sand below. That is how you know you’re home.
Yes. That. All of that.
I try to remember anything about her. All those little good things mixed into the sea of bad. But it’s all gone. Wiped clean. I can’t even think. I can’t focus. My heart is racing and my skin feels cold, and I know Bear thinks I’m strong, and I know Otter thinks I’m brave, and I know I’m Dom’s because we’re inevitable, we’re all so inevitable. But it doesn’t stop my chest from hurting. My lungs from shriveling. My throat from constricting. The ground shifts beneath my feet. Everything’s bright, so very, very bright. I can’t do this, I can’t fucking do this and I—
Hey, Bear says.
Hey, yourself, I say back.
All you need to do is breathe, he says.
Just breathe.
In.
Hold, one, two, three.
Out.
Hold, one, two, three….
She’s in the kitchen, her back to us. Black pants. White shirt. An apron around her waist. I hear the flick of a lighter. An inhalation of breath. A sigh. Smoke drifts up above her head. She opens a window above the sink. Blows smoke out. It’s too fucking bright in here. It feels too real.
She opens the fridge and stares into it. Almost empty. Closes the door. Opens the freezer. Closes it. Opens the cupboard. There’s a bottle of Jack, half-empty, sitting on the shelf. She stares at it. Takes another drag. Blows out smoke. Takes the Jack down and sets it on the counter.
“Izzie!” she calls.
“What?” Izzie says quietly from my side.
She doesn’t turn “Where’s my mug? The one I use. It’s not in the living room.”
“Cleaned it,” she says. “It’s where it always is when I clean it.”
“That mouth,” she says. “Watch it, girlie.”
“Mom—”
“This guy,” she laughs, and I think I might lose my mind, “came into the diner. Drunk off his ass. Made a mess of the table. Sitting there and just hollering about this and that.” She pulls the mug that I just dried minutes before from the cupboard. A couple of ice cubes go into it, just like I knew they would. “And then he tries to flirt with me, and I say I know his type.” A splash of Jack. “I don’t have time for his type.” Maybe a little more than a splash. “But then he says he don’t care. He’s seen me and he wants to know more.” She snorts as she raises the mug to her lips. “Drove a big old truck,” she says and takes a drink. “Lights across the top.” Her throat works. “Eventually got kicked out. Gave me his number, though.” Another drink. A drag on the smoke. “Who knows, kiddo? Maybe I’ll call him. I deserve a break.”
It’s like I’m five, I’m five years old and nothing has changed and nothing will ever change ever again.
Except there’s a queer sensation in my head when she turns, because she doesn’t fit what I have in my head from five years old. It’s still her; of course it is. I know that voice, even if I haven’t heard it in a decade. It’s like it’s imprinted in my head and I can hear her through the storm, and she’s saying things like, Get me my lighter, Kid, and I have a headache, Ty, keep your voice down, and, Bear, take your brother out or something, okay? I can’t watch him today. I’m not feeling well. I don’t care if you have to go to work! Take him to Anna’s! Or to the Thompsons’! Lord knows Alice doesn’t work. Must be nice, having all that money.
And it’s queer, the sensation, because my mind tries to reconcile how I remember her and how she looks now. A smudged xerox copy covers the original, blurring the lines of what’s supposed to be.
She’s in her fifties now. Izzie came late. She’s tired. And old. Just like the photo. Her dark hair is shot with gray. Her skin sags. She looks beat. Smoke curls up around her face. The tips of the fingers on her right hand are yellowed from nicotine.
Those eyes, though. They’re like Bear’s. And mine. Dulled, maybe, but recognizable.
She sees me, and those eyes go wide. Not in understanding, though. No. In fear. The mug shakes in her hand. The cigarette freezes inches from her face. She doesn’t know who I am. S
he glances at Izzie, who stands by my side. I’m not touching her, but we’re close to each other. I smell the smoke. I almost choke on it.
She gives a little cry. A defenseless animal, caught and cornered. “Izzie,” she says, sounding out of breath and slightly hysterical. “What is this? What’s going on? What have you done?”
Izzie, more and more my sister, rolls her eyes. “What have I done? I didn’t do anything.”
“This isn’t about her,” I say.
“Isabelle, come here! Get away from him!” The mug shakes and spills Jack to the floor. Ash breaks apart from the cigarette and catches a breeze from the open window. It swirls up with the smoke around my mother’s face, like dark snow. It lands on her cheek. Leaves a smudge.
“Oh, geez, Mom! Calm down!” Izzie looks more annoyed than anything else and embarrassed, as if this somehow is her fault. I should have told her to stay in her room. To shut and lock the door and to not come out until I said it was okay, that it was all okay and nothing would ever be wrong again.
“Not helping, Izzie,” I say.
“I’m calling the police!” Julie McKenna cries. The mug clatters to the counter. The cigarette falls to the floor. She goes for the phone hanging on the wall. It’s chipped and cracked. Like everything else in this house. Like her. Like me.
I say, “Mom. Don’t.”
She stops. She doesn’t turn. Her back is rigid.
The air around me is thick.
Izzie sighs.
“What?” my mother says, her voice a croak. “What?”
“Just… don’t.”
She turns. Her pupils are blown out. Her face is white. Her bottom lip quivers. None of this, though, is from sadness, like I expected. I don’t know why I thought it would be. No, this is still from fear. And for a brief moment, even anger. It’s gone as quickly as it came, but I know it was there. I curl my hands into fists to keep from putting them around her throat.
She kneels down and picks the cigarette off the floor. Her gaze never leaves me. The skin of her cheek twitches. She leaves a bit of ash on the floor. Stands up. Brings the cigarette back to her lips. Inhales deeply. Holds it. One. Two. Three. Exhales the smoke through her nose. One. Two. Three.