The Lonely Ones (7 page)

On Wednesday a voice says,

“Mary is throwing a party. Want to go?”

These words are foreign to me,

always wrapped and gifted

to someone else.

I'm so startled by their weight

that at first

I don't react.

Someone kicks

the bottom of my shoe.

“Earth to Fain.”

I come down

come to

look up

at Matthew's handsome face.

“A party?”

He squats down,

leans forward,

touches my cheek.

I freeze.

“You had an eyelash,” he explains,

holding it out,

urging me to make a wish.

I shake my head,

let the wind take it.

“I don't need to anymore.”

the final words

of a story.

my little brother's

dimpled smile.

warm socks

after a trek through the snow.

one more fry

in the bottom of the bag.

the
tap-tap-tap

of a monster at the window.

being noticed

after feeling invisible for so long.

the way Matthew

looks at me.

Something feels different

about the quarry

today.

But when I look around,

nothing appears

changed.

The water is still,

the rocks are gray,

the sky is pale.

It isn't until

I'm on my way home

that I realize:

the quarry

doesn't feel like an escape

anymore.

It feels

like a hiding place.

There's no fighting

in the house tonight.

My mother's hands

cup Peter's face

as though he is made of glass.

“He's too hot,” she keeps saying

over and over.

They take his temperature

and the house shrinks.

Tears streak down

Peter's face,

his mouth wide open,

the sound of sirens coming out.

“Stay here,” Dad orders,

keys in one hand,

Peter in the other.

My mother trails behind them;

she has never looked so small.

None of us speak

as the door slams.

All that's left

is fear

silence

and a red-hot thermometer.

Back and forth,

wall to wall,

left to right.

I watch Dana worry,

I watch Tyler pace,

I watch the clock tick.

When the phone rings,

its sharp sound makes us jump.

Dana answers breathlessly.

“How is he?”

“How long?”

“Where?”

The hum of my father's voice responds,

and at the end of the conversation

my sister faces us.

Her brown eyes

have turned to black.

“They're not coming home tonight.”

So much can change

in a matter of

seconds

hours

days.

I sit on my bed,

hold Peter's costume tight,

think about how cold it was

when I took him trick-or-treating.

Dana flies into the room,

a burst of color and sound.

She draws up short

at the sight of me

clutching a sheet with holes.

Something changes

in her eyes.

“He's going to be okay,” she tells me.

“Promise?” I ask.

But I know my sister can't

guarantee such things.

Dana settles down beside me,

touches the sheet

as if Peter

is still beneath it.

A pause.

Then,

“Promise.”

The next day

I rush home, hoping to find

Mom on the couch with the remote,

Peter on the floor with his blocks.

When I enter the living room,

see that it's empty,

I fight hard not to cry.

My older siblings

arrive home minutes later;

we sink onto the couch,

wait for the phone to ring.

Suddenly

Tyler jumps up,

moves toward the door.

“You can't leave!” Dana snaps.

He hesitates,

glances from us

to his escape.

Reluctantly

he returns,

drums fingers against his thighs

in a restless beat.

The three of us

sit silently

on the threadbare couch

until Dana reaches for the remote.

We stare at the TV

as though it holds

the answers to our questions.

Hugh the weatherman

tells us about the gloomy tomorrows

we should expect.

My siblings' hands rest

on either side of me;

I reach for them

as if grasping

for a lifeline.

Another silence follows

that even Hugh can't seem to fill.

But neither of my siblings

pulls away.

Two days pass,

torturous and slow.

Dad stops home,

picks up clothes

for him and Mom,

gives us money for pizza,

heads back to the hospital.

On the second night

without Peter

Tyler says my name,

points to the window.

The sky is coming apart,

drifting to the ground

in fluffy white pieces.

Suddenly

Dana jumps up,

turns on the radio,

grabs my hands

and our protesting brother's.

We go round

and round

until colors blend and feelings blur.

The snowflakes

float with us,

silent and steady,

performing a dance of their own.

I want to ask my siblings

why we can't do this

all the time.

Instead I keep dancing

keep laughing

as the snow keeps falling.

A hiss,

a growl,

a squawk.

The monsters at my window

press against the glass,

desperate to get my attention.

“Fain, let's go to Mars!”

“Explore the jungle.”

“Raft down the river!”

I turn on my side,

my back to them,

feel my siblings' hands curled around mine

envision Peter walking through the front door

and utter words they have never

heard me say before.

“Not tonight.”

During lunch

Matthew sits beside me

speaking words I would normally

find enticing.

Today

I look for my sister.

I'm surprised to find

she's looking back.

