6. Beth

Michael takes it slow down the long driveway. One of my headlights is burnt out, so only the right side is fully lit. The wind whips through my partially rolled-down window, and I can almost hear it carrying my mother's final words to me. I glance in the rearview mirror at Nicole. She sits quietly in the back seat, writing in her notepad. The pen scratches at the paper. She's always been that way. Rather than express how she's feeling outwardly, she writes it down, spinning poems and pithy lines out of her pain. She hasn't said more than hello to Michael when she greeted him in the car after leaving the hospital, so maybe she's writing about that.

The house is dark, and I know they've come and taken Mom away. This place used to be a home. Now I don't know what it is.

"Just park right here," I say.

Michael shuts off the engine and hands me the key. "I'll fix that headlight for you."

"You don't have to do that." I can't tell if he's being kind just because, or if it's because he feels sorry for me. Maybe there's no difference.

He presses his lips together and nods. "I know."

Inside the house, I turn on the lights. A bulb over the kitchen table flickers, signaling it's close to burning out, and I could say the same for myself. Without Mom, it feels empty in here now. Michael carries in a small bag of groceries he picked up while I was in the hospital with Nicole. At the doorway, she stops suddenly, like there's some sort of invisible force keeping her out. She looks down at her feet and inches one foot forward. A couple of large moths fly inside, darting toward the flickering light above the kitchen table. They swirl around one another, performing a synchronized air show of some sort.

"Nicole," I bark. She snaps out of it, looking to me with those big empty eyes. "Close the door. You're letting all the bugs in."

Her breath hitches as though she's bracing for impact and standing at the edge of an airplane door, thirty thousand feet above Earth with no parachute, rather than at the threshold of her childhood home. Nicole steps in quickly and closes the door behind her, letting out a sigh.

"Are you all right?" I ask.

She nods several times and swivels her cross-body bag behind her. She was robbed during the attack, so all that's in there are pads of paper and pens, but those are the most valuable things to her. I'd like to say I'm scared of losing her, but she's been living this way for so long that it feels like I already have, and I came to terms with that loss a year ago.

In the living room, there's an empty space where Mom used to be. The hospice bed is gone. The machines and IV stand are gone. She is gone. There are outlines where the items used to be, from where the dust has settled. If I concentrate hard enough, I can still see her lying there looking out the window. A chill runs down my spine. Nicole leans against the archway, using it to keep her frail self upright, while Michael stands stoic beside me. They take it all in, just as I am. But it's different for them. They haven't lived in this house the last few months. They haven't seen it transform from a home to a hospital to a memorial. They didn't watch Mom die slowly and then suddenly, all at once. And I hate them for that.

I swallow hard and cross the room, careful to walk around the bed that is no longer there, and take a seat on the floral-patterned couch.

Michael clears his throat. "I picked up some scotch. Do you want some?"

"Is Seagram's not good enough for you?" I tilt my head, half teasing but mostly serious.

"I'll have some," Nicole says.

I don't think it's a good idea, given her recovery, but I don't say anything. I'm not her mother, and she didn't listen to Mom anyway.

"All right, Port Charlotte for Nicole and me. Seagram's for Beth," Michaels says with a smirk.

"Give me your stupid fancy scotch," I huff.

He smiles and disappears into the kitchen. Several cupboards open and close. Ice cubes pop out of an ice tray and clink against glasses. Nicole sits down next to me. When the couch cushion barely sinks, I realize how thin she's gotten. She pulls the sleeves of her oversized sweatshirt over her thumbs and places her hands in her lap. Her posture is rigid, and I can't tell if it's from the pain she's in or if it's because she's uncomfortable being in this house.

"Do you want to lie down?" I ask.

Nicole shakes her head. "I can't believe she's gone," she says just above a whisper. She pushes her brown hair out of her face revealing green eyes she got from Mom and scarred skin she got from a lifetime of bad choices.

"I was planning to see her tomorrow." She's not looking directly at me when she speaks. Her eyes are focused a little above me, kind of how Mom was in her final moments.

I'm silent, waiting for my sister to say more, but she doesn't. Instead, her eyes well up and her breath hitches. Then she regains her composure, blinking the tears away and breathing through the impending sob, just like Dad taught us.

Michael reenters the living room, carrying three glasses of scotch. He hands us each one and takes a seat on the far end of the couch.

"Thanks," I say with a tight smile.

Nicole chugs half of hers. Michael shakes his head and delivers a disapproving look. "It's meant to be sipped."

She holds up the glass, flicks her pinky out, and takes the slowest sip she possibly can. "Is that better, Your Highness?" she mocks.

He cracks a smile and sips his drink. The scotch is equally smoky and sweet with flavors of honey, vanilla, and citrus.

"You have good taste, Michael," I say with a nod.

"Easy to have good taste when you have money," Nicole huffs. "But thanks," she quickly adds, tipping the glass toward him.

We drink in silence, exchanging glances. It seems like we all have something we want to say. The house creaks and moans. I like to think it's Mom, walking from room to room, making sure each one is in order like she used to do when we were young.

"Remember that time Mom caught us down in the valley with the camcorder making scary movies?" Nicole says, interrupting the silence. She lets out a laugh.

Growing up in a small town, there wasn't much to do. So, we made our own entertainment—building forts, swimming in the creek, filming movies with our family camcorder, going for bike rides, and turning just about everything into a game.

"You mean the Blair Bitch Project?" Michael chuckles into his glass.

"Yeah, I don't know why I had to play the Blair bitch," I scoff.

"You fit the part," Nicole quips.

I mock laugh and sip my drink. "Mom was so mad because she thought we were going to break the camcorder."

"Yeah... I bet it's still somewhere in this house," Michael says. He looks around the room, and then up at the ceiling where the attic is.

