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I squeeze my eyes shut and take in a deep breath. Birds are singing around us, an omnipresent sound that we always take for granted, until you actually take the time to listen to its melody. Are they chatting with each other? Or is it more like a solo concert, since no one seems to care anyway?
“I’ve brought your brother today, sweet baby.” Mom’s fragile voice is wet and thick. “He had to work yesterday, but he’s here now. He misses you.” She nudges me in my waist, and I take a step forward, clearing my throat as I eye the granite stone. A rose is carved on it, right below my sister’s name, her date of birth and her date of death.
“Hi.” My voice vibrates, heavy in my throat. “I—uh—thought I’d come today. I—” The sound breaks on a sob that I despise and swallow, because it doesn’t deserve to be here.Idon’t deserve to feel that way. Not after what I’ve done. “I’m sorry.” I inhale deeply through my nose while my mind scrambles and turns in search of words. “I should have come sooner.” It feels strange talking to a stone. Her giggles trickle inside my memories, filling up the desolation.
“Your sister forgives you,” Mom mumbles.
The church bells ring, announcing the end of a funeral service. It’s eleven in the morning, but the sound of the bells makes me look up at the sky, at the cherry blossom that tumbles down from the big tree, free and careless and so pretty. My chest aches. My eyes sting with sadness and fatigue.
“Let’s go before other people come.” Mom drops the bouquet of pink flowers into the small vase and places it in front of the headstone, then leaves a quick prayer.
“God’s not here, baby mouse…”
“Yeah.” While I wait for her to say goodbye to Rosy, I pull my jacket closer to my shivering chest. It might be officially spring, but we haven’t had any nice days yet. Sunshine, yes, but the wind’s still chilly. Mom clings on to my shoulder as she turns to leave, and I let her lean on me while we make our way toward the exit. The group of people entering the cemetery directly from the church, is entirely dressed in black and dark sunglasses, and we leave with a polite, yet distant nod, as we exit the garden of God. My eyes take in the buzz of the city. Being outside with Mom makes my problems feel strangely far away. Right now, as her fragile frame leans on me, I feel safe. Like we could just go—go!—and leave all of this behind.
No more All Saints.
No more letters.
No more murder missions.
No more Kai.
No more Dad.
“Take me home, my boy, I need a drink.” She doesn’t wait for my reply, instead unhooks her hand and shuffles forward, toward the suffocating subway. We came here by train, since I don’t drive. Not anymore.
Never again.
The thought thunders in my chest. I need my pencils. I need my music.
That’s when I see the red Porsche. It’s double parked in the street across from the cemetery, at less than a hundred feet away. Mom crosses the traffic light, but I can’t get my legs to move, eyes glued to the obscene car instead. Something flutters in my chest. Then the driver door opens, and I panic. I don’t want to see, don’t want to be disappointed. After all, Kai’s not the only one in this city who drives a flashy, red Porsche. It’s not him.
“You coming?” Mom calls from over her shoulder. My chest tightens.
“Yeah.” I hurry after her. During the entire ride home I wonder if it was Kai in that car.
Mom doesn’t speak on our way back, apart from her private mumbling, leaving us both alone with our private thoughts. Once we make it upstairs, safely locked inside our suffocating place on the fifth floor, she scurries to the kitchen to occupy her usual spot with her lethal friends—Old Milwaukee and cigarettes. She’s sad, I feel it, but I don’t know how to comfort her. Don’t know how to unlock the doors to her broken heart.
So instead I lock myself in my room where I spend most of the time drawing, my buds safely tucked into my ears. With all the noise drowned out, I can fully concentrate. It slows the beating of my heart into a deep and steady rhythm, while my fingers fly over the paper. In harmony with my thoughts and to Mama Cass’sDream a little dream of me.
When my alarm rings in my ears, warning me that it’s time to make us our early dinner, it feels like I’m awoken from a centennial sleep. Too bad I don’t feel well-rested. Putting back all my drawing pencils, my gaze finds the window. The previous darker days were a perfect cover for the view, that consists almost entirely of low-class housing blocks, but with the longer spring days now, that cover is blown. Kai came through my window, he must have. But how does he know? Has he seen me climb the fire escape? A flash of red Porsche crosses my mind.
“I’ll make us an early dinner.” Rummaging through the fridge, I hear her mumble, before she switches the channel.Moonlight Sonataechoes through the kitchen, she’s watching figure skating again. Whenever she gets like this, really sad and drunk, that’s what she’ll watch, as if she's seeking solace in the memories of days gone by. While I peel potatoes, she hums to the track.
“Mashed potatoes and gravy with fried eggs?” She doesn’t reply, and when I turn over my shoulder, I find her shimmering eyes glued to the television. “Mom?”
“I always wanted a daughter.” She flicks her gaze, meeting mine. “A beautiful girl with dark curls. They’d fall over her shoulders, and I’d brush them every morning before she’d go to school.” Her lips curl into the slightest of sad smiles. “She was so pretty, Phoenix.”
And then you took her from me.She doesn’t speak the words, but she doesn’t have to. I can hear them just as clear in my head, clawing their way down as they land heavily in my chest. It aches.
“I—” I clear my dry throat. “Do you also want fried eggs?”
“This is what she would have done, had she lived.” Mom points toward the tv. “She would have been a figure skater, just like I used to dream of when I was a little girl.” The last words come out on a tired sob, while the audience cheers on screen. The show has finished, the final tones of Beethoven have rung. “And look at where we are now.” Wiping her tears away with an annoyed huff, she takes another drag from her cigarette, before turning back to the tv. “Look at where we are now.”
Next performances in the ice rink start and end, and I busy myself with the food. Our conversation is over, until it isn’t. Until she starts talking again, once more finding a way to pull me under. “This is the only thing you do. Cooking, cleaning, finding excuses to keep hidden from the world.” My eyes flutter as I lean over the pans, their heat colliding with my tightening chest. “You’re a pathetic excuse of a man. Just like your father. You hide here, in this house, because you can’t live with what you’ve done.”
“I work, Mom,” I mumble from under the extractor hood. “I provide for us.” Barely. As if hearing my thoughts, she snorts at that.
