Chapter 1

Silver tinfoil crinkles between my fingers as I stuff another drugstore chocolate into my mouth. A fantastic way to spend Valentine’s Day, on a daybed in my parents’ basement, scrolling through Instagram. At twenty-seven years old, I know I don’t have a great grip on this adulting thing, but I am trying.

I’m that oft-maligned lost boy and apparent ruiner of all good things. They write articles about me, make fun of my love of avocados and inability to save any money for a house. Though true to form, after living in New York City for a few years, I crawled back home to Mommy and Daddy to live in their basement since my old bedroom had been converted into an exercise room, and god forbid we move the dust-collecting BowFlex machine.

It’s arguable that at this stage in my life I should have more than student loan debt and a closet full of black clothes to my name, but as a journalism major and Hellenic Studies minor, I’m qualified for exactly nothing. But when they told me I could do anything I put my mind to, I believed it.

As a kid, I used to read Rolling Stone magazine, literally flipped through it with my hands. The same hands that ripped off the covers to tape them to my walls, and I’d dreamed of working there, writing articles on the musicians I loved and funny, lucid pieces on politics and what my generation cared about, things like gun control, equity in the workplace, flying buses that ran on beans and peanut oil.

The problem is, newspapers and magazines don’t exist anymore. There are no full-time staff positions, only occasional contract work for pop culture rags that pay pennies. So, instead of living the dream, I spent three years as the assistant to a celebrity whom I cannot name because of the nondisclosure agreement, barring me from discussing the temper tantrums, shoe-throwing, and lesbian affairs. As if the affairs are something to bat an eyelash at and not the shoe-throwing.

But the anonymous celebrity gossip and cheap-living hacks earned me a pretty good Instagram following, almost ten thousand. And yet…

“Cassandra,” my mom calls from upstairs. “Will you get up here and clean up after yourself? I’m not your maid.”

I cringe at her tone and scoot off the bed like I’m a child being scolded again. My parents aren’t making me pay rent, but my mom’s made it clear I’m more or less a guest. I’ve been here about a year, and it still feels like they’re waiting on me to check out. But no matter what they think, I’ve been trying. I haven’t even fully unpacked everything, refusing to believe I’m really living with my parents.

By the time I shuffle upstairs to the kitchen, Mom’s gone. I hear her in the living room, and I’m happy I don’t have to face her questions about what I’m doing or if I’ve found any other jobs that don’t involve a place called Sassie’s Lassies with a micro-kilt uniform and bad fried food.

I clean up my single dirty pan and plate from dinner, leaving no evidence of my meal, and then clomp back down to my lair. On the way, I pass framed pictures of me, my parents, and my brother. A family photo in front of some fancy Christmas tree. My eighth-grade school picture with zits and braces. Ray in his high school baseball uniform. Of course, he has the good picture.

I knock it with the side of my fist and take my phone from my pocket. I’m texting my brother before I even sit on the bed, knowing he’ll find my episode this afternoon funny. I mean, I guess it’s funny now that it’s over. But running out of gas on a busy road at rush hour so I had to walk to the gas station in my work uniform of a kilt, knee socks, and tiny white top in freezing temperatures wasn’t too funny then.

Ray doesn’t respond, although he usually doesn’t. He’s terrible at texting and prefers to call people. It’s strange. I’m not good with interpersonal relationships, but I’m great at social media. Ray thinks that’s strange. We’re three years apart but have always been pretty close, and ever since I moved back home, he’s been my only ally.

Which is why when he doesn’t answer my text or call me after an hour, I wonder what he’s doing. I assume he’s fighting with Shayna or out with the girl he’s been seeing, but a scream fractures my thoughts into pieces.

I throw my phone on the pillow when the odd, pained scream echoes again. I scramble upstairs, tripping in my haste. “Mom?”

Once, when I was about ten or so, my mom dropped a heavy bowl on her foot and split her toe open. It was disgusting. She’d shrieked so loud I’d heard it upstairs. She sounds like that now, so I grab some Band-Aids from the medicine basket in one of the cabinets in the kitchen and prepare myself for blood.

But there isn’t any blood in the living room. Only my mom crumpled up on the floor, her hair matted to her red face, the news on the television, and the remote across the room with the batteries out like it was dropped or thrown. Two police officers stand by the door.

My stomach plummets at the sight, and I freeze in place. “Uh… Everything okay?”

Obviously not. Dumb question. But I’m struggling to rub even two brain cells together at the moment, while Mom moves, only enough to let out the same painful cry.

