Page 6 of The Art of Drowning

“Mom? Dad?” I toed out of my shoes so I wouldn’t track dirt and water through the house.

They didn’t answer, but they did appear, coming from the kitchen. I’d been here last Christmas, but in the months since, they’d aged a decade. I expected that most of that happened in the last few days. Dad, who’d always been this tall man, this presence, the kind you felt the minute he walked into a room, was a shadow of himself. His hands were tucked deep in his pockets, and his shoulders were rounded. He looked dead tired, like sleep was a thing that used to happen. Mom wasn’t much better. She needed a shower and a nap, and some food by the looks of her.

“Cal,” her voice broke as she walked toward me. “Oh, Cal. I⁠—”

I set the bags down so I could wrap an arm around her. Mom had been shorter than me since the seventh grade, and she felt impossibly tiny now. She was a speck of a person, and it wasn’t a wonder Pat told me to make sure she ate. She’d always been a small woman, but right now she felt as frail as a crisp autumn leaf.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to get here.” I kissed the top of her head. “I got you a raspberry tart, and you have to eat it because Pat wouldn’t let me pay.”

Mom pulled back and dabbed the tears from her eyes. “Nothing tastes like anything. That’s what they don’t tell you.”

She took the box and tried to force a smile. “But I’ll try.”

Dad wasn’t much of a hugger. He never had been. He was the kind of dad who’d watch you fall and tell you dumb dad jokes to make you feel better, and maybe at Christmas you’d get a hug if you were on Santa’s nice list. But I grabbed the whiskey from the bags and went to him anyway. I thrust the bottle at him and he pulled his hands out of his pockets to take it, and before he could protest, I pulled him into a hug. It was quick, and even then Dad was pulling away before me.

“Thanks for the whiskey, son. It’s been awhile.”

“We can have a drink while I make something for us to eat.”

Dad started to say something, but I shot him a look that dared him to argue. “Pat ratted you out. Said he’d been here to check on you and then made a point to tell me to make sure Mom ate something.”

Dad nodded along, then followed me to the kitchen. They both did. They shuffled around behind me, clearly lost for words. Dad grabbed a couple glasses out of the cupboard while I unloaded the food. I put the chickens in the fridge, but I popped the lids off the soup, which was still hot, and slid a container across to Dad.

“Whiskey and soup?” Dad looked down at the chicken noodle soup with a frown. “I’m not sure they pair well.”

“Then start with the soup.”

Mom picked at her raspberry tart, managing to eat half before closing the box. “I don’t think I can eat more right now, Cal. I’m sorry.” Her chin quivered and she sucked in a shaky breath.

“That’s fine. We can try again later.” I put the lid back on her container of soup and silently wondered how I was going to get them through this. Sam had been the son they were close to. He’d been the one who came back after college. The one who lived close and saw them more often than Christmas and the occasional Thanksgiving.

It would have been kinder if I had been the one they lost.

“Did you need help with any of the arrangements?”

Dad shook his head. “When Sam was sick, it didn’t look good for a while. So he, uh—he had everything pre-arranged.” He coughed to clear his throat and took a sip of the whiskey. He stared down at the soup like it offended him, and I quietly put the lid back on, feeling small and useless and kind of stupid. Why did I think soup was a good idea?

“How long can you stay?” Mom asked.

“I don’t know,” I told her, which was the truth. More because I didn’t know how long I could handle staying. Time off work wasn’t the issue. Staying in this place without going crazy was the problem.

“You have to stay for the will reading, at least.”

“The what?” I blinked at her, the words not quite making sense.

“Sam had a will.”

“And I was in it?” That was news to me. The will made sense. Sam had been sick, and part of the reality of fighting cancer that bad was recognizing that sometimes cancer won and it was a kindness to have your affairs in order. So the will wasn’t a shock. If Mom wanted me at the reading, it meant I was likely in the will. Or maybe Sam had written me out entirely.

I almost didn’t want to know which it was.

FOUR

damien

THEN

If there was such a thing as hell, it was listening to Sam talk shit about Callum. I couldn’t call him on it because I was supposed to be Sam’s best friend, but I honestly thought he needed to lay off. Were siblings really supposed to act like that? Callum was always nice to Sam, but Sam didn’t always appreciate it.