The film of choice isPractical Magic,starring Sandra Bullock and Nicole Kidman. Annabelle insists that in another life, she was a witch and even tried to do a few spells when we were kids. Halloween is approaching, and she’s already excited to decorate the house.
Throughout the film, she’s leaning forward in her seat, singing along to Faith Hill, and going on about how beautiful Sandra Bullock is. She also eats her body weight in popcorn, which is good to see.
I’m just happy to be able to treat my baby sister to a fun evening, where she doesn’t have to worry about her illness and can enjoy some silly fun.
Then we get back home, and the house is utterly trashed.
I stand in the doorway staring around me in disbelief.
For a horrible moment, I wonder whether someone has robbed us, or if there might be people still inside. We have nothing to steal, but that doesn’t really matter.
Then I see the telltale signs of the truth, and my blood begins to boil. It looks as if my mother and father have had a huge fight.It happens every six months or so when they’re sober enough to have a real conversation.
There are smashed beer bottles everywhere, with alcohol sprayed up the walls. Glittering pieces of glass are scattered across the carpet, and the kitchen has been ransacked. I recoil at the sight of a thin pool of yellow liquid on the floor.
He pissed inside his own goddamn house.
My hands are shaking with rage by the time I take Annabelle’s arm and lead her carefully through the wreckage.
“Go upstairs, Annie,” I snap, waiting for her to argue with me, but she must be able to hear the rage in my voice. She slinks away, struggling to get up the narrow staircase, and her obvious discomfort only darkens my mood further.
I look around at the carpet, wondering how the hell I’m going to get the shards out of it. Annabelle and I have both stepped on broken glass on more than one occasion, and the only vacuum we have is a piece of shit.
It takes me almost an hour to get the living room back into any semblance of normality. I’ve scrubbed at the carpet so hard that there are damp patches in several places, and the space smells strongly of chemicals from all the disinfectant I’ve used.
After another half hour of scrubbing, it’s getting late when I hear soft footsteps on the stairs. Annabelle is standing there looking fragile, leaning heavily against the wall, and holding several bottles of cleaning products in her hands.
Her eyes are watery, and she looks scared, which confuses me.
“What’s up, Annie?” I ask, pushing my hair out of my eyes. But as I do so, I hear her sniff.
“Are you angry with me?” she asks, her scared voice going straight to my heart.
“What?No!” I say, standing up swiftly and moving across the wet floor, and taking her into my arms. “Why did you think I was mad?”
“You d—didn’t ask me to help. And you’ve been throwing things around down here like you’re pissed at everyone.” She pushes me away. “I cando things, Mia. Stop treating me like a china doll. I can clean up, too. This isn’t just your responsibility.”
I pull back and realize that the tears running down her cheeks are also tears of rage. She glares at me furiously and pushes past me, grimacing as she steps onto the floor.
“Gross. What the hell did they do?”
“I think they emptied most of the beer onto the carpet.”
“What can I help with?” she demands, and I know I can’t argue with her.
“Wanna help put everything back in the kitchen cabinets? I’ve swept up all the broken pieces of glass, but be careful.”
She says nothing, goes to the kitchen, and gets to work. I keep an eye on her, noting that she isn’t able to lift more than one plate at a time, but I say nothing.
After another little while, things are looking vaguely normal, but Annabelle is fading fast. She lowers onto a barstool as I put away the vacuum and dustpan.
“Will you bite my head off if I say you need to get some sleep?” I ask. “It’s almost eleven.”
She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest. “I put away, like, three plates. You’d already done the rest. I’ve barely helped at all.”
I sigh. “That’s not true. And anyway, I don’t want you to?—”
“Tire myself out, I know,” she says huffily. “You take charge of everything these days; it feels like I can’t make any decisions for myself.”
