The kitchen counter looks like an amateur flower shop, some of the vases looking like they’ve been sitting there awhile. The hospice nurse had left us a note with instructions for what comes next—the lawyer’s contact information, how to reach the funeral home—but that’s the only thing indicating someone died here. It’s amazing how quickly they got rid of the hospital equipment.
I wander into the living room and stand in front of the old piano. I haven’t touched one in years. Mom had always wishedJohanna or I would pick it up, but I wanted to play guitar like Dad and Johanna is the least musically inclined person I’ve ever met. A smile tugs at my lips as I press a single key and allow the sound to fill the room.
We’d had a lot of good memories sitting here. Before Dad died, when she still loved music just like he did. When it filled our house all the time and I didn’t have to hide away to practice. When Dad and I would have “concerts” in this very room while Johanna and Mom would cheer us on. When it felt like a home.
The room looks the same as it had the last time I’d been here. It looks more like a museum exhibit now than a living room, though.The Harris Family Time Capsule. It’s been a long time since I thought of us that way.
“She didn’t want it to feel like a hospital,” Johanna says from behind me, her arms crossed uncomfortably across her body. “The photos… she wanted us to remember her when she was healthy.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. I don’t want to remember her being sick, but the problem is… I haven’t been around to remember much else.
I turn away from the piano and my eyes—as I expected they would—drift across the street. Mia’s childhood home stares me right in the face. All at once, I see her—bare feet tucked under her, book in hand, pretending to read while I strum on the porch. I can almost hear it: the quiet hum of my guitar, the creak of the swing, the wind rustling through the trees.
I should’ve brought her.
God, why didn’t I bring her?
I force myself to look away. My chest is already tight, like the grief and shame are trying to crawl up my throat at the same time. I clench my jaw and turn towards the staircase instead, pretending there’s something upstairs that needs my attention. There isn’t.
She would’ve come. That’s the worst part.
She had been preparing to pack, and she would’ve made all the arrangements.
This wouldn’t have been so damn hard if I hadn’t been so fucking stupid—if I’d just let her take care of me. But I told her not to. For some idiotic reason, I told her I need to do this alone, that I needspace—whatever the hell that means.
I had made it seem likeshe’sthe problem and that can’t be further from the truth.
I pace the upstairs hallway, the old floorboards creaking under my boots like they remember me. Every picture on the wall stares back at me like an accusation. A reminder of what I’ve blown up—and that it’s all my fault.
I can’t breathe.
There’s no one here to catch me now.
I pull out my phone more than once. Her name is right fucking there.
I hover my thumb over it.
Put the phone away.
Pull it out of my pocket again.
Just call her, fuckhead.
No. Not like this. I’m not going to do that to her. What if she doesn’t answer? What if she’s already realized me walking out is the best thing that could’ve happened to her?
I shove my phone in my pocket only to pull it out again and look at our text thread.
Mia Alexander
Food? I just finished editing the pics from Folly Beach.
Grayson Harris
Starving. For food and you.
Mia Alexander
Behave!!! Be back in a bit.
