4. Beth

I sip at a four-finger pour of Seagram's 7 whiskey. The apricot sweetness dissipates as soon as it touches my taste buds and is quickly overpowered by a flavor best described as weak rubbing alcohol. Another thing my mother enjoyed on the rarest of occasions. This swill was a treat for her. It's cheap, and it doesn't taste good. But sometimes it's the bad things in life that make us feel the most alive. I lean against the kitchen counter, waiting for a call back from my daughter. A fly buzzes around the sliced tomato I left out, the sandwich I never finished making. I consider killing it, but there's been enough death in this house for one day, so I let it frolic in the tomato water. At least someone is enjoying it.

I don't know what to do with myself right now, other than drink bad whiskey. Each gulp pushes the grief down a little further. I should be planning the funeral, but I don't even know what Mom wanted. Every time I brought it up, she'd say, "Let's talk about that later." Well, now there's no time to discuss it at all.

My phone rings. It's my daughter, Marissa.

"Hello," I say. There's static. We have a bad connection. Then again, we've had that for a long time.

"Hi, Mom. My sergeant told me you called. What's up?" she asks. It's noisy on her end. Heavy machinery, engines roaring, lots of chatter. "You coming, Thomas?" a man yells. Marissa sounds farther away as she says, "Yeah, I'll be right there."

I can tell when the phone is pressed to her ear again because her voice is louder. "Mom, you still there?"

"Yeah, I'm here. How have you been?" I'm not ready to tell her about her grandma. I'm not even sure how much it'll affect her. They were close, up until seven years ago when my dad disappeared. That changed my mom. It made her detached and guarded all at the same time. It had the same effect on me. Someone choosing to leave your life is a hard thing to live with. And I didn't live with it well. I pushed Marissa away without even realizing. My mom did too, and I don't think we noticed, until the whole world was between us. Marissa's been stationed on a navy base in South Korea for over a year, and before that she was in training, so she hasn't even seen her grandma in over two years. She could have been stationed in the Great Lakes, close to home, but of course she chose a place as far away as she possibly could. If they would have offered to station her on the moon, I'm sure she would have said yes.

"Busy, real busy. Sorry I haven't rang in a while. Is that why you called?" she asks.

I sip the Seagram's again, holding it in my mouth for a moment before swallowing. I don't know why I do that. Maybe I'm punishing myself.

"No. I called because..." My eyes go back to the fly. It's flipped on its back in the tomato water. Dead. Too much of a good thing. "Your grandma passed today." There's a lump in my throat. It's a sob. I chug the rest of the whiskey, forcing it down again.

"What? Mom, I'm so sorry," she says—because it's my loss, not hers. "Are you okay? Do you want me to come home? I can see if they'll give me leave."

"I'm..." It takes me a moment to settle on the right word. Okay, no. Good, too flippant. Fine. That works. I am fine. I'm not okay. But I'm fine. It's the safety blanket of emotions. "Fine. And if you can come, I'd like that."

There's silence, and I worry the phone has cut out. I pull it from my ear and look at the display screen. The call time is still ticking away.

"Okay, Mom. I'll see what I can do." There's a beat of silence. "Does Dad know?" she adds. I know then she won't come. She's making sure there's someone here to comfort me. My ex-husband won't be jumping at that opportunity, and I wouldn't want him to. I haven't spoken to him since Marissa left for the navy. Plus, he gave up on us a year after my dad disappeared.

He didn't disappear.

"No, he doesn't know yet."

"What about Aunt Nicole?" she asks.

I'm taken back by the mention of my sister. I cut her out of my life nearly a year ago, after she became too unpredictable and too dangerous to be around. I never told Marissa how bad it was because I figured she was on the other side of the world anyway, so Nicole couldn't hurt her.

"I haven't been able to get ahold of her," I say frankly.

Silence.

"Have you talked to her recently?" I add.

"Umm... Aunt Nicole writes me letters," she says.

That doesn't surprise me. Nicole has always loved to write, mostly poems or short quotes. Her mind was truly a beautiful thing before the drugs ate away at it. I used to think she could get clean, but somewhere between the multiple rehab stints, the overdoses, the thefts, and the run-ins with the law, I lost all hope that I'd ever have my sister back.

"What does she write?"

"Just tells me about her life and asks me about the navy and South Korea." I can practically hear her smile. I do those things. I ask about her life. I tell her about mine. But when those words come from me, they don't make her smile. She connects better with my drug-addict sister than with me, her own mother. Something inside of me blossoms. Jealousy? I immediately push it away. Nicole is the last person I should be envious of.

