You'd Be Home Now (15)

I close my eyes, listening to them all argue, back and forth, back and forth.

It’s like last year all over again and Joey’s only been home a day.

Last year: Mom rattling the attic door after he’d lock himself away. Grounding him. Taking his phone. Long lectures about his attitude. Joey kicking a wall. My father slamming his fist on the kitchen island, glasses slipping down his nose, still in his stained scrubs. Joey one long litany of Okay okay okay okay okay get off my back okay okay okay just leave me alone.

I thought that would be over now. I hoped it would be over now.

My mother shouts, “A girl died!”

    My heart squeezes, a terrible fist punching me from the inside.

At the exact moment that I scream Stop it, the door falls off the hinges, pinning my dad to the doorframe. My mother pulls the door away with a groan. Leans it against the wall in the hallway, stumbling a little under the weight of it.

“Now you’ve upset your sister,” she tells Joey.

“Just stop,” I say.

Dad adjusts his glasses. “Take the door downstairs, Joe, and put it in the basement. I have to take off the bathroom door, too. These are the conditions of living here. Do you want to be here?”

“Dad,” I say. “He needs a bathroom door. It’s only been a day. Give him a chance.”

“Emory,” my mother warns. “Don’t.”

“Mom, this is ridic—”

“I want to be here,” Joey cuts in. “Whatever you say. It’s fine.”

Finefinefinefinefine.

I start to say more, but Joey cuts me a look, his jaw tight.

“Good,” my father says. “Then follow the rules, Joe. Because I spend more than half my job dealing with overdoses and I don’t want to go to work and see my own son wheeled in on a gurney again.”

He picks up the drill and starts on Maddie’s bathroom door.

“Do as your father says, Joey,” my mother says quietly. “And I’ll make breakfast and we’ll talk about the rules.”

She looks at me. “Emory, go shower. I bought you a special shampoo and treatment. All that time in the pool has really done a number on your hair.”

    In the shower, I think about what my mother left out.

Candy MontClair died, yes.

But Joey almost did, too, and my mother never seems bothered by that.



* * *



—

We learn the Rules for Joey at the dining table, uneaten plates of fruit and eggs surrounding us.

—You will abide by the rules or you will no longer be able to live in this house.

—All doors removed until further notice.

—A phone will be reissued with limited data and will be handed back each night. Texts will be checked.

—A tracker will be installed on the phone.

—Outside time is limited to school hours and outpatient therapy until a part-time job has been secured.

—Paychecks from the job will be handed over and kept in a fund for future college.

—A car will be purchased for school transportation and job. Mileage will be checked. You may not use the car without permission.

—Outpatient recovery appointments must be kept. You will text a parent when you arrive and when you leave.

—You may have friends over if they are sober and all visits take place on the first floor of the home, when a parent or your sister is present.

—You may not drink, do drugs, or smoke cigarettes, and this includes vaping.

—You will submit to unannounced drug and alcohol tests.

—You will eat dinner with your family each night.

—You will meet with your outpatient counselor once a week.

—You will maintain at least a B-minus in each class.

—You will have no contact with Luther Leonard.



My brother swallows hard after reading the list.

My mother blinks at him from across the dining room table. Her hands are folded tightly.

“Okay,” he says finally. “Okay.”

It seems like a lot. I mean, how is he supposed to feel better, get better, or whatever, if he’s basically a prisoner in his own house?

But I stay quiet, because I already pushed it with Mom upstairs. You have to tread carefully with our mother.

Okay okay okay okay, just like last year, but now his voice is soft, and not scratched and hard, like it would have been last year.

When he came home yesterday, his head was high. A different Joey. Now he’s slumping, his head low, his eyes down.

He signs the paper.

My mother rises from the table and walks into the kitchen, placing the contract under a magnet on the refrigerator.

Joey eats two strawberries and three bites of toast and goes upstairs to Maddie’s room. I follow him, limping behind him on the stairs.

He flops down on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

“She’s just trying to help,” I say. “She’ll relax things. Eventually.”

“You don’t have to explain Mom to me. I get it.”

He folds his hands on his chest.

    “Hey, you know what Maddie found? In the attic? Your drawings.” I point to the milk crate by her dresser. “I almost forgot how good they are. Maybe you can start drawing again.”