Page 21 of Fragments of the Lost
It’s Mia, I think, who’s been through Caleb’s things. It’s Mia who doesn’t think I should be here trespassing, who deserves to keep pieces of her brother for herself. It’s Mia who wants to know who he was, this brother she can now never have growing up.
I push her door open, holding my breath. I only open it wide enough to see inside, to stick my face in the gap and confirm that she isn’t there. I’m not sure what I expected to see: Caleb’s things scattered around the floor maybe, in a tribute to him; her own room slowly being packed away. But it’s exactly as I remember it: the walls are a pale lavender and there are more stuffed unicorns than I can count, and her floor is scattered with toys, a beanbag chair, paperback books, a necklace-making kit.
I guess I expected the grief to seep into everything, turning her as morose and sullen as I am. To cause her to give up her friends and activities and focus only on this thing that is missing.
There are no boxes leaning against her walls yet. I think they’re mostly leaving things as-is while the house is on the market, so prospective buyers can imagine their own children in these very rooms, taking up the spaces, growing and thriving.
Only Caleb’s room must go. Back to an attic storage area. A library. A bunker. Nobody wants to see a room that belongs to a ghost.
I close her door, creep down the remaining steps, and call, “Hello?”
The ticking is louder, and I jump when the ice maker kicks in, dropping fresh cubes into a compartment in the freezer.
I’ve never been in the kitchen alone, I realize. I’ve been here with Caleb. I’ve been here with Mia. I’ve been here with Eve, with Sean. The room looks barren and older without them. The laminate more yellowed and chipping at the edges, everything showing its age. I run my finger along the seam of the counter edge as I circle the room, debating lunch. The pantry door squeaks when I pull it open, but I remember Caleb’s words:Really slim pickings here.
There’s bread and peanut butter, but I hate peanut butter. There’s cereal, but it’s unopened so far, and I think this must belong to Mia, and she wouldn’t want me having it. Anyway, I’m no longer sure if I’m entitled to their food. No, I’m sure that I’m not.
I peer out the side window, and see Eve’s car is still there, in the long, narrow driveway that leads to their garage around back. Which means she and Mia are probably out nearby. I pull open the drawer beside the fridge, looking for a pen and paper, so I can leave a note. But it’s empty. I check the rest. There’s the familiar jangle of utensils, some cooking supplies, some spare batteries. But at least half of the drawers are already cleaned out. As if Eve, like me, has started with the parts hidden from the naked eye first. Carving it out from the inside, until all that remains is the shell.
I decide to just go. There’s a sandwich shop about a mile away, off the exit ramp. I can be there and back within thirty minutes. I can even eat on the way here. The front door is unlocked, so I figure they must’ve just stepped out for a moment.
When I step outside, Mia freezes at the base of the steps. She’s crouched over with a piece of chalk, her hands stained pink and green. In front of her are a series of boxes she’s drawn, all outlined in chalk, like for hopscotch.
I take a single step toward her down the steps, and she looks back at the sidewalk, dragging the chalk in a new line.
“Hi, Mia,” I try, but get nothing. Her face is hidden by the long hair hanging over her shoulder, blocking her face.
“I’m going for lunch. Are you here alone?”
She stops then, looks over her shoulder, and makes eye contact firmly and briefly. “I’m not allowed to talk to you,” she says quietly, then goes back to the drawing.
Like a punch to the gut. When I recover, I step carefully around her. “Where’s your mom?” I ask.
After a pause, she answers, “In the garage,” without looking up.
“Okay,” I say, pausing beside her, my shadow falling over her game. “If she asks, I went to get lunch. I’ll be right back.”
There’s silence as I walk to my car, but I don’t hear the sound of chalk on the sidewalk anymore. I can feel Mia’s eyes on me as I walk away.
—
When I return, the front yard is empty, and all that’s remaining from my ham sandwich is the wrapper and excess lettuce. The car is still in the driveway, and I decide to throw the wrapper out in the garbage around back before coming inside. It seems somehow offensive to return with trash, evidence that I must eat to stay alive, all reminders that I am here and Caleb is not.
I have to walk down the driveway between their house and the neighbor’s to get to the garbage cans in the enclosed area, pressed to the siding around back. I pull out the recycling, cringing at the sound of the wheels on concrete, before I can reach the regular trash. I raise the lid, tossing my trash, but catch sight of a pile of red placemats, cookbooks, and magnets—the guts of the kitchen, dumped and forgotten. I leave my trash on top, then ease the lid closed, stepping off the concrete square at the back corner of their house.
The garage door opens behind the house, and Mia darts out, Eve following behind with a machine hooked up to a hose and wired to an outlet inside the garage. We had our house pressure-washed over the summer, so I know this is what Eve is about to do. Getting the house ready to show, to put on the market. I slip around the corner before she notices me standing there.
I let myself back in their front door, which is still unlocked, when I hear the pressure washer start up, the stream of water hitting the siding.
But I feel someone inside, even before I can hear it. Or maybe one sense gives way to the other. Either way, I justknow.
And then I hear something upstairs. Nothing distinct, just movement. I ascend the first flight and pause at the landing, listening, thinking Mia made it back inside before me. But then I hear it again, a thud, footsteps, but they’re not coming from Mia’s room. They’re up the last flight, behind the blue door, which isn’t latched but mostly closed, so I can’t see who’s behind it.
I assume it’s Mia, that she’s going through his things now that I’m gone, but I don’t want to spook her. I want her to look at me. I want to tell her I’m sorry about Caleb. So I tiptoe up the steps, avoiding the creak, and angle my face in the open doorway.
A body moves by in a blur—too big, too fast—and I jump back, surprised.
I must’ve made a noise, or a gasp, because whoever’s on the other side of the door pauses as well.