I glance at the police officers with their sad frowns then back to her. My heart pounds out of my chest, and I wipe my hands on my pajama pants, desperate to understand yet knowing whatever this is, it will hurt.

I tug Mom back onto the couch. “What’s going on?”

When she doesn’t answer, one of the police officers steps forward. He’s bulky and out of place next to the female officer, who appears on the verge of crying herself, blinking rapidly.

“What’s your name?”

“Cass.” I swallow a lump in my throat. “Cassandra.”

“I’m Officer Stone. This is Officer Kwon. This is your mother?” He tips his chin to Mom, and when I nod, he asks, “Do you want to sit down?”

I can’t tell, but I think I start to lower down in slow motion, or at least it seems that way, as my mom wheezes next to me. I don’t like it. Her cries box me in, and I’m claustrophobic. I step away from her. “No, I don’t want to sit down.”

“We received a call earlier to respond to?—”

“Raymond!” my mom wails. It’s worse than when the neighbor’s cat snagged one of the baby rabbits living under our tree in the backyard. The keening cry of the baby bunny is unforgettable.

So is this.

“My baby! My baby is dead!”

My vision blurs, and I stagger back. Officer Something-or-other holds on to my elbow, saying, “I’m sorry to inform you Raymond collapsed outside of the gym and?—”

An idea sparks in the back of my mind. The latest season of Married at First Sight is available to stream. I love it because I hate it.

“—tried the address listed on his license, but no one was home?—”

I need to stop at the store for tampons and set my alarm for tomorrow morning.

“—listed as his emergency contact?—”

I really want to paint my nails. This blue’s all chipped, and if I don’t paint them tonight, I won’t have time tomorrow with a double shift at work.

“—couldn’t revive him. Your brother died.”

Your. Brother. Died.

I pull those words apart in my mind, try to weave them back together in a way that makes sense. They don’t. I don’t comprehend the language. It’s foreign, and I frown in concentration.

“I’m sorry.” I finally look up at the police officer. “What’s your name again?”

“Officer Stone.”

I nod blandly. “Okay.”

Mom bawls beside me.

“I don’t—” I shake my hands out then wipe my still-clammy palms down my arms. “I don’t understand.”

“I know it’s a lot to accept.” Officer Kwon speaks up from her place at the door like she’s afraid to step farther into the house. “Is there someone you want us to contact?”

“Um…” I watch my mother grow more and more hysterical by the second.

Ray is dead.

My brother is dead.

Is there someone I want them to contact?

“I…I’m not sure.” I drop my gaze to the floor, kneading the thick threads of the carpet underneath my feet. If I look hard enough, I can find the faint stain of red from a bloody nose Ray gave me when I was nine. He’d been watching wrestling and said he wanted to try a move on me. It wouldn’t hurt, he’d said. It’s all pretend anyway.

Then he’d dropped me face first onto the floor.

“What happened? To him. To Raymond. What happened to him?”

“They aren’t sure yet,” Officer Stone says, running a hand over his shiny bald head. “Not until the autopsy.”

I focus my attention outside of the window. It’s dark already. The thing I hate the most about the winter is how dark it gets. When my brother and I were really little, we used to try to convince Mom it was still light out by piling up a bunch of lamps in his room, as if she’d believe it was daytime and let us stay up later.

“Where…” I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head, as if I can make any sense out of this. “Where is he now?”

Officer Stone clears his throat. “His body is being transported back to the county coroner’s office. That’s where they’ll do the autopsy.”

I imagine all the episodes of Law Order I’ve watched. My brother’s going to be cut open like a frog and dissected like a science experiment. I push my fingers against my eyes as my mind swirls and stomach clenches. I don’t usually get carsick outside of a car, but there’s a first time for everything.

Like now.

“Cassandra.” Officer Stone touches my shoulder lightly. “Does anyone else live here with you both?”

I swallow. “My dad. He works in Manhattan, and sometimes he doesn’t get home until late.”

“Do you want us to stay here until he arrives? Do you think your mother will need medical assistance?”

I once again look to my mom, trying to think. “I don’t—I’m sorry,” I say, taking a deep breath. “I don’t know.”

“It’s okay. Take your time. Why don’t you sit down, be with your mom for a bit? We’ll be right outside.”

I nod dumbly as the police officers shuffle out the front door. I don’t understand why he keeps telling me to sit down. I don’t want to sit down. “Mom?” I reach for her hand, wishing she’d tell me what to do. But she doesn’t, and I’m helpless. “Mommy?”

