The Homecoming

by Stacie Ramey

  “I live next door.” Emily breaks the silence. “Sometimes I sit for Ryan too. Or I used to. Maybe not anymore now that you’re back.”

  It’s weird to hear someone who never knew Old Ryan talk about New Ryan. New Ryan has a head injury and uses a wheelchair, and New Ryan is in that condition largely because of me. No wonder my family is so messed up.

  “I wouldn’t worry about losing your gig.” I almost add that Mom doesn’t usually leave me alone with Ryan but think better of it. Instead, I say, “Lacrosse is going to be my life for the next few months anyway.”

  “Field hockey.” She gestures at her gear again, seemingly noticing that she’s sweating in front of the new guy, because she tips the rearview mirror to check out her hair and forehead and ends up fiddling with the vents, which blow a ton of air into the car that is mostly warm. Which is fine with me, because the temperature’s dipped since practice ended, and it’s dark. September in Connecticut. Emily blushes, and she picks at the headband she has holding back her hair. She looks pretty, and it kills me when girls worry about all that superficial stuff. God knows I don’t. She turns to smile at me. “You’re not what I expected.”

  “What were you expecting?”

  “Livy’s painted you like a bad boy guardian angel. With all the stories she’s told me, I was kind of imagining a Sons of Anarchy type.”

  “What stories?” I ask.

  “All kinds.” Emily gets a text and peeks at it while we wait for the light to turn green. Her face scrunches up like she’s read something she doesn’t like. She puts the phone back in its holder on the dashboard. It’s white and shaped like that owl from Harry Potter that Livy loves. Emily drums her fingers on the wheel. She looks to me, her eyebrows raised as if she’s expecting me to contribute to the conversation, then back at the road, but I can tell her mind is occupied by whoever texted her.

  Small talk is always awkward. I could take the edge off by contributing some larger-than-life story. Get her to stop worrying about whatever that text said. It’s not that there isn’t a reel of movies running through my head about that time after the accident. I just don’t think it’ll help anyone to talk about it.

  Most of those stories start with New Ryan screaming his head off, Mom and Dad fighting, and me trying to distract Livy. Like the time Livy and I jumped on my bed with screamo music blaring in the background. I cranked it loud to keep her from hearing them yell at each other.

  “Go higher!” I told her.

  “Like this?” she asked as she jumped.

  “Higher!” I shouted. “Higher! Higher!”

  The bed frame broke, but I caught her, and we just kept jumping and laughing. Jumping and laughing. Finally, we collapsed on the mattress, sweaty and laugh-crying until Dad came to check on us. I was so glad it wasn’t Mom. She would have completely lost it with me.

  Sitting in the car with Emily now, I sum up my blatant disregard of the house rules, as Mom liked to put it, for her the best I can. “I guess you could say I wasn’t the best role model.”

  “All I know is Livy adores you, and that has to mean something. You’re a good big brother.” She nods as she says this, as if she’s deciding to believe in the John Strickland urban myth, even though she only knows the hero part of my story.

  As we pull into her driveway, I ask, “You wanna know a secret?” because I can’t help myself.

  The car goes into park. Lights off. Engine off. She turns to face me, an amused look on her face. “Sure.”

  “I had my SAMCRO back tat blacked in when I left California.”

  She smirks. “Knives or flames?”

  “You weren’t kidding about being a Sons fan, were you?”

  “Just did a Netflix binge last weekend. It was serious.” She raises her right hand as if she’s testifying and laughs this sweet little laugh. Man, she’s adorable.

  “I guess.” Part of me wonders if she realizes she’s just told me that she’s looking for a safe bad boy. That’s exactly my MO. Part of me thinks she did it on purpose. But that’s probably just arrogant guy shit. Probably. “Thanks for the ride,” I say.

  “I can take you in tomorrow,” she offers. “Bus comes at six thirty. I leave at seven.”

