The Homecoming

by Stacie Ramey

  Mom stares at Ryan, knowing that his fighting eating a simple breakfast is not exactly making her case but speaking up anyway. “If he goes there…” Her eyes shine with the waterworks I know will just piss off Dad.

  My stomach clenches. I can hear Livy breathe in. Ryan says, “Shit! Shit! Shit!” But he’s laughing. Then he fake-hits himself on the head to make everyone laugh.

  “He’s going to be fine.” Dad actually takes her hand this time. “You can’t act like this in front of him. He picks up on your reactions to things.”

  She nods, and I am rendered speechless about how the two of them have seemed to come to some sort of understanding all of a sudden. It’s one of those small things that actually mean much bigger things. Mom starts to cry, maybe because she’s like me and when people are nice, it makes it harder to hold in the tears. She puts her napkin on the table and disappears.

  Dad points to us. “Eat up.”

  Ryan starts kicking his feet and complaining. “More! More! More!” His arms swing. Livy gets out of her chair and holds his hands. She starts to feed him.

  “Where?” I’m surprised at how tight my throat is.

  “There’s a place about fifteen miles from here. A group home. I think it’ll be good for him.”

  “We’re just trying it out,” Mom returns in time to say.

  “When?” I ask, but there’s no point. Dad’s a man of action. So I’m not surprised at all when he answers.

  “Monday.” He clears his throat and starts eating his eggs, pushing them on his fork with his knife.

  Mom, Livy, and I sit, silent, as he scrapes his plate with the knife and fork. Finally, he looks up.

  “I know, but it’s for the best.” He motions to the food. “Eat. It’s not going to help anyone to starve yourselves.”

  • • •

  I’m sitting in my room, trying to load the software on my new laptop, when there’s a knock on my door. Livy. I can tell by the smallness.

  “Who is it?” I ask in a funny voice.

  She opens the door. “Can I come in?”

  “Of course.”

  She walks to my dresser, her eyes searching my pictures, making me instantly glad I put the one of Leah in the drawer for now. “I’m worried.”

  “About Ryan or Mom?”

  “Both.” She turns to face me.

  “Me too.”

  “You’re supposed to tell me not to worry.”

  “Can’t. You’re too smart for that.”

  “You think he’ll be OK?”

  “I hope so.” I walk over to the bed and throw myself back on it.

  “Have you thought about what things would have been like if…”

  I throw my arm over my eyes. “It’s all I used to think about before…”

  “Before Leah?”

  I close my eyes. “Who told you about her?”

  “Dad said I had to be nice to you when you came home, and I asked why.”

  “You don’t ever have to be nice to me.” I sit up. Then I reach into my night table and take out my favorite picture of Leah. I hold it toward her, and Livy hurries to take it.

  “She was so beautiful.” She looks at me full on. “Do you miss her?”

  I lie back on the bed and close my eyes. “Yes.”

  She jumps in bed next to me, her little body barely making the mattress bend. Her voice is a whisper. “Do you still love her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you going to be all right?”

  “Do I have a choice?” I cover my eyes with my hands.

  Her fingers pry my hands, trying to make me look at her. “That’s not what I asked.”

  “Yes, you little maniac, I’ll be fine.”

  She lies back on the bed next to me. “Would she have liked me?”

  “She would have loved you.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because she has a little sister. Had one.”

  “What’s her name? The little sister, I mean.”

  “Allie.”

  “Do you think Allie would like me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can we go see her someday?”

  “Yeah.”

  We keep doing this, the music of my little sister’s endless questions lulling me like the waves on that beach I keep dreaming about.

  Chapter 15

  I’m not expecting much from Mom when I go downstairs in the morning. She’s not sitting at her stool. Instead, she’s standing at the sink, looking out the window. She’s got her coffee in her hand, but I’d take bets that she hasn’t had any yet.

  “I’m sorry, John,” she says as I look in the pantry, find the to-go cups, and pour myself some coffee. “I was going to do that. I lost track of time.”

