Everything You Are(28)

Lilian’s voice, accusing. Jo’s face, stricken.

The doctor, his own hands protected by gloves, gently turns Braden’s this way and that, inspecting the palms, the fingertips.

“They’ll heal, I believe. You’re losing a little skin from the frostbite, but the deeper tissues seem fine. Except for the right—you’ve bruised the knuckles. Some sort of a blow?”

“No,” he says aloud. “No, no, no, no, no.”

He can’t stay here, alone in the house. He has to get out, away. But there’s nowhere to go, nothing to do. There’s a meeting of the Angels today, but not until four. He paces through the house, rebounding off memories whichever way he turns. Something needs to be done about Trey’s room, but he can’t bring himself to touch it.

The cello is a constant demand that he can’t answer, haunting every waking minute and then showing up in his dreams.

He cleans up the kitchen, disposes of the oatmeal, stands with the refrigerator open contemplating options for dinner. The fridge is empty, with the exception of a half bottle of ketchup, a quarter of a jug of milk, four eggs, and the bacon he found in the freezer and set out to defrost. They’ve worked through all of the funeral casseroles dropped off by church members, all of the food that was in the fridge.

His phone pings and he checks the message.

You still living here, or what?

God. His roommate, Charlie. Braden has avoided making any decisions about his living arrangements, just as he avoids so many other things, because he can’t see far enough into the future to know what he’s going to do. He’d left a hastily scribbled note when he packed his suitcase on the day of the funeral.

Rent is paid, right? he texts back, realizing even as he hits send that the calendar has shifted to March and he hasn’t yet paid up.

Super late with that. Got a chick wants to move in.

Shit. Braden’s living situation is based on an informal agreement, nothing in writing. Charlie holds the lease, can evict Braden anytime he wants because he doesn’t officially live there. He pictures his few belongings tumbled out into the street, or just reabsorbed into the life of a new occupant.

Braden: I’ll get you money today. Can you hold it for me?

Charlie: No offense, she’s hot. You’re not.

Braden: Asshole. Come on.

Charlie: Ah, man. Don’t be like that. Chicks first, right?

Charlie: You coming to get your shit?

Braden considers, running through the cramped apartment in his mind. Most of the disability insurance he collects for his hands has gone to Lilian and the kids; he’s held back only enough to secure some sort of shelter and plenty of booze, so his belongings are few. He brought all of his clothes and a toothbrush with him. What’s left? A pillow and bedding. His winter coat and boots. Pots and pans and a set of dishes scored for next to nothing at the Goodwill.

The security bottle of Jack tucked into the closet, just in case. The one on the top shelf of the pantry, behind the cereal, although Charlie has likely discovered and drained that one by now. None of it is worth the hassle of finding transportation.

He texts back: Keep it.

Charlie: You mad?

Braden contemplates the question. No emotion surfaces. He doesn’t care, one way or the other. If he can’t fix things with Allie, nothing will matter. He deletes Charlie from his contacts. Blocks his number, mentally erases him.

The bottle of booze in the closet in his old bedroom is more persistent. He can see it. Feel the weight and heft of it in his hands, the smell of the whiskey as he opens the bottle and . . .

He has got to do something useful. What do normal people do with their time? Cleaning. Cooking.

Groceries.

He latches on to the thought like a life ring tossed to a drowning man. They need groceries. It will give him something to do. Vegetables. Bread. Milk and cereal. Maybe some chicken. Allie used to love a chicken-and-rice casserole when she was little. Just because she’s developed a hatred for oatmeal doesn’t mean she doesn’t still like chicken.

While he’s at it, he’ll buy comfort foods to tempt her out of her shell. Potato chips. Chocolate. Ice cream. Peanut butter. Maybe he’ll make Rice Krispie treats.

Shopping will get him out of the house, away from the cello and his memories.

Maybe you could buy yourself a little something to take the edge off. You deserve it.

He tells himself he’s not listening to that temptation, but it takes up a cadence with his footsteps all the way to the store.





Chapter Twelve

ALLIE

Allie begins the day with good intentions. Monday again. A whole new week. Perfect time to make a new beginning. She’ll go to school, she’ll talk to Steph, she’ll buy a phone so she can stay connected. Maybe she’ll even say good morning to her father and eat some breakfast. After all, she did invite him into the house, and the snacks she’s been eating to keep her going while she punishes him by refusing meals are not really sustaining.

Her stomach growls in harmony with her thoughts, and she thinks of yesterday’s uneaten bacon and eggs with regret, her mouth watering in anticipation. But when she walks into the kitchen, instead of bacon and eggs and perfectly toasted sourdough, she’s assailed by the smell of oatmeal. A memory weakens her knees.

Mom standing at the counter, making sandwiches for school lunches. It’s supposed to be Daddy’s job. Mom sleeps days after working nights at the hospital. The last couple of weeks Allie has made the sandwiches, because Daddy’s hands hurt him. Sometimes he’s still asleep when Allie and Trey leave for school. On those mornings, there is an empty bottle on the table.