It stained the wood and spilled into the crevices between the planks. Smaller puddles marked the path from the bed to the bathroom, and to the place where she collapsed. Handprints lined the sink and walls.
The bleach burned my eyes but I didn’t know what else to use in my quest to put things back in order. My mother would have scrubbed on her hands and knees until it was clean, and she wouldn’t have wanted people seeing her blood spilled all over the bedroom. She was proud and private, with her stiff Irish upper lip, and that wasn’t what she would have wanted.
Blood covered my clothes, my arms, and my legs. My aunts Mae and Carole were busy making arrangements. That’s what they called it, as if my mother was planning a trip to Fort Lauderdale.
They stayed away from the bedroom. They knew what happened in there but they didn’t want to see it. No one saw me in my mother’s bathroom, surrounded by her oatmeal soaps and flowery perfume, with her blood all around me.
I should have checked on my brothers and sisters but I knew they were safe in the nursery with Shannon. She knew what to do. She always did.
The water was too hot but I didn’t feel it, not really. I focused on the pink water sluicing off my body. In the shower, it looked harmless.
The stained bedding and towels went into thick black garbage bags, along with my clothes. It was late when I brought the bags to the latticed enclosure behind the garage, probably after midnight. No one noticed me or the oversized bags.
When I closed the lid on the dented metal barrel, I sat in the dirt and cried. The panic, horror, pain, confusion—they took over for the first time since finding Mom on the floor. They won, and I cried it all out. Hiccupping, hyperventilating, and eventually vomiting, I left it all in the shed.
That was the last time I cried, if we ignore the incident where I ran a jigsaw across my thigh. I left my childhood in those barrels with the bloodied towels.
I found an oval rug in the den and moved it into the bedroom, covering the planks discolored from blood and bleach. No one asked where it came from or why it was there. They never asked where the bedding went, or who cleaned the blood. But the reminder was always right there. Everyone knew and no one wanted to talk about it. It was easier that way.
Shannon took care of my brothers and sisters, and I took care of everything else. And that hadn’t changed in over two decades.
Andy’s hand passing vigorously between my shoulder blades jerked me out of my memories and I turned to face her. Her eyes crinkled in concern, and she didn’t stop rubbing my shoulders. “Patrick?”
And this is why I don’t come here, I reminded myself. This is why I can’t live in the past.
Exhaling, I stared at the door. “I grew up here.”
*
She was doingit on purpose, and of that, I could be certain.
She was trying to kill me, and damned near succeeding.
Why else would Andy wear jeans resembling a second skin, a long, slim black v-neck sweater, and knee-high boots straight out of Catwoman’s closet? And that hair. God help me, that hair. It was always the same style, with an abundance of thick raven curls tumbling over her shoulders and midway down her back, but it hit me like a fist to the gut. Something about that hair begged to be pulled, then written into fables.
“Is there something preventing you from interacting with all humans, or just me in particular?” Sam asked.
I glanced at him before refocusing my attention over his shoulder to where Andy leaned next to Shannon’s dining room table. She was talking with Tom, offering bright smiles and nodding eagerly, and he seemed to be describing something she found fascinating. Probably his willingness to grow a wiry beard and go to music festivals.
In the two hours since her arrival at Shannon’s apartment, she spent all of her time close enough for me to see her yet far enough away that I couldn’t eavesdrop. She also spent her time talking with every unattached guy at the party, starting with Nick, who seemed to have substantially more time outside the operating room these days, a few lawyer friends of Shannon’s, a skinny marathon friend of Matt’s, and now Tom.
It was fucking excruciating.
“All humans,” I said, gulping the Newcastle in my hand.
“Right,” Sam murmured. “That is splendid news, Patrick. I’m not sure where you get the idea that it’s appropriate to be an asshole to people. Running around the office like an angry bear isn’t kosher. If possible, I’d recommend you pry your head from your ass this weekend. This is getting old.”
Sam stepped away and joined a conversation about an upcoming trip to Arizona to see some spring training games, and I continued my covert study of Andy.
I was tired from a week of sleepless nights, wrung out from the morning at Wellesley, and teetering on the edge of sanity after watching a handful of guys hit on Andy, but I wasn’t leaving until she was. If she decided to leave with one of them, I wanted to see it.
Shannon edged next to me on the window seat and wordlessly watched the party. I knew she was reaching out for a truce, and she was waiting for me to make the first peace offering.
That was how it worked: one of us fucked up, the other spent an irrational amount of time pissed off about it, and then we talked around the original fuck-up. The Walshes weren’t especially familiar with the words “I’m sorry.”
“Wellesley was in good shape,” I started, receiving a quick nod from Shannon. “No dogs, either, but let’s get real. Andy probably would have whipped them into shape within five minutes while I hid in the backseat. She’s working on the proposal.”
“I like her a lot. She’s good for you, really good. She’s good for us,” Shannon said, her eyes still focused on her guests. “Is there anything left?”
