ARTIFACTS
JACKIE CAME THIS MORNING armed with muffins and pastries, coffee, juice, and old cardboard boxes from the shop that previously contained bulk shipments of things like napkins and paper cups, plastic eating utensils, and coffee beans. It’s the very last weekend before school starts up, and Carmen and Jackie have been here all day helping us get the apartment in order, getting our things moved back in and making room for Aaron in our parents’ room.
I pull on the string that hangs from the ceiling of their closet and step inside as the light flickers on. Mom’s dresses and blouses and skirts take up at least two thirds of the space. Her shoes are laid out on the floor, left and right, in two neat rows. On the other side are Dad’s clothes, his uniforms lined up one after the other. I reach out and run my fingers along the sleeve of one of the black police shirts he wore every day. I carefully press my face against the starchy fabric, realizing that this is the closest I’ve come to hugging my father since I was in elementary school, and it’s the closest I’ll ever come again. Then, like a reflex, I stretch my arms wide and gather all my mom’s clothes up at once and fall into them, breathing her in, missing her so much it feels like she’s the one who died.
“Oh!” Jackie says, suddenly standing behind me.
I turn around, letting go of the clothes so abruptly one of Mom’s dresses slides off the hanger, the entire wardrobe left swinging back and forth on the rod.
“I’m sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” she says, holding out a stack of garment bags folded over her arm. “I was just bringing you these.”
“Thanks.” I take them from her and lay them down on the bed. Then I scan the room, trying to devise a plan for how to go about clearing the jewelry and spare change from the tops of their nightstands, how to empty the dresser drawers, and then there’s the perfume and cologne and makeup and toothbrushes in the bathroom. It has to be done, but as I run my fingers over these mundane items, they feel more like artifacts, remains of another life and another time, that should not be disturbed.
Jackie was against the whole thing, naturally. But Aaron and I went to see Mom and we explained everything. She heard us out, and while she didn’t seem particularly thrilled with the idea either, I don’t think she had the energy to debate the issue. She looked back and forth between us, lost in her thoughts. Then she shook her head and said, “I don’t know. You kids do what you think is best for everybody. I don’t know,” she repeated. “Not anymore.”
“How about I help you in here?” Jackie says, looking around the room at everything that still needs to be done.
Also lacking the energy to debate the issue, I tell her, “Sure.”
We’re all at it for hours; small fragments of conversation punctuate the time, bringing us out of our minds and back into the present for a reprieve. We manage to box things up we won’t be needing. I make so many trips up and down the stairs to our tiny storage unit in the basement that my legs begin to feel like putty.
The last remnants of daylight are streaming in through the open windows, painting a band of gold light across the living room wall. Jackie has postponed leaving for as long as humanly possible. She stands in the living room clutching her purse, reminding us for the thousandth time: “Your mother agreed to this on a trial basis. I’m only twenty minutes away, if you need anything—really, anything. And I’m going to be checking in. I’ll be a pain in your ass,” she tells us, wagging her finger.
“We know. Thank you for everything, Jackie,” Aaron tells her.
“Bye, Callie,” Jackie calls across the room.
Callie raises her hand and waves. Another small victory for us all.
“And, Brooke,” she says, directing her attention at me. “See you tomorrow for your shift?”
I nod.
At last she leaves. I think we all take her exit as the cue we’ve been waiting for, the one that allows us to cave into our exhaustion. We each find a place to sit, simultaneously. Me on the floor, Carmen on one end of the couch and Callie on the other, and Aaron in the armchair that used to be Dad’s spot. It feels wrong to see Aaron sitting there—and maybe he feels it too, because he sits there for only a second before he sinks down to the floor with me.
Carmen’s been making polite small talk with me all day, but she’s been acting like Aaron is invisible. Which means they’re in some stage of fighting; I can’t tell if it’s the beginning or the end.
“So, Brooke,” Carmen says, breaking up the groggy silence that’s washed over us. “Getting excited about school?”
