J.T. Warren - Remains

My headphones were playing pretty loud. I’d switched discs a few times, trying not to look out the window. Takeoff had been smooth and there had been no major bumps so far. My father always called the bumps ‘chop’. For some reason, the word made me think of thick soup.

One of the twins was asleep, and the mother was playing cards with the other. Out the window, clouds were passing by underneath us. The hum of the engines, the thrum pulse of them through the walls added extra notes to the music. It seemed to all fit, and I remembered all the car trips I’d ever been on with my family.

The main one that I think about was just after Randy disappeared. My father saw my mother moping around and decided what we needed to do was get away for a little while. He picked a couple of places and had all the brochures mailed to him. I was barely coming out of my room at that point, but he made us all come down for dinner every night. It was the one time we all got to be a family, he said. I think he thought a lot more about that than we did. It made mom happy, though, and that kept her quiet for the most part. Sarah and I never gave him too much trouble about it.

That night, when we came down, it was Sarah’s turn to set the table. I sat down and watched her put the forks on the wrong side of the plate. Mom always taught us to do things like set the table and brush our teeth out of this old book she had about manners and things. “You put the forks on the wrong side,” I said to Sarah, waiting for her to be completely done first. She looked at me, then at the table and rolled her eyes. I heard her whisper “god dammit.” I giggled, and then thought about Randy, so I stopped giggling.

My father came in right at that moment and said “Sarah, the silverware is all on the wrong sides,” without stopping. He walked over to the counter, and slapped down a large manila envelope. Sarah clanked the forks and knives around, practically slinging them. My father’s head came up and he gave her “the look.” She whispered “sorry.” Mom came from near the stove with the huge pot of mashed potatoes. She set them on the little plastic mat in the center of the table.

“Mike, will you get the corn, please?” she asked.

I was happy for the chance to do something rather than just sit there and wait. The corn was hot, and my fingers warmed quickly. I hadn’t realized they’d gotten cold. The smell was buttery and golden. I inhaled as I walked and almost tripped over my father’s foot. Sarah finished the settings just as I put the pot down on the table, and Mom took her apron off. We all sat down almost at the same time. My father was last.

“What’s in the envelope?” I asked

My mother made a swatting motion in the air near me. I looked over. “Grace,” she said.

I bowed my head, barely catching my sister’s already bowed head and clasped hands. “Father, we thank you for blessing us with what we are about to receive. Please watch over our children, and my husband, and all children everywhere, amen,” my mother said. My father mouthed ‘amen’. I wondered if someone had prayed like that about Randy. I wondered why no one had watched out for him. I felt a pressure in my chest, and my eyes stung.

“What’s in the envelope?” my father asked me, “Nothing much, really. Just our vacation, is all,” he said, his face pulling back into a sly grin. I smiled a bit, too. Sometimes the clouds parted and my real father came out. Those times were like finally being able to breathe after a long time underwater.

“Where to?” I asked.

“Where, papa?” Sarah asked.

“Oh, dear, Albert. Can we afford it?” my mother asked.

“Now, calm down, all of you. Calm down,” he said, raising his hand above the table, “I’ve decided that it’s high time the kids see a beach.”

I was ecstatic. My sister’s eyes got huge. My mother fell into a pit of worry silently. “I’ve decided that we’re going to take a drive down to see the Gulf of Mexico,” my father said. It sounded so exotic. “We’re going to drive down and stay in a town called Mobile in Alabama,” he said. Suddenly, it didn’t sound so exotic. I had though of Florida, that delicate crescent on the map in every textbook I’d ever read. I’d never looked more than once at Alabama in my life.

The next week, we were on the road. It was awful. Sarah was continuously over on my side of the backseat. She smacked when she ate. She smacked when she chewed gum. The seat made sick noises whenever she moved her leg because it was stuck to her. She whined to mom about how long it was taking. In the hotel rooms, she and I had to sleep in the same bed.

Worse, though, were my parents. They fought the entire time. She would “Albert, don’t you think it’s too hot for the children” and “Albert, do you think we could stop soon, my legs are tired” and then he would “Will you stop folding the map the wrong way” and “Can’t you please control them? They’re making it hard to think”. They bickered and my sister’s lips smacked the entire way to Alabama. When we got Mobile, it smelled like someone had passed gas the entire time we were there. “Paper mill,” my father had said when my sister pointed this out.

Mr. Rickels, a man he used to work with lived down there. He promised to take us all to some place called ‘Gulf Shores’. He had a daughter, Ainsley, who was fourteen. She was beautiful, and every time I tried to talk to her, I felt stupid and ugly. She and my sister became very close friends.

I guess that was the first time I got a hint of what was going to happen with Sarah, though. Sarah stayed in Ainsley’s room that night. When I got up from the couch to go to the restroom, I heard them whispering to each other as I walked past the doorway. Then I heard the distinct sound of a kiss, and the kind of moan that happens when someone’s mouth is closed. I’ve since talked to Dr. Bledsoe about what happened to me at that moment, and he said “You were thirteen and obviously hearing your first example of sexual excitement. I don’t think it matters that it was your sister.” I don’t know that I believe him.

I guess most people sort of freak out the first time they see the ocean. I got out of the car that day and there were these huge sand dunes. I could hear the ocean, but far away and faded. I thought it’d be just like on television. I’d seen beaches on television, but they never looked more than just interesting. When we got to the top of the dune, though, my legs were throbbing from the effort of climbing up the sand. My mind was very far away from them, though; the beach was almost too much to handle. I’d seen pictures of one, of course, but being on a real beach is something altogether different. The water wasn’t just a river, it was the ocean. I just kept hearing those two words in my head over and over; the ocean, the ocean. Every time the waves rolled in, that’s what they said. The girls went in the water and had a lot of fun. I sat at the tide line and just stared at the horizon.

“Having a good time, sport?” Mr. Rickels asked me. He’d come up behind me and kneeled down. He was fat, and his flowery bathing suit looked silly with all the hair on his body.

“Yeah,” I said, not trying to be rude, but wanting to go back to just staring.

“Ainsley and your sister have gotten to be buddies pretty quick, huh?” he said, smiling. I didn’t know what I was supposed to say, so I nodded. He stared out at them for a moment, then back at me. He smiled, then stood up, grunting. “You be sure and get in some swim time, champ. The water is great,” he said, then walked away. He kept looking back at the girls and I felt uncomfortable. I got up and walked down the beach.

On the beach, my father and mother were at it again. The sun and the heat made them half crazy, continuously bickering back and forth about who got the longer towel, who should go get the drinks from the little soda stand, etc. I had to get away. The beach was huge and the sand felt so warm shifting under my feet, and it helped to hear the hum of other people’s conversations as I’d walk by. It calmed me to see other families and how they were around each other. Every time a saw a little boy, he looked like Randy, though, so I tried not to focus on people. They became indistinct blurs as I walked. The sound remained, though. The millions of things that people talk about when they don’t think you’re listening.