No, but I’m not about to tell him what we’ve been doing. “Sam’s your friend. Why can’t he be my friend, too?”
James grunts. “I don’t like the way he looks at you.”
“You can’t be my only friend forever.” I reach for his hand and squeeze. “One of these days you’ll meet ‘the one’ and you won’t want your little sister hanging around. And then, when you get married…”
He’s staring at our hands, a hint of the frustration and the need I saw on his face last night in his eyes. He laces our fingers together. “That’ll never happen.”
Though I don’t want to lose him, the thought of my brother alone for the rest of his life makes me sad. I squeeze his hand. James and I have been joined at the hip for as long as I can remember. He’s always been there for me, protecting me, loving me. He deserves to have someone do the same for him. Someone other than his sister.
Gently, so he doesn’t think I’m rejecting him, I slide my hand out of his and stand up. “Triple Scoop’s running a special today. Buy one milkshake, get one free. Interested?”
“Do I ever turn down food?”
When he smiles at me, I see the brother from my memories. Maybe, if he stays this way, believing I can have the two things I want most—my brother’s love and Sam—won’t feel so impossible.
Sixteen
I’m having the strangest dream.
Like a ghost, my mother glides into the room. She picks up one of James’s CDs, sets it back down, and runs her palm across the bristles of my brush. The four-by-six picture of James and me on our dresser that has been listing to the left for months catches her attention next. She rights it, then drifts toward James’s bed.
A thin, white t-shirt drips from her tiny frame like silk, and the shorts she’s wearing look like ones James hasn’t worn since middle school. Her features are so soft in the dim glow of our night light, I nearly mistake her for a bruised-up, long-haired version of me. Or maybe that’s my mind’s way of filling in the blanks since I haven’t seen her for more than a couple seconds at a time in years.
If she sees me watching her, she takes no notice of it. I watch her gaze down at James and trace the outline of his foot hanging off the edge of the bed through the thin blanket. He stirs. I hold my breath when she pulls her hand away, but he doesn’t wake. Slowly, she moves to the head of his bed and touches his hair.
I want to wake up. Dreams like this do too much damage. Already, I can feel hot tears pooling in the corners of my eyes, remembering the shouts I heard coming from her bedroom earlier. Crying over a mother who couldn’t care less about us? I won’t do it. I refuse.
When she turns to me, I close my eyes and try to redirect the dream. She’s in here to steal my things like she always does when I’m not home—that’s all this is. If I open my eyes, I’ll see her rummaging through the closet, and since it’s my dream, she’ll be stealing James’s clothes instead of mine. The warmth streaking down my cheek onto the pillow isn’t real.
I can’t remember my mother’s touch. If not for James insisting I’ve blocked out all the good things about her, I’d swear she’s never touched me. Which is why, when I feel the first hesitant brush of her fingers on my cheek, wiping away a tear, I forget how to breathe.
Her fingers are soft and smell like old tobacco. I guess that makes sense since she’s always smoking. Against my will, I lean into her touch until she’s cupping my cheek and I open my eyes. There is an odd sense of wonder buried behind the bruises on her face. Pained, longing wonder. As she hesitantly caresses my cheek, her mouth turns up into a small smile so like my own.
“Sarah,” she breathes.
How can a dream feel so real?
Her eyes water when my trembling hand reaches for hers. I’m going to touch my mother. Even if this is a dream, every part of me craves this contact. Will her skin feel like mine? Will her knuckles be bony like James’s? Dream or not, touching her will change everything.
Before I’ve done more than feel the heat emanating from her skin, she yanks her hand away and shoots a terrified gaze at the door.
“Mom?”
Her eyes are frantic when she looks from the door to me and back again. She shakes her head, opens and closes her mouth like she wants to say something, but I can’t hear the words. I sit up in my bed and reach for her hand again, sniffling and scrubbing the stupid tears from my eyes.
But just like every other dream, no matter how hard I wish, what I want is just out of reach.
“Save James,” she whispers to me.
And then, just like that, she’s gone.
Seventeen
Screaming.
“Sarah, you gotta get up.”
