whispers.
I can hear the sirens screaming toward us. They’re probably rounding the corner by the park right now, and soon, our house will be overrun by uniforms and swirling red lights. They’ll be too late. Will the police come? Will they sense the bruises hidden under our clothes? Will they ask about the ring of burn marks that form a perfect band around my mother’s ankle? I sink onto the side of the bed and touch her bare foot. See the chipped nail polish on her toes. It’s the same sparkly blue color James bought me last year. The tiny bottle disappeared a few days later.
From the doorway, wearing a pair of old pinstriped boxers and a blue, beer-stained t-shirt, our father gazes at her now still body. I get up and move closer to James, who doesn’t seem to see anything but our mother, and study the complete lack of emotion on our father’s face. I expected him to gloat or at least crack open a beer and toast to his freedom. He just stares.
Sick as it sounds after what I just watched her go through, I’m relieved. My mother’s in a place where he can’t hurt her anymore.
His gaze meets mine and holds it for several long seconds.
I shiver.
And then he walks out of the room.
Eighteen
There won’t be a funeral. Not even a wake. Who would come? As far as I know, my mother doesn’t have any family, and my father hasn’t talked to his since he ran away to be a boxer when he was my age. Phantom aunts and uncles and grandparents haunt me now, whispering promises of what our family might have been like if only we’d been in contact.
All I can think about are my mother’s blue toenails.
All James can think about is her dead body.
“Do you think caskets are expensive?”
With how often he gets stuck being the man of the house, it’s hard to remember James is only nineteen. Perched on the arm of the couch, his hair sticking out every which way from how many times he’s raked his fingers through it, he looks every bit the teenager he is.
“We should just cremate her body and dump the ashes somewhere in the middle of the forest,” I tell him, irritated that our father isn’t handling this. “She’d probably prefer being alone than rotting in a graveyard full of dead people. Plus, it’s probably cheaper.”
He looks horrified, but nods.
Eight different drugs—that’s how many the medical examiner found in our mother’s bedroom amongst the sea of orange bottles. We watched him march past us, all of the bottles sealed away in a huge plastic baggie. None of the paramedics knew which she’d overdosed on—James asked—but my guess is the one he and I took all those years ago.
“We’ll let you know what we find out,” the medical examiner says in a clipped voice on his way out the door.
I think he’s just as pissed off at our father as we are. Ol’ Knockout has been in his armchair ever since the paramedics arrived and carted her body away, the same beer in his hand. Sometimes I see him bring it to his lips. Other times he just looks at the can. At least he put on a pair of rumpled jeans so he’s wearing more than his thin boxers.
When all the strangers finally clear out of our house, I force James to sit down with a bowl of cornflakes at the dining room table. He’s pastier than normal and hasn’t stopped shaking since this morning. Not even an extra dose of sugar in his cereal snaps him out of his trance-like state. After pouring him two bowls only to watch each turn to soggy, sugary slop, I give up.
He lets me take him by the hand and lead him into our bedroom. Forcing my squeamishness over seeing his skin aside, I help him out of his t-shirt so he doesn’t have to deal with the smear of drying vomit across the chest. Before I can find him a replacement, he wraps his arms around me and begins to sob—harsh, guttural sounds ripped from deep inside his chest. I close my eyes and hug him as tightly as I can. James’s skin against my cheek—hot and smooth and enveloping—is
I can hear the sirens screaming toward us. They’re probably rounding the corner by the park right now, and soon, our house will be overrun by uniforms and swirling red lights. They’ll be too late. Will the police come? Will they sense the bruises hidden under our clothes? Will they ask about the ring of burn marks that form a perfect band around my mother’s ankle? I sink onto the side of the bed and touch her bare foot. See the chipped nail polish on her toes. It’s the same sparkly blue color James bought me last year. The tiny bottle disappeared a few days later.
From the doorway, wearing a pair of old pinstriped boxers and a blue, beer-stained t-shirt, our father gazes at her now still body. I get up and move closer to James, who doesn’t seem to see anything but our mother, and study the complete lack of emotion on our father’s face. I expected him to gloat or at least crack open a beer and toast to his freedom. He just stares.
Sick as it sounds after what I just watched her go through, I’m relieved. My mother’s in a place where he can’t hurt her anymore.
His gaze meets mine and holds it for several long seconds.
I shiver.
And then he walks out of the room.
Eighteen
There won’t be a funeral. Not even a wake. Who would come? As far as I know, my mother doesn’t have any family, and my father hasn’t talked to his since he ran away to be a boxer when he was my age. Phantom aunts and uncles and grandparents haunt me now, whispering promises of what our family might have been like if only we’d been in contact.
All I can think about are my mother’s blue toenails.
All James can think about is her dead body.
“Do you think caskets are expensive?”
With how often he gets stuck being the man of the house, it’s hard to remember James is only nineteen. Perched on the arm of the couch, his hair sticking out every which way from how many times he’s raked his fingers through it, he looks every bit the teenager he is.
“We should just cremate her body and dump the ashes somewhere in the middle of the forest,” I tell him, irritated that our father isn’t handling this. “She’d probably prefer being alone than rotting in a graveyard full of dead people. Plus, it’s probably cheaper.”
He looks horrified, but nods.
Eight different drugs—that’s how many the medical examiner found in our mother’s bedroom amongst the sea of orange bottles. We watched him march past us, all of the bottles sealed away in a huge plastic baggie. None of the paramedics knew which she’d overdosed on—James asked—but my guess is the one he and I took all those years ago.
“We’ll let you know what we find out,” the medical examiner says in a clipped voice on his way out the door.
I think he’s just as pissed off at our father as we are. Ol’ Knockout has been in his armchair ever since the paramedics arrived and carted her body away, the same beer in his hand. Sometimes I see him bring it to his lips. Other times he just looks at the can. At least he put on a pair of rumpled jeans so he’s wearing more than his thin boxers.
When all the strangers finally clear out of our house, I force James to sit down with a bowl of cornflakes at the dining room table. He’s pastier than normal and hasn’t stopped shaking since this morning. Not even an extra dose of sugar in his cereal snaps him out of his trance-like state. After pouring him two bowls only to watch each turn to soggy, sugary slop, I give up.
He lets me take him by the hand and lead him into our bedroom. Forcing my squeamishness over seeing his skin aside, I help him out of his t-shirt so he doesn’t have to deal with the smear of drying vomit across the chest. Before I can find him a replacement, he wraps his arms around me and begins to sob—harsh, guttural sounds ripped from deep inside his chest. I close my eyes and hug him as tightly as I can. James’s skin against my cheek—hot and smooth and enveloping—is
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