Her Daughter’s Dream

back to whatever hole she’d been hiding in for the past thirty months. They stood staring at one another, both at a loss for words.

Carolyn chewed her lower lip and gathered enough courage to speak. “Can I use the bathroom, Mom? Would you mind if I took a shower?”

Mom blinked. “Yes. Of course.” She pointed as though Carolyn might not remember the way.

Stripping off her tan leather jacket, tiered peasant skirt, and blouse, she stepped into the stream of hot water. It felt so good. She squirted Prell shampoo into her hand and scrubbed her hair. She lathered and scrubbed her body, washing until the water at her feet ran clear. Then she just stood and let the water beat down on her until it went from hot to lukewarm.

After drying off, she wrapped the towel around herself and found a toothbrush and Colgate toothpaste in the drawer. How long since she’d brushed her teeth? Her gums bled.

Gathering her clothes, she went into her bedroom. Nothing had changed in here either. She slid the closet door open and saw two dresses, a jumper, a few skirts and blouses she’d worn in high school, things she hadn’t wanted to take to Berkeley. She found underwear, faded jeans, and Charlie’s discarded purple and gold high school sweatshirt. He’d tossed it at her the day he graduated. “It’s all yours, Sis.” She could hear the echo of his voice.

The jeans hung loose on her hips. She found a pink belt in the closet and cinched it to the last hole, bunching the denim around her waist. The sweatshirt looked huge on her. She put her arms around herself, thinking of Charlie.

A brush and comb were still in the top drawer. Her scalp stung as she brushed the tangles from her hair. If she’d found scissors, she would have cut it all off, hacked it away in penance. It hung damp and limp to her waist, a curling mass of sun-bleached blonde. She couldn’t stop shivering. Ice ran in her veins.

Charlie. Chel. Both dead.

She went out to face Mom. Carolyn could hear the click, click, click of the potato peeler and followed the sound to the kitchen. Strips of potato peelings flew into the sink. Six naked white orbs sat on the counter. Did they have company coming to dinner? Mom glanced over her shoulder. “There you are. How was your shower?”

“Nice.”

“I put a roast on. Dad will be home in an hour. It’ll be a while before we can eat. Do you want anything now?”

“A glass of milk?”

“Help yourself.”

Carolyn poured a full glass and drank it without stopping. She felt Mom watching her.

“You look exhausted.” Mom bit her lip. She peeled another potato and then made a sound of disgust. Tossing the peeler aside, she scooped up the potato peels and dumped them in her compost bucket under the sink. “I don’t know what I’m thinking. Well, we’ll have leftover potatoes for a few days, I guess.” She gripped the edge of the sink and stared out the kitchen window. “Where have you been all this time?”

“San Francisco.” Light-headed, Carolyn swayed.

Mom had hold of her before she knew her mother had even moved. “Why don’t you lie down and take a nap? I’ll wake you when it’s time.”

Time for what? To face her father? Time for Mom to get over the initial shock of having her daughter show up on the front doorstep like a filthy stray cat?

“Come on.” Mom kept her arm firmly around Carolyn’s waist. When they went into Carolyn’s old bedroom, Mom let go of her and yanked back the covers. “Lie down before you fall down!” She pulled the covers up over Carolyn’s shoulders. Carolyn felt her mother’s cool hand on her forehead. “Sleep for a while.”

She heard the sound of voices, but couldn’t quite rouse herself. Someone kissed her forehead. She thought she smelled her father’s Old Spice. More whispered voices. Then she sank into a dark pit and stayed there.

* * *

Carolyn saw sunlight streaming in the bedroom window. How long had she slept? Her heart stopped when she heard Dad’s voice. She wanted to cover her head with the blankets and go back to sleep. But she couldn’t hide forever.

She opened her door carefully and slipped into the bathroom while her parents talked in the kitchen. When she came out, she opened the door to Charlie’s bedroom and stepped inside.

His bed still had the same blue spread. The red blaze roses bloomed around his window. His Monopoly game had been laid out on his desk, money neatly stacked on both sides of the board, as though he and a friend had just left the game. There were hotels on Boardwalk and Park Place.

A USC banner hung on the wall. The bookshelf Dad had built still held Charlie’s favorite sci-fi novels. She opened his closet. His shirts and slacks still hung there. She stepped inside and held a shirt to her face, breathing in the fading scent of her brother. She took it off the hanger and sat on his bed, holding the shirt to her face. If she closed her eyes, she could pretend he still lived in this room, had just gone out for a drive in his red Impala.

Gulping down a sob, she bunched the shirt against her mouth to stifle the sound. If she’d been anywhere else, out of sight, alone, she might have keened and wailed and screamed the way she had the day she learned her brother had been killed. She might have torn her clothes and ripped at her hair, might have slashed herself with a knife, anything to release the balled-up, tight-fisted, raging grief inside her.

Jesus. Jesus! Why Charlie? Why not me? He had so much going for him. And I’m nothing.

She thought of all the things she’d done in the last three years and wondered if a person could die of shame.

“Carolyn?” Mom stood in the doorway, her face pale and strained.

“I’m sorry.” Carolyn stood, legs shaky. She held Charlie’s shirt clenched in one hand. If Mom tried to take it from her, she’d hang on and fight for it.

“Breakfast is ready.”

Breakfast? Hadn’t she been peeling potatoes for dinner?

Dad sat at the kitchen table. Charlie’s death had aged him. His hair had turned gray at the temples, and he had new lines across his forehead, around his eyes, and in his cheeks, lines carved by sorrow. She met his eyes briefly and bowed her head. He started to rise and seemed to change his mind. He put his hand flat on the table. “Sit down.”

Mom set two plates on the table, one in front of Dad, one in front of Carolyn. Carolyn stared at the mound of scrambled eggs, four strips of bacon, a blueberry muffin. Mom filled her glass with orange juice. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had juice.

Setting her own plate on the table, Mom sat. Dad said grace.

“You slept thirty-six hours.”

Carolyn raised her head and looked at her father.

“You must’ve needed it.” He forked eggs into his mouth, not looking at her.

“You need to eat, too.” Mom waved at the plate.

Carolyn’s hand shook when she picked up the fork, and her teeth hurt when she chewed. Her throat felt so dry she had to swallow orange juice to wash down the muffin. Though they didn’t stare, she felt her parents’ attention fixed on her. What thoughts ran through their heads? What names did they want to call her? Druggie. Boozer. Hippy. Worthless slut.

All true.

They didn’t ask questions; the silence became excruciating. She’d prepared herself for anger, accusations, fury, fingers pointed at the door, but not this watchful tension, this nervous caution.

She’d been sent home by Jesus, bus fare paid by one of His saints. Now what? What could she say? What excuses could she offer?

She couldn’t eat any more. She put her fork down carefully, head still bowed. She put her hands on the table, meaning to push the chair back. Dad grabbed her hand, pinning her at the table. “We’re glad you came home, Carolyn.” His voice sounded rough and hoarse. “You know that, don’t you?”