I burrow deeper into my pillow and reach for James. He’s the only one who can make the nightmares go away. I find his arm and hug it to my chest underneath the blanket.
He groans. “Ah, God. Don’t do this now.”
The screams escalate into gurgling screeches that curdle the air in the room.
“Please,” James says in a broken voice. “Something’s wrong. I need you!”
Before I’ve opened my eyes, I’m on my feet. Stumbling, clinging to James as he drags me along, I make it into the hallway and down to our mother’s wide open door.
Nothing could prepare me for what I see.
Our mother lies skewed and twisted in the middle of her bed, one leg hanging off the side. Arching away from the mattress, she lets out another scream.
Agony, my sleep-muddled mind tells me. This is what agony sounds like.
Her thin, white t-shirt sticks to her glistening skin and rides up around her thighs. I recognize the t-shirt by the ancient brown stain on the bottom hem. Years ago, my father wore it under his scratchy red flannel coat while working on his car. I remember that particular day, how dismal and drizzly it had been, because it had been one of the few times James didn’t show up in time.
The ancient brown stain is my blood.
Another shriek of agony. Convulsing that shakes the floorboards beneath my feet. James yells at me to call for help, to find our father, to get a neighbor, something.
I barely hear him. I’m too busy staring at my mother, trying to piece together the bits of my dream that are scattering in the face of her screams. Familiar bruises. Fingertips on my cheek. Her whispered words.
The memory is so vivid and painful, I refuse to hang onto it. To distract myself, I force my attention back to the room I haven’t set foot in since James and I snuck in to steal those pills. There are pictures on the wall opposite her bed. The old Las Vegas Strip, Times Square at night, the Hollywood sign—all magazine fold-outs judging by the creases—hang from multi-colored thumbtacks. I didn’t know she had pictures. Then again, for years, I’ve done nothing but open the door a crack and peek in to make sure she’s still alive.
Wadded up tissues, bottles, and empty cigarette boxes lay strewn all over the floor and sit heaped on the table next to her bed. Dozens of orange medicine bottles sit in various stages of emptiness on the old dresser that used to be James’s when we were kids. All but one of the knobs are missing now and the top drawer sits crooked in its track. The pair of silky blue panties dangling from the corner look completely out of place.
Cursing at me, James barrels out into the hallway.
Morbid curiosity draws me farther into the room, toward the ghost who’s inhabited my mother’s body for as long as I can remember. Her head wrenches right. Left. Though her eyes have rolled up into her head, I know they’re the same pale hazel as my own. Small, freckled nose. Same pointy chin James says makes me look like a pixie. Stringy dishwater blond hair so like my own sticks to her bruised face and fans out across the pillow, the strands changing patterns every time she thrashes the other direction.
Even our screams sound the same.
And then it occurs to me that this still might be a nightmare. That, this time, I get to watch myself die in a dingy, disgusting bed instead of experience it.
When James runs
back into the room, he’s tearing at his hair and looking like he’s going to cry or throw up or both.
Save James.
I’m across the room and in his arms within seconds, trying to protect him from our mother’s screams by covering his ears. Clinging to each other, we watch helplessly as she clutches at the sheets, the last of her screams more gurgling screeches as she drowns in whatever is filling her body. Something white and sticky leaks from her mouth.
James shoves me away and throws up all over a pile of rumpled laundry at our feet. More t-shirts. An old pair of my pants. The shorts from my dream. My white Easter dress with its torn hem.
Before he’s done, the room falls into an abrupt, eerie stillness so alarming after all the shuddering and shaking. James climbs to his feet, wiping his mouth on his shirt, and stares at our mother. I’m staring, too.
She’s not dead. Not yet. Through the viscous white foam, she hitches and sputters through her last two breaths. Her fingers relax.
“Oh, shit,” James 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 comforting in a way layers of clothes wouldn’t be.
By the time we’ve moved to his bed and he huddles against me, wet and sticky from all the crying, I feel like I’m the only one in the world who can anchor him.
Seeing him like this, I know without a doubt I’ll never break my half of the pact. How could I? The few times we’ve made eye contact, the terrified little boy from my memories has been the one staring back at me. The tough nineteen-year-old that works way too hard and loves way too deeply is gone, at least for the night.
