Page 7

Rhue

Laura keeps her promise, much to my dismay.

My sister is spending the weekend with me in Ithaca. It does beat going back to Rochester to see her, so this is the closest I’ll get to a silver lining after the nightmarish week I’ve had.

Three days in Cornell, and I’m already thinking about blowing the whole place up. Fire cleanses everything, and only fire can wipe away the memory of Madison’s presence and the print of her every touch, of her every step. And that Cameron dude, the nerve on the fucker…

It’s not his fault. It’s Madison. She sways that glorious ass around, she turns that sweet smile on, opens her mouth and gushes out her signature charm, and that’s it. Game over for any man who dares cross her path. I was one of her victims, too.

I turn to face my sister. Laura is halfway through with unpacking some kitchenware I ordered for this apartment—a two-bedroom on the ground floor of a historical building in the center of Ithaca.

There’s a great view from the living-room’s massive windows, overlooking the entire town with its tall aspens and nightly twinkling lights.

“I’m surprised you weren’t more persistent about me coming back for the weekend,” I tell Laura.

She finishes filling the bottom cabinet with a few pots and pans before turning her wheelchair to look at me.

That dry smile she puts on sometimes reminds me of Mom.

Most of Laura’s physical traits come from Dad’s side of the family, much like mine—crow black hair, olive skin, slender nose and full lips, tall cheeks and broad shoulders.

We’ve got some Aztec genes, or so Grandmama used to say, at least. But our dark blue eyes come from Mom, along with many of her facial expressions.

From an anthropological point of view, that is rooted in us spending more time with Mom.

Since Dad was always busy, we got most of our social cues from her—including mannerisms.

“I imagine Dad would want us to have dinner together.”

“We both know Dad is the last person you want to see right now,” Laura replies. “Besides, I was hoping this weekend would be more for the two of us. Three’s a crowd.”

“Wow, you really despise the old man,” I chuckle and unpack another courier box.

This one has the espresso machine. I find it a pleasure to install, with my attention split between the instruction manual and my sister, who is now stuffing wrapping papers and bubble wrap into an empty box before she can take another one on.

I’m proud of her. Laura has been remarkably self-sufficient since her fall.

The knock on my apartment door reminds me that Dad doesn’t trust her as much.

“Miss Laura, I’m back!” Steve calls out.

I’m still pondering whether to let him in or not.

He’s a glorified babysitter. He means well, and he’s paid well, but Laura can’t stand it when he’s around.

Steve is a constant reminder of her invalidity, much like the wheelchair.

She needs him when I’m not around, and I would like nothing more than to make my sister feel better.

Mom’s suicide took its toll on us; on Laura most of all.

Dad and his way of handling Laura’s new condition haven’t made it any easier, either. “Open the door, please,” Steve says.

Laura rolls her eyes. “Ugh.”

“He’s useful,” I chuckle.

“Not right now, he isn’t! Can’t we get rid of him? He’s just here to spy on us for Dad, anyway. You know that.”

In that sense, I can’t help but to agree with her. “Let me see if I can do something.”

I walk over to the door and go out into the hallway for a one-on-one with Steve. He’s the size of a dresser and appears to lack the delicacy required to physically handle someone as fragile as my paralyzed-from-the-waist-down sister. “Hey, dude.”

“Hey, yourself. Let me in.” He tries to bulldoze past me, but, though he might be wider, I am taller and equipped with enough anger chronically flowing through my veins that he doesn’t stand a chance.

Politely, I block him, and he gives me a nasty look.

“Laura would appreciate some time alone with her brother,” I say, trying to smile. “Surely, you understand.”

“I’m supposed to look after her.”

He seems displeased, not that I can blame him. I know what a difficult employer my father is. But it’s not his emotional comfort I’m worried about. Laura takes precedence over everything and everybody else.

I offer Steve a shrug. “I can look after her while she’s with me, Steve.

We both know that. Just text Dad, tell him she’s okay, and find yourself a motel or a hotel for the night.

I can recommend a couple just down the road from here.

” I take some cash out of my wallet and shove it in his jacket pocket.

“Get a bottle of wine, chill out. I’ll take it from here, and Laura will meet you later tomorrow when she’s ready to head back to Rochester. How does that sound?”

