I make a lame attempt at a smile. “I’m fine, Mom. Just nervous about my presentation this week.” I don’t want to tell her about my nightmare because she’ll start to worry again. She’s doing pretty well and thinks that I’ve recovered. And I have… I’m pretty sure I have. It’s just that every now and then I wake up in a cold sweat, the smell of the river and pine trees sticking to my skin and I can’t seem to shake it. But I refuse to burden her with this. I don’t want to make her heart any heavier.
She tilts her head and surveys me, pressing her hand to my forehead. “Well, you don’t feel as though you have a fever. But maybe you should stay home and rest.” Her stare goes to the window for a moment before returning to me. “You haven’t been yourself for the last few days. Are you sure everything is okay?”
“I’m good, Mom. Really.” Another lie. Another fake smile. “I’ll take a quick shower then come down for breakfast.”
“Okay, sweetie.” Her tone indicates she doesn’t necessarily believe me, but she doesn’t push the issue as she backs toward the door. “See you downstairs.”
I let out a relieved breath then kick off my Mickey Mouse blanket. My gaze flickers around the room to dove grey walls that hold my childhood secrets, not to mention memories and art. The first sculpture I ever attempted, a distorted blue jay, makes me grin. I’ve come a long way since then. Hanging beneath that is a poster of the Foo Fighters beside a framed picture of Zack and me, and I couldn’t possibly be smiling any bigger. Sighing, I look up at the puffy white clouds painted on my faded blue ceiling. For the briefest moment, I feel like I’m floating. My eyes travel back down, falling to my favorite red velvet chair stained with marker. All pointing to my failed childhood attempts at drawing the tree outside my window.
When I was little, I’d come up here and pretend I was going to some far-off land—like in Peter Pan. I’d disappear for hours at a time with my Play-Doh, making imaginary characters in every color of the rainbow. My dad always said I had a brilliant imagination. That he could tell I was going to ‘create’ when I was older. I remember asking him what I would create and he’d say ‘anything you want.’ Funny how in vagueness there can be so much certainty. My dad is like that a lot.
“You haven’t even taken a shower yet!” Avery’s voice bursts through my thoughts. “I’m setting the timer! Hurry the hell up. I need you to drop me off at work.”
“I heard that,” my mother calls up the stairs. “Avery. Mouth.”
I smirk and she sticks her tongue out at me. Yup. That’s my twin sister, Avery. Twenty-two going on twelve. The only similarity is our green eyes. But that’s as far as it goes.
“Be careful, sis, or Mom’s going to wash your mouth out with soap.”
“Better than winning the goody-goody award,” she counters, but her smile is warm. She loves me to pieces, even though she’s cornered the market in the obnoxious department. “I’ll save you a seat at the table.” She winks, then flicks her long blonde hair and saunters off.
I hop off the bed and cross the room to gather up a towel. My mind tries to erase any earlier thoughts and replace them with my upcoming presentation for sculpture class. Being a summer course, I’m not worried about the grade. It’s the standing up in front of the class that makes my hands clammy and my pulse race erratically. It’s just not my thing and never has been. I’d much rather sit in the back and quietly go unnoticed.
My feet drag as I head down the hall, simply wanting to make it to the bathroom. It doesn’t seem like a lot to ask, but inside, it’s too much. I pause outside of Zack’s room and tell myself I’ll go in for a minute—just enough time for me to feel like I can breathe again. I need this today. I need to be close to him.
I suck in a lungful of air and twist the knob, stepping inside and quickly closing the door behind me. Once I know I’m alone, I let my head loll back against it and release the breath stuck in my chest.
When my nerves calm, I allow my head to drop and my gaze to move around the room. As strange as it sounds, I can still feel him here. I can still see him sitting in the middle of the bed with his eyes closed, earbuds in, listening to Kings of Leon. The way he would pat the spot next to him, then put one of the earbuds in my ears so we could listen together. My eyes land on the worn Portland Trail Blazers hat hanging off a silver hook above his bed. His hair always poked out from the side of that darn cap, and he was forever tugging at it.
Scrawled pencil marks etched into the wall from his growth chart sit untouched beside the closet. The amusement in his expression every time he reached a new height clear in my mind. His laugh settles around me and I close my eyes, wanting to remember all the tiny details. Like how we would hide from Mom in that closet when she was calling us to do chores. All we wanted was to steal a few more minutes. God, what I’d give to have those minutes back.
His room is still filled with life—a life way too short. His adventures line the walls and I shake my head. He may have been tall and skinny, but he was a force to be reckoned with. And he was crazy—in all the best ways. I miss that crazy.