Page 13 of Home Is Where the Bodies Are

“Good, because you don’t have it,” he says, matter-of-factly. And I think I believe him. He turns and heads for the door.

“Thanks,” I mutter.

Michael pauses, looking over his shoulder. His eyes try to meet mine, but they don’t because I’m looking right through him. It’s hard to see someone when the memory of them is stronger than the person standing directly in front of you.

“You’re welcome, Nicole.”

He closes the door behind him, leaving me to fend off the monsters on my own.

But they’re not under the bed anymore.

They’re in me.

EIGHT

BETH

The floor creaks beneath my feet like the house is waking up with me. Michael’s bedroom door is open, and his bed is made. Nicole’s door is closed, so I know she’s still asleep. She’s always been the last to bed and the last to rise. There’s a pot of freshly brewed coffee in the kitchen. Counters are wiped down and everything is put away and tidy—not how I left it last night. I peek out the window above the sink. Michael’s car is gone, and I wonder...Gone for good? Just like Dad?I pour a cup of coffee and inhale the nutty smell before taking it out to the back deck to enjoy.

The sky is a muted gray, dimly lit by the climbing sun. Birds chirp and peep a dawn chorus, while squirrels frolic in the bird feeders hung from old box elder and maple trees. The property dips into a hillside covered in trees. A valley carved through it sits off to the right, leading down to a small cabin and fire pit. Beyond that, a grassy plain, more trees, a hidden cemetery for the pets we’ve loved, and the twisting, bubbling creek. There’s a pasture to the left covered in dandelions that look like little yellow explosions. The landscape is green and vibrant, but soon the colors will change, and the leaves will fall, and those chirping birds will fly south. That’s life. It’s a cycle until it’s not anymore.

I shoot a text to Michael, asking him if he’s on a flight home.

He responds right away.

I went into town. Be back soon.

I’m not sure if I’m relieved or not to hear that he’s coming back, but I suppose it’s nice to have another person here to help clean up the mess and keep an eye on Nicole.

It’s just after eight in the morning and for the first time in a long time, I don’t know what to do with myself. If Mom were alive, I’d be making peanut butter toast and sitting down to watchThe Price Is Rightwith her. But she’s not. How do the living just keep living? I sip the hot coffee and clear my throat. It’s much stronger than how I make it, almost like a thick bitter oil.

The roar of an engine pulls me from my thoughts. I make my way around the back of the house. As I turn a corner, I stumble into a tipped-over garbage can.Damn raccoons. I push the spilled contents back into the receptacle with my foot and stand it upright. A car nicer than mine but not as nice as Michael’s rental is parked in front of the garage. The windows are darkly tinted, so I can’t see who’s in it. A man dressed in a gray suit steps out, lifts his chin, and waves.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

“Are you Elizabeth Thomas?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m Craig Davidson, your mother’s attorney,” he says, walking around the front of his vehicle.

His introduction puzzles me.Mom had a lawyer.I had no idea. She never mentioned it, and I didn’t think she had the money for one, especially since I was covering whatever bills she couldn’t.

He extends a hand. “I’m very sorry for your loss.” The sympathy seems robotic. Overusing words or phrases dulls their significance, and it’s clear from how he speaks that he’s said those words a thousand times.

“Thanks,” I say, shaking his hand weakly.

Craig clears his throat. “I’m here to go over her will.”

I’m even more puzzled by the mention of a will. She never brought it up, never talked about anything that would happen after she passed. So, I assumed she didn’t have one. But I’m also a little relieved because now I’ll know exactly what she wanted.

* * *

Nicole sits at the end of the table, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, legs folded like a pretzel. Her hair is disheveled, and she switches between drinking water and coffee. I’m sure she’s nursing a hangover because according to a Google search, she’s not supposed to be consuming alcohol while on methadone treatments. And I’m sure she knows that too. But that’s Nicole. She does what she wants when she wants. The lawyer, seated across from Michael and me, pulls a stack of folders from his briefcase. On top is a sealed manila envelope with the wordsThomas Childrenwritten in black Sharpie. Michael taps his fingers against the table. His jaw is clenched and his eyes wander. He looks uncomfortable. But I’m sure we all do. There’s nothing comforting about death.

Craig straightens out the papers. “Elizabeth, your mother has left most everything to you,” he says, matter-of-factly.

My eyes flick to Nicole and then to Michael. His face is as tight as a drum. Hers is lax—a mix of disappointment and sadness, maybe something else.

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