Every good thing in my life vanished, leaving me with shattered remains. My sister who wouldn’t even look at me. The house I grew up in, haunted. My best friend texting every hour to check in. My dad’s wisdom, smile, silly jokes, every ounce of kindness and light he saved for me at any given moment, gone forever.
I felt like a husk of a person, every morning spent sitting at the kitchen island where my dad or I used to pour Phoebe cereal, staring out the window to the creek where we used to play, listening to my sister’s sobs turn into stomped feet and slammed doors. Desperate measures didn’t seem like enough, but one night I asked Phoebe how she felt about selling the house. I’d been living in Boston since college; Arden and Noah were there, my job, a life that wasn’t full of ghosts. I would’ve stayed in Rhode Island if Phoebe asked. I would’ve lived in that haunted house and driven around the city where my father’s heart stopped beating and I would’ve died inside every day, but if Phoebe had the slightest hesitation, I would’ve done it. Instead, I saw a spark of relief in her eyes.
I never saw that relief again. Phoebe only seemed angrier in Boston. I tried so hard and she drifted further and further from me.
Dad was gone. Phoebe was running.
My life split in two on a Tuesday. You don’t come back from that.
Nearly a week after Phoebe’s last indiscretion, I began wishing for angry calls from Principal Chambers. At the very least, acting out meant Phoebe feltsomething.
Work became excruciating. All day, my body tensed in anticipation, waiting for my phone to blare with another complaint from Phoebe’s principal. My brain began throwing out terrible ideas on an hourly basis, likestart a fireorslash a tire. It was bad. I knew that. But I had to believe it was forgivable because dammit, I just wanted my sister to be okay, and shewasn’t.
I’d get home from work and Phoebe would be in her room doing homework in silence. Considering our dad routinely wore earplugs around the house to block out the sound of her music, this was more than a little concerning. I overcorrected. Since we returned the letter, Phoebe had sulked her way through Ice Cream Sunday, Chinese Takeout Night, and Surprise Gift of the Month. Growing more desperate, I recruited Arden and Noah to pool together enough money for tickets to see Phoebe’s favorite band. She barely managed a smile.
I knew my sister. After nine months, I could tell the difference between apathy and genuine depression. We’d reached the latter, and it scared the shit out of me.
Her therapist told me we had to wait it out. Everyone goes through rough patches, grief isn’t linear. But the thing is, I’d seen a difference in Phoebe for a minute there. A noticeable differenceafter nine months of stagnancy. Joy that was snuffed out before it got the chance to spark. And as much as I agreed only time healed wounds, a nagging thought kept insisting there might be a shortcut.
The idea flitted around my head all week, growing wilder each time I passed Sequest on my way to and from work. Somewhere inside that building sat the answer to my problems. Or at least half an answer. Phoebe wouldn’t magically cheer up if I managed to coax information out of Benji Dexter, but at least she wouldn’t be left wondering.
Would he get the letter to Catalina? Did he know where she was? Did he still care?
I missed Phoebe’s smile so much, I burned through a jumbo pack of TUMS. Stress raged, my esophagus was eating itself, and the only thing I could think to do was beg a stranger for information about his love life. Nothing had ever felt so pathetic.
By the end of the week, I anticipated the quiet upon walking into the apartment. I dropped my bag by the door and slipped off my shoes, then padded to Phoebe’s bedroom, racking my brain for something that might cheer her up. My list of things that wouldn’t work had grown longer than what would.
Three things might have to get downgraded again.
I knocked softly, only pushing the door open once she grunted. Her room was like mine: mostly empty, boxes everywhere, her backpack unzipped with books strewn across the floor, her bare mattress sending a tiny shock of guilt through me—I’d buy sheets and put them on myself, if I had to. This, I could control.
Phoebe sat at the edge of the mattress, laptop balanced on her lap as she typed furiously.
“Hey,” I said. “I’m back.”
She kept typing.
“Any idea what you want for dinner?” I chewed my lip, aching for something more than the head shake she offered. “That new Thai place opened, if you wanna try it.”
“Sure.”
“It’s supposed to be really good.”
“Just get me whatever,” she muttered without looking up. I shoved down the muddle of anxiety and disappointment dancing in my chest and eased her bedroom door shut. Sun streamed through the windows, warming the living room. This time last year, I would’ve basked in the light. Now, I drew the curtains shut and plunked down on the couch to pull up the restaurant menu on my phone.
A text from Arden pinged:How are Things?
Miserable, I replied.But we’re getting Thai food so. Silver linings.
She reacted to my text with a heart and proceeded to type for a solid two minutes, finally sending,Phoebe will inevitably catch on to the shower of gifts and treats and when she does, she will weasel a puppy out of you. Do NOT fall for it!!! You’ll be the one who has to house-train it!!!
I would’ve done anything to put a smile on Phoebe’s face; I’d find an entire litter of puppies if it would make her happy. But she wasn’t asking forthings. Anything material was shrugged off or ignored, and I couldn’t blame her since the lastthingthat brought me immeasurable joy in the last nine months was a really good burrito. Phoebe’s tunnel vision cured her and broke her just as quickly. The only thing she cared about—onething—was that letter.
Fuck it.
I sent another text to Arden:Can I borrow the red dress that makes my boobs look great?
She replied immediately:YES??? WHO ARE YOU TRYING TO IMPRESS????????