“I guess!” I say it with the same level of enthusiasm as if I’d said, Yes, absolutely! I can’t wait. But the thing is, I’m not excited. I’m glad, sure. This was never about excitement. It was about strategy, about creating a way for me to exit, to leave, to get out. I can tell from her puzzled expression that my answer wasn’t good enough. So I try again. “I mean, yeah. Yes,” I repeat. “I’m excited.”
That earns me a smile.
“And, Callie, how ’bout you, babe?” Carmen says, louder. “How’s your summer been?”
She’s been talking more and more every day since we decided on coming home, but Aaron and I sit up straighter, silent as we wait to see what will happen. Callie stares at the coffee table, her face unchanging, as if she hasn’t heard, her arm dangling off the edge of the armrest, too still. And just when it seems like one too many seconds have passed and she isn’t going to answer, we hear the two most marvelous words pass across her lips: “Fucking hot.”
Aaron and I share a triumphant smirk—of course no one is going to reprimand her use of the f-word.
“That’s for fucking sure, right?” Carmen says, giving me a wink. She shifts her gaze to Aaron, who’s smiling at her with soft eyes. She purses her lips, then stands abruptly. “I guess I should get outta here too.”
Aaron stands up slowly and sighs. “I’ll walk you out.” Their footsteps on the stairs fade until Callie and I are alone again.
I open my mouth to speak, but all the things she’s still not telling us sit like a giant wall around her. She raises her eyebrows at me, making her eyes wide, as she crosses her arms, silently asking, What? I walk over to the couch and sit down. “It’s good to be back home, isn’t it?” A stupid, generic question, but it’s the only thing I can think of to say.
She stands and looks out the window, focusing in on something. I turn around so I can see too. Down below, on the sidewalk in front of our building, Aaron and Carmen look like they’re arguing, their voices too faint to hear what they’re saying. Carmen keeps her hands on her hips, and shakes her head as she looks off into the distance. Aaron throws his arms out to his sides, then turns away from her, taking a few steps in the opposite direction. She stares at his back for a moment, then spins around and walks away. When Aaron realizes she’s leaving, he starts walking after her fast, but then stops short and stands there, frozen.
I feel like I’m watching a play, something choreographed, steps on a stage.
“That doesn’t look . . .” But when I turn back around, Callie’s gone. “Good,” I finish, talking only to myself. The stench of cigarette smoke wafts up through the window. Looking back down, I see that Aaron now sits on the front step, hunched over with his elbows planted on his knees. The sun drops below the buildings, casting a deep shadow over the street. He brings the cigarette to his mouth, the burning tip glowing brightly as he inhales.
I wait for a while. I plan on asking if everything’s okay, but he doesn’t come back up right away. In my bedroom I pull out the stack of eight different summer reading books I was supposed to have been plugging away at over the past two months. Then I pull out the gigantic AP Psychology book I ordered online the day I found out I’d be going to Jefferson, before all of this happened. I even had it delivered priority. I planned on reading it cover to cover over the summer. I planned on memorizing everything. I wanted to be prepared. I wanted to show my new teachers how worthy I was of being there. But I haven’t so much as peeled the plastic wrap off.
I feel a tiny point of pressure pinch somewhere inside my rib cage—the familiar knot of panic, the shortness of breath. I rifle through my desk drawer until my hand finds the smooth plastic bottle. I quickly twist the cap off and pop four almost-expired aspirins into my mouth. Then I place my hand over my heart. I breathe air into that small bundle of tangled nerves, and something inside of me seems to loosen its grip, the pressure in my head and chest and lungs beginning to retreat.
I grab the book and my favorite orange highlighter and bring them out to the kitchen table, where I’ll wait to talk to Aaron. I sit down and rip off the vacuum-sealed plastic wrap, flip open the cover, and start reading the introduction. I uncap my highlighter and mark a passage. I’m halfway through the second unit—“Memory”—when suddenly I look up. Outside it’s darker. Time has passed. Aaron still hasn’t come back.
My eyes ache from reading for so long. I blink hard a few times. I’m tempted to call it a day and go to bed. But no, I have a little more in me, I decide. Just need to rest my eyes for a minute. I fold my arms over the hefty psychology book and lay my head down. Only resting my eyes, I tell myself.