  “It’s fine, Mom. I’m fine. And Ryan’s going to be fine too.”

  She sips her coffee and nods. “Mmm.”

  I’m sure there’s no lunch packed, and I’m not even sure I could stomach it anyway, but she says, “Lunch is in the fridge.”

  I grab the bag and kiss her on the cheek just as Emily beeps.

  “I’m serious. He’s going to be fine. This might even be good for him.”

  She turns to face me, her eyes staring deep into mine. “I know. Harder for me than him, I’m sure. Boys are supposed to leave their mothers.”

  “We don’t always want to.”

  This time, her smile is a little bigger. Emily beeps again. “See you later.”

  “Have a good day,” Mom says, and I get goose bumps. No matter what’s happened, no matter how chaotic, Mom always calls that after me as I left for school. Most times, it annoyed me. Pissed me the hell off to be honest, but now it gets to me in an entirely different way. I wonder if I’d been different back then, if I’d not been so angry all the time, would life have been better? These thoughts circle my mind, loop around my heart as I let the regret settle into my bones, where it belongs. My dragon doesn’t even lift its head. It’s like it knows it wasn’t all Mom’s fault. The door clicks behind me, and I make myself a promise to try harder.

  Emily waves to me as I get in the car, but I can tell she’s elsewhere too.

  “You OK?” My stomach actually clenches as I wait for her answer. Have I ruined things with her already?

  She waves me away. “I’m so not ready for my AP psych test today, and I need to get an A to keep my grade in that class.”

  “What’s your grade now?”

  “A low A. Ninety. So I can’t slip.” She gnaws on her fingernail.

  “So what if you get a B?”

  Her eyes skate to me, open super wide. “If I get even one B…they take my car. They freeze my bank. I’ve got nothing.”

  “What? That’s crazy.”

  She nods. “It’s the symptoms that freak them out.”

  “The what?”

  “Dylan used to get straight As. He was uber smart. I mean, he is uber smart. He was taking all the top classes. Was on swim team. Then…”

  “Don’t they think maybe all the pressure is what did him in?”

  She shakes her head. “No. Genetics did.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing. It just means if I slip up, they come at me like crazy. I have to keep good grades. Stay in shape. Play field hockey. I have to be this cyclone of production or…”

  I can’t help the fire that goes through me. This is like Leah’s parents. Only worse.

  “I want to go see Dylan in a few weeks. I told him I would visit. And I need my money and my car to get there.”

  All I can think about is getting my Jeep back. Giving this girl everything she needs.

  “I’m doing fine in all my classes. It’s just this one…”

  “You want me to drive while you study?”

  She
shoots me a really sweet smile, but her eyes stay worried and glassy. “No thanks. Can’t read when I’m in a car.”

  When we get to school, she parks and flies out of the car. “I gotta go meet with…”

  I nod, but she rushes off ahead of me.

  I’m actually grateful that we got here early so I can pull out my new laptop with the CAD software on it. I fire it up and start moving through designs I’d worked on last night. I’m sitting at one of the tables in the courtyard, studying, when Mr. Bonham stops by.

  “Morning, John.”

  I look up.

  “You’re doing a great job in my class so far. I think you really have an eye for this, and that, paired with decent math skills”—he puts air quotes around the word decent—“could mean that architecture or CAD tech could be good career choices for you.”

  I want to ask him if Miss Quinlan put him up to this. Or Mr. Hicks, but I just sit here, listening to a teacher say good things about me, no matter the reason, which is so weird.

  “Anyway, we have a district-wide contest in two weeks. I think the arch design you are coming up with might have a good chance for an award. The first round is simply looking at how you approach the project. You can hand-draw it, build it, or do it on the computer—totally up to you. If you go to semis, that’s the interesting competition. You get to build an actual model out of anything you like.” He laughs. “One guy used Rice Krispies treats. It was a judge favorite.”