  “That would be great. Thanks.” I step out of the car, let my bag fall to the ground, and gather up her books for her, which are a considerable stack and super heavy. Her haul is impressive, and we’re only in the first quarter.

  “Thanks.” She hugs the books to her body.

  I take one last look in the backseat of her car at her field hockey gear and know everything I need to about this girl. It’s studies first, sports second with her—exactly the kind of influence I want for Livy. But she’s got this nice ass, which I realize is not cool to look at, but honestly, I’m behaving better than I have with any other girl, so maybe my little sister has already been a good influence on me.

  Emily turns to face me one more time. “Seven sharp. OK? I hate to be late.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She stares at me, measuring me up, but this time, I wish I’d been less smooth and more real with her, because she looks slightly disappointed in my flip remark. Like maybe she’s used to being treated as if she’s not relevant.

  “Thanks again,” I say. And this time, I really try to act like I mean it instead of being the sarcastic idiot or player I usually am. This girl is different, and that makes me want to be too. Plus, she’s important to Livy. So I tell myself that Emily and I will have a completely platonic relationship. That would be a first for me. Well, besides Leah’s little sister, Allie.

  I’m digging in my bag for my house key when Livy opens the door and screams, “Johnny!” Livy wraps me in a hug and starts to pull me inside the house I’m never ready to enter. I glance back at Emily’s house.

  Livy smacks me in the arm. I rub the area and pretend it hurt. “What was that for?”

  “You can’t date her,” Livy says as if I were considering it.

  “Why not?”

  “She’s my favorite sitter and a really cool person. She’s totally off-limits!”

  “OK.” For Livy, I will just be neighborly.

  Definitely.

  Probably.

  Maybe.

  • • •

  The smell of home-cooked meat loaf hits me as soon as we walk through the door, and I have to admit, one of the things I missed about living here was Mom’s cooking. Especially her meat loaf. She claims its some Food Network person’s recipe, the one whose name Livy and I were always laughing about. Ina Garten. Like she’s in a garden and using that as a really poorly thought out alias. We used to go around the house making up other equally entertaining names like Ina Shoe or, my favorite, Ina Pickle.

  Mom never found any of that funny, because Mom was a journalist and it’s the lady’s actual name, but Livy and I laughed all the same. Besides, Mom gave up her journalist credentials after Ryan’s accident. She said her job was to get him better.

  As I walk to the kitchen, I see that Mom hasn’t changed anything since I left, including the Benjamin Moore eggshell walls that I spent a fair amount of time fixing after punching holes in them. Most of my outbursts were brought on by Ryan’s fists on Mom’s face, a fact that was never discussed, because he couldn’t help it and I could. It amuses me that my spackle jobs started out terrible but got much better as I went, like Mom unintentionally taught me a trade.

  Livy tugs me harder, maybe because she senses me tense up. I let her navigate me past the first memory minefield in our house.

  Rosie, our housekeeper, comes forward. The crinkling around her eyes and her outstretched arms show how happy she is to see me. “John. John. John.” She wraps me in a hug and rocks me a little. “Are you OK?”

  “I’m fine, Rosie.”

  “When they told me about your arrest…”

  “It was noth
ing. Just stupid guy stuff.”

  “So stop being stupid. Eh?”

  I nod. If only it were that easy.

  Everyone gets silent as Mom walks in the room. She stands back, her arms unsure where to be. First she brings her hand to her chin, as if posing for a picture. Then she folds her arms over her stomach. Her dark-brown hair is pulled into a messy bun, and her lips are painted apple red, which accentuates how pale and tired she looks.

  Rosie takes my bag of lacrosse gear out of my hands.

  “No.” I grab the strap. “Coach says we each have to be responsible for our own gear.”

  She wrenches it away from me. “Not when you just got home.”

  Home. I look around. I’m really here. My plane got in so late last night and I got up so early this morning, I’ve barely had time to register that.

  Mom stretches a hand out toward me. “Come on. Let’s eat before your sister drives us crazy.”