"Hey, Mom. I'm really sorry about Grandma, but I gotta get going. I'll call back as soon as I can."

"Okay, honey..." Before I can finish my sentence, the line is dead and she's gone.

I let out a sigh and scroll through my texts. The one to my sister has been read but there is no reply. I type out a long message full of anger and grief. I tell her how mad I am for her not being here. I curse her for not visiting Mom before she passed. I accuse her of being selfish and weak. And then I delete the whole message and stow my phone back in my pocket. Some things are just better left unsaid.

There's movement in my peripheral, and I look up to find Michael standing in the doorframe. His face is flushed, and there's a sheen to his eyes, like he's been crying. I hold the Seagram's bottle and gesture toward him.

"Want some?"

He crumples his face in disgust but shrugs. "Yeah, why not."

A four-finger pour each. Michael takes the glass from me and holds it near his lips, staring at the dull gold liquid that resembles piss. He tosses his head back and chugs half of it. His whole body shivers and his face twists, like he's just sucked on a lemon. He's used to the finer things in life. I wonder what that's like. But I'd rather not know. It's better to be unaware of what you're missing out on, those things you'll never have access to and how the one percent lives—especially when you know it'd only be temporary.

"That's horrible," he says, coughing.

I take a long sip, peering over my glass at him while he tries to regain his composure.

"Yeah, it is."

Michael pulls out a chair and takes a seat, spinning the glass slowly in circles on the worn kitchen table. The wood is covered in gouges and scratches. I remember all of us sitting around this table: Mom and Dad on either end. Three of us in the middle with one empty chair. We never sat in the same spots, moving around based on who we were mad at and who we liked most that day. If I had to pick now, based on how I was feeling, I wouldn't even take a seat. But I'm not a teenager. Adults have to come to the table, so I sit on one of the short sides, directly across from Michael, in the spots our parents used to occupy.

"Were you able to get ahold of Marissa?" he asks.

I nod and take another sip.

"Is she coming home?"

"Probably not." A long exhale escapes through my nose. "She's stationed in South Korea."

Michael's eyes grow a little wide. "Wow, I didn't know that. Army?"

"Navy," I correct.

"Impressive," he says. I don't care about what impresses him. His watch clinks against the table. Half red, half blue. A luminescent silver band and the word Rolex in the center of the face. I know it cost more than my car, but he wears it like it came out of a quarter machine.

"What happened?" I ask, gesturing to the scar on his cheek.

He runs the tip of his finger over it. It's a couple inches in length, running vertically along his cheek. "Car accident."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

He cocks his head. "Would it have changed anything?"

My eyes narrow but I quickly relax them. Michael's right. It wouldn't have changed anything. I may have sent a text asking if he was okay. I may have even called. But that's it. I glance down at my chewed fingernails. I've bitten them since I was a child and no matter how many times I've tried to stop, they always find their way back to my mouth. Bad habits don't die.

"Are you all right now?" I ask.

Michael nods and sips his drink. He's clearly getting used to the taste because he doesn't react to it this time. I've learned you can get used to anything.

I'm glad one of us is all right. Mom died right before my eyes and, though I know I'll come to accept it, I don't know if I'll ever be all right again. Some things change you forever.

"What happens now?" Michael asks, briefly glancing over his shoulder toward the living room. Mom's body is covered with a sheet again. Only we know she's under there. Sharing this moment of grief with Michael feels hollow because he wasn't here when she passed. I stare at the outline of her face. A puff of air forces the sheet to expand. I blink several times. I'd imagined it. Wishful thinking, I guess. Or I'm going crazy. I've actually never understood that saying. Going crazy... because crazy isn't a place you go, it comes right to you.

"Beth," Michael says, pulling me from my thoughts.

I blink again. "Sorry. I'm not sure." I glance at the clock on the wall noting the time, thirty minutes past nine. "Cathy, Mom's hospice nurse, should be back from her break any minute. She'll tell us what happens next."

He sips his whiskey. "What about the funeral?"

"What about it?"

"Well, what did Mom want?"

"I don't know." A tear escapes the corner of my eye. I quickly wipe it away with the back of my hand. "She never told me."

Michael pulls his lips in, like he doesn't know what to say. He clears his throat. "So, what's new?" he asks, changing the subject.

It's been seven years since we last spoke, and I wish I could say, "Everything." It all should be new but it's not, because I've been stuck in place. I work at the same factory, live in the same house, drive the same car.

