30
WYATT
We don’t even make it all the way to the house before the front door opens and an ancient dog comes hobbling out on matchstick legs. It’s been almost fifteen years, so it takes me a second to recognize my childhood dog. Roscoe’s gone white around the nose, but when I kneel down to let him lick my face, his tongue is as wet and warm as I remember. And just for a second the fist around my heart unclenches a tiny bit, and I laugh as Roscoe snuffles at every inch of exposed skin. He even smells how I remember, like salt water and wet fur.
“Hey, buddy,” I say, scratching at his neck and resisting the urge to bury my face against his shoulder. If I did that, I might never be able to let him go again. “Did you miss me?”
“Roscoe!” a familiar voice shouts from the front doorway. I’ve been in the Northeast long enough now that her southern accent sounds foreign to my ears, like warm honey. “Roscoe, get off him!”
Roscoe limps obediently toward the house, only to change his mind halfway there and attempt a wobble back toward me. His tail is wagging so hard I have to hurry forward and grip his collar so he doesn’t fall over.
“Good boy,” I murmur, and twist my fingers in his fur as I gather the courage to look up.
My mother stands on the front porch, wearing one of her church dresses with the white collars. I’m too far away to see her face properly, but there’s no mistaking the way she grips the support beam on the porch, her body listing to one side like she can’t quite stand upright. She didn’t say anything about being ill—but then again, when Roscoe calms down enough to let me stand and move closer to the house, I realize her weakness isn’t due to illness.
My mother’s face goes through a complicated series of expressions, all equally uninterpretable—but then the spell breaks, and she staggers forward, half tripping down the front steps. She closes the distance between us, and before I can open my mouth to speak, to apologize or I don’t know what, she flings both arms around my shoulders and yanks me into the tightest hug.
I suck in a sharp, startled breath and freeze.
“My baby,” she says, the words muffled against my chest, where I’m sure she can feel my heart slamming against my rib cage. “My boy—you’ve gotten so big.”
Her graying hair tickles my chin, her fingertips pressing hard against my shoulders. She smells like floral perfume, even though I never knew my mother to wear perfume. I never knew her to be much of a hugger either.
I find Ely’s gaze over my mother’s shoulder, feeling somewhat frantic. I’m not sure whether I desperately want Ely to save me or just to explain what the hell is happening here, because this, whatever it is, is the last thing I expected.
The moment stretches on long enough, my arms hanging useless and indecisive at my sides, that my mother finally pulls back and looks at me properly. Her cheeks are wet with tears.
“Hi, Mom.”
“My sweet baby,” she says. Her voice is trembling. “I’m so sorry. There aren’t enough words to tell you how sorry I am. I’ve missed you so much, honey. But your father…”
But my father what? I want to say. I’m sure my father was the driving force behind me getting kicked out of this house. But it’s not as if my mom stood up for me. She could have fought on my behalf. She could’ve argued. Instead she was just a helpless wisp standing by, like part of the backdrop. An extra in the scenes of her own life.
I look down at my shoes in the sparse grass. My therapist used to tell me to try to find the word to describe what I felt—to learn the difference between anger and frustration, anxiety and anticipation. But if there’s a word for this feeling, I don’t know what it is.
“Let me bring the luggage inside the house,” I say, and take a step back, out of her arms’ reach.
Ely tugs the duffels out of the back seat of our rental. When she passes mine over, our eyes meet. I’ve never been the greatest at reading facial expressions, but right now, the question in her eyes is louder than spoken word.
“I’m good,” I murmur, low enough that only she can hear.
“You must be Ely,” my mother says as we head up the cracked pavement back toward the house. “Wyatt told me you were coming. I’m so glad to meet you. I’m Mary.”
“Nice to meet you,” Ely says from behind me. I’m already ahead of them both, taking the steps up the front porch two at a time. I don’t know what I’m in such a hurry for. Getting inside that house isn’t gonna get me out of this situation. I can’t run away anymore.
“Your brother’s in the kitchen,” Mary says once we’ve taken off our shoes in the foyer, suitcases clustered around the foot of the stairs. “He’ll be wanting to see you, I’m sure.”
Of course Liam’s home. I don’t know why I assumed he wouldn’t be. It’s our dad’s funeral.
“I didn’t remember you had a brother,” Ely said.
“Yeah. He’s my twin, actually.” I probably should have told her that sooner, but it’s hard to talk about your family when you don’t exist in their world.
