J.T. Warren - Remains

I stretched. My whole body moved in one long wave. I tried hard not to make a noise, even though it felt good. I listened to myself breathe. My eyes traveled over the room again. I lifted a small part of the curtain. I sat up to look out the tiny hole I’d made. Frosty fog clung close to the ground and the sky was gray, overhead. Breaks between the clouds were only there for seconds. Still, I could tell they were moving really fast. In the yard, the leaves were drifting down off the tree in droves with each gust of wind. I heard someone moving up the stairs.

I knew it was my mother. She was going to her room to wake dad. That meant that breakfast was done. I relaxed again, letting the curtain fall. I stared at that same ceiling I’d stared at for hours when I was young. All the same little faces and scenes played out in the dots and shadows. I thought about the dream I’d just had, putting my hands under my head. In the dream, I’d felt bodies squirming against me; lots of them. It felt like they were trying to grow up through me, as if I were dirt. I’d had flashes of being both the soil, tickled and caressed by the sprouting seeds, and my young self, sitting Indian style under clear plastic sheets, watching.

I noticed a spider’s web in the corner of the room.

I remembered that I needed to adjust the timing on mom’s car; it’d run pretty rough last night. I thought about maybe asking dad to help me. Then I thought about how he’d argue and tell me I was using the wrong tools. I decided to do it myself, and if he came out to ask, I’d already be too far along for him to help.

I heard my father’s voice down the hall. He was gruff, even on good days. When I was small, he had always had the best voice for imitating one of the bears in the Goldilocks story. Later, it had gotten a rough edge to it. It still produced that reaction, I found. My toes curled under the sheets hearing it. Just like then, I felt that any moment, he was going to open the door and start yelling at me. I became aware that I was naked under the sheet. I got up and put my pants back on. I went for the door just like I would back at my house, when I heard my mother’s voice. I rummaged around and found my shirt and slid into it. I opened my door slow. It used to creak, and I didn’t want anyone to hear me coming down, yet. I groaned under my breath, but no loud noises came. I smiled, and walked out into the upstairs hall. The bathroom door was open a little, gray light flooding out from it. The tiles would be freezing cold on my feet.

There was the sound of springs groaning and my father’s breath escaped him. I wondered if he’d ever been young enough to stand up without making a sound. The thick smell of breakfast came up the stairs. I looked down the hall and Sarah’s door wasn’t open, yet. I looked at the hall clock, still ticking away where it had always been. Seven-thirty. I hadn’t slept nearly as late as I thought I would.

I brushed my teeth, and when I looked up, into the mirror, it wasn’t me. Where was the tiny face, with high cheekbones and hair cut much too short? Instead of that boy, looking back from the glass was a long face, skin stretched taut over it. I finished brushing and spit, then looked at my face again. I wondered when the last time I’d really looked in a mirror was. The wallpaper hadn’t changed, the shower curtain hadn’t changed; why was I different? I heard the creaking stairs; people moving toward the kitchen. I waited until I didn’t hear them anymore, then shut off the light, and walked out.

I remembered which stairs would creak, and avoided them. When I was three-quarters of the way down, the place where the dividing wall ended, I stopped. One more step and I’d be visible to whoever was in the living room or kitchen. I knew the minute I did, there’d be questions, answers; talk. I smiled and waited, listening. I wanted this to last as long as I could make it.

Two years since the last time I’d come to stay: it seemed like it was five minutes ago. I’d loved it, but only the silent parts. I only liked the times when people were quiet and just—I don’t know, just being , I guess. I think there’s some Japanese religion that talks about that; how people are only who they really are when they’re quiet and don’t know anyone is looking. I liked that idea. Susan had told me about it one night; how she sometimes watched me after we were done. She said ‘it’s the only way I know anything about you at all.’ I didn’t know what to say to her, so I’d just gone to sleep.

I moved down to the next step. When I was little, I still used to be safe here; I could peek around the little half-wall and see what was going on if I stood on my tiptoes. Of course, now I towered over it.

My father sat in the recliner with the television going. It seemed like the television was always going in the house. The air was heavier down here; almost stale and hot. In the kitchen I could barely see someone moving around near the sink. I moved down one more step, just about to put my foot down on the floor when it creaked. My father moved the top edge of the paper just far enough to see me. I looked down and told myself to remember that that one creaked, now, too.

“Mike,” he said.

I tried to smile, but something wouldn’t let me.

My mother was just walking in from the kitchen, carrying my father’s plate and a cup of coffee. I felt stupid, standing there grinning. She smiled at me. “Good morning,” she said. She didn’t look as she sat my father’s mug down beside him. I knew if I lifted it, there would be a dried ring from the million other times she’d set it in exactly that same place. “Breakfast is ready. Sarah isn’t up yet, though. Would you go wake her?” my mother asked. I didn’t really want to, but I did anyway.

My sister hadn’t completely closed her door. It was old habit from when we were small. For a long time, even a while after Katy left, we’d go in to each other’s rooms in the morning. I’d wake up from some dream, or she’d wake up and be lonely. Some reason always came up. It wasn’t until Mom took Sarah off to the market with her just after her fifteenth birthday that it stopped. I didn’t figure out why for a long time.

Through the crack in the door came her smell, like rain on wheat. I closed my eyes and smiled, trying to remember. There was a small flash of something, far back in my mind. Wheat growing up to my chest and chasing something, the sun bright and gentle overhead. I came back as the door creaked a little. I’d leaned forward and nudged it open.

As usual, she was buried under covers. I could only see a toe on one end, and a strand of hair on the other. I moved in, walking as lightly as I could. I remembered trying to think of myself as a balloon, holding nothing but light, hot air for years, every time I snuck in. I crawled in on the left side of the bed, and settled myself down into the mattress. The covers were all bunched around her. I waited.

“Michael?” a muffled voice with no body asked.

“Yeah,” I said. The mound of cotton began to move and after a moment, a head poked out. The eyes were squinted closed.

“What are you doing?” she mumbled, her mouth pulling back into something resembling a smile.

“Mom says breakfast is ready.”

She nodded, her head making a rustling sound against he pillow. She didn’t move to get up. Neither did I

“I’m glad you two finally decided to come down,” my mother said, placing the pitcher of orange juice on the table. Again, I knew that if I looked, I’d find a ring there.

“I’m thinking I might get under the hood of your car today, mom,” I said, picking up toast. Sarah rolled her eyes. “What?”

“If mom wanted her car fixed, Michael, she’d take it to a mechanic. She’s not an idiot,” Sarah said, moving her eggs around with her fork.