  I trudge toward the dining room table, which is set like it’s a special occasion. Not with the good plates and glasses but with the white linen tablecloth Livy and me got Mom for Mother’s Day one year, flowers in a vase, and napkins rolled in the napkin holders Livy made in kindergarten, the ones with shellacked leaves.

  Salads sit expectantly on plates. Livy dives into her salad, but I take my time to put my napkin on my lap and eat slowly like Mom likes. She takes in my efforts with a small nod, and it feels good to have a small truce so soon.

  “How was practice?” Mom spears a piece of greens and brings it to her mouth slowly, as if she were at a tea party with the queen.

  Livy makes her eyes cross.

  I try not to laugh, but it’s hard. “It was fine.”

  This time, Mom actually returns my grin. “I remember how much you love small talk.”

  “It was OK. I’m the new guy on the team, so that means I have to prove myself. My times suck, and I gotta get better quick.”

  “Then we better get some protein in you.” Mom motions to Livy. “Go ahead, clear the salad plates.”

  Livy shoots out of her seat and gives a little “Yes!” with a fist pump.

  I start to feel really happy that I’m home until Ryan shatters the silence. “Mommommommommom!”

  Mom’s eyes fly to the ceiling. She looks back at me. “Let’s see if he stops.”

  Livy comes in carrying the meat loaf, oven mitts on her hands.

  Mom heads to the kitchen, even though I can tell she wants to go to Ryan. Settle him down. I push away from the table and follow her into the kitchen.

  Mom passes me with the potatoes, and I grab the string beans and rolls. Livy comes back for the butter. Ryan screams louder. “Mommommom!”

  Livy’s eyes meet mine. Guilt settles over me. I wonder how many times she’s been left at the table alone. She’s ten years old, for cripes’ sake.

  “I want to come down!” Ryan yells. “Momomomom!”

  “Maybe we should let him?” I ask. “I could bring him down.”

  Mom’s eyes wet, but she shakes her head. She blinks a few times and says, “We’re not supposed to give in when he’s like this. If he has a good day, he can eat with us tomorrow night.”

  Rosie pops her head in the kitchen. “I’ve got all your pads sprayed and laying out to dry, and I put the practice uniform you wore in the washer. I’ll dry them tomorrow.” She pats the gear bag. “I’ve put a fresh practice uniform in your bag. OK?”

  “Thanks, Rosie.”

  She blows me a kiss. “So glad to have you back.” Then she goes out the front door.

  I go back to the table where Mom is holding the knife over the meat loaf. The muscles of her face tighten, working hard to act like none of the commotion is happening. My heart softens for her. It’s gotta be hell always having to choose between your kids.

  “You want to go see?” I ask, my voice so even and normal that I’m kind of proud of myself. “We can wait for you.”

  Mom looks at the knife in her hand as if she’d forgotten she was holding it. She straightens in her chair and cuts the meat loaf. “No. He’s nineteen. He needs to learn to go to sleep by himself. He needs to follow the rules.”

  The words slice into me. Can’t you follow simple rules, John? Simple fucking rules? How many times had she said that to me?

  Mom puts out her hand, and Livy extends her plate so Mom can place a piece of meat loaf on it. I offer her mine, and she gives me two helpings, smiling as she does. “You need to eat better.”

  Bang. Crash. “Damn. Damn. Damn. Shit!”

  Mom’s hand shakes, sending her own piece of meat loaf flopping off her plate and onto the tablecloth.

  Livy sucks in a breath, and I’m not sure if she’s upset about Ryan or about the tablecloth. We bought it right before I got kicked out of the house.

  I scoop up the meat loaf and put it back on Mom’s plate.

  Mom stares at the stain like she can’t figure out how to fix it.

  “We can soak the tablecloth,” I say to both of them.

  Livy nods, but I can tell she’s trying not to cry.

  More banging. More screaming. Mom puts down her fork. “I’ll just be a few minutes.”

