You'd Be Home Now (13)

Looking at my box of things makes me happy. I did this. I have secrets.

I’m running a finger over my things when I hear the car. My mother’s car, pulling into the garage, the door rising up, and then down.

Joey is home.





10


THE FIRST THING I notice is his hair.

It’s gone. Before he left for Blue Spruce, it hung down to his shoulders, full and dark, unusually beautiful for a boy.

Now, in our bright white and stainless-steel kitchen, my brother Joey’s hair is barely two inches long. I don’t think I’ve ever noticed how big his ears are and suddenly I wonder if that’s why he grew his hair long, once he knew he could: to cover them.

Fuzzy yips and swirls around Joey’s legs. He nudges her playfully. “Dumb dog,” he says, but he’s smiling.

The second thing I notice is more subtle. A difference to the way Joey inhabits his space.

He used to hunch, his chin almost to his chest, hands deep in his pockets, like he was afraid for anyone to look at him too closely, and maybe he was. He had a lot to hide, after all.

But he’s standing straight now, his jacket unzipped, his hands on his hips and no longer balled inside the pockets of a dirty hoodie, and he’s looking right at me, his brown eyes alert and clear.

His eyes were always so murky last year.

My mother makes an impatient clucking sound.

“Don’t stand there gaping, Emory. He’s home.” She hangs her purse on one of the nickel-plated hooks.

“Hey,” I say.

    Then I rush at him and wrap my arms around him. For a brief moment, I’m afraid he’ll push me away. He doesn’t. He folds his arms around me tightly and I sigh with relief. “I’m so glad you’re back.”

“Me too,” he whispers. “How’s your…how’s your leg?”

“It’s okay.” I let go of him. “It’s fine.”

“Everything is always fine with you, Em.”

Is there a note of sadness in his voice? I can’t tell.

I smile. “The hair?”

“I know, right?” His eyes shine with the absurdity of it.

Madison and Joey are both dark-eyed and dark-haired, but I’m light as a feather. Light blue eyes, light brown hair. Ma?y kwiatek, our nana would coo at me when I was tiny. Little flower, in Polish.

My mother says, “It’s a condition of Blue Spruce. They shave your head. You could hide drugs in your hair.”

Joey says, “There were a lot of rules in that place.”

“Rules exist for a reason, Joe,” my mother says. “You did well and I’m proud of you. We’re going to beat this.”

She’s gazing at her phone. “Can you bring our things in, Emory? I’m going to call out for dinner. Golden Dragon okay with everyone? Has your father texted what time he’ll be home?”

“Not yet,” I say.

Under his breath, Joey says, “Of course he’s not home.” His eyes flicker. Is that disappointment? I wish my dad had stayed home, just for once.

Mom’s voice is sharp. “He has to work, Joe. Blue Spruce wasn’t entirely covered by our insurance.”

Joey and I are silent, pretending my father is dedicated to his job, and not to hiding.

    In the garage, Joey takes his duffel bag from the trunk.

“Mom left for two days. She took three suitcases for two days?”

He smiles. “She went shopping before she checked me out of Blue Spruce. And bought new suitcases to bring it home in. You know Mom.”

It’s out before I can stop it. “Are you mad? At me? If I hadn’t let Luther drive—”

“Emmy.” He drops the duffel bag at his feet. “I’m not mad. I promise. I don’t even really remember what happened. It is what it is. In the end, I screwed up.”

It is what it is.

A girl died and my brother overdosed but lived.

I change the subject. “Who puts drugs in their hair, like, is that even possible?”

Joey sighs. “You’d be surprised where a person can hide drugs. Can we just not talk about it right now? I’m tired. I think I hiked a billion stupid miles. They even taught us how to make fires and cook meals in the forest and, like, shovel a hole for your poop.”

“Oh my god. Like, you had to squat in nature?”

“I know. Shit got real. Like, literally.”

We laugh, but it doesn’t feel good to me; it feels hollow. Not like it used to be.

“I want things to be okay,” I say softly. “Are we going to be okay?”

“I don’t know.” Joey heaves his duffel bag over his shoulder. “But maybe we can get somewhere close to it.”



* * *



—

    Upstairs, Joey looks around Maddie’s room. “So, I’m going to be living in Woodstock, basically. That’s my punishment?”

I look at the hanging hammock chair, the stars and half-moons and weird things Maddie stenciled over the deep, dark blue she painted during her sophomore year at Heywood High. The seashell chimes. The fairy lights strung along the walls.

Right on cue, my phone buzzes. It’s Maddie, video calling. Her hair is pulled back in a tight bun and she has gold-and-purple glitter on her eyelids. “Put him on,” she tells me.