30. August
After Des passed, I camped out in her room for weeks with my sketch pad and paints. Her pillow smelled like her; there was a pile of clothes on her vanity chair from choosing an outfit the night before; and her journal lay closed on her bedside table like she had no concern whatsoever that her younger brother might read it. So I never did. It felt invasive, like at any moment she might walk through the door and be disappointed.
Those weeks I was quiet. I sketched and painted her over and over, went through her photo albums a thousand times, and cried until my face hurt. And when I felt that the weight of losing her might actually crush me, I closed the door, leaving behind my art supplies and some piece of my heart I knew I’d never recover.
“What are you two party animals up to tonight?” Des asked, popping into my bedroom and leaning on the door.
Tiny and I lounged on my bed in our pajamas, rationing out the last of our stash of Halloween candy.
Tiny held up a stack of DVDs. “Movie night.”
“Well then, I guess it’s a good thing I made this popcorn,” she said, pulling not one but two bags of movie theater extra butter from behind her back and tossing them to us. They were warm to the touch and smelled like salty goodness.
“Thanks, Des,” I said and meant it in a larger sense than just popcorn. It mattered that she went out of her way to pay attention to my life, to care about the little things like movie night. I knew I could always count on her.
“You got it,” she said, pleased that we were pleased. “Try not to eat yourselves into a sugar coma.”
“Mmmm,” Tiny said, already tearing into her popcorn, even though we hadn’t decided the movie yet. Des laughed.
Since then, Des’s door has become a barrier that I don’t know how to pass, a reminder of those weeks when I lost control. I clean the doorknob with the hem of my shirt, even though it doesn’t need it.
Now that I’m not caught up in the moment with Ella, I can’t believe I agreed to teach her how to paint. And as if scenting my anxiety over it like a shark smells blood, my mind mocks my promise to give up art and begins to sketch. It happens so fast that I have no chance of stopping it.
The downstairs screen door snaps shut and I turn, relieved to look away from Des’s door. “Mom?” I call and check my phone. It’s 11:47 a.m. and way too early for her to be back from work at the Kellermans’.
I head downstairs, part of me hoping she quit and part of me worried she got fired.
“August?” she says in her painter’s overalls as I emerge from the staircase. “Can’t stay. Just popping in for supplies.”
“Oh,” I reply, both parts of me disappointed.
She opens the closet door and leans in. I move around her, heading into the kitchen. I grab an old diner-style mug from the cupboard and pour the last of the lukewarm coffee.
Mom pulls out a tarp. “Did you know that Kyle’s home for the summer?” She looks at me with uncertainty.
I freeze, midway to my first sip of coffee. “Uh, yeah.”
“You didn’t say anything when I told you about the job.”
I put my coffee mug down on the counter, regretting coming in here.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she adds, her forehead scrunching with doubt.
We never talk about Kyle; it’s one of the many unspoken agreements we’ve made in the past two years. I don’t bring up the year she spent closed up in her room after my dad left, and she doesn’t bring up Kyle or anything related to the accident.
She stands there with arms full of tarp, waiting for me to say something, and closes the closet door with a backward shove of her foot.
“No,” I say, my voice definitive where hers is indecisive.
“August,” she says, gently.
“No time, Mom.” I abandon my coffee and head for the screen door. “Tiny and I have work.”
I leave before she can respond.