Page 7 of Home Is Where the Bodies Are

“Are you okay with me calling the funeral home for arrangements?”

I know what that means. They’ll come and take her... well, not her. The body. The next time I see her, she’ll have been injected with a couple gallons of formaldehyde to slow down the decay. She’ll be wearing makeup for the first time since her wedding day. Her hair will be done up in a way she’s never worn it before. She’ll be dressed in her Sunday best. And she’d hate all of it.

When I don’t answer, Michael steps in. “Yes, Cathy. You can make the arrangements.”

She looks to me for confirmation, so I nod, and she backs out of the kitchen. Michael takes a seat kitty-corner to me and reaches for my hand, giving it a squeeze. I want to flick it away. But I need it more than I don’t want it. I gulp the Seagram’s. It’s lost its flavor.

“It’s gonna be okay,” he says. I’m not sure I believe him.

My phone ringing startles me.Unknownis splayed across the top of the screen. I know it’s bad news. Mom always said bad things came in threes. This is number two, I’m sure of it.

“Hello,” I answer.

“Hi, is this Elizabeth Thomas?” The voice on the other end of the line is deep and authoritative.

“It is.”

“I’m Officer Ross of the Beloit Police Department. Your sister, Nicole, was attacked about an hour ago, and she’s currently being treated at Memorial Hospital.”

“Is she okay?”

Michael’s eyes go wide, and he leans toward me.

“She’s demanding to leave but we need someone to release her to, given her injuries. Are you able to come and get her?” the officer asks.

“Yes, yes. Of course. I’m on my way. I can be there in twenty minutes.”

“Thank you, Ms. Thomas. I’ll see you shortly.” The phone clicks off.

“What is it?” Michael asks.

I’m a little wobbly when I stand, and I immediately regret the alcohol I consumed. Typically, that’s reserved for the morning after, but sometimes there is no gap between an action and a regret.

“It’s Nicole. She’s in the hospital. Can you take me there?”

Michael doesn’t hesitate, immediately getting to his feet. I toss him the keys to my 2010 Toyota Camry. He catches them and looks at the tarnished keys like they’re some sort of foreign object. He doesn’t say anything, but I know what he’s thinking. Money changes people the same way death does. If you don’t know how to manage every aspect of it, it’ll bring out the worst in you.

FIVE

NICOLE

It’s funny how memory works. Our brain decides what’s most important and retains it—the rest, it just lets go. Song lyrics we remember for years, decades even. Are they important? Most likely not. But they’re tied to salient moments. I know all the words to “Californication” by the Red Hot Chili Peppers because I kissed the first boy I ever loved while listening to it back in 1999. I can recite all the lyrics to “Last Resort” by Papa Roach because that song was blaring through the speakers of my parent’s car as I drove alone, right after getting my driver’s license. It meant the world to me, freedom, or at least the first taste of it. And I remember the lyrics to “Hurt” by Nine Inch Nails because it was playing when I overdosed the first time, and I thought it would be the last thing I’d ever hear. I remember mouthing the words. My lips were the only thing I could move; they were coated in vomit, shifting back and forth and up and down. Then there are random memories permanently lodged in my mind, like phone numbers, despite the fact that cell phones store them for us now. I remember my dad’s, though I haven’t dialed it in years. And I remember my sister’s. Two lifelines, but only one to call upon. Today, she picked up, and I’m surprised she did.

“How are you feeling, Nicole?” the nurse asks as she enters the hospital room where I’m laid up. She’s young and vibrant with bright eyes and dewy skin. Actually, she’s probably my age but I don’t look like her. After all, time isn’t the only thing that ages us. She smiles, not like she’s happy to see me, but like she’s happy she’s not me. Pulling a clipboard from the end of my bed, she flips through several pages that must detail all the damage that was done. This isn’t the first time I’ve been attacked. When you chase all the wrong things, you’re bound to end up in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“I’m fine,” I say, although I’m not.

My right arm is cocooned in a cast, not from today though. That injury happened four weeks ago, and the cast was supposed to be removed this week. But now the doctor wants to keep it on a little longer, just to be safe. My face is throbbing so I’m sure my skin is a swollen mix of colors. Several of my ribs are bruised. It hurts to inhale deeply, like I’m only sucking in enough air to survive, not enough to thrive. But I’ve felt that way about life for a long time. The doctor told me I was lucky my ribs weren’t broken. I suppose he and I have different definitions of the wordlucky.

A dose of methadone has helped to dull the withdrawal symptoms. I was supposed to get it earlier today. They asked me why I didn’t go in for my treatment. I lied, making up an excuse about transportation or something like that. Iwason my way to get my daily dose when I saw the text from my sister. I didn’t read it fully, just the notification preview, just enough to get the gist as to why she was reaching out to me.Mom is going to pass today, it said. I’m on day twenty-nine of my sobriety, the longest I haven’t used since my addiction started. I’ve tried and failed to stop more times than I care to admit. When I got the text, the craving intensified far beyond my control. Every ounce of my being wanted it... no,neededit, and I knew a dose of methadone wasn’t going to cut it.

“How’s your pain on a scale of one to ten?” the nurse asks.

I hesitate, deciding on the correct response and, by that, I don’t mean the honest answer. They won’t give me any more pain meds anyway because they know I’m an addict. Instead, I aim for a low number, one that’ll get me out of here.

“Three,” I say.

She scribbles it down on the chart, checks a few of my vitals, jots them down too, and returns the clipboard to the end of my bed. “The doctor is still advising that you stay overnight for observation. Are you sure we can’t get you to stay?” The nurse tilts her head.

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