“When should I reschedule your meeting with the detectives?” Mom asks.
My fork freezes above the beans. “I don’t know.”
“Next week?” she asks gently.
Dad stops cutting into the roast and sits down.
“I don’t know.”
“You have to talk to them sometime,” she presses.
I nod like I know, but really, I don’t. Why do I have to talk to them? Why is everyone so concerned about me talking to someone? Earl Rae is dead. I’ve been found. What more do they need to know?
“I’ll let you know.” I take another bite of beans as a distraction. This dinner is like enduring slow torture, and I’m not the only one who feels that way. It looks like everyone feels the same. Even my “usual” chair feels like it has sprouted thorns.
“Do you want me to put together a little get-together with some of your old friends?” Mom’s holding her fork, but she hasn’t touched her plate. The only ones eating are Connor and Dad. “I know they’ll be eager to see you.”
I can barely remember the names and faces of my old friends. I know I had some. Good ones. But their faces are blurred out of my memory, their names buried in the attic of my mind.
I swirl my beans around on the plate. “I’ve seen Torrin.”
Mom and Dad exchange a look.
“Maybe some friends who aren’t old boyfriends who went and became a priest,” Sam says under her breath.
“A lot’s changed in ten years, Jade. I know you weren’t here to change with it, but you’ll have to find some way to catch up.”
I know what my dad’s talking about. Or who he’s talking about. He wants me to accept that Torrin’s not a part of my life anymore. He wants me to let go of whatever part of him I’ve held onto.
“Don’t worry, Jade, I’ll take care of arranging some kind of get-together.” Mom glances at my plate. Worry touches her eyebrows. “I was also looking into a way for you to work on your GED so you can start applying to colleges. You could probably even start your freshman year in the fall.”
My head spins, and I numb out the rest. My GED. College. Career. I haven’t seen the inside of a classroom in a decade. What if I can’t pass the GED? What if no college wants me? What if I don’t even want to go to college?
I don’t know. Up until now, I haven’t even considered it possible. Does the person I am now still want to go, or does she want something else?
I don’t know—big goddamn surprise.
Mom’s moved on to talking about old friends—who married who and who’s off at med school—and I suddenly feel like someone’s just come up behind me and wound their fingers around my neck. I can’t breathe. I can’t talk. The invisible fingers tighten, and I jolt out of my chair.
Everyone stops talking and stares at me.
“I’m going to excuse myself.” My voice sounds strained, like those fingers aren’t as invisible as I thought. “Thanks for dinner.”
I don’t wait for them to say anything; I just leave the dining room. I don’t miss the way Sam watches me leave though—like I’m a grenade that’s pin is gradually being pulled. Or the way Connor stops chewing and looks like he wants to say something but doesn’t. Or the way my mom leans her head into her hands and the way my dad looks out the window like he’s at a loss.
They’re as uncomfortable around me as I am around them. I don’t know how long this will last. I don’t know if it will ever pass. All I know is that I can’t sit in that chair, at that table, any longer.
Once I hit the stairs, I lope up them. By the halfway point, I have to slow to taking them one sluggish step at a time. I haven’t climbed stairs in years. The treadmill I used to walk on didn’t have an incline option, so the stair climb feels like sprinting up the Himalayas.
When I reach the second floor, I pause to catch my breath before continuing down the hall. I haven’t been in my bedroom since arriving home—I’m not sure if it’s still “my bedroom”—but it’s the only place I can think to go where I can close a door and have some privacy.
I glance in the room that used to be Sam’s. It’s been turned into a gym. Connor’s room has been turned into a guest room. The door at the end of the hall is closed. My room. I wonder what it’s been turned into. A storage room? An artillery room for Dad’s gun collection? A sewing room?
I twist the handle and push the door open. Cool air washes over me. The room’s dark, so I can’t see much, but I can tell that the curtains are the same. I remember them because Torrin opened a can of soda that exploded all over them, and no matter how many times Mom washed them, the dark stains couldn’t be totally removed.
I search for the overhead light switch and turn it on.
Light floods the room, and I blink a few times to make sure I’m seeing what I think I am.
My room’s the same. Nothing’s changed. It’s almost like a shrine the way the stuffed animals are still arranged on the rocking chair stuffed in the corner of the room and the way the blankets look like they’ve been ironed free of all wrinkles. My dresser’s in the same spot with the little glass swan figurines I kept on it. The pictures of my friends and family are still there, propped on my vanity. The corkboard with all of my random junk—old movie ticket stubs, bandanas from homecoming games, more photos—is still hanging beside my closet.