Chapter 37
THIRTY-SEVEN
CALLUM
My sister moved back into her house on a Thursday in late August. The sun was slanting over the roof by the time we finished, the air golden with its glow.
She lived in our childhood home, a split-level home in Woodbury Hills.
The kitchen was all dark cherry cabinets and even darker granite.
There was a bar top and a cut-out window that overlooked the living room, which was accessible around a corner and down three steps.
The whole house was full of tiny staircases and strange nooks.
My bedroom had been in the basement, where the ceilings were low and the windows small and high. Now it was a playroom.
It was a modest, middle-income family home when we were growing up. Now it was worth a couple million—and to my eyes, it looked like an old, outdated dump.
But my sister let out a long sigh as she sank down on her sofa, and Lila let out happy squeals from her bedroom upstairs. They were home. Somewhere else. Away from me.
I stood awkwardly, checking her fridge for food and making a note to have my house manager deliver groceries by the end of the day.
“Hey, Cal?”
I turned, leaning my elbows on the bar counter to look down at the living room and my sister’s gaze. “You kicking me out?”
She smiled. “No. I just remembered something.” She pushed herself up and shuffled across the room toward the TV unit.
Her movements were labored, and not for the first time, I wished she’d listened to me when I told her to put her things down and let my people deal with the move.
She’d only had a few suitcases and a couple boxes of personal things, but she insisted on carrying them when I wasn’t looking. Like Deena. Stubborn.
And now she was sore, still weak from her treatment, and moving again.
“Let me get it,” I said, ducking around the corner and jogging down the three steps to join her in the living room. “What are you looking for?”
“This,” she said, brandishing an old videocassette. “I found it in the attic, and I bought a VCR off eBay. Then I got the diagnosis, and everything went to shit.”
She groaned as she bent over, and I took the videotape from her, glaring at her until she grinned and sat on the couch again. I found the VCR behind the glass door of the TV unit, turned it on, and fumbled with the remotes until the screen was on the right input. Then I put the tape in.
It was Christmas. I was on screen, brandishing an action figure over my head as I yelled at the top of my lungs.
Gracie was beside me, clutching a Barbie box to her chest, a big, goofy grin on her face.
Erica came into the frame, showing off her most prized childhood possession: her Skip-It ankle toy.
“I loved that thing,” she said from behind me, smiling.
Our tree glittered with lights and familiar ornaments behind, and my mother’s voice said, “Show us what you got, Cal.”
I presented my action figure to the camera, then turned to Gracie. “What did you get?”
She turned the box around to show the camera, dropping it in the process. I picked it up and helped her hold it up, then threw my arm around her and smiled for the camera. It only lasted a moment, and then I was back to my toys.
While my eyes stayed glued to the screen, I shuffled backward, sitting on the floor with my back leaning against the couch next to Erica’s legs. We both watched, enthralled.
The camera panned to my dad, who smiled, his eyes clearly on my mom.
Then the video went wobbly, and she turned the camera on herself.
She had bangs—the sight of them made me blink.
She’d gotten rid of those. My mom’s smile reminded me of Erica’s—another thing I’d forgotten about her.
I hadn’t seen the bangs or the smile in the years that followed. “Christmas ’94! Happy holidays!”
The image cut. I was at the kitchen table—the same one that was in the dining room just up those three steps and to the left—with my head bent over some scrap papers. Gracie was next to me, her little face scrunched. “I can’t do it.”
“Yes, you can,” I said. “What’s that?”
“A ‘G,’” she grumped.
“See? You know your letters.”
“But I can never remember,” Gracie complained, her voice a high whine with a slight lisp. “Evewyone else knew how to write their name, and I can’t!”
“It’s easy,” I said. “G-R-a-c-e,” I sang, tilting my head back and forth with each letter.
Gracie joined in, then took up a red crayon and started writing.
When she lifted the sheet, her letters were wobbly and angled, but they were all there.
She beamed with the kind of happiness only a proud child can produce.
“Good boy, Cal,” my mom said from behind the camera again. Little me looked up, and the smile I gave her was foreign. I didn’t remember ever looking at my mom like that.
