Family (13 page)

it has been thirteen days.

thirteen days since we cleaned, since we made the ranch

.

thirteen days since i

first contemplated,

first considered.

first thought about

connections

.

thirteen days since junior

first let spill,

first whispered to leila,

first told the truth about

Henry’s savage past-life,

His mirror-self,

His muddy

underside.

His brushes with

the law.

the story goes:

when Henry was still small,

still a boy,

His mother traded Him

for a pitcher of beer.

a pitcher.

of
beer
.

you wouldn’t believe the sorts of things

that some people

throw away.

but.

there was
rescue
.

Henry had a savior:

a man. an uncle.

and Henry was rescued.

but
.

when Henry’s uncle returned Him to His mother,

she tossed Him right back out onto the street.

slapped Him straight back down onto the trash heap.

she didn’t want motherhood.

didn’t want a son.

didn’t want Henry.

to hear junior tell it, Henry

learned quickly, adapted,

realized how to take the things

that weren’t on offer.

how to fend for Himself.

how to feed the yawning
want
.

how to fill in the cracks,

the fissures,

the rivulets.

the fault lines.

but.

i think:

He never did make Himself

whole again.

and
now
.

His connections, His
ties—

they teem,

they twist,

they tangle.

and i worry:

that

they spoil.

they sour.

they shrink.

they fray.

they

decay.

and we,

the family:

we burn.

slowly.

silently.

but ever steadily.

we fracture

and

split

at the

seams.

i worry:

that

He cannot bind us,

can’t piece us together,

keep us together.

can’t ever make us

whole or perfect.

i worry:

that

this latest rejection is gravity,

a magnetic charge, pulling Henry down.

and that we are tumbling after Him.

that we are all

collapsing in on ourselves

like a collective dying star.

junior speaks of payback,

of making a point,

of making ourselves heard.

leila has ideas of

how to get the world’s attention.

how to spark.

Henry’s half-life has an orbit

that cannot be

contained.

i worry:

that

Henry cannot restrain His infinite
want
.

cannot still the undertow within.

that Henry

wants

to spread chaos—

violence and bloodlust—

in His name.

and that we

are all of us

drowning

together.

thirteen days.

in a place where time is not assigned.

where hours and errands are

empty

and open.

thirteen days is enough time

to feel the slow, stinging drip,

the pinprick,

the heartbeat of a measured poison.

the promise, the premise,

of deadly intent.

thirteen days feels

eternal

when you

are starting

to

unravel.

to

fray.

and to feel

afraid.

my sister, shelly, always knows just what it is that i need.

so:

when i worry, i seek her out.

she is. my
sister
.

and she always knows

just what it is i need.

she
knows
, shelly does—

how to quell the constant fear.

how to quiet the clawing fists of doubt.

how best to bind the fraying edges

of my shattered reflection.

her mouth is a song,

a prayer.

a promise

of what
infinity
means.

of
family
.

and so:

tonight,

i seek her out.

i search for her.

but she is not at dinner.

she is not at dinner, which is unlike shelly,

my
sister,

my shadow-self of bottomless hunger,

of cavernous
wants
.

of infinite
needs
.

she is
missing
.

she is
gone
.

and i:

worry.

when others ask,

i play at casual.

i pretend to know just what exactly shelly is up to.

just where she could possibly be, if not busily feeding the

that i,

her sister,

know to be her empty places.

her hollow spaces.

that i know to be her half-life.

i play at casual.

i arrange a spoonful of rice in an artful heap in a bowl. i tilt toward the campfire. i drink down the flame.

i balance a serving spoon on my hip.

“oh, shelly?” i ask,

nonchalance draped like a cloak

across my shoulders.

“she’s fine.

she went to sleep early.

she’s fine.”

and yet:

a fist clenches forcefully

at the back of my throat.

the flesh of my arms prickles.

i toy with the word, with the smooth, cool syllable,

roll it on my tongue:

“fine.”

shelly’s bowl, the bowl i have fixed for my absent
sister,

is balanced against my jutting hip bone.

my eyes dart nervously.

i make my way to the last place i saw her:

the general store.

(but actually, that was quite a few hours ago.)

i worry.

i rap, apprehensive, on the splintering door frame.

no one approaches Henry’s domain without express invitation, of course.

i know this.

this, i know.

but i am worried.

a beat.

only the sound of my insides,

the rhythm of my blood in my veins

to soothe me.

i breathe:

in.

and out.

the door swings open.

junior peeks out, his forehead sagging, his eyes vacant.

“mel,” he says. “come in.”

so i do.

i step past him, breathe in. shrug my shoulders, draw my aura

up about my collarbones. straighten my spine,

harden my imagined outer shell.

