Reluctant Guardian (9 page)

“This your place?” I ask, stepping into the living room behind him.

“No, it's the neighbor's. I'm here to rob them.” He throws his backpack in the corner and goes straight to the fridge. He grabs a beer and pops the lid, collapsing onto the couch.

“I wouldn't be surprised,” I say, mumbling and looking around.

He closes his eyes and chuckles like he doesn't care.

“Do your parents know you drink?” Maybe this is the obstacle he needs to overcome. Maybe he's an alcoholic. I can deal with that. Get him to sign up for AA. Get him to go to meetings. Get him a sponsor. Easy peasy.

He throws an icy stare, then, and with a snort, he takes another swig, not bothering to answer.

His lack of emotion irritates me, and I feel no desire to keep my mouth shut. He reminds me too much of my older brother, Derek, when he's in one of
his
moods.

“What a moron,” I say. “I don't have to stick around and watch this. Why should I waste my time with you?”

His expression falls and pain fills his eyes for a split second, even though he tries unsuccessfully to hide it.

A pang of guilt pricks my conscience, because I'm being rude and I know it, but how could my comment hurt a guy like him? Why would he care what I say? He doesn't want me here, and guys like him... well, I just don't know how to deal with this situation other than how I'd do it with my brother, which will end in a big argument. I obviously don't know how to influence Brecken without saying something mean. I already regret the comments I've made so far.

I'm not normally such brat and I don't know what is wrong with me now. I should apologize, but can't bring myself to do it, and I don't want to sit around and watch him get drunk or hear any more of his asinine comments.

I want only one thing.

The comfortable, familiarity of home.

The memory of my mother's face and her robust laughter calls to me. Maybe smelling the yeasty aroma of baking bread, or seeing my dad sitting at the computer going through
Craig's list
will make me feel better. My little brother's good-humored teasing could pull me out of this funk easy.

All I have to do is close my eyes. The tug and pull begins in my belly and when I open my eyes, there I am in our bright, airy kitchen. I don't know if I've traveled a hundred miles or a thousand. I'm in the one place I love most.

I take a moment to soak it in—the quiet, the familiarity of each piece of furniture, each picture on the wall, and relish the feel of just being here, of being home.

Normally at this time of day, my mom would be standing against the counter, reading mail or making some treat for us to eat once we gotten home from school, but silence fills the kitchen and my mother's absence makes everything seem sad and too quiet.

I float upstairs to her room, stopping at mine on the way. The closed door doesn't block me, and I move through it. The unopened blinds and sheer curtains encase the room in shadow. My perfectly made bed—not like
I
left it—stands under the window, and not one poster I put up has been removed from the walls. Not even bare-chested Jacob Black. My mom hates that one.

I quickly grow uncomfortable in my empty shrine, where only crumbling memories remain instead of girl things like ponytail holders, makeup, and rumpled clothes. I'll never sleep in that bed again. I'll never wear my favorite Big Star jeans, or brush my hair with the silver brush and comb set my Gram bought for me before she died. Ache fills me as I look around, heavy, cold, and filled with regret.

Not wanting to deal with it right now I head toward my parent's bedroom and stop in front of their door. I don't hear anything, but I have the eerie sense that something is happening inside. Uneasiness, like the overpowering stench of rotten potatoes hidden in a dark cupboard—overcomes me.

Taking a breath, I push through the door. Only a sliver of light pierces the room through a crack in the heavy brocade curtains. The familiar cherry-wood king-size bed stands against the far wall, and a stale odor permeates the room.

A form lies on the bed, unmoving. I know who it is immediately and step closer. Familiar dark hair covers half of her sleeping face. A white, dry trail of tears ends in a wet spot on the pillow. She hasn't been asleep long.

I kneel beside her and run my fingers along her cheek. Why is my mom sleeping in the middle of the day? She never used to. She was always the first one up, running on her treadmill, working with the PTA, doing volunteer work at the children's hospital downtown. She would have considered a nap in the middle of the day a complete waste of her time.

