I feel those words again. Feel them even stronger.
The birthday card I gave him is below the tickets, even though it was in the summer, months after our trip to the city.
None of this is in the right order. It usually looks like chaos, but it’s really an organized chaos. It took a little while to understand that about Caleb—the system in the disorder. And unless he was looking for something frantically, I know: I am not the first person in this room.
The ticking of the clock grows louder in the silence.
Everything changes.
A shadow passes underneath the closed door behind me, but then it’s gone, and I’m not sure whether I imagined it.
I look over my shoulder again, staring at the darkness underneath the blue door, holding my breath. As if I am not alone after all.
I hear Caleb’s clock ticking on the wall beside the window, and I’m frozen, staring at the closed door. It’s noon, and I’m starving, and the hunger is doing something to my mind, making me imagine things that do not matter. That are not true.
The room, then and now, was always stocked with some sort of food. As if descending two flights of steps was too great a trek to undertake for a quick snack. I check those shelves now and find a bag of peanuts, like from a ball game, and a box of Chex Mix, which is mostly empty.
Both go into the garbage can under his desk.
There, behind a stack of books, I see his familiar stash: mini-boxes from a cereal variety pack, still in the plastic, that he would tip into his mouth like a one-bite snack. Three of eight boxes remain.
My fingers tremble, maybe from the hunger. I pick up the Pops, my favorite. He used to save me this one from the variety pack, even though it was his favorite, too.
The Pops were always mine, and my heart breaks, seeing the box here, still waiting. I open the top, tip the box over and pour the cereal into my mouth. The coating is syrupy sweet; the resulting thirst, endless. I can see the bottom of the bag inside. There will never be enough. Never another of these left behind.
Caleb also used to bring extra snacks to school on test days, saying he needed it for his brain, to focus. He convinced his teachers that a bag of chips was the difference between success and failure, and somehow got away with it. The only place they didn’t let it slide was the library, so he had to get a little more creative there.
The gap under the doorway is dark, and I hear no footsteps below. I pull the door open, and the creak catches me off guard. A warmer gust of air filters in from below. Keeping my hands on the walls, like Caleb would do, I make my way down the steps, pausing at the closed bedroom door on the second floor. I place my ear to Mia’s door, but hear no one inside. I knock faintly and call, “Mia?” but get no response.
My hand grabs the knob, and I turn it just slightly, just so I can feel that it isn’t locked, that I could open it if I wanted to.
“Eve?” I call.
I hear only the ticking clock, from below this time. The grandfather clock in the living room, an old narrow tower that no longer chimes, just makes a dull buzzing that you only hear if you’re standing right beside it, like the sound mechanism is broken.
It’s Mia, I think, who’s been through Caleb’s things. It’s Mia who doesn’t think I should be here trespassing, who deserves to keep pieces of her brother for herself. It’s Mia who wants to know who he was, this brother she can now never have growing up.
I push her door open, holding my breath. I only open it wide enough to see inside, to stick my face in the gap and confirm that she isn’t there. I’m not sure what I expected to see: Caleb’s things scattered around the floor maybe, in a tribute to him; her own room slowly being packed away. But it’s exactly as I remember it: the walls are a pale lavender and there are more stuffed unicorns than I can count, and her floor is scattered with toys, a beanbag chair, paperback books, a necklace-making kit.
I guess I expected the grief to seep into everything, turning her as morose and sullen as I am. To cause her to give up her friends and activities and focus only on this thing that is missing.
There are no boxes leaning against her walls yet. I think they’re mostly leaving things as-is while the house is on the market, so prospective buyers can imagine their own children in these very rooms, taking up the spaces, growing and thriving.
Only Caleb’s room must go. Back to an attic storage area. A library. A bunker. Nobody wants to see a room that belongs to a ghost.
I close her door, creep down the remaining steps, and call, “Hello?”
The ticking is louder, and I jump when the ice maker kicks in, dropping fresh cubes into a compartment in the freezer.
I’ve never been in the kitchen alone, I realize. I’ve been here with Caleb. I’ve been here with Mia. I’ve been here with Eve, with Sean. The room looks barren and older without them. The laminate more yellowed and chipping at the edges, everything showing its age. I run my finger along the seam of the counter edge as I circle the room, debating lunch. The pantry door squeaks when I pull it open, but I remember Caleb’s words: Really slim pickings here.
There’s bread and peanut butter, but I hate peanut butter. There’s cereal, but it’s unopened so far, and I think this must belong to Mia, and she wouldn’t want me having it. Anyway, I’m no longer sure if I’m entitled to their food. No, I’m sure that I’m not.
I peer out the side window, and see Eve’s car is still there, in the long, narrow driveway that leads to their garage around back. Which means she and Mia are probably out nearby. I pull open the drawer beside the fridge, looking for a pen and paper, so I can leave a note. But it’s empty. I check the rest. There’s the familiar jangle of utensils, some cooking supplies, some spare batteries. But at least half of the drawers are already cleaned out. As if Eve, like me, has started with the parts hidden from the naked eye first. Carving it out from the inside, until all that remains is the shell.
I decide to just go. There’s a sandwich shop about a mile away, off the exit ramp. I can be there and back within thirty minutes. I can even eat on the way here. The front door is unlocked, so I figure they must’ve just stepped out for a moment.
When I step outside, Mia freezes at the base of the steps. She’s crouched over with a piece of chalk, her hands stained pink and green. In front of her are a series of boxes she’s drawn, all outlined in chalk, like for hopscotch.
I take a single step toward her down the steps, and she looks back at the sidewalk, dragging the chalk in a new line.
“Hi, Mia,” I try, but get nothing. Her face is hidden by the long hair hanging over her shoulder, blocking her face.
“I’m going for lunch. Are you here alone?”
She stops then, looks over her shoulder, and makes eye contact firmly and briefly. “I’m not allowed to talk to you,” she says quietly, then goes back to the drawing.