“i was looking for shelly.” i thrust the bowl toward him.

he takes it in, gaze flickering. doesn’t take it.

instead just points for me

to set it down on a warped, uneven shelf.

so i do.

junior nods shortly, curves a hand around my elbow.

leads me gently

toward a fringed silk curtain.

as i pass, i spot

the metal lockbox where leila keeps our valuables.

propped open, yawning,

coins, cards, trinkets, strewn.

and perched atop

a shriveled clump of dirty dollar bills

a scrap of paper

covered in scratchy scrawl.

but before i can wonder

i am ushered behind the curtain

and the veil is

lifted.

i blink.

i catch.

i swoon.

i sway.

junior braces me, bolsters me against his frame, his arm cold and solid,

like mechanics.

like the undertow.

i breathe.

the blood is everywhere.

the air smells of copper and cloying.

the blood.
is
.

everywhere.

i spot a mattress on the floor;

the same space where Henry and i so often fuse our fires,

so readily collapse our hollow places.

so readily devour each other.

so eagerly swallow each other whole.

a jumble of sheets are clustered in a tangle,

soaked with sweat and blood.

shelly lies atop the mattress, splayed, struggling.

soaked with sweat and blood.

everything inside me screams.

she is my
sister.

she is my shadow-self.

and she is

broken.

bleeding.

i rush to her side, kneel next to her.

fight against the roiling bile.

no matter:

she is lost to a fever dream.

i offer her a kiss on the forehead.

inhale the sheen of her sweat

as her body throws sparks.

junior leads me back outside,

back to where

cool air kisses

my slick flesh.

“she lost the baby,” he says,

as deep inside of my core, a

hair trigger releases.

“she lost the baby,” he says again,

softer,

“but

“she’ll be okay.”

a beat.

i breathe:

in.

and out.

i reel.

i retch.

my hollow places clench.

but unlike shelly,

i am
fine,
truly.

surely not soaked in blood,

not slick with bright, loud pain.

no.

not like shelly. my sister.

unlike shelly,

my own fever dream is imagined,

ersatz.

my own flesh is cool to the touch.

unlike shelly,

my own bones are sheer,

sheet-glass icicles.

my pulse pounds,

and sturdy fingertips close across

my shoulders:

Henry.

the force of his touch upends me,

sends me staggering.

i stumble to my knees.

force back a sob. choke.

“she’s going to be fine,” He says.

“this wasn’t the time.”

wasn’t the time?

to grow our
family?

i swallow.

and here i had

always thought

our time

as a family

was

infinite.

Henry can read the fault lines of my face, of course.

of course He can.

He sees the fragile fragments of my sheet-glass skeleton as they crumble,

as they collapse.

hears the shriek as the sand runs down the hourglass tunnel.

“motherhood is serious business,” He says, like this is something i don’t know about.

like i have no mother,

just the

looming vortex

that once swallowed mirror-mel whole.

like He, Henry,

is the beginning and end

of my
family
.

“we have lots of babies on the ranch,” i remind Him,

feeling the round, full words

fill up my mouth,

taste the sour tinge of

protest.

“true.”

He twists a strand of my hair around

His fist.

tenderly, at first.

and then:

my neck snaps back as He tugs,

pulls tightly.

it doesn’t hurt,

not exactly.

but.

“if shelly wasn’t ready to tell us about the baby,”

He continues, His voice low,

“then how could she be ready to bring a baby into this

family?”

it occurs to me:

that there is one person that shelly did tell.

about the baby.

one
sister.

and that:

if Henry knows that shelly

was keeping a secret?

well, then—

He might just know

that she wasn’t

the only one.

well, then.

just like that,

the pressure on my scalp

is released

and my hair swings free,

forms a curtain around my shoulders.

shades the angles of my sunken cheekbones.

mutes my vision.

blurs things.

“i’m sorry,” i say.

i am not sure for what,

but that is no matter.

i
am.
sorry.

Henry steps in front of me,

brushes my hair back again.

His fingertips graze my chin.

His eyes are satellites,

missiles,

moonbeams.

and i am drowning

again.

i
am.
sorry.

for so many things.

“mel,” He whispers,

his lips vibrating against the pink of my ear,

“you know there’s something coming.”

i nod, slight, imperceptible.

think about the lockbox, the vortex,

scrap of paper written in code.

“and when it’s time,

you’re gonna have to do just exactly what junior says.”

wants.>

His hands slip under the hem of my shirt, skirt the surface of my skin.

send me swooning.

His mouth finds mine and we almost speak with one tongue.

are almost one body.

“can you do that for me?”

i can’t say if the question is spoken aloud,

or if it merely echoes in my head.

but that is no matter.

of course.

of
course.

He is everything. He
is.
Henry.

and i

would do

anything

for

Him.