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Freeze-Dried Fruit
by Corissa Gay I hated coming home. Especially on Friday nights, when the house was dark, the heat was turned on way too high, and everything felt suffocating. I dumped my coat and bag on the island stool and started counting down the minutes until I could drive back to school as, like clockwork, my stocking-clad feet carried me up the stairs. I had vowed there wouldn’t be a repeat of last year, and I was going to see that through, goddammit. I could see the light from Remy’s bedroom lapping at the hall carpet. Plastering on my smile, I knocked. The latch had broken years ago, so as soon as my knuckle connected with the wood, the door fell open. I still waited for Remy’s meek, “come in.” "Hey.” I greeted, leaning against the door jamb. “How was your day?” “Boring. I hate school.” She replied, not even turning away from her desk to look at me. “Right.” I sighed, venturing further into the room. I sat on the edge of her bed, and watched her face as she stared at the screen of her laptop. “Where’s Mom?” “She went to see Nana.” I nodded and picked at the hem of my shirt where the material had started to fray. I hated when she backed me into conversational dead ends. “You don’t have to come home every weekend.” Remy finally turned to look at me. I tried to soften my strained smile into an expression that seemed welcoming and warm. “I know I don’t have to.” She turned away again, the suggestion of a scowl on her face. “Allow me to rephrase: I don’t want you to come home every weekend. Stay at school, make out with your stupid boyfriend. See if I care.” Even though Remy had always resented my openness—and I expected her to shut me down time and time again—it never hurt any less. She had this magical ability to make me feel guilty for reaching out to her: a sister-exclusive superpower. I started to bite at my cuticles. “Just because you don’t care, doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t.” I countered, nibbling away. But I had already lost her. “Whatever.” I sat in silence for several, awkward moments. Despite knowing it would be counterproductive, in my sudden anger I hurled the worst possible question at her. “Did you eat today?” “God, Cath.” Remy clutched her hair by the roots, her elbows meeting her desk with a painful sounding thunk. “Get the fuck out of my room.” “Not until you answer my question.” I defiantly crossed my arms over my chest and sat up straighter. “Yeah, I ate today.” She rolled her eyes, trying to play it off. Remy always tugged at the hair ties she kept on her wrist when she was lying. “You’re lying.” I accused, pointedly glancing at her nervous fidgeting. “Whatever. Mom made lasagna. I’m going to have some after I finish this paper. Which I will be able to do once you’ve left me alone.” I watched her deliberately remove her left hand away from her wrist. I wanted to believe her, but I didn’t. Our mom was all too eager to listen to Remy when she insisted she was okay. Mom didn’t want the ladies from her book club finding out, so she was more than happy to ignore everything. But okay people don’t live off of freeze-dried fruit and water for several weeks until they faint in the middle of the SATs. I wanted to say as much, to get Remy to look me in the eye and talk to me about what was going on. But we didn’t share in our family. We compartmentalized and we pretended. “You promise you’re okay?” I asked instead of speaking my mind. “I’m fine.” Remy’s smile was as fake as the one I had walked into the room with. “Good.” I nodded. “I’m going to go watch some TV. Join me when you’re done?” “Sounds fun.” Remy nodded before turning back to her computer. I paused at the door, though, staring at the back of her head bent in concentration. I wished I could will her into talking. Maybe someday she would be brave enough to share her truth with me. Until she was ready to hear it, I would keep my support locked away but ready. Until then, I hated coming home. |
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