Erica shifted on the couch and put her hand on my shoulder. I realized I wasn’t breathing, and I sucked in a hard breath. “Why are you showing me this?” I croaked, fumbling with the remote to pause the video.
“Because I wanted you to see the childhood that I remember,” she said quietly. Her hand was still on my shoulder, and she squeezed it gently. “You were the best big brother either of us could have asked for. You still are.”
“Gracie died, Erica,” I snapped. “She died because of me.”
“Look at me.”
I didn’t, staring at a spot above the TV. My smile, frozen on the screen. A boy I didn’t remember. Was that really me?
“Look at me, Cal.”
Jaw clenched, I glared at my sister. “What? You’re going to tell me it wasn’t my fault?
It was, Erica. Mom and Dad got divorced less than a year later.
That was my fault too. Then they died, and neither of them forgave me.
And you know what? I didn’t deserve their forgiveness, and I don’t deserve yours.
Our family fell apart because of me. That’s the truth. ”
“Our family fell apart because of a tragic accident. Not because of you. But you know what you did?”
“What?” I asked, eyes prickling, chest hot.
“You stood beside me every day of my life. You sat with me when I applied for college. You came to every softball game. You paid for my schooling and took me in when my coward of an ex left me when I got cancer. You were the rock that allowed me and Lila to live, Cal. I just wish you’d let yourself live too. ”
“For what?” I snapped.
“For that little baby who deserves better than we got,” Erica hissed.
I turned to look at her, surprised at her tone.
At her fury. She pointed a finger at me.
“You have the chance to right all those wrongs, Cal. All those times our parents turned their backs on us. All the times they blamed you when things got too hard. You have the chance to fix that by being the best father you can be. That little boy is coming whether you’re ready or not. Soon, Cal.”
Not, I wanted to say. Not ready in the slightest. But no words came out.
“I’m going to say this until the day I die. Cal, you are good. Down to your core. You were a good brother, and you’re a good man. You’ve saved me so many times I lost count. I just wish you’d save yourself.”
Denial was on the tip of my tongue. I stared into my sister’s eyes, stunned by the anger swirling there. The frustration. The softening.
“You’re going to be a father,” she continued in a lower tone. “Don’t you dare waste that opportunity. Don’t you dare turn your back on that helpless, precious child.”
“I’m not going to—”
“You have to be there for him,” she hissed. “The way our parents weren’t, but should’ve been. Not by setting up a college fund. Not by sending child support checks every month. Being there, in his life, every day until you die.”
I rubbed at my chest as pain began to splinter through me. Wetness dripped onto my hand, and I looked down in confusion. It took me a second to realize I was crying.
The moment I realized, that box around my heart shattered.
Agony erupted through me. I doubled over, shuddering, as decades of repressed feelings cut a burning hole in my chest. I couldn’t stop it, even though I tried.
My mind lashed out, desperate, and I tried to stop the tears, to stop the shaking, to regain control over my body.
But it was no use. It was too much, too intense, and I had no choice but to let go.
Erica’s arms came around me, and she held me through the storm.
When it was over, exhaustion made my limbs feel heavy. I blinked and looked up to see Lila hovering at the edge of the room. Without thinking, I opened my arms. She rushed over and hugged me as tight as her little arms would hold. I clutched her just as hard, and my sister held us both.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” I said to Lila, voice muffled in her hair.
“You didn’t,” she replied, pulling away. She smiled at me. “Everyone gets sad sometimes. But then it goes away.”
I huffed, nodding. “That’s true.”
The groceries I requested got dropped off. We had dinner. My sister gave me a little half smile and a shake of her head, then patted my shoulder and thanked me. I could read her thoughts. She was thinking, See? Told you you were good.
And maybe…maybe there were parts of me that were good. Maybe my love wasn’t entirely toxic. I could care for people without them running away. Without them dying.
But, I realized as I drove away from my childhood home, I had to let go of control.
I would’ve felt better if my sister stayed at my place, where I could watch over her and Lila until I was absolutely sure that the cancer wouldn’t come back.
But she was happier in her own home. Of course she was. It was her home.
And Deena was happier when she was working. When she was using her mind and chasing new clients. When she was building something. When she was being her brilliant, beautiful self.
And I’d tried to take that away from her.