She lifts her head up, her cheeks red and blotchy, mascara all over her face, and her eyes widen like she’s seeing me for the first time. “Cassie! My boy! My boy is dead!”

She leaps off the sofa and picks up a framed photo of my brother in his college graduation cap. “He’s never coming home again. My baby is gone!”

I watch her, stunned, her wild voice and actions hindering my own ability to do anything other than agree. “I know.”

I slowly approach her, gently take the picture away from her and put it back before sitting her on the couch. She wraps her arms tightly around my shoulders, crying next to my ear. Her breaths are loud, shuddering sobs that take over her whole body and dampen my shirt.

“W-what are we going to do?” she stutters out. “What am I going to do now?”

My polished mother with her ironed slacks and pearl earrings—my no-nonsense mother, who has three different planners for any given day—my mother is asking me what to do. While she’s breaking down, I’m the one holding it together. And I still don’t know how to answer her questions.

I have no idea what to do now.

I hear the low hum of my dad’s Mercedes, and I tilt my head, catching a glimpse of shadows moving outside. There are soft murmurs and then a muffled sob before a howl. Like a lost wolf crying to the moon, and I cringe as the sound reverberates through my body. The pain invades all of my senses.

With my mother still clinging to me, I’m afraid to move, but I want to see my father. I need something—someone—to help center myself in the middle of this chaos since Mom is lost. Dad raised Ray and me to have a stiff upper lip, and I’m not sure how to do that right now. I need guidance or…or someone to tell me it’ll be okay.

I unclench my mom’s fingers from around my hand as I see my dad retreating to his car. I run outside, waving him down. “Dad!”

He doesn’t make a move to stop. Merely drops behind the wheel and takes off.

I bend over, my hands on my knees, out of breath.

“Cassandra, are you all right?” Officer Stone stands me up straight. “You look a little pale.”

“Where’s my dad going?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “People take this kind of news in all different ways. I tried to stop him, but…”

I face my house. The front door is open, all the lights on. My mother’s lying on the couch, her face pressed in toward the cushions.

“Your father mentioned Raymond’s wife. I assume she was out of the house when we stopped over there before.”

I blink a few times, trying to make my way through the fog that’s taken up residence in my head. “She takes the girls to gymnastics some nights. I don’t remember when… What day is it today?”

“Tuesday.”

I nod. “That’s probably where they were.”

“Would you like us to go back over and talk to her?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess.” I rub at the stinging in my eyes.

He assesses me with a squint. “Is there someone you can call to be with you?”

“I’ll call my aunt.”

“All right. We’ll wait until someone gets here.”

I head inside, pass Mom, and go to my room. The thread of the texts between me and Ray is up, and for a moment, I scroll back to his last message. Come on, Cass, I’ve known you your whole life. I know you’re not happy living there, move out.

How can this be it? The end of the conversation. He’s supposed to text me back, make fun of me for being such a child. I’d tell him I want to buy a motorcycle, and he’d send me the side-eye emoji. This cannot be how it ends.

I swallow down the urge to throw up and dial Aunt Joanie. She answers after a few rings.

“Hey, Cassie Cat.”

It takes me a second to stutter out what I need to say, to even put the words in correct order. “Hi. I, uh, think you should come over.”

“Now?” She laughs. “It’s almost nine. Isn’t your mother going to bed soon?”

My mom and Joanie are sisters but complete opposites. Where Mom is strict, Joanie is loose. Mom sips diet soda; Joanie gulps red wine. Mom’s smile has to be earned; Joanie laughs all the time.

“Raymond’s dead,” I say.

“What?”

“My brother. He died. My brother is dead.” The words tumble out of my mouth, but I don’t believe them. I have to keep repeating them because they don’t sound right. The voice is too quiet to be mine.

“Oh my god. I’m getting my shoes on now. I’ll be over as soon as I can.” She hangs up, and I stare at my phone, wondering what to do next.

So, I sit on my bed for a while, studying everything in my room with new eyes. The dirty clothes piled up on the floor, a T-shirt I sleep in that used to be Ray’s. A poster of Harry Styles that I’m way too old to own and my brother makes fun of me for it all the time, even though he constantly sings his songs.

Sang.

He sang those songs.

I rub at the tightness in my chest. It’s like I’m filled with cement, every breath difficult to find. Even my arms and legs are heavy as I push off the bed.

