Authors: Kelsey Sutton
On Wednesday a voice says,
“Mary is throwing a party. Want to go?”
These words are foreign to me,
always wrapped and gifted
to someone else.
I'm so startled by their weight
that at first
I don't react.
Someone kicks
the bottom of my shoe.
“Earth to Fain.”
I come down
come to
look up
at Matthew's handsome face.
“A party?”
He squats down,
leans forward,
touches my cheek.
I freeze.
“You had an eyelash,” he explains,
holding it out,
urging me to make a wish.
I shake my head,
let the wind take it.
“I don't need to anymore.”
the final words
of a story.
my little brother's
dimpled smile.
warm socks
after a trek through the snow.
one more fry
in the bottom of the bag.
the
tap-tap-tap
of a monster at the window.
being noticed
after feeling invisible for so long.
the way Matthew
looks at me.
Something feels different
about the quarry
today.
But when I look around,
nothing appears
changed.
The water is still,
the rocks are gray,
the sky is pale.
It isn't until
I'm on my way home
that I realize:
the quarry
doesn't feel like an escape
anymore.
It feels
like a hiding place.
There's no fighting
in the house tonight.
My mother's hands
cup Peter's face
as though he is made of glass.
“He's too hot,” she keeps saying
over and over.
They take his temperature
and the house shrinks.
Tears streak down
Peter's face,
his mouth wide open,
the sound of sirens coming out.
“Stay here,” Dad orders,
keys in one hand,
Peter in the other.
My mother trails behind them;
she has never looked so small.
None of us speak
as the door slams.
All that's left
is fear
silence
and a red-hot thermometer.
Back and forth,
wall to wall,
left to right.
I watch Dana worry,
I watch Tyler pace,
I watch the clock tick.
When the phone rings,
its sharp sound makes us jump.
Dana answers breathlessly.
“How is he?”
“How long?”
“Where?”
The hum of my father's voice responds,
and at the end of the conversation
my sister faces us.
Her brown eyes
have turned to black.
“They're not coming home tonight.”
So much can change
in a matter of
seconds
hours
days.
I sit on my bed,
hold Peter's costume tight,
think about how cold it was
when I took him trick-or-treating.
Dana flies into the room,
a burst of color and sound.
She draws up short
at the sight of me
clutching a sheet with holes.
Something changes
in her eyes.
“He's going to be okay,” she tells me.
“Promise?” I ask.
But I know my sister can't
guarantee such things.
Dana settles down beside me,
touches the sheet
as if Peter
is still beneath it.
A pause.
Then,
“Promise.”
The next day
I rush home, hoping to find
Mom on the couch with the remote,
Peter on the floor with his blocks.
When I enter the living room,
see that it's empty,
I fight hard not to cry.
My older siblings
arrive home minutes later;
we sink onto the couch,
wait for the phone to ring.
Suddenly
Tyler jumps up,
moves toward the door.
“You can't leave!” Dana snaps.
He hesitates,
glances from us
to his escape.
Reluctantly
he returns,
drums fingers against his thighs
in a restless beat.
The three of us
sit silently
on the threadbare couch
until Dana reaches for the remote.
We stare at the TV
as though it holds
the answers to our questions.
Hugh the weatherman
tells us about the gloomy tomorrows
we should expect.
My siblings' hands rest
on either side of me;
I reach for them
as if grasping
for a lifeline.
Another silence follows
that even Hugh can't seem to fill.
But neither of my siblings
pulls away.
Two days pass,
torturous and slow.
Dad stops home,
picks up clothes
for him and Mom,
gives us money for pizza,
heads back to the hospital.
On the second night
without Peter
Tyler says my name,
points to the window.
The sky is coming apart,
drifting to the ground
in fluffy white pieces.
Suddenly
Dana jumps up,
turns on the radio,
grabs my hands
and our protesting brother's.
We go round
and round
until colors blend and feelings blur.
The snowflakes
float with us,
silent and steady,
performing a dance of their own.
I want to ask my siblings
why we can't do this
all the time.
Instead I keep dancing
keep laughing
as the snow keeps falling.
A hiss,
a growl,
a squawk.
The monsters at my window
press against the glass,
desperate to get my attention.
“Fain, let's go to Mars!”
“Explore the jungle.”
“Raft down the river!”
I turn on my side,
my back to them,
feel my siblings' hands curled around mine
envision Peter walking through the front door
and utter words they have never
heard me say before.
“Not tonight.”
During lunch
Matthew sits beside me
speaking words I would normally
find enticing.
Today
I look for my sister.
I'm surprised to find
she's looking back.
