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I toss and turn in my bed, unable to stop thinking about my conversation with James this afternoon. Sitting up, I click on the lamp in an attempt to shake all the questions that are keeping me from sleep. There’s a particular one that flashes in front of my eyes more than any other.
Who infected me?
Pressing tight fists against my eyes, I mull the question over in spite of my effort not to. My first recollection of the shadows is from my birthday party, so it’s logical to think that I was infected before I turned five and started kindergarten.
Could Mrs. Contreras be responsible? Dad used to drop me off at her house every day. She babysat several kids in her house, and I was one of them for over a year. She threatened to wash my mouth with soap if I talked back. She gave me nightmares in which my mouth filled with thick suds, while she watched, laughing, her eyes glowing like embers.
Could she have infected me? The threat to wash my mouth and the nightmares seem silly now, but she’s the only person that comes to mind. I press my temples and shake my head. It’s ridiculous. Mrs. Contreras was just an overwhelmed woman, trying to scare us into behaving properly in an attempt to keep her sanity.
I throw myself on the bed and pull the covers over my head. I need to sleep or I’m going to lose my mind. When sleep finally takes me, I dream of my mouth foaming with soap.
***
“SOMEONE SENT YOU A hate text?”
I look up from my phone to find Luke. “Hey,” I say, slipping my phone into my front pocket. I’ve been frowning at it all day, waiting for an email from James. After a full battery of tests with Kristen yesterday, I haven’t heard back from them. It made school a complete drag today.
The late afternoon sun shines behind Luke. I squint, watch him radiate like a fallen angel. He’s so handsome it hurts to look at him. At the thought, my stomach shrivels to the size of a prune. I recognize the queasy feeling. It’s the same one I used to get before I knew he was my brother and thoughts like this entered my mind. It seems, deep down inside, I always understood we shared the same blood.
“Missed you during breakfast Sunday,” Luke says, sitting next to me on the last wooden step of my front porch. Or should I say our front porch? I’ve no idea what Mom and he decided to do, but it isn’t hard to guess.
“I had somewhere to go.”
“I think you’re just ... avoiding us,” Luke says bluntly, looking me straight in the eye. This new Luke is really throwing me off. I think I’m starting to like the snide, smart-aleck version better.
Okay, let me try irony with a dash of sarcasm. “Of course not. I love nothing more than to start my day with a heartwarming family breakfast.”
He frowns. “I don’t understand you, Marci. At the funeral home and that day we talked by the park, you seemed so different. I thought you wanted to give this ... family thing a try, but I guess I was wrong.”
I did, but then I found out there’s a sentient parasite stuffed in my brain. Thank you very much. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch his chin drop to his chest.
“I’m not trying to become a wedge between you and your mother. I just wish I could understand you better,” he says. “Look, I have nothing against you, Luke ...”
“But?”
“It won’t work. I have nothing to offer. I’m not ... sister material.”
“Oh, great!” he exclaims, throwing his hands up in the air.
Surprised, I stare at him from under a frown.
“The ‘it’s not you it’s me’ speech.” He huffs and slaps his hands back down on jean-clad thighs.
I bite my tongue. Nothing I can say will fix things. This is the best I can do and—whether he believes me or not—it’s the truth.
“So you really don’t care what we do? Whatever we decide is fine with you?”
“Yeah,” I say with a shrug.
“In that case,” he says with finality as he stands and dusts his butt, “you won’t mind the fact that we’re moving.” With that, Luke walks off.
***
“MOVING?!” I SCREAM.
To say I’m angry is to call a python an earthworm. My fists are clenched, my face is a smoldering ember, my heart a lump of betrayal.
Mom looks up from her fashion magazine, her expression as impassive as a surgeon’s at the sight of a paper cut.
“Finally,” she says, “an acceptable display of emotion.”
I ignore the comment. I’m not a fish and do not take bait.
“I’m not moving!” I yell and cross my arms over my chest. I’ve never been even mildly stubborn. On this I will be dogged.
I. Am. Not. Moving.
I will not leave the place in which I saw Dad for the last time. I will not leave the home he gave me, even if now I only live off the memories of what a real home should be.
“Why am I not surprised?” she asks, setting her magazine on the coffee table.
Again, I’m not taking that bait.
“I can’t believe you would consider leaving Dad’s house.” She isn’t disturbed by this comment in the least. Her eyes are too full of Luke to dampen with sentimentalism. “I’m not moving.” I repeat, this time without screaming, which strangely carries the ring of my determination way better than the high-decibel version.
“We will buy a bigger house that accommodates all of us. End of story. If you had bothered to join us, we could have listened to your suggestions.” Something in the set of Mom’s mouth insinuates it might be too late to hear my ideas now. Fine. I don’t care.
“I have none,” I say. “All I came in to say is that I’m not going anywhere.” I spin on my heels and head out.
“Oh no, you don’t,” Mom says, stomping in my direction. Some of the old furniture rattles with her every step. “You don’t get to ruin this for me.” She stops in front of me, the true spark of indignation flickering in the golden specks of her eyes.
We stare at each other. The words she’s not saying form an insurmountable wall between us. I’ve always known the barrier was there, I just never knew it was a hundred feet tall and just as thick. I’m ready to add a hundred more.
“Say it, Mom. Get it all out. Tell me how I was never the daughter you wanted. How my clothes were never pink enough. How a trip to the nail parlor should be my idea of fun. How my epileptic attacks ruined your life.”
She flinches imperceptibly. So subtly that I’m not sure she actually did. I guess the truth leaves no room for surprises. She looks no more taken aback than if I told her one plus one is two.
“Get it in your head,” I continue. “I’m staying right here. The house is mine.”
Her eyes turn the size of jeep tires.
I take in her surprise and feel even more betrayed. I harden my expression, resolved not to show how much this hurts. She was working on the assumption I didn’t know the house was mine. She was willing to omit that piece of information to get her way.
“What?” I ask. “You think I didn’t know that?”
Dad told me a long time ago that he’d named me the house’s sole owner in his testament. Maybe he was worried Mom might remarry if he died. Maybe he was even worried about what would happen to me if he wasn’t here to protect me. Or perhaps he simply wanted to keep a tradition. The house has been in the Guerrero family for two generations, since my grandfather moved to the States from Chile. I’m not about to sell a piece of what little heritage I’ve got left.
“I could fight you in court,” she says, her voice wavering with doubt.
My brain is spinning, as if her cruel words have actually slapped me on the side of the head. My eyes sting. I make sure not to blink. I won’t give her the satisfaction of my tears.
My eyes are dry. A barren desert.
“Even if it’s possible, I wouldn’t risk it if I were you. Luke ...” I waver, trying to decide whether I should stoop as low as she has, whether I should tell her he cares more about my opinion than hers. It takes a lot to hold back, and when I do, I do it for Luke’s sake, not hers. “Luke might not like this side of you. The side that would take her own daughter to court. Not a very pleasant one.”
Mom deflates as if I’ve pricked her with a needle. The same slack disappointment I’m used to seeing returns to her face. Once more I’m the bane of her existence. Her disillusionment. Her biggest letdown. Great! She’s gone from a mega coaster of emotions to her run-of-the-mill, flat highway. Again.