  I think about the Coke-bottle igloo Ryan and I made after that winter one in the yard. The one I ruined. I’d researched how to make a Coke igloo on the computer and made Mom save tons of two-liter bottles so I could do it. Ryan said it was a baby project, especially compared to the one we’d almost built that winter, but I knew I could get the arch right if I had big blocks to build it with.

  “Some kids build huge models, bridges, whatever floats your boat. One kid even welded a boat one time.” He smiles, his arms crossed in front of him, resting on his protruding stomach. “OK if I submit it for you?”

  “Yeah, sure. That would be great. I mean, if you think it’s good enough.”

  “Stay after class today. I’ll give you the info then.”

  “Great.”

  He walks away, and I wonder if this is a good idea, because all of a sudden, my stomach feels like it’s dropping. It’s a feeling I don’t recognize. Nerves. Like pregame nerves but over school. So strange. But the word welding stays with me. I text Uncle Dave.

  Going to do an architecture project for school. If I make it to semis, I can weld a 3-D model.

  That’s my boy! I’ll send you that beginner’s kit.

  Apprentice kit you mean.

  If that helps you sleep at night. Then, Proud of you.

  That feels like a light inside of me. Dad probably won’t get it why this is so cool, but Uncle Dave does. He may not be an architect, but he sure loves architecture. Like me.

  Chapter 16

  Ryan is only in the group home for two days and ten hours before Mom pulls him out. I come home from practice Wednesday to find Rosie making dinner, Mom yelling on the phone at Dad, and Livy sitting at the table, trying to do her homework while Ryan screams from his wheelchair.

  “What did you want me to do, Scott? They were starving him.”

  I can only picture Dad’s reaction on the other end of the phone.

  Livy shoots me a look, then goes back to her homework as Rosie serves her homemade mac and cheese and steamed broccoli.

  “Just in time, John,” Rosie says. “Wash up.”

  My eyes go to the dining room, where Mom has retreated. I can see her slumped in one of the chairs. Her hair is a mess, and she’s picking at it like a crazy person. Her cough interrupts her attempt to defend herself.

  “She needs to go to the doctor,” I say.

  A plate is plunked down in front of me. “Wash up. I mean it,” Rosie answers. “You can’t help her right now. Just eat.”

  I go to the sink and do as I’m told—but quickly so I don’t miss overhearing too much of Mom’s conversation.

  “I know that, but… Ensure? Are you kidding me? There’s all sorts of stuff in there that will make him sick. He can’t tolerate it. We have never fed him that.” A pause. Then, “I never fed him that.”

  I take a bite.

  “Come on, Ryan,” Rosie says. “Bath time.”

  “Is it too much to ask that our son get to eat like a normal person?”

  I give Livy a look, and she gives one right back. This fight is one they’ve fought over and over again. Why Ryan couldn’t go to school. Why he couldn’t go to camp. Why he couldn’t…

  “He got home, like, an hour ago,” Livy says. “Dad must have paid someone from that place to rat Mom out, because he knew as soon as it happened.”

  I take a bite of Rosie’s awesome cooking, but it doesn’t taste right eating it during their fight.

  “Just stop it. I did not want this to fail. You have no idea how hard any of this is.” Mom starts to cry. Then coughs. Then cries some more.

  Livy’s face falls, and I wish like mad I had my car so I could take her out of the fallout zone. We’d go get pizza and Cokes. But because I screwed up, I’ve got no play. I think about texting Emily, but she’s kind of wrapped up in her stuff, and I don’t want to bother her, so instead, I say, “Finish up and I’ll let you beat me in Super Smash Bros.”

  She tries to smile.

  “Or…” I grab her plate and mine. She grabs the cups and forks and napkins. “We can finish this in my room while we watch Scream.”

  We’re carrying everything we’ve got, making way for Rosie, who’s gone down the hall to make up Ryan’s bath. They converted Mom’s office to Ryan’s bedroom, because it was downstairs. “It’s OK, babies.” Rosie puts her hand on Livy’s cheek. “Change is hard for everyone.”

