Chapter 26
TWENTY-SIX
I stare at the trash bags, one black and one white, and wonder how hard it would be to suffocate myself. Not hard, I bet, though easy to rip through the plastic at the last minute.
“The black one is for trash, the white one is for the garage sale,” says Mom, passing me the bags. Then she hands two to Scott and points to a pile of boxes in the corner. “Don’t touch these bins back here. They’re full of family photos and art from when you were kids.”
“Got it,” says Scott.
Mom blinks at him and then scans the basement. “Where’s Noah?”
“Dead to the world as usual,” Scott mutters. “He got in late last night.”
Mom doesn’t ask what he was doing, not that she’d believe me if I told her he was getting drunk at a bar again with his high school friends. “Oh, we’ll let him sleep, I guess. He’s been working so hard.”
If I had any fucks to give right now, I’d roll my eyes. I don’t. I feel numb.
“Ivy, why don’t you start in the back here.” Mom turns to look at me and does a double take. “Are you coming down with something? You look pale.”
Scott jumps back, eyeing me like he thinks I should be quarantined. “I cannot get sick this weekend,” he blurts. “I have a big presentation on Monday.”
“I’m just tired,” I lie. I do feel sick.
Physically ill, my body’s reaction to the stress of last night and withdrawals from the person I care about most. My chest is hollowed out, my heart sunk somewhere deep down.
It sputters painfully with every beat, echoing in the emptiness. I think it might be dying.
“Fatigue is usually the first symptom of the flu,” he says, still backing away. “I’ll stay over here, just to be safe.”
“You should be taking multivitamins,” says Mom. “Also, fish oil pills. Omega-3s can reduce that inflammation around your face.”
“Thanks, I’ll do that,” I mutter. The inflammation’s from crying my eyes out, but I don’t tell her that, obviously.
Mom leaves us to our task, and I spend the next hour sorting through old Barbies and baby books. My hands are weak, probably because I haven’t eaten today. My whole body feels like it’s shutting down, and I can’t think about Wes without my breath coming short and tears welling in my eyes.
We haven’t spoken today. The ball’s in my court, but I’m unsure of what to do with it. I can’t go back to him without some kind of explanation, but every time I try to plan out what to say, panic grips me.
I went to a party in high school and—
There was this guy, and he—
Something happened when I was—
I breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth, and focus on digging through the board games next. One task at a time. One minute at a time. Don’t let my mind run wild.
We’re an hour into the great purge when Noah wanders in, still wearing his pajama pants and slippers. He’s got dark bags under his eyes and the ultimate bedhead, his hair in dire need of a comb.
“Wow, you look like shit,” says Scott.
“I drank too much,” groans Noah, dropping down into an old beanbag in the corner. He leans forward, resting his head in his hands, and groans again.
“What else is new,” Scott mutters.
Noah glances up, looking around the basement with a frown. “You guys don’t really need my help, do you? Looks like you’ve got everything under control.”
Scott snatches two garbage bags from the boxes by the door and drops them in Noah’s lap. “Wrong. Black’s for trash. White’s for the sale. Your corner’s over there next to Ivy’s. Hope you’ve been taking your Vitamin C.”
“Vitamin C?” Noah mumbles, but he shuffles over to the pile beside mine and starts rifling through the box at the top. “This is gonna take forever.”
“We’d be halfway done if you hadn’t slept in,” I tell him.
“Then why didn’t anyone wake me?”
“Mom wanted to make sure you got your beauty sleep,” says Scott. “I don’t think it helped, unfortunately.”
Noah rolls his eyes and winces, reaching up to rub his temple.
I have no sympathy for his condition. I barely have the will to stay standing right now, and the few hours of sleep I managed to get were fitful.
Nightmares. Stress dreams. Panic. Guilt.
All kept me restless and half-awake until four in the morning, not to mention the frantic urge to text Wes and bare my freaking soul.
We spend the rest of the day with our heads down, speaking little.
We only break twice—once for lunch and a second time when Noah finds a scary large spider hidden in the folds of a deflated beach ball.
Both of us refuse to re-enter the basement until the monster is dealt with, and while Scott calls us babies, he doesn’t exactly offer to kill it.
I have to call in Dad as backup, and he crushes the spider with a work boot in seconds.
After spider-gate, I experience a brief moment of relief from the darkness eating away at me.
