IT’S BEEN TEN DAYS. Callie stands in Jackie’s living room, clutching the handles of her oversize plastic hospital bag like she’s holding on to a roller coaster safety bar. They let her leave so she could attend the funeral, which we’ve had to reschedule three times while we waited for the police to “release the body.” A phrase that makes my stomach twist.
She was talking at the hospital but still doesn’t remember anything about what happened. The doctor said that’s not unusual. She hasn’t spoken a word to us, though. She’s given us no indication that she intends to go to the funeral, and in fact, she hasn’t moved from this spot for about ten minutes.
“Nice house, huh?” I ask stupidly, trying to find any words that will mask how weird this feels, how much of a stranger she suddenly seems to me.
She doesn’t answer. Instead she walks over to Jackie’s fireplace and picks up one of the picture frames that sit on the mantel. It’s silver and has elaborate molded edges. It looks expensive. More expensive than any five-by-seven picture frame has a right to be. She holds it close to her, then at arm’s length, as if it’s multidimensional and will somehow change its appearance if she holds it at different angles. Silently she sets it back down on the mantel where she found it, except she places it facedown. Then she walks away, drifting down the hall and into the guest bedroom that we’ll be sharing, even though we haven’t shared a room in years.
I look over my shoulder to see if Jackie was watching us from the kitchen. She wasn’t. She’s sitting at the dining room table with Aaron, who’s already wearing his black suit and black tie, and they’re talking in hushed tones, being too obvious about trying to conceal the topic of conversation. Which is Mom. Or Dad. Or Mom and Dad. Or me and Callie—what they’re going to do with us. I pick up the frame and unfold the arm that’s attached to its back with a thin satin ribbon. As I set it back in its place, I look at the picture itself, standing there, perched among the other photos that line the narrow shelf. It’s a family. A family that could be any family—a mother, a father, and three kids, their heights measured in perfect increments, smallest to tallest.
The smallest could be a boy or a girl. It’s that toddler age where it’s hard to tell. There’s a messy mass of wild hair sticking out in all directions, a smile that looks like a film still of a belly laugh, the face slightly blurred from the motion. And the boy, the tallest—while still small—has a shyness about him, a quietness, a stillness with his hands clasped together, his arms somehow twisted in front of him at impossible angles as he glances backward at the mother and father, who stand behind all three kids and exchange a knowing look. A familiar, easy smile, a gaze of love and admiration. The one in the middle, she holds her arms out at her sides, as if saying, Ta-da! and her smile is real and her eyes are closed. Not a single one of them looks at the camera.
It could be any happy family.
Except it’s not. It’s us. And the one in middle, that’s me. Eyes closed. And maybe my eyes are still closed, because I’ve been in this house for ten days and I swear I’ve even looked at these pictures, but I never really saw this one until now.
My fingers leave tiny smudges on the glass. I can hold it in my hands, see it with my own eyes, yet I can’t quite believe there was ever a time when this family existed. But the digitally printed date in the lower right-hand corner is evidence, that on New Year’s Eve, ten years ago, they were here—the people in this picture, this family—they existed. I quickly do the math: I had just turned seven, Aaron was nine, Callie was two, and our parents hadn’t destroyed everything good in each other yet. I don’t know these people. They are all strangers.
Maybe we were all only playing parts; we just didn’t know it at the time.
“Great picture, isn’t it?” Jackie says, standing right next to me all of a sudden. “One of my favorites.” She sighs, gently touching the surface of the glass with her index finger. “Well, we probably need to start getting ready, don’t you think?” She has this way of framing statements as questions, and I can’t tell if it’s annoying or endearing. Or annoyingly endearing.
“Yeah,” I agree, unable to decide. “Jackie, do you think we can see her this week?”
“Let’s just get through today, all right?”
Soundlessly, Callie reenters the room and stands in front of us. Sans plastic bag, she holds on to herself instead, arms folded tightly one over the other. Then she goes and sinks down into the couch cushions, pulling a pillow onto her lap, and stares out the window.
“Callie, you should probably start getting ready too,” I say to her, but she only glares in response.
Aaron sits next to her and says something to her, softly. I can’t tell what.
She lowers her chin, almost a nod—a half nod.
“I’m going to get in the shower,” I announce, though no one seems to hear me.
When we’re trying to leave, Callie refuses to move. When I try to convince her to stand up and come with us, Jackie pulls me aside and says, “Maybe it’s for the best she doesn’t come,” as if she somehow knows my sister better than I do. “Ray can stay home with her. It’ll be fine.”