My mother leads us down the hall and into the kitchen, which looks just like it always did: snipped right out of a 1970s Polaroid, complete with yellow tile floors and Formica countertops. Liam’s at the table. He’s bigger than I remember—tall and bulky, far too big for the plastic chair he’s in. He’s let his beard grow out. I push down a pang of envy; the most I’ve ever been able to manage is a weak stubble.
He’s out of that chair before Mom or I can say a word, clapping one beefy hand on my shoulder before I can even consider stopping him. “Bro,” he says. “You don’t even have fuckin’ Facebook.”
A laugh escapes me, high-pitched and frantic. I don’t even know how to respond to that. Liam looked me up on social media? All this time, my brother was trying to get in touch with me, and I had no idea. At least, that’s what he’s telling me.
But what reason does Liam have to lie?
For a moment we’re both silent, staring at each other, Liam’s gray eyes anxious beneath knit brows. He’s not gonna break. He’s waiting for me to make the first move.
And I do. I pull my brother into a rough embrace, breathing in the dizzy scent of Old Spice as he pats me on the back the way guys do in football movies.
“I couldn’t get ahold of you anywhere,” Liam says when we finally separate. “I tried. You never picked up when I called. And when I googled you, all I could find was bougie articles about you being some fancy-pants art snob.”
The situation is still awkward but maybe less so. Something about how nervous Liam seems, maybe. Like he’s the one who wants my attention and affection for once instead of the other way around.
I snort. “I guess they’re not wrong. This is Ely, by the way. Ely, meet my brother, Liam.”
Ely steps forward, smiling, to shake Liam’s hand. God freaking bless her for being chill about this. I’m not sure I would be so mellow in her place.
“Nice to meet you,” she says.
“Likewise. Now that my twin brother has a girlfriend, I’m looking forward to living out my life dream of telling you all the embarrassing shit Wyatt got up to as a child.”
Ely’s pretty cheeks turn pink. “I’m not—”
“Don’t you dare,” I cut in, shoving Liam a half step toward the table. “You gotta earn embarrassing story privileges, and you’re running fourteen years behind.”
All four of us laugh. I don’t look to check, but my mother’s chuckle is somewhat wet sounding. The knot in my stomach twists a little tighter.
I feel like I’m living in upside-down land.
“I’ll take the luggage upstairs,” Ely says. “Let you all have some time to reconnect.”
Oh god.
“No, let me,” I jump in before anyone else can agree. “They’re heavy.”
I can’t help glancing at Mom when I turn around, though. Her face is slick with tears. And I can’t decide if that makes me want to cry myself or punch a wall.
“Your bedroom’s ready for you, Wyatt,” my mom says. She doesn’t use my deadname. My real one seems tremulous on her lips, like she’s still testing it out. “We…I—I kept it, after you left. In case you ever came back.”
“Dad wanted to turn it into a poolroom,” Liam offers.
“And why didn’t he?”
The words come out harsher than they should. Or maybe exactly as harsh as they ought to be.
I know what it must have cost her to fight my dad on this. But it just feels so…Like, Jesus, okay, stand up to him when it’s about a bedroom but not when it’s about your son? Cool. Priorities, I guess.
“Sorry,” I say. Liam looks shocked. My mom, stricken. I feel guilty, even if I shouldn’t. “Long trip. Uh. So…yeah, let me get that luggage.”
And I get the fuck out of there before this can blow up any worse.
At the top of the stairs, though, I’m faced with a fresh problem: With Liam staying in the house, there’s just the one bedroom left for me and Ely to share. One bedroom, one bed.
Shit. Maybe I should have explained the whole not-my-girlfriend thing to my family after all.
I’m still hovering in the doorway, staring at my childhood double bed, neatly made with faded dove sheets, when Ely comes up. My mom must have changed this. The room used to be all pink and glitter and bows. Now the coral throw pillows are a muted green, and the curlicue white furniture has been replaced by solid wood pieces. Cheap ones, probably from the thrift store, but it puts a lump in my throat.
I cough and move into the room properly, giving Ely room to come in after me and pull the door gently shut.
“You okay?” she asks. She’s noticed the bed—I saw her gaze linger on it for a second as she looked the room over—but she hasn’t said anything. Even though she surely realizes there’s not a fourth bedroom hiding in this tiny clapboard house. “That seemed…tense.”
Understating it, frankly. “Do you think I was an asshole?”
Both of Ely’s brows go up. “What? No. No, of course not. You could’ve laid into them harder, honestly. They would have deserved it.”
“But they changed their minds. It was all my dad in the end. He scared them.”
“Was it?” She shrugs. “I mean…maybe. I wasn’t there. I don’t know what it was like living around him.”