I stay by her side and watch her breathe. It's not long before I hear the downstairs door open quietly, and then slowly click shut. I never realized I could hear so well, and I wonder who is sneaking into my house. Glancing down at my mother, I realize she hasn't stirred at all, but lies on her bed completely comatose.

I go to the top of the stairs and see my little brother Tyler. He throws his backpack next to the wall and slumps onto the couch, grabbing the remote and flipping on one of those stupid Japanese cartoons I hate. A tug of nostalgia fills me. What I wouldn't give to sit next to him and watch TV.

Normally, he gets a snack. He's never been overweight, but he was always a bit on the chunky side—perfect for playing little league football. Now his clothes hang from his shoulders, his pants baggy. He has barely hit puberty and can't have burned off all his baby fat yet.

I sit on the couch next to him and place my hand over his. A rush of loneliness washes over me, and feelings of despair settle in my chest. Is this what he's feeling right now? Is this heavy weight of torment what little Tyler carries around all day?

“Go get something to eat,” I whisper.

He doesn't move.

I say the words again, more forcefully this time. He throws the remote down and gets up to rummage around in the kitchen cupboards, pulling out graham crackers and milk.

He comes back with a bowl of soggy crackers, plops his feet on the coffee table, and stares at the TV. With a sigh of resignation I stand, thinking I should go back upstairs to my mom, but something tells me it's time to find Brecken.

Dang.

 

~Too Much Too Soon~

Alisa

 

I close my eyes and picture Brecken—his dark, wind-blown hair, his thick, black eyebrows, and his intensely blue eyes. In a blink, I appear in some sort of basement bedroom—dark, dank, and surrounded by cement walls. A lone bulb swings from the unfinished ceiling.

Brecken sits on the edge of an unmade bed, holding a pill bottle. I inch closer to read the label but his fingers close over it. He grits his teeth and opens the bottle. Maybe he's planning to overdose. Maybe my moment to help him is at hand. I'll be finished with my job and back to
Idir Shaol
in no time! I hurry forward, but instead of swallowing a handful of pills, he takes only one... without water.

Oh gag. Doing that would have burned a hole through my esophagus.

He pitches the bottle onto a small table that holds an old, wooden lamp, and then he lies down and faces the wall.

“Brecken,” I whisper, unsure of what to say. Since visiting my family, the desire to fight has disappeared, and I don't want him mad at me either.

He covers his head with a pillow.

“Brecken, if you can hear me, please talk to me.”

“Go away.”

I sit in a chair across the room and watch his still form. “I don't like this anymore than you do.” I wish he didn't know I was here. I could work so much better incognito, like I had with my little brother, or the girl named Jilly that Brecken kissed. Slowly, he turns and searches the dim room. “Why do they keep sending you people?”

“How should I know?” I shake my head and cross my arms over my chest. Everything he says irks me. Even the way he holds his mouth when he speaks. I feel a desire to scream coming on. “What was that pill you took?” I ask finally. “Are you into drugs or something? Are they painkillers? I want to know what I'm dealing with.”

He exhales and turns toward me. “Zyprexa, if you must know. It's a prescription.”

I've heard of Zyprexa but can't remember what it treats. Just my luck to be assigned to some psychic wacko. “What's it for?”

“It's for schizophrenia,” he says, sitting up on his bed. “Everyone thinks I'm nuts. Okay? If someone claims they hear voices, they're usually given medication or are wrapped up in a long white shirt that buttons down the back.”

He has a point there. “Yeah,” I say slowly. “What else can you do? Any other amazing talents I should be aware of?” I have a feeling these weird things he can do are the special gifts Raphael was talking about when I wasn't listening.

With a whoosh, he falls back to his pillow. “None of your business. I wish you'd just leave.”

“I'd like to, but you see, if I don't finish my assignment here, I have to live in hell for the rest of forever, so a little help would be nice.”

A string of obscenities flies from him mouth and he sits up again. He searches for me in the corner.

“What did you just say to me?” I yell back at him. “I don't need to listen to that! Watch your mouth or I won't help you at all!” I want nothing more than to walk out, to leave this doper to his fate, but I know what mine will be if I do. My threat is empty and he probably knows it. He'll do whatever he can to get rid of me.

