By the time I do get home from dropping off Ringo and yet another near-death experience, the panic has overwhelmed the excitement over my newfound plan—my methodology—and has been replaced by a thudding headache that’s taken up residence behind my eyeballs.
I think the weather is conspiring against me, because it’s changed too. Bits of ocean have now crawled past the shore and into the air, turning it muggy. It tries hard to suffocate me as I trudge up the steps to my front door. Many years ago, my house was pink, but now it’s the color of a used Band-Aid. It sits uncared for at the end of a narrow avenue that dead-ends into the other properties with an ocean view. Bits of stucco crumble onto the tiled porch and stay there for ages. Moss and vines grow up the trunks of slender palm trees, strangling them until the leaves turn brown.
I stick my key in the rusty lock and twist.
“Lake?” my mom calls before I can even shut the door. “Is that you?”
I swallow hard, uncomfortable with how we left things this morning. “Yeah, it’s me.”
“Oh good,” she says. “We’re in the kitchen. Can you head this way?” My mom’s voice echoes in the high-ceilinged atrium. The sound of waves crashing against the rocks outside booms. No matter the time of day, my house always smells like the inside of a seashell.
I follow the corridor to the right and find Matt and my mom.
Mom gives me an unexpected hug, patting my back and squeezing me tightly. “How was your appointment?” she asks. “You were gone a long time.” There’s a worried note hidden in there.
“It was…fine.” I clutch my elbows to keep from falling apart. I avoid looking at Matt. Mom looks too hopeful, so I add, “It didn’t fix anything.”
She frowns but in an understanding sort of way. I notice that her car keys and wallet are sitting out on the marble-topped island. She slides them off. “Can you please sit with Matt and feed him dinner? I forgot that we’re out of milk, so I need to run out to the store.”
“I can run out—” I interject quickly, not wanting to be left alone with Matt. She must know that.
“No, no.” She waves me off. “You stay here. I’ll be right back.” She’s desperate to leave me here, but whether it’s because she needs a break from my brother or because she thinks spending time with him will change my mind, I can’t tell. “There’s leftover pasta in the fridge, or some chicken-tortilla soup, if he’d rather.”
“But—”
I see another flash of desperation in her eyes. Like a caged animal. “Thanks, Lake. See you in a few.” She tries to say this lightly before she disappears down the hall, but we both know she’s fleeing. I could have easily picked up milk for her on my way home. Mom wanted an excuse and I feel both manipulated and sorry for her all at once.
I turn slowly around to face Matt. His wheelchair sits near the window. He’s doing the thing where he wipes his features clean of any expression. Recently, Matt’s started to refuse haircuts. When Mom tries, he’ll toss his head, which is practically the only movement of which he’s capable, and last time, her scissors left a bloody gouge in his left ear. Since then, his hair has grown out to his chin and, without the sun, turned a dull bronze. Shaving him is the one thing he’ll let our dad do because the scruff tickles his nose when it gets too long.
“How’s it going?”
“Swell.” He gives up nothing. Not yet. I try not to look or, even better, feel guilty about the latest broadcast of my decision to Mom and Dad. Has he heard? Again, I can’t tell. But what he has to understand is that there’s a difference between him and my friends, the major one being that he’s alive and they’re not.
“So.” I try to keep my voice conversational, but it comes out false and Matt’s a shark for that sort of thing. “Hungry?” I ask, determined to press on. “Would you rather the pasta or the soup?” I open the fridge and pull out two Tupperware containers. “Or both, I suppose. Not sure how well they go together.”
“Soup,” he replies.
I nod and put the container of pasta away. “Excellent choice.” I pull out a bowl. In go the broth and chicken and tortilla strips. I then pop it into the microwave, already wishing that he’d chosen the pasta. Feeding Matt is a messy affair. There’s the cutting up into small bites of any solids, and if liquids are involved, half of the contents are sure to wind up on his chin. At least when I do the serving. My parents are better.
“So…” I look back. Matt’s wheelchair trips over the tile grout as he pulls closer, crowding me. Expression, voice, still blank. But the sense of foreboding grows inside me and, like a scene in a horror movie, I feel the suspense growing in the tense knot at the back of my skull. “Did the shrink change your mind?”
A familiar edge creeps into Matt’s question and I feel an unpleasant tingle run up my spine, like I’m watching a spider slowly creep toward me.
“About what?” I’ve decided to play dumb. Maybe I’m a chicken for it. So sue me.
“Did you really think that Mom and Dad wouldn’t tell me about your little Lakey hissy fit?” I flinch, stung, then try to cover by gritting my teeth. Of course the three of them would have talked behind my back and called a meeting that I wasn’t a part of, and I’m sure Matt knows that this lack of VIP access bothers me.
“It wasn’t a hissy fit,” I say smoothly. “But that’s fine. That they told you, I mean. I suppose you should know sooner rather than later.”
“You know that’s why Mom and Dad are sending you, right? To the shrink?”
I listen to the hum of the microwave. “She’s a therapist.” I emphasize the nonderogatory word. “It wasn’t the worst experience in the world. You should try it sometime.” It’s my own jab, but I doubt it makes a dent. “Anyway, Mom and Dad were right. It actually was kind of helpful to talk to someone.”
Matt scoffs. “You think they really care about that?”
I spin. “Yeah. Maybe I do.” Alarm bells are sounding in my head. Experience has trained me to appease my brother. Always pacify him. Don’t do anything to anger him. This is the code I’m used to living by and now I’m finding it harder to break than I thought.
I turn back and stare, stare, stare hard at the microwave. At the slow rotation. At the sinking minutes and seconds until the digital clock flashes. The microwave beeps. I pull out the bowl of soup. The ceramic scalds my thumb and forefinger and I snatch it back to suck on the stinging skin. “Damn it.” I wave my hand before grabbing a dish towel and move the bowl over to the breakfast table.
“Oh, stop being such a baby,” says Matt. “Some of us don’t even have the use of our hands.”
I shoot him a sharp look, then push the wheelchair over to the table and sit down across from him. “Open up.” The spoon scrapes the inside of the bowl.