Page 5 of Home Is Where the Bodies Are

“Have you talked to her recently?” I add.

“Umm... Aunt Nicole writes me letters,” she says.

That doesn’t surprise me. Nicole has always loved to write, mostly poems or short quotes. Her mind was truly a beautiful thing before the drugs ate away at it. I used to think she could get clean, but somewhere between the multiple rehab stints, the overdoses, the thefts, and the run-ins with the law, I lost all hope that I’d ever have my sister back.

“What does she write?”

“Just tells me about her life and asks me about the navy and South Korea.” I can practically hear her smile. I do those things. I ask about her life. I tell her about mine. But when those words come from me, they don’t make her smile. She connects better with my drug-addict sister than with me, her own mother. Something inside of me blossoms. Jealousy? I immediately push it away. Nicole is the last person I should be envious of.

“Hey, Mom. I’m really sorry about Grandma, but I gotta get going. I’ll call back as soon as I can.”

“Okay, honey...” Before I can finish my sentence, the line is dead and she’s gone.

I let out a sigh and scroll through my texts. The one to my sister has been read but there is no reply. I type out a long message full of anger and grief. I tell her how mad I am for her not being here. I curse her for not visiting Mom before she passed. I accuse her of being selfish and weak. And then I delete the whole message and stow my phone back in my pocket. Some things are just better left unsaid.

There’s movement in my peripheral, and I look up to find Michael standing in the doorframe. His face is flushed, and there’s a sheen to his eyes, like he’s been crying. I hold the Seagram’s bottle and gesture toward him.

“Want some?”

He crumples his face in disgust but shrugs. “Yeah, why not.”

A four-finger pour each. Michael takes the glass from me and holds it near his lips, staring at the dull gold liquid that resembles piss. He tosses his head back and chugs half of it. His whole body shivers and his face twists, like he’s just sucked on a lemon. He’s used to the finer things in life. I wonder what that’s like. But I’d rather not know. It’s better to be unaware of what you’re missing out on, those things you’ll never have access to and howthe one percentlives—especially when you know it’d only be temporary.

“That’s horrible,” he says, coughing.

I take a long sip, peering over my glass at him while he tries to regain his composure.

“Yeah, it is.”

Michael pulls out a chair and takes a seat, spinning the glass slowly in circles on the worn kitchen table. The wood is covered in gouges and scratches. I remember all of us sitting around this table: Mom and Dad on either end. Three of us in the middle with one empty chair. We never sat in the same spots, moving around based on who we were mad at and who we liked most that day. If I had to pick now, based on how I was feeling, I wouldn’t even take a seat. But I’m not a teenager. Adults have to come to the table, so I sit on one of the short sides, directly across from Michael, in the spots our parents used to occupy.

“Were you able to get ahold of Marissa?” he asks.

I nod and take another sip.

“Is she coming home?”

“Probably not.” A long exhale escapes through my nose. “She’s stationed in South Korea.”

Michael’s eyes grow a little wide. “Wow, I didn’t know that. Army?”

“Navy,” I correct.

“Impressive,” he says. I don’t care about what impresses him. His watch clinks against the table. Half red, half blue. A luminescent silver band and the wordRolexin the center of the face. I know it cost more than my car, but he wears it like it came out of a quarter machine.

“What happened?” I ask, gesturing to the scar on his cheek.

He runs the tip of his finger over it. It’s a couple inches in length, running vertically along his cheek. “Car accident.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He cocks his head. “Would it have changed anything?”

My eyes narrow but I quickly relax them. Michael’s right. It wouldn’t have changed anything. I may have sent a text asking if he was okay. I may have even called. But that’s it. I glance down at my chewed fingernails. I’ve bitten them since I was a child and no matter how many times I’ve tried to stop, they always find their way back to my mouth. Bad habits don’t die.

“Are you all right now?” I ask.

Michael nods and sips his drink. He’s clearly getting used to the taste because he doesn’t react to it this time. I’ve learned you can get used to anything.

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