Steve thinks about it for a moment, then tries to give me the money back. “You know I’ve got Mr. Echeveria breathing down my back. That’s not gonna happen.”

“I insist.” My tone tells him of repercussions he knows are worse than anything my father would do to him.

“Steve, we both know you’re leaving my sister alone for the night.

She’s with me, and she’s safe. Should Mr. Echeveria give you a scowl about this, feel free to blame me.

There’s only so much he can do, anyway. Laura deserves a night off.

From you, from her life, from everybody. Don’t you agree?”

He sighs deeply. “She’s just a kid.”

“Right.”

“I do my best to stay out of her hair, believe me,” Steve says. “But Mr. Echeveria won’t let her out of his sight, you know that.”

I nod once. “Don’t worry. If he gives you a hard time, I’ll cover for you. I promise.”

“Okay.” He seems doubtful.

“I’ve got this, Steve.”

“Okay. I’ll see you both tomorrow. But if there’s anything, anything at all, you’ll call. Right?”

He gives me a hopeful look, and for the briefest of moments, I spot a glimpse of fear in his eyes.

He’s afraid of Dad. Not in a professional kind of way, either.

In a most genuine, most human kind of way.

Julian Echeveria scares the shit out of Steve, who looks big and buff enough to wrestle a fucking train.

I pat him on the shoulder and smile. “You betcha.”

Once he’s gone, I walk back into the apartment and lock the door behind me. To my surprise, Laura has already set up my coffee machine for me. Then again, it’s a Keurig, not exactly rocket science. She lights up like the sun when she sees Steve isn’t with me.

“You did it!”

I laugh. “Didn’t take much. Now, you threatened me with dinner, then breakfast and brunch tomorrow. How are we going to do any of that if I’m not even fully unpacked, huh?”

Again, she smiles, and I’m reminded of how joyful and loving of life and fun Laura has always been.

I’m reminded how wrong the whole suicide attempt felt.

What was the point? Laura never had even a hint of depression, let alone any suicidal or self-harming tendencies.

Eight months later, and I’m still baffled by how she chose to try to end her life.

Dad was there. He never talks about it, though.

I only know what he told the police when they got called to the mansion. I read his statement, but that was it.

I look at Laura now, and the pieces just don’t make sense when I put them together. But that’s the thing with depression, isn’t it? On the outside, everything might look okay – everything might even look like happiness. On the inside, though, on the inside, there’s only devastation.

Laura is still the most vibrant and most colorful creature in the kingdom of Earth.

She is sweet and kind and selfless. She was all of those things while she was hurting, too.

And so, as angry as I am at my father, and as much as I might not think that strapping a barrel-sized babysitter to Laura is the best decision, I know that he’s just being protective.

“How’s the regression therapy going?” I ask once we’re settled at the dinner table.

I had tacos and Chinese food delivered. Everything is sprawled out in delivery boxes, complete with a bottle of white and a six-pack of fizzy lemonades for Laura.

I’m not her favorite brother because I won’t let her drink alcohol but considering the medication she has to take until another psychiatric evaluation in three months, I’m the only brother she’s got, anyway.

“It isn’t going anywhere,” my sister replies while digging through a Kung Pao box with her chopsticks. Her brow furrows. “And not for lack of trying. Doc says I’m so deeply traumatized by my own spur-of-the-moment decision to end my life that my brain just blocked the entire moment out.”

“We could try another specialist.” I’m not particularly hungry, either, but we both need to eat.

I could certainly use something significantly stiffer than the wine.

Unfortunately, we can’t have everything we want.

Seeing Madison with my father a year ago sort of taught me that, albeit the hard way. “I could make a few phone calls.”

“What’s the point?” Laura replies. “Like, really, what’s the point?”

“The point is to understand exactly what happened that day.”

I don’t like where this conversation is going.

The pursuit of truth should take precedence.

It is the one thing my mother always valued.

She taught Laura and me to cherish the concept.

Truth. Honesty. Doing the right thing. Then again, I have not been the Boy Scout she would have liked me to be, either.

And look at Laura. Bound to a wheelchair after trying to kill herself. Fucking hell, what a mess of a family.

My sister shakes her head. “I don’t know what else you want to know about that day, anyway. Dad was there. He saw the whole thing. And I remember my own state of mind at the time. All that pain…”