“Why aren’t you guys going to the banquet anymore?” I ask.
“August isn’t invited to it. Things haven’t been good between him and Alex since Zach passed.”
I physically flinch at those words, and my brother pauses, no doubt noticing it too. I break our eye contact, glancing down at my abused nail beds, picking the skin away.
He continues, “They’ve never allowed him to be involved, and he’s never allowed us to support him, so Leo and I went every year, thinking it was better to do something than nothing.” I see my mother wipe her eyes from my periphery. “But after last year, we decided we couldn’t be complacent in their shitty parenting, regardless of what it’s doing for the community. I can’t approve of someone treating their son that way, so we decided to do something ourselves.”
I don’t even allow myself to conceptualize my thoughts on that.
Instead, I ask, “Is he going to be there? At the boardwalk?”
I can’t decide which answer I’m hoping for. Part of me hopes he’s as miserable as I am, and that he doesn’t deserve to becelebrating with pumpkins and haunted houses. Another part of me—the larger part, I think—hates myself for having that thought, and wants to know he’s healed.
Everett shakes his head. “No. He’s not ready for that yet, but we wanted to do something to show him we support him nonetheless.”
“Great.” I force a smile. “Well, I hope you have fun. Sounds like a phenomenal time.”
I suddenly feel the intense need to leave. I don’t want to be around any of them. I don’t want them to know I’m not numb. I don’t want them to know I still care. That I still can’t say either of their names or think about their faces without wanting to scream. I don’t want my family to know how affected I am by the simple title of a summer month.
I don’t want anyone to know how comforting it is to realize that while I lie in bed tonight, replaying the worst day of my life, he’ll be doing the same. I don’t want to address that, even to myself. The solidarity I feel in it. The heavy burden only the two of us bear—and how, although we don’t speak, I’m somehow relieved to know I’m not feeling it alone.
I toss my dirty plate into the sink, refusing to make eye contact with my brother as I pass him, hugging my mom quickly and heading toward the stairs.
“Elena, what’s—” Everett begins, but we both pause as a door shuts at the top of the staircase. I take a step back, waiting for Dahlia and Lou to come down. Lou comes first, smiling as she bounds down the stairs and grabs my mother by the hand. She’s wearing a giant pink suit jacket with silver sparkles, a pair of matching boots, and pink streaks clipped into her strawberry-blond hair. “C’mon, Mom said we have to load all the desserts in the car, and then we can eat one.”
“Well, it’s hard to argue with that offer,” my mother chimes.
Dahlia comes down next, wearing sheer black tights, a glittering black leotard, and thigh-high red boots. Over her shoulders, she has on what looks like a…ringleader-type of jacket? Red, white, and gold, with a matching top hat. Her lips are painted a bright cherry.
“Is that the answer to my question?” Mom asks Everett, popping her brow.
He grins, bottom lip between his teeth. “She kills it every time. Every-fucking-time, Wildflower.”
She tosses him an eye roll, but the color in her cheeks gives away the effect of his words. My brother steps into the entryway, the space now feeling incredibly crowded with the five of us here, myself the most out of place. Like this is another family entirely, and I’m watching them live their lives within the walls.
Everett helps Dahlia down the last step, kissing her cheek as he pulls her in, whispering something against her ear that sends a fit of giggles bursting from her lips. She slaps his chest, pulling back. “Okay, y’all. Let’s get the car loaded up before we’re late.”
As she shuffles her daughter out the front door, my mom plants a kiss on the top of my head, pulling me in for a hug. “Te amo, tesora,” she whispers, eyes misting. “Have lunch with Dad and me this weekend, please? We miss you.”
I nod, earning a smile before my mom follows Dahlia and her daughter outside.
That’s the guilt that burns the most. Watching my parents try to fix me when I know that they can’t. They were so happy to have me home, but I think they—my brothers too—were shocked at the person who stepped off that plane. I’m not who I was before I left for New York, not who I was before that day four years ago. I’ll never be that girl again, and I hate seeing my family attempt to revive her when I know she’s long been dead.
I’m sure a therapist would tell me it’s why I’m so avoidant.
My brother makes no move to leave, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed. “I would’ve invited you. If there was any chance in my mind that you’d entertain the idea, I would’ve invited you. Begged you to attend, actually. I want to be with you on this day. Every day. But when you don’t let me…” He shakes his head. “It makes it hard to continue trying.”
“How do you do it?” I ask. “Move on. Celebrate. Be…happy.”
My brother sighs, running a hand through his hair. “His life ended, but mine didn’t.”
I bite back a gasp, and Everett throws his hands up in surrender.
“I know you think that sounds fucked up, and maybe it is. I wish he was here. I wish that he could meet my kid. I wish he could meet Dahlia.” His eyes flick toward the closed front door, like he can see them through it. “I wish he knew Darby came back and that they ended up happy together, or that his brother finally opened up his dream business and kept the house Zach loved. He should be here, and it’ll never stop being gut-wrenching that he’s not, but the fact is, I can’t do a damn thing about it.” He shrugs. “I know it sounds cliché, but I think he’d want more for all of us. We know Zach loved attention, and we know he wouldn’t want to be forgotten. He’d fully expect us to mourn; he’d be pissed if we didn’t.” Everett laughs, scratching his beard. “But I also think that if we all spent the rest of our lives walking around like lifeless zombies, he’d be real disappointed. If he’s somewhere else watching us right now, the least we can do is entertain him.” Everett points at his ridiculous outfit.
A snide laugh escapes me. “So, what you’re saying, is he’d be disappointed in me?” I mimic my brother, pointing at myself—the pajamas I still have on at 4:00 p.m., or the stain across my Grand Canyon T-shirt because I honestly can’t remember the last time I washed it.
I don’t put much thought into what I said, and I know neither Everett nor I are surprised that it was my takeaway from his spiel. I can’t bear to listen to people speak of him, so I zone it out. I only allowed myself to absorb the part that made it clear my brother was referring to me when he mentioned lifeless zombies, because we both know that’s exactly what I am.
