all men have secrets

To: Laurie
From: Charlie
Re: Four Snapshots of Life At Home

1.
I like being under the covers with my sister, with my cold feet curled up under her hot knees, and her hands tucked under my head. Most nights there isn't much talking - we're too tired -- but some nights she'll ask a question that's a lead in to a much bigger issue. Take last night:

I wonder what so and so's doing now, she muses.

(So and so is one of her favorite topics of discussion. He made seventh grade sort of miserable for me and I don't know why we couldn't get along at all. He was one of those incredibly cool kids who had most people either hating him or wishing he would like them, or both, because he was mean and funny and quick. I think he was a jerk to me a couple of times, and instead of scrambling to make him like me, I didn't hide my distaste for him. For the longest time, he was the only person I would get in fights with, and the reason I learned to raise one eyebrow.)

Probably being some hobo, she continues in a satisfied tone, shifting in bed until the pillows are right where she wants them.

I wouldn't want that, I interject mildly.

Which then leads to a talk about how people can change and, speaking of jerks, there's this one kid at school making her life miserable sometimes and suddenly it's clear why we're talking about so and so.


2.
It’s been a good day, but a long one. By eight, I am sprawled on the bottom half of the couch, barely staying awake. I’ve finally, finally gotten into the book that I’m reading, mostly through sheer bloody mindedness because when do I ever have a hard time getting through a book?, so I read a chapter of that before I really start to drop off.

Except, my phone rings. There’s a stupid little flutter in my stomach I can’t squash, even though I know it’s probably just Caleb calling to say hi.

I knew it wasn’t going to be him, but it’s not Caleb either. It’s my sister.

She is down the hall, and her voice is soft, snuffly.

Can you come in, she asks.

I don’t answer, putting the phone down instead, and creep down the hall into her room.

I slide in; her shifting is the only acknowledgment. She is buried under the covers and her head is turned away from me, towards the wall. This isn’t like her. I wait, quietly, and turn gently so I am on my stomach and our legs are twisted together. She is hot. I begin to worry.

What, she begins and then stops. She tries again.

What happens to us after we die? Science says- and her voice is still sticky from the scared tears she won’t show me, but the words come faster now- science says we’re just made up of atoms and particles and when we die we break down into just atoms and particles again.

I take a breath, unsure. This is a little harder than when someone’s making fun of her at school. She interrupts before I manage to get myself together or say anything.

There’s no proof of anything, she says miserably, and – and –I don’t know what to do, I don’t want to be without Mum and Daddy and you-

When her voice breaks, I recognize the same terror of the unknown future as the one that used to keep me up at night and I know what I need to say.

Even though I normally leave once her breathing becomes regular – she’s a terrible kicker and she has exams tomorrow morning – this time I don’t leave. Especially not after Mum comes in and tells me, with unusual gentleness, to get into my own bed; under the hot covers my sister clutches at my arm with sharp desperation.

We spend the night leaning against each other, her body tucked safely against my side.


3.
The manager who sometimes works behind the coffee counter starts chatting with my dad, as he's ringing up the afternoon coffee.

Man, you're awesome! he says to my dad. Walking around all the time with beautiful women!

There is a pause.

That's my daughter, Dad says finally.


4.
Coming in from dinner with Scott, I creep into my sister’s room. She is asleep, and I will be too, soon. Compared to the hours I used to keep, it is hardly late at all, but times are changing and I am tired. She has kicked off all of her blankets, again, until there is only a corner of one hanging over her foot. The rest are on the ground. I shake them out one by one and lay them over her, until she is covered, and tuck the snoring little dog in next to her. Leaning down to kiss her forehead, I whisper what I always whisper, and instead of rolling over or sleepily responding, she puts her arms up for me to hold her, a sign that’s been the same since before she could talk. I take off my shoes and slip quietly under the covers. Uncharacteristically, she throws one leg over me and clings with both arms to mine, and buries her head into the space between my chest and my shoulder. She does not let go.