As soon as that thought enters my mind, I feel strangely relaxed. A calm descends around me like a wooly shroud and I chuckle, which brings a frown to Brecken's face. His ploys won't work. I understand his technique. I can see right through him. Maybe it's a guardian gift.

“Hey,” he says suddenly, leaning forward and squinting his eyes. “Just so you know, I can see you. What do you think of that, little guardian angel?”

I freeze.

The next second, I disappear back to my old bedroom.

***

Those four words, “I can see you,” rock me in a bad way. More than I would have thought possible. Being able to hear me is one thing, but see me too? It's not fair. I have a harder job than any of the other guardians, and I want to guard someone easy, boring, and not so complicated. I aim my complaints at Raphael, sure that he can hear me, but I get no response. I picture him up there laughing.

This isn't how it's supposed to be,
I scream in my mind. A few-four letter words flit through my mind, as I look around my old room, knowing I can't come home every time things get hard. Am I even allowed to visit my family? It's one of those things Anaita surely went over in class, but for the life of me, I can't remember.

With a tired sigh, I close my eyes. I have to stay with Brecken whether I want to or not, so I picture his face, fully expecting to reappear at his side.

Nothing happens.

I try again.

Nada. I take one of my imaginary deep breaths to slow my mind and close my eyes, trying again. Slowly I open them. I'm still in my room. The only explanation I can come up with is that I need to be here at the moment, which seems strange considering I'm supposed to stick to my charge like glue.

I push through my closed bedroom door and out into the hallway, then tiptoe through the quiet house. Downstairs in the living room, Tyler still watches TV, and on the table in front of him rests the empty graham cracker bowl.

A familiar rumbling echoes through the walls. The garage door. Someone's home. Glancing at the clock, I figure it must be Derek. He drives an old rusted, 1971 Ford Mustang that I love and hoped would be mine when he left for college.

That will never happen now.

The back door in the kitchen opens and closes with a loud bang.

Tyler doesn't even turn around. He doesn't say hi, or lift his hand in a wave. Derek doesn't greet our morose little brother either, but hurries down the long flight of stairs to his bedroom in the basement. I hear his door slam three seconds later. When did they all become so hostile?

Here is sweet, little Tyler, sitting alone for the last hour, lonely, forgotten, and hurting—I know because it's radiating off him in palpable waves—and Derek doesn't even stop to ask how he is.

Furious, I stomp down the carpeted stairs to the basement, wishing I could sound like thunder, intending to give Derek the yelling of a lifetime. He has no right to treat Ty that way. His shut door stops me for only a second before I barge through.

He lies on his bed, ear buds stuck in his ears, his iPod resting on his stomach. One arm covers his eyes.

“Derek.”

He doesn't move, not that I thought he would.

“Derek!”

Nothing.

“Derek!” This time I scream his name, my hands fisted, my whole soul shaking with fury, but it doesn't matter. He can't hear me. He can only hear the awful pounding of AC/DC from his tiny black mp3 player.

I can't do anything here, so I float back upstairs, straight through the floor to save time. Ty still vegges on the couch, only now a single tear trails down his cheek.

I kiss the tear, my heart breaking. I don't know what to say or how to help. “Tyler, I love you. I'm so sorry this is happening. I know it's my fault.” My death is the cause of all this continuing sorrow. My heart aches, but I don't know what to do about it.

Shaking my head, I begin drawing on his arm with my finger. It's something we always did in the past. We'd stay up late watching movies, drawing on each other's arms or backs the whole time. It was our thing, our tradition.

I hear an intake of breath and he sits up straighter, rubs his arm hard, like it itches, then reclines back against the couch with his arm outstretched, smiling. Tears well in his eyes. A smile spreads across my face, and I snuggle into the cushions, once again trailing my fingers up his forearm. One lone tear drips down his cheek, but I feel a small ray of hope trying to shine though the loneliness he feels. It's one of the coolest moments of my life.

It's quickly in
terrupted by the most horrifying sound I've ever heard.