5. Dylan
5
DYLAN
S tanding in front of the shabby, run-down house brought a sick feeling to my stomach. The grass had grown too high again. Who knew how long it had been since Dad cut it? The windows were dusty, eggshell paint was peeling from every trim and some walls. It almost looked like no one lived there, if not for the beat-up car in the driveway that needed repaving. The bars on the windows even looked somehow dusty. Not much had changed, not like I expected it to in the months I was at school.
Silence met me as I stepped through the door, the screen banging closed behind me. No lights were on, and darkness spread through the house like a plague. How long had it been since Dad bothered to even turn on the lights? More than just one room at a time. It was like he was haunting his own house.
I toed off my shoes and strained my ears, trying to find any source of sound in the place. None came. It wasn’t large enough to hide too much noise. Sighing again, I put my duffel bag down in the entryway. He had to be somewhere around here. All he ever did was go to work and mope around the house. It had been years since he’d functioned like anything resembling a person.
Entering felt like too much noise for the silent house, even though it was my house, too. Or had been once. Shuffling throughout the place, I peered into each room, coming up empty. That only left the bedrooms. With any luck, he’d be in his own bed at least.
Padding my way up the stairs, I passed the photos that documented the journey of my brother and me over the years from baby to the last time any of us had seen Frankie. At 17 he ran away, and no one had heard from him since. I was only 15 then, and things had never been the same since. Dad hardly recovered when Mom left with her new boyfriend when I was 10, so Frankie leaving pushed him over the edge.
I pushed open the door to Dad’s bedroom. There was a lump under the covers. Quietly, I walked over to the bed. “Dad?” I whispered. Even I couldn’t tell if I wanted him to be awake or not.
His eyes were closed, and he didn’t stir when I spoke. Either he was asleep or he didn’t want to be bothered. It made little difference in the end. I turned and slipped back out of the room toward my own. At first, it had been devastating when Dad stopped paying attention to my comings and goings. I’d thought at least by the time I hit college he’d snap out of it enough to be aware of it happening.
That hadn’t been the case. He hadn’t bothered to go to SVU with me, just wished me well in that quiet, monotone voice he’d adopted. I’d long stopped trying to beg him for something more, just tried to make it easier for him when I was home.
My room didn’t change at all. The same posters had been on my walls since I was 15, punk and metal bands and any flier I found that had looked somewhat cool plastered everywhere. My bedspread was still the same grey color that I’d gotten after complaining spaceships weren’t cool anymore, and the same mess of old papers and an old skateboard still covered the desk. What an idiot I was, spaceships were always cool. Dad probably never went inside. Maybe I should have placed a piece of paper in the doorway, seen if he ever even opened the door.
If I did, though, I wouldn’t be able to handle the disappointment when I got home and realized the paper was still there, unmoved. It was easier to pretend that he missed me sometimes. Rolling onto the lumpy mattress, I ran my hands over my face. At least this summer I had something to look forward to, going away to Europe. Summer was usually a painful three months, but at least there was something to look forward to except going back to SVU this time.
Grabbing my phone from my pocket, I hesitated for a moment. No notifications. The silence already began. Shaking it off, I scrolled through people’s feeds. Shane was back in LA — he’d already updated with a photo of him and his sister. Theo posted the ocean — back with his one true love: surfing. As long as we didn’t tell Charlie. Brad had posted nothing, likely too busy getting hugs from his mom and telling his dad all about the upcoming football season.
I rolled over on the bed, still scrolling. The bed smelled musty. I should have opened a window, but I’d do it later. I’d wash the bedding too, make it feel less sad.
Charlie posted an artsy shot of the Golden Gate bridge. It was probably the last he’d update for a while. Jason already uploaded an entire set of photos, ranging from his travel time to his family and a shot of him and Alex. It was insufferable how much he posted. Micah only posted a quick selfie, which was pretty much his entire feed. Didn’t he ever get sick of staring at himself?
Sitting up, I glanced around again at the silent, unchanging room. Tomorrow would be different. I’d do things around the house that Dad neglected for too long. The yard looked terrible, my bedding smelled, and I hadn’t peeked in the fridge yet to see how bad it was. Probably nothing but a few leftover containers.
It might have been better to get started right away, but I told Dad I was coming home, so even if he slept through it, I didn’t want to leave.
I got up, listening again for anything resembling a sound, but there was still nothing. The hall was still, and I walked to the end of the hall. Opening the door, I held my breath, like I always did. Somehow part of me still thought — for just one split second — that Frankie would be sitting there, smiling at me from over his comic book and wave me in to sit by his feet. When I was younger, I’d sit there for hours, asking him questions about life and what high school was like.
The room smelled musty and hadn’t changed a bit. No one was there, of course. It was the same red and white bedspread, the same posters on the walls of the high school baseball team he played on, and the comic books he loved the most. The lump rose in my throat, the way it always did when I walked into this room.
Swallowing it, I went and sat down on the bed, spreading my hand over the cool blanket. “Frankie…?” I said, only breathing his name. He wasn’t there, but being there, he felt close.
Like maybe he was just busy and I could still talk to him. He used to listen to me for hours, talking about all the things that crossed my mind. I cleared my throat. “It would be cooler if you were here, you know…it’s hard talking to myself. It’s…hard to do this all the time. Dad’s asleep, I think. Or maybe he just didn’t want to talk to me. Maybe he doesn’t want to even see me. Which…I don’t know why. I mean, I know he misses you and Mom, but I’m still here.”
I licked my lips, trying to force down the lump crawling up my throat again. Why was I doing this? Saying these things out loud only made them hurt worse. “Um…whatever, I bet there’s no food. Which is crazy. I bet Brad’s mom made a whole big feast for him. You remember me talking about Brad?”
Why was I doing this to myself? Pretending that someone was listening, pretending my brother could somehow hear me? He wasn’t dead as far as I knew, he was just gone.
“Sometimes I wonder if Mom was still here…would Dad still be this fucked up about it, you know? Would he get out of bed sometimes if she was still here? Or would he still be…like this? He held it together pretty well…after she left, I mean. He never talked about her again, you remember, but…he didn’t break down either. Is that where you went, Frankie? Did you go to find Mom? Try to find where she’s living or something?”
We didn’t have any answers. Frankie only left a note that said, ‘ Don’t try to find me.’
Everywhere I went, it seemed like I was looking. Even if he didn’t want to be found, even if I knew that the chances of ever seeing him again were slim to none. The thought of never seeing my big brother again was too hard, though.
The tears spilled hot over my cheeks, and I sat up again. If I just kept moving, the sadness wouldn’t consume me. I couldn’t lie here and absorb more of Frankie. I couldn’t keep remembering. Not that I could forget . The whole house felt like a mausoleum at the memory of what our family had once been.
I walked out of the room and closed the door behind me, half wondering if Dad would be there, staring at me. Wondering why I was talking to myself or maybe even upset I’d gone into Frankie’s room. But there was no one, of course. Just more silence.
Going downstairs, I headed for the kitchen. The fridge was sparse, only some beer and a few takeout containers that looked suspicious. The cabinets were hardly any better, only a couple of spices and stale crackers.
Figured. The grocery store would have to be the first stop tomorrow, but I didn’t have the heart to do it tonight. I had a couple of snacks in my bag that would have to suffice for dinner.