39. June
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
JUNE
I’m standing in the middle of the living room, and I can’t remember why I came in here.
This house has been too quiet and it’s getting to me.
There are no candles burning because Mom hasn’t lit one since Aeron’s overdose.
The lavender and vanilla that used to live in every room has faded, and the house smells like dust and cold coffee.
I keep looking at surfaces where candles should be and finding bare counters and shelves.
Carter’s door was open when I passed it upstairs. His bed is made but the gym bag is gone. He’s been leaving before I wake up and coming back after I’m in bed. It’s like he no longer lives here.
I’m relieved, because my anger at him is still a volcano. I’m worried it’ll never go away.
I stand here in the living room doing nothing when I hear footsteps on the stairs. Mom comes down and glances at me on her way past. She walks into the kitchen.
I follow.
She fills the kettle then gets a mug from the rack.
She takes a tea bag from the box. She does all of this with the slowness of someone who has to think about each step because autopilot broke.
I sit at the island and watch her move through the room that used to be the center of our world. Now it’s just a kitchen.
She took leave from work. She goes to the mental health facility as often as they’ll let her, even though the staff keeps telling her to come less.
Aeron needs time away from home so he can heal, they say.
I haven’t gone to visit him because of that reason.
If staying away is what’s best for him, I’ll do it, even though the distance makes me feel like I’m abandoning him all over again.
I miss him so much and just want him home. I swear, I’ll be a better sister.
“Want me to make dinner?” I ask.
Mom shakes her head, unbrushed curly hair falling into her face.
“How about a movie?” I try. “To help distract us for a bit. I know I’ve spent the past few days sobbing.” I pause. “I’ve heard you sobbing too.”
The kettle clicks off. She pours the water. The steam rises and disappears.
She doesn’t respond. She finishes making her tea and carries the mug out of the kitchen and up the stairs. I listen to her footsteps fade down the hall until her bedroom door clicks shut.
I sit at the island alone. Tears burn my throat, but I swallow them back because I’m so tired of crying that my body rejects it. Is she angry at me? Does she blame me for not protecting him? I have no idea because she won’t talk.
We should be leaning on each other right now, but instead she’s pulling further away every day, and watching my mother disappear into herself is almost as frightening as watching my brother in that hospital bed.
I go upstairs to Aeron’s room.
His bed is unmade because Mom hasn’t touched his things, wanting to keep it just the way he left it for when he returns home.
There’s a hoodie crumpled on the floor, one sleeve inside out.
The room still smells like spearmint gum and that cheap body spray he buys by the case.
I sit on the edge of his bed and press my palms into the mattress.
His sketchbook is on the nightstand. I flip through it, smiling at how amazing his work is, though it is a bit dark and haunting. And there are way too many sketches of Cinna.
When I get to the last page, my smile drops.
He drew a mother and a daughter holding hands. The lines are clean and confident. The mother’s hair is curly, the daughter’s falling past her shoulders. Their fingers are interlocked, both faces turned toward each other, smiling.
Next to them is a third figure. But Aeron didn’t draw this one the same way. This person is only cross-hatching. Thousands of tiny intersecting pencil lines building the shape of a body, a head, arms, legs, but no features, no face. Just hatched marks making the suggestion of someone there.
The sketchbook shakes in my hands. I know exactly what my brother was saying with this. He drew himself as a shadow in his own family, almost like this is his goodbye note.
No, Aeron. I won’t let you say goodbye.
I close the book and hold it against my stomach and cry until the tears run down my neck.
I failed him. All those weeks he was pulling away and shutting down, and I let myself believe him when he said he was fine.
I was so consumed with Dorien, the exhibition, and chasing Cinna’s rumors that I let my brother become a background figure in his own family.
And then Cinna fed him the lies that pushed him over the edge.
I hate her as much as I hate myself. I hate Cinna Stevens for seeing my brother’s pain and using it against him.
I put the sketchbook back on the nightstand, then wipe my face with the hem of my shirt.
I know Dorien and I agreed to keep our distance. That was days ago in his studio, and I meant every word. But right now I don’t need the boy I’m in love with. I need the only other person alive who understands what it feels like to carry this specific kind of guilt.
I pick up my phone and call. He answers but doesn’t say hello, just breathes and waits.
“Can we talk?” I ask.