I'm sure it's up there too. Mom saved everything. She had lost so much in her life—her father, her sister, her mother, Dad—that she tried to hold on to anything and everything she could.

"Dad was even madder when he saw we were using his insect fogger for smoke effects," Nicole adds.

"Well, yeah. Because we were literally playing in poisonous gas." I shake my head and laugh.

"Remember Mom made us Oscar awards out of toilet paper rolls after our film debut?" Nicole looks to me and then Michael.

"I won Best Camcorder Holder." Michael smiles at the memory. "It should have been Director, but Mom didn't know the award categories."

Nicole grins. "I was Best Writer."

"Yeah, Best Actor here," I say. "That was really something special..." I trail off.

We sit in silence again, reminiscing about memories that feel like they happened both yesterday and more than a lifetime ago. It's funny how time works. I can remember Nicole before the drugs got into her. She was funny and bright, with so many goals and aspirations. And Michael, smart as a whip and the whole world at his fingertips. But he was the only one to truly grasp his dreams.

When our glasses are empty, Michael grabs the bottle from the kitchen and returns, pouring a generous amount in mine and his, and a little less in Nicole's. She either doesn't notice or doesn't say anything.

"Are you seeing anyone?" I look to Michael. I'm not sure why I ask the question, maybe because I'm curious to find out how much better his life is than mine. It's hard not to compare when we all had the same beginning.

"I was. But it ended a few months ago." He shrugs and sips his drink.

"Why?" Nicole asks.

"She wasn't happy with my workload."

"That doesn't seem like a real reason. My last boyfriend broke up with me because I sold his watch for drug money," Nicole says, nonchalantly. "Apparently, that was a deal-breaker for him."

Michael and I exchange worried looks. He glances at his wrist.

"I'm not going to steal your watch, Michael." She rolls her eyes.

"I didn't say you were," he says.

Nicole shifts in her seat and winces. "I'm fine," she says before either of us can ask. She positions a pillow behind her back, trying to get comfortable again. When she's settled, she looks to Michael and then me. "Do you think Dad will come back now?" She seems so young when she asks, as though she still believes in Santa, the tooth fairy, those monsters under the bed.

Michael hangs his head and stares at the dark-gold liquid in his glass.

Mom's final words return to me: Your father. He didn't disappear. Don't trust.

Nicole pulls her chin in when neither of us respond, as though she's embarrassed to have asked the question. I consider telling them what Mom said. But I don't. I'm not even sure it's worth mentioning. Maybe it meant nothing.

"If he knew Mom passed, he'd come home," I say. I'm not sure I believe those words, but I know Nicole needs them. Michael tosses back the golden liquid and pours himself another.

She nods and asks, "So, what next?"

"First, funeral arrangements. Then, we should get the house in order. Go through everything and decide what we're going to do with it all," I say.

"What do you mean? Like sell the house?" Nicole asks.

"Yeah. We either sell it or keep it."

Michael leans back into the cushion. "What are you thinking, Beth?"

I sigh. "I don't know. Maybe sell."

"I think you should sell it," Nicole says.

"Why?" I ask.

"Because I could use the money." Her eyes shift between Michael and me.

"For what, Nicole?" I tilt my head.

"To live on."

Michael raises a brow, but he doesn't say anything. He hasn't had to deal with Nicole's addiction like I have, so he can't understand how bad it's been.

"You know you can't be trusted with money, Nicole."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she spits.

"I think you know."

She stands quickly but winces and nearly falls over, spilling part of her drink onto Michael in the process. He groans and wipes at his pants.

"If you have something to say, Beth, then just fucking say it!" Nicole yells.

I'm used to her emotional outbursts. It comes with addiction, and it's why I put distance between us a year ago. I couldn't take it anymore. She'd call me every name in the book, tell me she hated me, that she wished I was dead. Sometimes, she even turned violent, lashing out at me or destroying whatever was around her when I told her no, that I wasn't giving her any more money. I'm not sure she even remembers any of those fights.

I look up at her and draw my brows together. "What would you spend that money on, Nicole?" My voice is calm.

Her mouth falls partially open. I can't help but think of Mom, her jaw lax after she passed. I close my eyes for a moment, willing my mind to bury that image. When I open them, Nicole is seated again—lips pressed firmly together, stewing. What I said was wrong but I'm also right, and she knows it. Sometimes right and wrong are interchangeable.

"We don't have to make any decisions now," Michael says.

"You're right," I say. "Let's just take it one day at a time."

Nicole nods but she's still stewing in her anger.

"I can only stay for a week though," Michael adds.

"And will it be another seven years until we see you again?" I ask.

"Let's hope not." He stands from the couch. "Good night, you two," he says, putting an end to the fight I was looking for.

Michael leaves the bottle but carries his glass with him as he heads down the hall to his old bedroom. His door closes with a thud, and my shoulders jump. It's been a long time since I've heard a door slam in this house, not since we were teens.

"Home sweet home," Nicole says sarcastically.

"Yep." I stand from my seat, deciding I don't want to fight after all, at least not tonight. I pick up the half-empty bottle of scotch because I don't want Nicole to feel tempted, and she doesn't need any more. "I'm going to turn in. Need anything?"

"No, I'm going to head to bed too," she says, draining the rest of her scotch.

She hands me her glass and gets to her feet, collecting her belongings. I rinse the glasses in the kitchen sink and hide the bottle of scotch in the lazy Susan cabinet before heading down to my bedroom. Nicole pads down the hall to her room but stops to look back at me. She tells me good night, and I tell her the same. Our bedroom doors close, and I make sure to lock mine. I worry about sleeping under the same roof as my sister. I know she can't be trusted.