I do. I remember the fear. It still got me even years after I’d left the state. I remember hearing a familiar-sounding voice on the subway and feeling the floor vanish from underneath me, reeling through space and memory until I realized I was nowhere near him. I wasn’t a little kid hiding scared in his childhood home. I was just another dope fiend scaring tourists off public transit.
So, yeah. Maybe I can see it. Maybe I know exactly why my mother never even tried to call me, all those years. If she really did send that book, it would have taken all the courage she could save up. She probably sweated the whole rest of the week, waiting for someone to mention seeing her in the post office around him. Say, Mrs. Cole, what were you mailin’ off the other day, anyhow?
But understanding doesn’t seem to make me feel better. Resentment still curls its vine tight around my insides. Those thorns stick in deep.
The funeral isn’t until tomorrow, which means we’ve got a long night ahead of us. I should have thought of that when I bought the plane tickets. We could have landed later, spent less time here. Could have flown out tomorrow night instead of the next morning. Shortsighted.
“Sorry for dragging you down here,” I manage eventually.
Ely shakes her head. “No. Don’t start with that. I’m glad you did. You shouldn’t have to do this alone.”
You’re such a good friend, Ely said the other week. I replay that in my head very intentionally, over and over again. Good friend.
“I can sleep on the couch,” I say.
“Don’t be stupid, Wyatt. It’s your room.”
“Honestly, that’s part of why I don’t want to sleep in it.” Memories are painted all over the walls in eggshell white. Even a fresh coat hasn’t covered up that depression in the wall where Dad shoved me so hard I dented the drywall. The dresser is still positioned discreetly in front of that spot.
I suppose it’s not like I only have evil memories here. Liam and I would hang out sometimes and play “murder zombies” with his action figures. I’d stolen our mom’s lipstick and would smear it all over their bodies to look like blood.
I kick my duffel where I’ve dumped it on the floor by the dresser. All that’s in there is my funeral suit, pajamas, a change of clothes, and my toiletry kit. I didn’t even bring my camera, which I usually take everywhere. There’s nothing I want to memorialize here.
“Want to go out?” she suggests. “Walk around?”
“Sure. We can if you want.”
Downstairs, my mother is making a racket in the kitchen. I can’t hear him speaking, but I’m sure Liam’s in there with her. Ely and I make it out the front door without being intercepted, which feels like its own special ops mission.
The street heading into town is sand dusted; the wild grasses that grow out on the dunes aren’t quite enough to hold erosion at bay. The sun bakes down on the tops of our heads; I’m glad I brought a hat. Walking around this place with a baseball cap shoved on my head and my hands stuffed in my pockets, I feel like I’m fourteen again. Always playing at being a man. Playing at being Liam, really. Up in New York, I might pass; here, I feel like you could take one look at me and tell. I feel like I’m wearing a cheap and badly sized costume, one that might come apart at the seams any second.
It’s been a long damn time since I’ve felt this insecure. And I hate this place for it, all over again.
“What are you thinking about?” Ely asks eventually, once we’ve turned a few corners and are in sight of downtown. Or what passes for downtown, anyway. Really it’s just a few bars, a couple B and Bs, and a tourist shop masquerading as a “general store.” Every single restaurant on this street serves seafood.
“Oh, you know. The usual emo teenage nonsense. I gotta get out of this one-horse town, et cetera, et cetera. I guess there are some things you never grow out of.”
“Where did you hang out when you were younger? I’m guessing not here and not at home.”
I snort. “Yeah, hard no on both of those options. You remember that bridge we drove over to get here? The one off the mainland?”
She nods.
“There’s a little access road that cuts beneath it. On one side you’ve got some dinghies tied up, although who knows who they belong to, because I’ve never seen them get used? On the other side there’s this patch of flat grass where me and Liam used to go smoke blunts and listen to the car radio. It was a shitty spot, trashed with all the garbage people threw off the bridge overhead. But it had the best view of the sunset on the whole East Coast.”
Ely gives me a look. “Maybe we should have gone there instead.”
“Maybe. I have no idea if it still exists. If it does, it’s probably even more trashed than it used to be.” And I’m worried that if I go back now, as an adult, it won’t be how I remember. I don’t want to dull one of the few good memories I have from growing up.
We wander along the boardwalk until the road ends—abruptly, as if the town used to exist past here but one night the sound rose up and swallowed the rest of the street in a mouthful of salt water. It’s almost dinnertime, the sunlight taking on that amber quality of late afternoon; we have no choice but to head home.
And like the middle school kid I once was, I’m already dragging my heels.