When I finally cry, the tears are for James, not for our mother.
Dinnertime comes and goes without our father shouting at me to make him something to eat. The television clicked on hours ago and I’ve heard the creaky hinges of our refrigerator opening and closing at least half a dozen times. I can’t believe he’s moved on so quickly, though I suppose it makes sense. Can’t mourn what you never loved.
Or what you killed.
The cold look he gave me before leaving her room?
It was a warning.
Closing my eyes, I force all the violent, bitter thoughts from my mind and focus on the warmth of my brother’s body and his soothing fingers threading through my hair. His warmth, his heart, his life—all three feel more vital than ever. If he knew what our father did, he’d lose it. I have to hide this from him. I won’t let him snap and throw away everything.
Save James.
It’s my turn to protect my brother.
Instead of nightmares like I expect, my dreams that night are filled with Sam—his smooth skin, hot kisses, and gentle touches. We’re tangled together in the front seat of his car again, but this time he’s shirtless. I can’t get enough of how his skin feels sliding against mine when he pushes up my shirt.
His hot palms are on my ribs. His mouth travels lazily from my hair to my cheeks to my closed eyes. When he finally kisses me, I’m stunned by how loved and treasured I feel. Kissing him in my dreams is almost better than kissing him in person.
Almost.
I wake up at 2:17 in the morning, lying next to my snoring brother but aching for Sam. Comforting James drained all my strength, and now all I want is for Sam to hold me. I’ve always had my brother to help me figure out what I’m feeling, but maybe Sam can make sense of the dark thoughts twisting my mind—my anger, and the twinge of grief I’m feeling over my mother, father, and James. If he can’t, maybe he can make me forget.
Closing my eyes, I try to find my way back to Sam and my dreams.
Nineteen
I haven’t heard from Sam in four and a half days. Not that I’ve been counting.
By the time our father reluctantly exchanges “mourning” with his family for the boys at the mill, and James finally drags himself to work, I give up thinking I mean anything to him. But even if I don’t, his dad died, for God’s sake. He knows how this feels.
I’m so disappointed. Both in him and in me.
Which is why, when he finally knocks on the door late Thursday morning, I refuse to answer. He’s persistent, though. After enduring his incessant knocking and pleas for nearly half an hour, I toss the book I
’m reading onto my bed and stomp to the front door.
I open the door and glare at him. “What do you want?”
“Thank God.” He yanks me into his arms. “I just found out this morning. What happened? Are you okay?”
Glare still firmly in place, I wedge my arms between us and shove. “Maybe if you stopped by or called or something, you would’ve known sooner.”
He frowns. “I’ve been working. And every time I drove by—which was a lot—your brother’s truck was out front. I would’ve shown up anyway if I’d known, though. Why didn’t you call me?” Frown deepening, he says, “Hell, why didn’t James call me?”
My anger bleeds away. Of course he didn’t stop by. I made him promise to keep this—us—a secret. I slip the ball chain out from under his shirt and rub one of the steel dog tags with my thumb. “I’m sorry,” I say.
“I wish I could’ve been here for you.”
Me, too, though I can’t imagine where Sam would’ve fit into my life these last few days. James hardly let me out of his sight, like he was afraid I’d die every time I stepped into another room. I gave up on privacy when I realized we weren’t leaving his bed unless it was to grab food or use the bathroom.
Not that I’ve been much better. All I can think about is James and the stupid drugs Leslie gives him. Our mother’s death has seriously messed him up. What if I leave him alone and he overdoses by accident? No way am I letting that happen.
“So, do you want to talk about it?”
Not really. I drop the dog tag and pick at the white paint peeling away from the doorframe. “They’re calling it a suicide.”
He frowns and seems to analyze my expression. I do my best to keep my face neutral.
“You don’t believe them,” he finally says.
This is a defining moment for us. Either I open up to Sam and let him into the mess that is my head, or I push him away. He stands eerily still, watching me, like he knows how important this moment is, too. Looking into his eyes, seeing the kind of affection I’ve craved my whole life, I find my answer.