We Are the Ants(88)

As the aliens prepared to switch my hands, feet, and genitals, I heard a banging from the shadows. The sluggers turned as a unit to look toward the source of the noise, but Jesse hadn’t noticed and was still talking about memory, this time in rhyming couplets. He might have also been speaking Italian. Apparently, I am also an Italian poet in my dreams.

The banging grew louder and I tried to sit up, but, lacking limbs, I fell off the table instead. My last thought before I hit the ground and woke up was, Not the nose.

The pounding sound traveled with me out of my dream, but I was groggy and confused, so it took me a moment to realize someone was knocking on my window.

It was 1:37 a.m. Who the f*ck was knocking on my bedroom window at 1:37? I lifted the window a crack. “What?”

“Bro. I lost my keys. Let me in.” Charlie slurred his words, barely able to form a coherent sentence. Luckily, I’d been speaking Charlie Denton my entire life.

“Do you know what time it is?”

Charlie was too busy puking to answer. I threw on some clothes and snuck through the house to avoid waking Mom. Charlie wasn’t waiting by the door, and I was shocked by a blast of arctic air when I walked outside in nothing but shorts and a tank top.

“Shit.” Charlie’s car was parked on the front lawn. The headlights illuminated the front of the house, and the hazards were blinking. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” The keys were in the ignition, so I quickly backed the Jeep into the street and parked behind Mom. I couldn’t do anything about the tire tracks marring the grass. Mom was going to strangle Charlie when she saw them.

Charlie stumbled toward me. The front of his work shirt was crusty with vomit, and he was sweating profusely, even in the cold. “Jesus, Charlie, we have to get you inside.”

“When did I eat broccoli?” He lurched and opened his mouth; I thought he was going to throw up again, but he fired off a wet burp that made my skin crawl. “Better.”

“Where’s Zooey?”

“Parents’ house.”

It’s been nearly two weeks since Zooey’s loss, and I -haven’t seen much of her or Charlie. Their obstetrician suspects the baby suffered from chromosomal damage. Mom told me those types of pregnancies frequently miscarry early on, but not always. Only, Mom didn’t use the word miscarry. She referred to it as nature’s fail-safe, as if that could draw the poison from the sting. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that with Zooey so far along, the correct term was actually stillbirth. Anyway, it doesn’t matter what word we use; their baby is dead.

“You reek,” I said. “Let’s get you washed up.”

Charlie didn’t put up a fight when I led him inside and got him out of his work clothes, which probably needed to be burned. He stood compliantly under the shower, letting the water run over his head. I turned it up as hot as he could bear to warm his bones so he didn’t get sick. I had no idea how long he’d been outside my window, but his skin was icy. When we ran out of hot water, Charlie dressed and followed me to his room. His eyes were bloodshot, and he was sweating cheap booze.

“Don’t go anywhere.” I left Charlie sitting on his bed while I ran to the kitchen for water and aspirin to mitigate his inevitable hangover.

I heard the first crash as I was filling the glass, and ran back to Charlie’s room. He’d knocked over the crib, spilling out the mound of stuffed animals within, and I couldn’t get to him before he punched a hole in Diego’s mural.

“Charlie, what the f*ck are you doing?” I tried to tackle him before he hurt himself, but he lunged at me. His fist glanced off my shoulder. I wrestled for his arms, but Charlie was bigger and stronger than I was, and the alcohol flooding his body amplified his rage. He punched me in the stomach, knocking the breath from me, and followed it with a knee to my groin that dropped me to the floor. Before I knew it, Charlie was straddling me, punching my ribs and my arms. All I could do was protect my face and plead for him to stop.

The blows slacked off, and Charlie staggered to the rocking chair. He collapsed into it, sobbing.

“Evie Nicole Denton.” Charlie repeated the name over and over.

My entire body hurt. Every breath felt like I had rusty fishhooks for lungs, but I crawled toward my brother.

“When was the last time you slept, Charlie?”

He looked at me like it was the first time he’d really seen me all night. “She had a name! We gave her a f*cking name!”

“It’s a beautiful name.”

“She was tiny, Henry. Littler than my hand.” Charlie’s body shook. He pulled his knees to his chest and buried his face in them.

When Jesse died, people said a lot of things to try to make me feel better:

He’s in a better place.

At least he’s not in pain anymore.

God has a plan.

Bullshit platitudes that made me want to rip their faces off. Even Mom tried to tell me that everything happened for a reason. The only person who didn’t was Charlie. After the funeral, he told me that Jesse Franklin was an *, and I was better off with him dead. I decked Charlie on our front lawn. Split his goddamn lip. My second punch left him with a black eye that lingered for two weeks. It was the only fight with my brother I ever won.

“You need to hit me some more?” I asked. “I think I’ve still got some unbruised ribs on my left side.”