Page 12 of Home Is Where the Bodies Are

Her mouth falls partially open. I can’t help but think of Mom, her jaw lax after she passed. I close my eyes for a moment, willing my mind to bury that image. When I open them, Nicole is seated again—lips pressed firmly together, stewing. What I said was wrong but I’m also right, and she knows it. Sometimes right and wrong are interchangeable.

“We don’t have to make any decisions now,” Michael says.

“You’re right,” I say. “Let’s just take it one day at a time.”

Nicole nods but she’s still stewing in her anger.

“I can only stay for a week though,” Michael adds.

“And will it be another seven years until we see you again?” I ask.

“Let’s hope not.” He stands from the couch. “Good night, you two,” he says, putting an end to the fight I was looking for.

Michael leaves the bottle but carries his glass with him as he heads down the hall to his old bedroom. His door closes with a thud, and my shoulders jump. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard a door slam in this house, not since we were teens.

“Home sweet home,” Nicole says sarcastically.

“Yep.” I stand from my seat, deciding I don’t want to fight after all, at least not tonight. I pick up the half-empty bottle of scotch because I don’t want Nicole to feel tempted, and she doesn’t need any more. “I’m going to turn in. Need anything?”

“No, I’m going to head to bed too,” she says, draining the rest of her scotch.

She hands me her glass and gets to her feet, collecting her belongings. I rinse the glasses in the kitchen sink and hide the bottle of scotch in the lazy Susan cabinet before heading down to my bedroom. Nicole pads down the hall to her room but stops to look back at me. She tells me good night, and I tell her the same. Our bedroom doors close, and I make sure to lock mine. I worry about sleeping under the same roof as my sister. I know she can’t be trusted.

SEVEN

NICOLE

Last week, I wrote a short story. It started out strong, lost its way in the middle, and never got back on track. The ending fell flat, the potential from the strong beginning faded, and it seemed unsalvageable. I rearranged words, deleted, added, but no matter what—it just wasn’t what I intended it to be. I wanted more for it, but some things just can’t be polished, so I threw it away.

Mom, is that how you felt about me? —Nicole

I tried to sleep but it’s hard to turn my thoughts off. Writing helps. Gives me a place to put them, but I think I just have too many tonight. A soft knock on my childhood bedroom door startles me. I quickly close my notebook and sit up a little taller in bed, rearranging the comforter that’s draped over my legs.

“Come in,” I say.

It’s Michael. He’s changed into a T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. There’s no name brand on either but I can tell they’re expensive. His hair sticks out in all directions like he fell asleep for a short time and woke again. Perhaps, like me, he has a hard time turning off his thoughts.

“What’s up?” I ask because I don’t know what else to say to him. My tone is flippant, and I think it’s because I resent him. For leaving, for having a better life, for not being an addict like me, for having money, and for not being there when I needed him. I glance at the old worn carpet, and a memory comes plowing to the front of my mind.

When I was a kid, I was terrified of everything, so scared I couldn’t sleep at night. My eyes would close, and I’d see monsters crawling out from beneath my bed, clawing at the sheets, trying to grab me and take me with them. My parents said I was cursed with an active imagination because I could close my eyes and imagine the worst possible thing happening. Maybe my mind wasn’t overly active. Maybe it was preparing me for the broken life I’d live. I remember telling Michael I was too scared to sleep. I was twelve and he was ten. He dragged a comforter and pillows into my room, made himself a bed on my floor, and said he’d protect me. We talked until I dozed off. I had finally slept through the whole night. I felt safe, knowing he was there. But now I don’t know how I feel. Because I’m not that scared little girl anymore, and he’s not the brother he used to be.

Michael takes a couple of steps into my room, stopping in the center. A Walmart shopping bag hangs from his hand, his fingers looped through the plastic handles. He glances around my old bedroom. No one lives here anymore, but it holds the memory of the girl who called it home. That girl no longer exists. As we age, we shed layers of ourselves, disintegrating like any other organic material, but some of us just break down faster than others.

The walls of the room are painted a light purple, but they’re bare now. Nail holes that were never patched hint at what the space used to look like. My bedroom furniture still fills the room—a bed, a desk, and a dresser. But all my belongings are gone. I lost them or sold them somewhere between eighteen and now. The ceiling is still covered in plastic glow-in-the-dark stars. I spent nearly a week sticking them up there when I was a teenager, but like me, they’ve lost their glow.

“Here, I got you something,” Michael says, extending the bag. It swings mildly in the air.

I hesitate, not reaching out for it, because I don’t want anything from him. He gives me a sympathetic look, also something I don’t want from him. He inches closer to me, insisting that I take it. I finally do. Beggars can’t be choosers as they say. Inside the bag, I find an iPhone and a purple case for it. Purple has always been my favorite color.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“Yours was stolen so I figured you needed a new one.”

I groan. “I had a flip phone, Michael. One of those pay-as-you-go. I can’t afford this.”

He slides his hands into his pockets and takes a step back. “I put you on my plan. It’s covered, so you don’t have to worry about it.”

“I don’t need your pity.”

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