Page 66 of Out of My Mind

He stared at his phone on the glass coffee table. His parents would do the right thing. He knew that he could call them, but he was scared of being right. At least now, he lived with a sliver of hope that they were trying to get a hold of him.

He didn’t know how much time had passed, but the sun was still out, and the house was still empty. It was that time of December when the sun looked to be perpetually setting, tinting everything with a constant magic hour glow. Mac checked online, and friends had sent and posted their condolences.At least the Internet cares.He searched the comments on his profile for one in particular, for an avatar with wild blond hair and dazzling green eyes.

Nada.

Mac sat upright on the couch. He couldn’t recline, couldn’t relax. He had to get out. He had to get fresh air.

In the garage, he found an old bike belonging to one of Helen’s sons. It creaked when Mac got on and creaked even louder when he pedaled, but there was air in the tires and he was moving. He biked through Helen’s neighborhood, past the cookie cutter homes with their identical snowed-over lawns.

Aunt Rita didn’t live far from Helen. On warm days, they would walk over to her house for a barbeque. These familiar streets were more of a home to Mac than any part of Kingwood, West Virginia.

He turned right onto Ryder Avenue. A fresh lump appeared in his throat. Their house was just around the curve in the road, past their neighbor with the duck-shaped mailbox.

On this familiar street, there was a familiar car in Aunt Rita’s driveway. A red pick-up truck. Mac had a new lump in his throat, this one far more powerful and indestructible.

He opened the front door and heard voices inside. He followed the noise into the living room, where his parents were surrounded by open boxes.

“What’s going on here?” Mac’s body was already in fight mode.

“Mac,” his mom said. He looked at his father.

“Hello, son.”

“How’d you get in?” His mom asked.

“I have a key.” Mac dangled it for proof. “Since this is my home.”

Crumpled newspaper lay on the floor. The box in front of his mom was labeled DONATIONS.

“What are you doing? The body is still warm and you’re cleaning out her house?”

“We’re only here for a few days. We want to make the best use of our time,” his dad said.

“Why don’t you spend that precious time mourning your sister?”

“I am,” he said firmly. “We are doing what we can, but we also have to get back to the store.”

“Priorities,” Mac huffed.

“We closed the store for a non-holiday for the first time in twenty years to come up here. You remember what it’s like,” his dad said heavily. “There’s only so much we can do up here.”

“We’re not throwing anything out yet,” his mom said. “Just making preliminary piles of what would most likely be donated.”

“You couldn’t even wait a few hours. Were you even going to ask me if I wanted anything? Since I live here and all.” Mac raced upstairs, realizing he was in the house where the only person who ever loved him died.

He burst into his bedroom. It was still intact. But he had an icky feeling as he tiptoed to Aunt Rita’s room. He pushed the door open slowly. Her bed was stripped and the closet looked ransacked. He yanked open her underwear drawer. Completely empty.

Mac launched down the stairs like a rocket of pure fury. His parents continued packing up. “Where is it?”

They looked up, blank stares.

“Where’s the keychain? The four-leaf clover keychain? It was in her underwear drawer.”

His dad scratched his face. His apathy was a punch in the gut. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“She kept it there.”

His mom shrugged, as if Mac was just talking about a stupid keychain. “That tacky souvenir? I think I threw it out.”