We gaze at each other
from opposite ends of the clearing
exchange a sad smile
both feeling the empty space inside
where Peter should be.
I blink
against a flash of memory.
Me and Dana as children
making a phone
out of strings and cans.
Giggling,
whispering secrets
into the metal tins.
When Dana turns away,
I can still feel
the string between us.
Delicate,
breakable,
but there.
Tonight
something wakes me,
so bright and burning,
the insides of my eyelids
are shimmering and red.
I jerk upright,
see the inferno
the outside world has become.
Flames crackle
and blacken the window,
making glass hiss and fragment
like a spiderweb.
Terror expands in my throat,
blocking air and sound.
Then
I blink.
Everything
is the way it always was.
Dana snoring
phone lines whispering
clock ticking
house creaking.
I notice something new
on the rug next to my bed.
My sock,
so small and forgotten,
charred and left for me to find.
In the morning
our father
walks through the door.
Abandoning their cereal,
Dana and Tyler
barrage him with questions.
After he satisfies them
with his answers,
my siblings leave
to tell friends the good news.
A relieved sigh
fills the room.
Then Dad shocks me
by walking to the table
pulling me up
wrapping his arms around me.
It's the first time
I've been hugged
in months.
He smells like medicine
and worry.
My father doesn't say a word
doesn't voice his pain or doubt
but I feel it in his embrace.
I bury my fingers
into his sweater,
try not to think about the moment
he'll let me go.
Word about Mary's party
spreads like butter over bread,
tempting and indulgent.
But I am distracted
by thoughts of the sock,
vanished off the rug
when I woke up
this morning.
After fourth period
Matthew walks next to me,
talks about numbers and goldfish.
The sound of his voice
slowly makes me forget
my troubles.
Then my brother spots us,
touches my elbow;
Matthew drifts ahead.
“Be careful, Fain,” Tyler mutters.
“I don't want you to get hurt.”
Beyond him,
hovering by her locker,
Mary Mosley scowls.
Then I see Matthew waiting for me
by the classroom doorway.
Our eyes meet
and I forget about all of it,
Tyler and Mary and warnings,
everything but the thrill
I feel right now.
My family is back together.
A week after
that terrible night,
everyone gathers around Peter
as if he is a flame
and this the coldest of nights.
We smile
embrace
kiss.
But the pneumonia
hasn't completely left his body
or our minds.
Suddenly this delicious moment
so rare
so new
is spoiled by a scream.
I jump,
leave my skin behind
as I run.
Dana stands in our room,
staring at the broken thing
that was once our window.
There's a warm presence
at my back,
and I turn.
“What happened?”
my father asks.
The jagged edges of the glass
rip and tear at me
like teeth.
I don't answer
can't answer
and he hurries away
in search of something
to cover up the hole.
Dana follows him,
shouting for Tyler
to give her the phone.
For a few minutes
I stare into the darkness
that I usually find
so lovely.
It's no secret
who could have done this.
“You're jealous!” I shout
into the night;
breath leaves my mouth
in swirling clouds.
The monsters don't respond.
It's the big night,
so big that it's a skyscraper
or a wish.
I stand in the bathroom
curling iron in hand
gritting my teeth
glaring at the girl in the mirror
with her tangled, hopeless hair.
My sister appears in the doorway,
watches me for a moment.
Then, “Stop that. You're making it worse.”
She takes the curling iron
creases her brow
concentrates.
Dana curls and teases my hair
until it is not hair anymore.
Finally she steps back,
waits for my reaction
with an expression that matches my own:
wary
uncertain
hopeful.
“Thank you,” I whisper,
words that I haven't uttered to my sister
in so long.
She shrugs
as if it's nothing,
but we both know
that's not true.
“Don't thank me yet,” Dana mutters,
adjusting a curl at the back of my head.
When I ask her why,
she says, “We haven't touched your closet.”
Meet me there,
Matthew said.
But Mary Mosley's house
is across town.
Mom is too tired to drive,
Dad is snoring in their room,
Tyler is nowhere to be found,
Dana went off with her friends.
So I step outside
into the cool night air,
wait until the bus arrives.
The other passengers
sit weary and guarded
behind fences built of
books and screens and closed eyes.
I look around at
a mother and her small son
a white-haired man and his newspaper
a man and his cell phone
a boy and his bag of potato chips.
I imagine the world as a place
where you could sit down next to a stranger
and exist together
instead of separately.
For a moment or two,
I try to summon the nerve
to say hello.
After all,
I have swum through oceans
walked the moon
climbed up mountains.
In the end, though,
I listen to
the murmurings of the mother
the crinkling of the paper
the chirps of the cell phone
the crackling bag of chips
and stay silent in my seat.