Chapter 18 Amelia
Amelia
The film of choice is Practical Magic, starring Sandra Bullock and Nicole Kidman. Annabelle insists that in another life, she was a witch and even tried to do a few spells when we were kids. Halloween is approaching, and she’s already excited to decorate the house.
Throughout the film, she’s leaning forward in her seat, singing along to Faith Hill, and going on about how beautiful Sandra Bullock is. She also eats her body weight in popcorn, which is good to see.
I’m just happy to be able to treat my baby sister to a fun evening, where she doesn’t have to worry about her illness and can enjoy some silly fun.
Then we get back home, and the house is utterly trashed.
I stand in the doorway staring around me in disbelief.
For a horrible moment, I wonder whether someone has robbed us, or if there might be people still inside. We have nothing to steal, but that doesn’t really matter.
Then I see the telltale signs of the truth, and my blood begins to boil. It looks as if my mother and father have had a huge fight. It happens every six months or so when they’re sober enough to have a real conversation.
There are smashed beer bottles everywhere, with alcohol sprayed up the walls. Glittering pieces of glass are scattered across the carpet, and the kitchen has been ransacked. I recoil at the sight of a thin pool of yellow liquid on the floor.
He pissed inside his own goddamn house.
My hands are shaking with rage by the time I take Annabelle’s arm and lead her carefully through the wreckage.
“Go upstairs, Annie,” I snap, waiting for her to argue with me, but she must be able to hear the rage in my voice. She slinks away, struggling to get up the narrow staircase, and her obvious discomfort only darkens my mood further.
I look around at the carpet, wondering how the hell I’m going to get the shards out of it. Annabelle and I have both stepped on broken glass on more than one occasion, and the only vacuum we have is a piece of shit.
It takes me almost an hour to get the living room back into any semblance of normality. I’ve scrubbed at the carpet so hard that there are damp patches in several places, and the space smells strongly of chemicals from all the disinfectant I’ve used.
After another half hour of scrubbing, it’s getting late when I hear soft footsteps on the stairs. Annabelle is standing there looking fragile, leaning heavily against the wall, and holding several bottles of cleaning products in her hands.
Her eyes are watery, and she looks scared, which confuses me.
“What’s up, Annie?” I ask, pushing my hair out of my eyes. But as I do so, I hear her sniff.
“Are you angry with me?” she asks, her scared voice going straight to my heart.
“What? No!” I say, standing up swiftly and moving across the wet floor, and taking her into my arms. “Why did you think I was mad?”
“You d—didn’t ask me to help. And you’ve been throwing things around down here like you’re pissed at everyone.” She pushes me away. “I can do things, Mia. Stop treating me like a china doll. I can clean up, too. This isn’t just your responsibility.”
I pull back and realize that the tears running down her cheeks are also tears of rage. She glares at me furiously and pushes past me, grimacing as she steps onto the floor.
“Gross. What the hell did they do?”
“I think they emptied most of the beer onto the carpet.”
“What can I help with?” she demands, and I know I can’t argue with her.
“Wanna help put everything back in the kitchen cabinets? I’ve swept up all the broken pieces of glass, but be careful.”
She says nothing, goes to the kitchen, and gets to work. I keep an eye on her, noting that she isn’t able to lift more than one plate at a time, but I say nothing.
After another little while, things are looking vaguely normal, but Annabelle is fading fast. She lowers onto a barstool as I put away the vacuum and dustpan.
“Will you bite my head off if I say you need to get some sleep?” I ask. “It’s almost eleven.”
She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest. “I put away, like, three plates. You’d already done the rest. I’ve barely helped at all.”
I sigh. “That’s not true. And anyway, I don’t want you to—”
“Tire myself out, I know,” she says huffily. “You take charge of everything these days; it feels like I can’t make any decisions for myself.”
I stare at her, feeling stricken. I want to viciously defend myself and explain that I’m only looking out for her, but then I think back over the past few weeks.
I’ve cooked for her, cleaned up after our parents, pestered her about drinking enough, and nagged her to take her pills. It’s all because I love her and I’m terrified she’s getting weaker, but then I look at it from her perspective.