  “Don’t expect us to leave you any.” I wink at Mom so she knows all is OK and for Livy’s sake too.

  “Table for two?” I ask my sister, hoping to lighten the mood. She looks worried, so I add, “We can take our plates in front of the TV and watch whatever horrible show you like but shouldn’t be watching.”

  Livy says, “I think he’s getting worse.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “He’s always so mad. He yells all the time.”

  “Maybe he just wants to be with us.” I am amazed I say that out loud. “Maybe we should talk to Mom about that.”

  Livy nods. “I think he really does.”

  I feel a little lighter. Which is weird but cool at the same time. Then Ryan screams again, and there’s a thud.

  I force myself to take a bite of meat loaf, except it’s hard to chew since my mouth has gone dry.

  We hear Mom soothing him. “It’s OK, Ryan. It’s just time to go to sleep.”

  “She has to stay with him most nights to get him to go to sleep,” Livy says quietly.

  “She doesn’t give him meds to sleep anymore?”

  “She says they don’t work and that they’re bad for him.”

  I remember when Mom brought Ryan home from the hospital. He came in an ambulance. All our neighbors gathered around while the medics unloaded my brother from the back. Even the kids got off their bikes to watch. It was like a freak show.

  Ryan had stitches all over his head like some sort of monster. His eyes didn’t focus. He didn’t recognize me. He didn’t seem to know anybody or anything. I tried to stay away from him as much as possible those first days after the accident, but the worst was at night. He woke up screaming almost every single night. The sound was horrible. Mom went to him. Tried to calm him. Dad too. Livy started crying, and no one tried to help her. So I went in her room and took her out of her crib. Rocked her, like I wanted to be rocked. Cared for her the way I wish Mom still cared for me.

  I rub the palms of my hands together, the friction calming. Chew on my knuckle. I point to Livy’s plate. “I thought you were starving. Let Mom worry about Ryan. You worry about beating me at Super Smash Bros.”

  She smiles a thin smile and forks a green bean. “I thought we were watching TV.”

  “Changed my mind. It’s been way too long since I schooled you.”

  The sound of a smack. Mom cries out.

  My hands clench, and the rage starts. My blood converts to rocket fuel awaiting a flame.

  I try not to listen as the monster inside me whispers, It’s always Ryan. He hits her. You hit the wall. Only you get in trouble.

  My gaze falls
on the large painting Mom got to cover the massive hole I put in the wall the first time he hit her.

  The beast inside me tells me, You were the one who got sent away.

  “John!” Livy’s face is near mine. She’s shaking me. I force myself to stop listening to the anger. To get back to reality.

  “I’m sorry,” I mumble, finally noticing that I’ve spilled my water on the table and it’s dripping into my lap.

  “It’s OK. It stopped.” Livy says. “He’s stopped.”

  I should be taking care of Livy. Not the other way around. “She should give him meds at night,” I say.

  “I know,” Livy agrees.

  My eyes go to the mess that Mom and I have both made.

  “We can tell Mom you were trying to get the spot out.”

  I stand, a plate loaded with food in my hand. I grab my glass of water and a napkin. “Let’s bounce.” My voice is back to normal. I’m totally in control. “What’s your fave game now?”

  Livy stands. “Super Mario. You know that.” Her voice is light and jokey, but underneath is a strain that is there because of Ryan and me.

  “Let’s just watch something. I’m too tired to play,” she says.

  “Already making excuses?” I lower myself into Dad’s old chair.

  She’s turns on Switched at Birth, which I can totally relate to. I try not to think about Mom’s uneaten food. How skinny she is. How after everything our family’s been through, she’s tried to hold on to the appearance of civility, the formal family meal, the salads. All my sister wants is someone to eat dinner with. All my brother wants is to be able to stay up past seven o’clock. And all I want is to be in California, away from all this.

  Chapter 3

  After dinner, Livy and I clear the table and put away the food. We leave the rest for Mom to deal with. Livy disappears into her room. “Homework,” she says.