ONE
Memories are alive. That sounds undoubtedly terrifying, but unfortunately, it’s true. They breathe, they wait. They keep coming back, with a cold bitterness that sticks to you, like smoke in your lungs. They crawl under your skin when you’re trying to forget, invade your mind like a predator. And as much as anyone tells you that time heals everything, I’d like to tell you that they’re wrong, because time only hides the worst of it until you’re brave enough, or maybe reckless enough, to look again.
And when you do, when you finally pull back the layers, there it is, that moment you thought you’d buried. The one that won’t leave you, not in your dreams, not in your nightmares. The one that won’t let you sleep but won’t let you wake either.
I suppose losing them would be worse, although in moments like those I forget why that is. And in those moments, I wonder what it would be like to not remember anything at all. Best believe it would do me a lot of good to erase some of the more painful moments.
There remains one specifically that I’ve tried to let go. I’ve made multiple attempts to bury it somewhere deep and nameless, but it always comes back. Every time I close my eyes, every time I let my thoughts wander. It drags me back to that day.
February 14. I wish I had stayed home that day. I wish my stupidity didn’t reach its peak and I hadn’t called my father. My mother once told me not to dwell on the past and move forward.
Now she hardly says anything at all.
But I suppose she’s right, because I can’t change the inevitable. I can’t change his death. Or the fact that my call is what resulted in him speeding in the first place. It was an accident. Well at least, that’s what the town labelled it as. A tragic accident. Yet there still lingered a suspicion in the depths of my mind that perhaps it wasn’t so simple.
It all seemed too strange, too sudden.
Regardless, the responsibility settled squarely on my shoulders: it was my fault.
The blame never ceased to torture me. In fact, it came in the form of my sisters. They reminded me every day without fail that he would still be here if it wasn’t for my recklessness. Sometimes it was explicit and in my face; other days it was the silent accusation, their not-so-subtle glances that told me exactly how much they hated me.
***
The faucet groans as I twist the handle, but all I get is a stream of ice-cold water and I pull my hands back with a hiss. I attempt to twist it toward “hot” again, but nothing changes.
A scream shatters the quiet, followed by a voice yelling from the upstairs bathroom that makes me flinch.
“Adeline!” Naomi’s screeching voice never gets less discouraging.
I hesitate a moment, slightly terrified.
I can’t believe I’m doing this again.
The urge to roll my eyes surfaces, but I resist that temptation. The image of Naomi charging down the stairs after me, or worse, yelling again and potentially permanently damaging my eardrums, holds me back.
But despite the apprehension, I quickly dry my hands on a thin, fraying dish towel and internally brace myself for the chaos awaiting me upstairs, before practically sprinting up the stairs. I’m almost at the top when another hair-rising, window-shattering, godawfulscream almost makes me fall down the stairs.
I didn’t think it was even possible for a human being to scream so loud.
When I reach the top, Naomi is standing in the hallway, her hair clinging to her shoulders and mascara streaked down her cheeks. “There’s no hot water,” she says, arms crossed. “I was in the middle of rinsing, and thenbam—ice-cold. What’s wrong with it?”
I bite my lip, hoping I’m wrong, but I’ve been silently wondering when that grimy, outdated boiler would finally give in. I glance toward the bathroom, my heart sinking. “It’s probably the boiler.”
Naomi, on the verge of explosion, fixes me with a scary look that makes me take a careful step backwards, but I watch her as she takes a deep breath in and out, calming herself down. “Great.” She rolls her eyes. “I have class in a few hours, Addie. What am I supposed to do?”
I know the answer to that question, even if I don’t want to say it. “You could ask Sam, maybe you’ll even get through to her. You’re her twin.”
I remind her of that fact daily, and as much as she yells and rolls her eyes at me every time I bring Sam up, I know no matter what, they’ll always have each other’s backs.
Twins have a strange kind of connection. A bond I don’t think I’ll ever understand.
Admittedly, I’ve always been envious of it. Of them. No matter how much they pretend to hate each other, it never lasts. As for me, their resentment toward me never seems to go away.
Her expression twists, disbelief flashing across her face. “Sam? She’s busy living it up with her boyfriend.” She pauses for a moment, and then I see a flicker of something else in her eyes—a spark of an idea. “Her boyfriend withmoney.”
“Just think of it as borrowing,” Naomi says, seeing my apprehension, her tone light. “You’re just getting a little loan from a guy with money. No big deal.”
“No, Naomi…” The words leave my mouth in a hush, like maybe if I say it softly enough, I can erase the whole idea. But the idea’s there, a solid thing hanging in the air between us. Her boyfriend. His money. The thought hammers in my mind, relentless. Like it’s all that matters. And maybe it is. Maybe, right now, it’s everything.Money. Money.