She’s stuck in this house twenty-four-seven, unable to do anything unless someone is with her. I control everything she does. Nausea rises in my throat.
“Don’t look like that, Mia. I appreciate everything you do for me.
But I just want to make some choices for myself.
I want you to spend time alone, work on your painting more.
You’ve barely had time for anything fun lately, and when you started this new job, I thought…
I thought you’d start to relax more. But you’re so on edge.
Every time I walk into a room, it’s like you have to run to me and prop me up like a puppet. ”
I rub the back of my hand over my forehead, fighting back tears.
“I’m sorry, Annie.”
“No.” She barks out the word as she leaps off her chair, then sways alarmingly to the side. I jerk forward, wanting to run to her and support her, just like she said.
She holds up a hand to stop me, grabbing the back of the chair and righting herself.
“I don’t want you to apologize. I want you to do things for you for a change. Stop choosing me over your own life. I mean it. I want you to go out for a drink with Hope in the next week. No excuses. And I want you to stay out late and not worry about our asshole parents, or me.”
It's so rare for my sister to outwardly criticize our mom and dad that I can only stare at her, and she raises her eyes to the ceiling and lets out a long sigh.
“And that’s another thing. I’m nineteen. I can say shit, fuck, and asshole if I want without the world ending.”
I manage to laugh. “I know that.”
“I love you,” she says firmly. “More than you can possibly understand, but you have your own life too. And lately all you do is look after everybody else.”
My shoulders slump as she comes over to me and loops her arms around my neck. I still feel sick at the thought that she’s been feeling like this, but when she pulls back her eyes are sad.
“I just want to get us out of here,” I whisper. “Everything would be easier then.”
“I know. And we will get out of here. Next time, let them clean up their own fucking mess, okay?”
I nod as she squeezes my shoulder and goes upstairs.
I’m still processing everything she’s said when my phone dings. I don’t recognize the number as I pull it out. It’s late for someone to be calling, and my mind whirs with fear at all the possibilities.
Did something happen to my mom, my dad, or is it the police?
“Hello?”
“Amelia.”
My stomach flips as I lower myself into a chair. That voice…
“Mr. Crawford?”
“Yeah. I’m sorry to call so late.”
“That’s alright.”
“You’re still awake?”
“Yes.”
“I was wondering if you might be interested in a little excursion.”
I glance at the stairs. “Uh, what kind of excursion?”
“It’s a very specific request. But you’ll be compensated. Twenty grand for the night. And I’ll make sure you’re comfortable with everything we do.”
I stare at the wall ahead of me, barely able to process what he just said. Twenty thousand dollars? For one night?
That kind of money would mean we are a lot closer to getting out of here. Then I blink and settle myself, realizing that for him to offer me that kind of money, he must want something really special.
Maybe this is the first time I’m gonna have to draw a line.
“I have someone here with me. You met him before, Ambrose Georgiou? I don’t want to sugarcoat things, and so I’ll be blunt. He’d like to watch us fuck.”
He leaves the sentence hanging, and I stare ahead of me, utterly perplexed. This was not where I thought my night was going. I’m still wearing one rubber glove, covered in grime, and barefoot.
“W—watch us?” I ask.
“Yes. If you aren’t comfortable, I’m going to hang up, and we won’t ever mention it again. This isn’t something that’s in your contract. It’s completely up to you.”
I think about Annabelle sleeping upstairs, the tears falling down her cheeks, and the stress of living in this house.
I picture us moving to a tiny apartment together. It’s small, but it’s ours. I might even have an easel set up by the window, Annabelle sitting in peace and comfort, sipping coffee on the couch.
Twenty grand would pay for a deposit and several months rent, and we could be out. Really out.
My heart lurches.
“How would I get to you?” I ask.
“I’m sending Melvin to collect you.” His voice has changed now. It’s warm, almost relieved. “Text me your address.”
Then he hangs up. I send him a message giving him the address at the corner of the street. The last thing I want is for Melvin to know where I live and report back.
My body is humming with nerves and anticipation as I go to take a shower.
What the hell did I just agree to?