We gaze at each other

from opposite ends of the clearing

exchange a sad smile

both feeling the empty space inside

where Peter should be.

I blink

against a flash of memory.

Me and Dana as children

making a phone

out of strings and cans.

Giggling,

whispering secrets

into the metal tins.

When Dana turns away,

I can still feel

the string between us.

Delicate,

breakable,

but there.

Tonight

something wakes me,

so bright and burning,

the insides of my eyelids

are shimmering and red.

I jerk upright,

see the inferno

the outside world has become.

Flames crackle

and blacken the window,

making glass hiss and fragment

like a spiderweb.

Terror expands in my throat,

blocking air and sound.

Then

I blink.

Everything

is the way it always was.

Dana snoring

phone lines whispering

clock ticking

house creaking.

I notice something new

on the rug next to my bed.

My sock,

so small and forgotten,

charred and left for me to find.

In the morning

our father

walks through the door.

Abandoning their cereal,

Dana and Tyler

barrage him with questions.

After he satisfies them

with his answers,

my siblings leave

to tell friends the good news.

A relieved sigh

fills the room.

Then Dad shocks me

by walking to the table

pulling me up

wrapping his arms around me.

It's the first time

I've been hugged

in months.

He smells like medicine

and worry.

My father doesn't say a word

doesn't voice his pain or doubt

but I feel it in his embrace.

I bury my fingers

into his sweater,

try not to think about the moment

he'll let me go.

Word about Mary's party

spreads like butter over bread,

tempting and indulgent.

But I am distracted

by thoughts of the sock,

vanished off the rug

when I woke up

this morning.

After fourth period

Matthew walks next to me,

talks about numbers and goldfish.

The sound of his voice

slowly makes me forget

my troubles.

Then my brother spots us,

touches my elbow;

Matthew drifts ahead.

“Be careful, Fain,” Tyler mutters.

“I don't want you to get hurt.”

Beyond him,

hovering by her locker,

Mary Mosley scowls.

Then I see Matthew waiting for me

by the classroom doorway.

Our eyes meet

and I forget about all of it,

Tyler and Mary and warnings,

everything but the thrill

I feel right now.

My family is back together.

A week after

that terrible night,

everyone gathers around Peter

as if he is a flame

and this the coldest of nights.

We smile

embrace

kiss.

But the pneumonia

hasn't completely left his body

or our minds.

Suddenly this delicious moment

so rare

so new

is spoiled by a scream.

I jump,

leave my skin behind

as I run.

Dana stands in our room,

staring at the broken thing

that was once our window.

There's a warm presence

at my back,

and I turn.

“What happened?”

my father asks.

The jagged edges of the glass

rip and tear at me

like teeth.

I don't answer

can't answer

and he hurries away

in search of something

to cover up the hole.

Dana follows him,

shouting for Tyler

to give her the phone.

For a few minutes

I stare into the darkness

that I usually find

so lovely.

It's no secret

who could have done this.

“You're jealous!” I shout

into the night;

breath leaves my mouth

in swirling clouds.

The monsters don't respond.

It's the big night,

so big that it's a skyscraper

or a wish.

I stand in the bathroom

curling iron in hand

gritting my teeth

glaring at the girl in the mirror

with her tangled, hopeless hair.

My sister appears in the doorway,

watches me for a moment.

Then, “Stop that. You're making it worse.”

She takes the curling iron

creases her brow

concentrates.

Dana curls and teases my hair

until it is not hair anymore.

Finally she steps back,

waits for my reaction

with an expression that matches my own:

wary

uncertain

hopeful.

“Thank you,” I whisper,

words that I haven't uttered to my sister

in so long.

She shrugs

as if it's nothing,

but we both know

that's not true.

“Don't thank me yet,” Dana mutters,

adjusting a curl at the back of my head.

When I ask her why,

she says, “We haven't touched your closet.”

Meet me there,

Matthew said.

But Mary Mosley's house

is across town.

Mom is too tired to drive,

Dad is snoring in their room,

Tyler is nowhere to be found,

Dana went off with her friends.

So I step outside

into the cool night air,

wait until the bus arrives.

The other passengers

sit weary and guarded

behind fences built of

books and screens and closed eyes.

I look around at

a mother and her small son

a white-haired man and his newspaper

a man and his cell phone

a boy and his bag of potato chips.

I imagine the world as a place

where you could sit down next to a stranger

and exist together

instead of separately.

For a moment or two,

I try to summon the nerve

to say hello.

After all,

I have swum through oceans

walked the moon

climbed up mountains.

In the end, though,

I listen to

the murmurings of the mother

the crinkling of the paper

the chirps of the cell phone

the crackling bag of chips

and stay silent in my seat.