“There you are,” Aunt Joanie says, rushing to me once I hit the top of the steps. Her normally red-painted lips are plain, and she’s wearing sneakers. I’m not sure I’ve ever witnessed her in sneakers before.

Everything is upside down.

“Oh, honey. I can’t believe this happened.” She hugs me tightly. “Where’s your dad?”

“Drove off somewhere.”

She sniffles and holds me at arm’s length, telling me, “We’ll get through this. We’ll all get through this.” Then she clasps my hand in hers and leads me into the living room, where Mom sits, her face free of tears and mascara. “I got her cleaned up a bit. Gave her a Xanax,” Joanie whispers to me. “She needed to calm down.”

She’s certainly calm now, her eyes a million miles away. The only thing moving is her finger twitching on her leg. I wonder what’s actually better—this robot version of Mom, or the wild, terrified Mom of a few minutes ago. I’m not sure. They’re both unfamiliar to me.

“I’m going to call your grandparents,” Aunt Joanie says, furiously typing on her phone. “This is going to kill them.” She puts her phone to her ear, gazing over at my mother, then briefly at me before the floor. But I don’t miss it, the look in Joanie’s eyes. The look that says this has already killed my mother.

I turn away to the windows in the front of the house, where I see Officer Stone leaning on the police car. When I open the door, he tips his chin up to me.

“You’re still here,” I say, coming to stand in front of him.

“I am. Wanted to make sure your mom was receiving help and you were all right.”

“That’s nice of you,” I mumble, feeling kinda bad about all the Defund the Police stuff I posted. “But my aunt’s here now, so…”

He studies me for a long time. It’s unnerving, and I glance away, unable to take his scrutiny as if he’s waiting for me to break down like Mom or run away like Dad. I won’t do either. I can’t. It’s physically impossible for me to do anything other than stand in shock, accepting each and every blow of this awful thing. It’s beating me down, but I’m tethered to a pole, waiting for it to end.

“I know right now this is all new and confusing. It’s terrible, but it won’t always be that way.” He offers a nod before settling into driver’s seat of the police cruiser. Officer Kwon is already in the passenger seat. She couldn’t handle this.

Funny, me neither.

I stay outside, sitting on the stoop in front of the door. It’s cold out, cold enough for my breath to form clouds, but I don’t mind. It’s nice, a respite from the overwhelmingly warm house. With no idea where my dad is, and my mom gone from completely distraught to weirdly still, I’m not sure what any of this means. Where do we go from here?

I don’t have to think about the question long, because in a matter of what seems like minutes, the house fills with people. My octogenarian grandparents arrive with a flourish, my grandmother fainting when she hears the news. My grandfather lets out a string of curses like I’ve never heard before. A few of my mom’s friends show up, making sure she drinks water and eats crackers. One of them even empties the dishwasher and cleans the already-clean kitchen. Another one of them calls a relative who’s a funeral director and, as a favor, will be over first thing tomorrow morning. They say my mother won’t have to worry about anything.

My closest friend from college lives across the country in Oregon, and we haven’t spoken in a while, so I don’t have anyone to force me to eat or rub my back. I’m not great with keeping up relationships, especially those from my hometown. Raymond says I don’t let anyone get close because I’m afraid to show them my real self. I think he’s projecting.

Was projecting.

Was.

Stomaching the gut-wrenching pain is hard enough, but trying to learn the grammar of death is cruel and unusual punishment. I’d rather throw out the English language entirely than try to learn this new version.

Dad eventually shows up, and my earlier disappointment of his leaving morphs to relief now that he’s here. We’re all present and accounted for—the three of us, at least. He hugs Mom for almost a minute. I know because I time it from my seat on the floor in the corner of the living room.

No one bothers me.

I watch the flurry of action like a movie, some people I know, some I don’t. All of them whispering or crying about how terrible this is, how heartbroken they are for my parents.

This is terrible. This is heartbreaking. For me too.

My only sibling is gone. My older brother and first friend has died. And it’s as if a piece of me is dead too, but I don’t dare say this out loud. I’m almost afraid to think it because being Raymond’s sister is so deeply ingrained in the person I am. What am I without that title? Without him?

I slip away to my room in the basement, once more taking some time to admire the pictures on the wall. Raymond in all these photos, with his perfectly aligned teeth, golden skin, and just-this-side-of-wild sandy hair, oozes charm. But there aren’t any more pictures to be taken. This is all that is left of him.