Forgetting myself, I reach for my phone, eager to tell Wes how my brother jumped as high as a spooked cat and tried to use me as a human shield.
But then reality sets in, and my hand falls.
My stomach drops out again, and my entire body deflates.
I can’t text him.
Once most of the basement is split up into bags, Noah disappears for a shower, and Scott steps out to call Olive. I collapse on the living room couch and shut my eyes, desperate for a nap, but not even twenty minutes later, Mom’s calling for me.
“Ivy, can you come down here?” Her voice drifts up from the basement.
With a sigh, I drag myself off the couch and back down the stairs to find her rifling through one of my trash bags.
When she sees me, she holds up a Barbie, a sour lilt to her mouth.
“Half of the stuff you threw away can be resold.”
I take the doll from her, smoothing down her long blonde hair. She’s in perfectly good condition…except for her feet. “I didn’t think anyone would want a Barbie I drew Sharpie shoes on.”
Mom either doesn’t hear me or pretends not to, still rifling through the bag. “And what about all these board games in here? Did you even sort through them? Some of these are practically new.”
I don’t tell her I diligently looked through every single box and tossed the ones with pieces missing. You can’t exactly play Monopoly without money, or Chess without any of the pawns. Instead, I ask, “Why are you looking through my bags and not Noah’s or Scott’s?”
“I’m going through them all,” she lies, still rummaging around and pulling out a few more games that I allegedly deemed in no condition to sell. She has me go through a couple more bags, and when she’s finally satisfied, we tie them up and I’m dismissed.
I waste away the next few hours studying on the couch even though I have very little mental capacity to memorize dates and names right now, let alone the entire history of all paintings in the era of Fauvism.
I try anyway, only giving up once my brain is seconds away from imploding.
I scroll aimlessly through my phone instead, needing a distraction, but the next few hours are so boring I could drift away.
Somehow, I end up being the one to help Mom take bags to the church. According to her, Scott has to prep for his big boy presentation and Noah has a headache, and it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to scream Noah’s hungover! at the top of my lungs.
We stop at the grocery store on the way home, and then Mom and I prep salmon, veggies, and potatoes while the boys do whatever it is they do.
We eat at the dining room table, Scott and Dad monopolizing the conversation while Noah stuffs his face and I push food around my plate.
When we’re done, I’ve never been so relieved to hide away in my room.
Given Olive’s absence, I’m actually allowed to spend the night in my own bed for once, and the familiarity of my childhood bedroom is both comforting and depressing.
Stuffed animals on the dresser. Paint supplies on the shelves.
My AP Art portfolio stuffed in the corner.
Unable to sleep, I lie awake and listen to the wind, staring at the ceiling as tears trail down my cheeks.
I want to text him.
I want to text him so badly it hurts.
I’m about to cave when the floorboards creak in the hall, unusual at this time of night. I throw back the covers and creep out of bed, cracking the door to see Noah’s retreating form descending the stairs. Tugging on an old Miller Hill High sweatshirt, I follow him down to the kitchen.
“What are you doing?” I ask, and he jumps a mile in the air, stumbling back and nearly dropping whatever’s in his arms.
“Jesus fuck, Ivy,” he says, his hand clasped over his heart. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“Sorry.” I step further into the room, my eyebrows shooting up as I realize what he’s holding. One of Dad’s nice bottles of Kentucky bourbon. “Are you sneaking Mom and Dad’s booze?”
Noah rolls his eyes. “What, are you gonna tattle?”
“I’m no snitch.”
He seems to debate this for a moment before concluding that I’m right. I never snitch to Mom and Dad about anything my brothers do because I know they won’t believe me anyway.
He studies me for a moment, then grabs two shot glasses out of the cabinet. He steps toward the basement door with a nod. “You coming?”
My eyes flit from the door to the bottle and back to the door. Then, I shrug. It’s not like I can sleep. “Sure. What the hell.”
A brief look of surprise flashes over my brother’s face, like he didn’t expect me to agree. But then he gives me a slow smile. “Fuck yeah. Let’s get drunk.”
The first shot burns like gasoline, and I wish we’d grabbed some chasers.
“Since when do you do shots?” he asks, blinking tears from his eyes. We’re both sitting cross-legged on the floor, TV tuned to a random channel, the bottle on the table between us.