  I want to believe Rosie. God knows she’s been with us long enough to know how all this goes.

  “This will happen. They will find a place for Ryan where he can be more functional and independent. Where he will have kids like him to hang out with and activities to do.” She winks at me. “Trust me. It’s all going to work out.”

  I want to trust Rosie—I do—but my beast is pacing now. Pacing and growling about how nothing ever changes and nothing ever will.

  “Come on, Livy,” I call over my shoulder.

  Mom disappears into the shadows of the living room. I hear her coughing and crying, and I feel like my entire world is cracking.

  • • •

  I’m working on my arch project. Like Mr. Bonham said, I went 3-D so I can get the angles right. I’ve built a tiny model with pieces of gum, so the whole room smells minty fresh. Then I drew the damn thing. Now I’m trying to match what I’ve done on the computer screen. I do not want to enter this contest with sticks of gum or Rice Krispies treats or cell phones. I want to do this right.

  Mom knocks. I don’t even turn to face her. I’ve got stuff to do. “Come in.”

  She slides into my room, flattens the covers in place on my bed, and sits, her hands in her lap. She looks so small and thin, like a doll, so unreal. She smooths her hair down in the back. “I just wanted to tell you I’m really excited about your awards presentation next week.”

  “It’s no big deal. I probably won’t even win anything.” I look at my drawing and hit a key on the computer but know that I’ve messed it up even before it draws the point. I hit undo. Undo. Undo. God, I wish life had an undo button.

  “Dad’s coming in for it. Rosie said she’d stay with Ryan so I can go too.”

  “So he’s not going back?”

  Mom covers her mouth while she coughs, her body hunching with each spasm. She puts a tissue to her nose. “No. Not to that place at least. I know your father…”

  I put my hand up. “I’ve got work to do, Mom.”
>
  Mom comes closer. “What are you doing?”

  I point to the gum model and then to the drawing and then to the computer. “It’s screwed up, and if I don’t fix it, it won’t matter who shows it to what competition, because I won’t even enter.”

  “No. You have to.” She stares at the model. “You’ll figure it out.”

  “I hope.”

  “Have you thought about sending a picture to Dad or Uncle Dave?”

  Wow. Mom recommending Uncle Dave seems so unreal that I almost balk, but I have to admit, it’s not a bad idea. I snap a picture of the gum bridge and then the drawing and send it to him.

  This is wrong. Can you help?

  He texts back right away. What the hell is it?

  It’s supposed to be a bridge arch.

  What’s it made out of?

  Trident gum.

  That’s your problem. I always use Wrigley’s.

  I laugh. Smart-ass.

  Better than being a dumb-ass. Check the numbers on each side.

  Like I wouldn’t have thought of that?

  Count again, but mark them as you count. Your eyes play tricks sometimes.

  I grab a pen and put a dot on each one. Turns out I double counted on the right. Bingo. And then I’m back in time again in that igloo with Ryan.

  He’d made me lay on the ground to make the snow angel that would be the guide for how big to make our igloo. Then I had to stamp down the snow into a sheet of ice. He got to use the saw, because he was older and he didn’t want us to get in trouble. I was supposed to pack the snow between the bricks.

  “Pass me the next one,” Ryan said, his hand stretched out for the next block of snow. That’s what little brothers do, right? Assist?

  I held tight to my brick. Put it where it went on my side of the igloo. Ryan puffed out a cold breath, which I could tell was filled with all the annoyance of my little mutiny.

  “Come on, we need another one there.” He pointed to his side, but I’d counted. I knew where I put the brick was right, but he’d never listen.

  We were both squeezed in so tight, it was hard to move. He was looking at the roof, but it was a little heavy, and the angle of the arch wasn’t quite right. I counted the bricks we’d made out of one of Mom’s empty planters, but it was hard to make the bricks line up in my head while I counted—it was like they jumped everywhere.