"I'm divorced," I finally land on. I'm not sad as I say it. I don't know if I ever loved my ex-husband. We met when I first started at the factory. I worked the line, and he was a machinery operator. I was just a nineteen-year-old with a dull future. When he asked me out, it gave me something to look forward to, other than a paycheck or a day off. And then I got pregnant and knew that marriage was the right thing to do, not for me—but for him and for our daughter.

Michael gives me a solemn look and mutters, "Sorry. How long ago?"

"Five years." I shrug. "But it was over long before that."

"What happened?"

"Life happened."

I'm not trying to be cryptic, but I know it's coming off that way. I take a deep breath and look him in the eye. "After Dad disappeared, I became ‘obsessed,' as Tom would put it. It took a toll on my marriage, on my life, on my relationship with my daughter. I was so fixated on trying to find him that I lost everything else in the process."

Michael leans forward in his chair, propping his elbows on the table. If Mom were here, she'd scold him for that. "I'm sorry I wasn't here for you. I didn't know you were going through all that."

"Weren't you?"

He sinks back into his chair. "Wasn't I what?"

"Going through that too? Didn't you want to find Dad?" There are so many questions I want to ask him, but I know if I push too hard, he'll shut down. That's how he was as a kid, and most people don't change. He overthinks, overanalyzes, and then keeps it all to himself, amassing clever little secrets. It's probably why he's done so well with his life.

"Mom didn't want..." The front door creaks open, cutting him short.

Cathy pops her head in. She's tall and thin with black curly hair tied back into a low ponytail.

"Hi, Beth," she says, closing the door behind her. "How's Laura doing?"

My eyes instantly well up. If I keep saying she's gone, it makes it more real. I shake my head and lower it slightly. Cathy nods and delivers a sympathetic look. I wonder how she can do a job like this, meeting people in their final days just to watch them die. It has to take a toll on her. I think that as humans we can only carry so much death with us.

"I'm Michael, Beth's brother," he says, getting up from his chair and extending his hand.

"Cathy. I'm very sorry for your loss." She shakes his hand lightly. That's how greetings are during times of despair, fragile.

Cathy stands there awkwardly for a moment. She has worked as a hospice nurse for decades, but experience doesn't make this any easier. "I'm sorry I wasn't here," she finally says to me.

I'm glad she wasn't here but I don't say that. "Don't be."

"Have you both had your time with her?" Cathy glances at each of us.

We nod.

"Are you okay with me calling the funeral home for arrangements?"

I know what that means. They'll come and take her... well, not her. The body. The next time I see her, she'll have been injected with a couple gallons of formaldehyde to slow down the decay. She'll be wearing makeup for the first time since her wedding day. Her hair will be done up in a way she's never worn it before. She'll be dressed in her Sunday best. And she'd hate all of it.

When I don't answer, Michael steps in. "Yes, Cathy. You can make the arrangements."

She looks to me for confirmation, so I nod, and she backs out of the kitchen. Michael takes a seat kitty-corner to me and reaches for my hand, giving it a squeeze. I want to flick it away. But I need it more than I don't want it. I gulp the Seagram's. It's lost its flavor.

"It's gonna be okay," he says. I'm not sure I believe him.

My phone ringing startles me. Unknown is splayed across the top of the screen. I know it's bad news. Mom always said bad things came in threes. This is number two, I'm sure of it.

"Hello," I answer.

"Hi, is this Elizabeth Thomas?" The voice on the other end of the line is deep and authoritative.

"It is."

"I'm Officer Ross of the Beloit Police Department. Your sister, Nicole, was attacked about an hour ago, and she's currently being treated at Memorial Hospital."

"Is she okay?"

Michael's eyes go wide, and he leans toward me.

"She's demanding to leave but we need someone to release her to, given her injuries. Are you able to come and get her?" the officer asks.

"Yes, yes. Of course. I'm on my way. I can be there in twenty minutes."

"Thank you, Ms. Thomas. I'll see you shortly." The phone clicks off.

"What is it?" Michael asks.

I'm a little wobbly when I stand, and I immediately regret the alcohol I consumed. Typically, that's reserved for the morning after, but sometimes there is no gap between an action and a regret.

"It's Nicole. She's in the hospital. Can you take me there?"

Michael doesn't hesitate, immediately getting to his feet. I toss him the keys to my 2010 Toyota Camry. He catches them and looks at the tarnished keys like they're some sort of foreign object. He doesn't say anything, but I know what he's thinking. Money changes people the same way death does. If you don't know how to manage every aspect of it, it'll bring out the worst in you.