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The television is on in the great room, and my father is in his typical position, feet up and conked out. I call his name several times, but he doesn’t stir. He won’t. He’s passed out, per usual.
Looking around, I cringe at the state of my home. Dishes are piled up in the sink, a layer of dust coats every inch of wood, and not a single photo is to be seen. Unlike other homes, mine has never had walls lined with family photos or pictures of Maggie and me from childhood. We didn’t even have graduation pictures taken.
No wonder Maggie and I are so screwed up. It’s the product of our upbringing. If I’d just told Dr. Tilney, maybe we could’ve gotten out of here. Maybe we could’ve had a different life.It’s too late for that now.
Creeping by my mother’s half-open bedroom door, I peek my head into a dark room devoid of sound. My mom is likely three bottles into her nightly wine consumption and passed out. So I close the door a little more and head for the steps. My foot lands on the bottom stair when I hear her raspy voice call out, “Maggie?”
I stiffen at her words, wanting to pretend I didn’t hear her and run up the stairs to the safety of my room. But I don’t. No matter how little I mean to her, she still means something to me. Absent or not, she’s my mom and I want—no, need—her in my life. Even if this is the only way to have her, drunk and confused, calling me by my missing sister’s name.
“It’s Marina, Mom. Can I get you anything?” I call in from the threshold, not wanting to go any farther. The room smells like stale cigarettes and vomit. My stomach can’t handle the combination on a normal day, but on an empty stomach, I’m afraid it’ll revolt.
“Ah,” she sighs. “I thought you were Maggie, finally come home.”
“Nope. Just me,” I say grimly. “Need some water?” I prompt, knowing full well she’ll never accept it.
“No,” she says before silence falls around us once more.
I’m about to turn and head back to my room, but she speaks again.
“You know she’s with Molly,” she grates out in that voice that sounds as if she’s smoked an entire pack—or two—of Marlboro Reds today alone.
I breathe deeply, not in the mood for her nonsense. I’ve heard it all before. When she’s really hit the bottle hard, she starts in on her conspiracy theories about Molly not really being stillborn. After an afternoon with Dr. Tilney, this is the last conversation I want to have.
“The hospital and that doctor of yours are working together. My girls are important,” she goes on, and I try my best to tune her out. Over the past couple of weeks, she’s brought Dr. Tilney into her crazed ideas. I want to remind her that she’s the one who pushed me back into therapy with the “doctor of mine.”
The longer I stand here, the longer she’ll go on. Sometimes I let her, if only to have some sort of conversation with her, even if it’s dysfunctional and encouraging her delusions. I take what I can get. It’s the only relationship she’s capable of having with me.
“I’m going to sleep now. Make sure you lock your door.”
“All right, Mom. Get some rest,” I say, exhaustion closing in.
I turn to walk away, but not before she gets in one last chilling thought, “They’ll come for you too.”
As I close the door, my whole body shudders. Not because I actually buy into her nonsensical ideas about Molly and Maggie being together, but because of her last words.
They’ll come for you too.
I shut myself in my room, close the blackout curtains, and sit cross-legged on my bed. Running my hands roughly down the length of my face, I attempt to push away the incessant chills. I’m on edge and damn near ready to jump off my own metaphorical cliff.
Grabbing the picture of Maggie and me that sits next to my bed, I study the photo. Anyone who looked at it would think we were normal, happy teenagers, but I know better. Maggie’s smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes like I know it does when she’s truly happy. She stares off to the side, looking distracted.
That night she had me up for hours because she swore someone had been standing at the foot of my bed. Watching me sleep. I still get goosebumps thinking about it. It wasn’t the first time and it wasn’t the last, but she had been different. She had been frantic. I shake thoughts of that night away and replace the picture where it belongs.
I try to catch an hour of sleep, but it never comes. Instead, I stare into the dark and think about what my family could’ve been like. How different Maggie’s and my childhood should’ve been. I wish for things I’ll never have.
* * *
I’m not ready for a night out.
These girls have been my friends since grade school, and maybe I need them, but the last thing I want to do is mingle. I’m liable to break out into hysterics at the mention of old times. Memories from the past that are actually good. Fun times with my sister, which I’d give anything to have back. Those conversations might break me tonight.
I ring the doorbell and run my fingers through my hair, smoothing out the knots. Shannon opens the blue door with a wide smile plastered across her face.
“Rina,” she exclaims, pulling me into a tight hug. “Why the hell did you ring the doorbell?”
Shannon has been my friend since kindergarten. She was the only one who never felt like a third wheel with Maggie and me. Her parents, Bob and Susan Cline, took us in and treated us like their own. My sister and I came through these doors more times than I can count. I’ve never rung the doorbell before, but tonight it just seemed weird to walk right in. I can’t explain it; maybe it’s because everything in my world has changed. But I don’t say that.
“I didn’t want to catch Bob in his underwear again,” I tease instead, hoping to lighten the mood.
