Part I; Chapter 2
Autumn 2024
Time moves strangely when things don’t matter any longer. You go through the motions, do the same things you’ve always done, the way you’ve always done them, but it’s like you’re moving through molasses. You pay no mind to the time of day, whether you’ve eaten or had anything to drink, but you still show up when you’re supposed to be places. School at 7:25am, soccer practice at 3:30pm Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, work at 6pm. Somehow, you make it to friends’ houses and parties, family functions, and all the otherwise joyous occasions that mark life. And while you stand there, watching these events unfold in fast forward, the clock somehow doesn’t seem to move at all.
But even that is effort, and effort is not something you feel like putting in right away.
So, for the five months since my mother had passed, I was just going through the motions of daily life. In the beginning, most of the teachers and students at my private school still tried to include me. I was invited to parties, the guys on the team would ask me to come to practice every Monday, and my teachers would call on me in class, hopeful smiles on their faces. Every time, I declined the offers and watched as the faces of my classmates and teachers fell from forced smiles to awkward frowns and quickly averted eyes.
Even after my classmates and teachers ceased to put forth effort, my relatives continued to parade in and out of our house. My aunts arrived, arms loaded down with groceries for home-cooked meals and healthy snacks, and cleaning supplies to make sure the house stayed livable. My uncles came by to cut the grass, fix things that were broken, and keep Dad company. Even my cousins came over after school and on weekends—on behest of their parents, I was sure—to make sure Abe, Junia, and myself were occupied and being social.
Every day, it seemed, one set of my extended family was at our door; some days, Dad would begrudgingly join us for dinner, or even step out onto the patio to have a beer and a cigar with his brothers. Other days, he stayed locked in his room, windows drawn and barking in protest should anyone dare to bother him. Sometimes, Grandpa would come over and they would just sit in the dark together. I supposed it made sense; the two having both lost their wives, the loves of their lives, had only each other to know what that felt like.
Slowly, the appearance of the rest of the family tapered off. Their visits came fewer and farther between as their lives became more important than our grief again.
Without the motivation of my aunts and uncles, Dad’s trips out of his room became fewer and farther between as well, and when he would emerge—unwashed and disheveled—he paid little attention to my siblings or myself. One day I realized I hadn’t seen Dad out of his room in awhile; though I knew I had heard him moving around earlier, I dashed up the stairs to check on him. When I opened the door, I found him huddled under the covers, sniffling.
“Dad?” I cautiously stepped into the dimly lit room, making my way around the bed. “Are you awake?”
From somewhere under the blankets, I heard him grumble. When I tried to pull the covers from him, he tugged them back, angrily. “Get out!” his harsh tone caused me to physically recoil as if he had slapped me with his palm instead of words, and being scared and unsure, I left him alone. I spent the rest of the day thinking about what Kenny Roth told me at school the other day—his cousin’s dad died and his mom went into some kind of depression; she would ignore the kids and just chain smoke and gamble online all day. Kenny said his cousin had to take care of her little sister so that Social Services didn’t take them away and put them in separate foster homes.
Later that evening, I tip toed back up to his room a bowl of macaroni and cheese with tuna I had made for dinner. Gently, I knocked on the door. I received no response, so I opened the door and quietly entered. I set the dish on his nightstand and paused, contemplating saying anything. Finally, I decided I would at least announce the food—I would let him decide whether or not to eat it. “There’s mac and cheese with tuna,” I told him. I brought you a Dr. Pepper, too. Just set the dishes outside your door when you’re done.”
When I received no response from him, I said goodnight and left the room, making my way back down the stairs. Junia and Abe were still sitting at the table finishing their food; Abe was telling Junia about something that had happened at school today, and while he looked very animated about it, I could see the boredom on Junia’s face. After a few minutes, she stood up and walked away from the table, right in the middle of Abe’s story. His face fell, his arms—which had been above his head to illustrate the size of his classmate—falling with it.
“Hey,” I caught her arm as she passed me, turning her so she had to look at me. “Abe was telling you something,” I scolded.
Junia rolled her eyes, tugging her arm away from me. “He’s been telling me something for ten minutes. He hasn’t gotten to the point and his story is boring. If I have to listen to him anymore, I might stab my eardrum with a fork,” she rolled her eyes and pushed passed me toward the sink.
“You can’t fit a fork in your ear!” Abe called from the table, his voice laced with indignation.
From the other side of the room, Junia clanked her empty bowl into the sink, then heaved a dramatic “Whatever, Abe!” toward our brother. Though I wasn’t looking at her, I could practically hear the eye roll that accompanied her words.
I finished filling my plate with the remaining mac and cheese, then sat down at the table with Abe. He was stabbing dejectedly at his pasta farfalle with his fork, his cheek resting heavily against his fist. “Junia’s mean,” he finally stated, a slight whine to his voice.
“She’s not mean,” I countered. “She’s just…living in a Junia-centric bubble,” I took a bite of my food, my lips turning into a slight frown as I did so. It was a little hard and dry, the powdered cheese-encased noodles nothing like the creamy homemade tuna noodle casserole my mother used to make.
“What is a Junia-centric bubble?” Abe’s eyebrows came together in confusion, his sad eyes finding mine.
“It’s means that Junia is only thinking about Junia right now.”
“You mean she’s being selfish?” Abe offered.
Sometimes, I forgot how smart that kid could be. “Yes, Abe. That’s what I mean.” I let out a soft chuckle as he nodded knowingly as he went back to eating. As I followed suit, I kept my eyes on my brother. He seemed to slowly forget the exchange with Junia, his facial expression turning from upset to content over the course of a few minutes, and before long he was asking me if he could still go to Billy Shore’s birthday party on Saturday.
After dinner, I told my siblings to make sure their homework was done, showers were taken, and then they could do what they wanted until bed; it felt strange to be parenting them when I, at sixteen, still felt like I needed a parent. With Dad so obviously absent, and with Kenny Roth’s words in my ears, I decided I had to do whatever I could to keep us together. If that meant I had to step up and take care of the house and my siblings until Dad got better, that’s what I would do.
With my resolve, I went to the kitchen and made sure the dishes were done.