“Let’s eat,” he says.
The words aren’t even out of Johnny’s mouth before Cliff’s door opens. “Finally,” he says exasperatedly and marches into the kitchen.
The three of us eat two big pieces each. My teeth hurt when I’m done because it was so sweet, but I regret nothing. My first cake was the best cake I’ve ever eaten.
When we’re done, Johnny hands me a key. “Go take a look. See how you feel. No pressure.”
I hesitate like he’s handing off a live grenade, but then I take it.
I walk down two flights of stairs.
When I slide the key into the lock with a shaky hand, I can hear Marilyn’s voice screeching,He fucking killed my Nina!
Turning the key I don’t tune it out, I let her in.That little shit killed my daughter!
And the familiar self-talk begins.You’re nothing. You’re nothing. You’re nothing.
It’s interrupted by Alice’s voice,You don’t scare me, Toby Page.
When I step inside, the voices quiet.
It smells like fresh paint.
And warmed-over, botched childhood.
All of the furniture is the same. Even the record player is still sitting on the metal TV tray in the corner with a milk crate of old albums beneath it. They’re Marilyn’s because Nina took hers when she moved out with Ken. Unless Johnny rearranged them, I can tell you what order they’re in because I looked through them so often: Three Dog Night, Fleetwood Mac, The Carpenters, and Jim Croce. There is a new-to-me, ancient console TV sitting directly across from the couch though. The rabbit ears sitting on top of it are wrapped in duct tape to keep them extended fully, and the tips are covered in aluminum foil to help with reception. I’ve never had a TV and it’s Sunday;Teletunesis on tonight.
My old room is empty except for the pine dresser against the wall by the window. The middle drawer hangs at an angle. It broke years ago.
The master bedroom is painted pale blue now. And the furniture is different, not just the mattress. The sheets and pillowcases and bedspread all match. They’re all blue like the walls. I know it’s no big deal, but I’ve never had sheets and pillowcases that match. Hell, I’ve never had sheets, I’ve always just used blankets or the sleeping bag I’ve had for the past two years. I touch the bedspread because I can’t resist. There are creases in it like it’s been recently unfolded. It’s new. I’ve never had new either.
Then the dresser catches my eye. There are a few small cans of paint, some paintbrushes, and a piece of paper. When I get closer, I find that the paper is folded in half and my name is on it. Johnny’s chicken scratch is inside.
Toby,
I hope you like blue. I don’t know your favorite color, so I took a guess and went with mine.
This place is yours. Give it life. Paint a mural on the wall. Get a roommate if you want one. Or a dog. But not a cat, I hate cats.
Happy graduation.
Johnny
It’s mine.
This bed.
These sheets.
This paint.
This life.
It’s mine.
If I want it.
Without hesitation, I open the cans of paint—black, white, red, and blue.
