I usually love early mornings like these, the sky laden with fog, and the clouds trickling water. This morning is different though. Usually I walk this path quietly, the pads of my toes barely indenting the ground, an impressive feat considering my 180 pounds of broad shoulders and beefy thighs. Today, however, my feet punch into the wet sand kicking up tiny particles of rocks millions of years old, grains of a thousand past lives. The wind whips around me, stinging against the cold skin of my calves. I sprint, my legs propelling my weight forward, towards the crashing surf.
“Nessa, what the hell are you doing?” My father bellows from the house, his voice piercing through the noises of the shore.
I pivot, turning my back to the sea and towards my house, its lively cherry red paint a beacon against the gloomy gray of the sky, and shrug my shoulders in its direction as a reply. I remember picking out the paint when Angus was diagnosed. My dad had hoped that if the house was a brighter color it would be easier for Ang to remember the way back home. Of course, now we know it wasn’t that Angus didn’t know which house was ours, it was that he just didn’t want to be inside it. That was when Mom was in hospice, so the house was full of unfamiliar sounds and smells. The combination of her heart monitor’s constant beeping and her ventilator’s puffing, along with the putrid scent of her vomit and sickly sweet odor of death was too overstimulating for Ang, causing him to refuse to step foot in the door. The memory causes my feet to drag as I trudge my way up the hill and back to the house.
Once I arrive at the crest of the cliff I turn back to the ocean, imagining myself immersed in it. I inhale deeply, wishing desperately that I could transport myself back to last summer, before Mom was dead, before the world went up in flames. I exhale sharply and march myself through the front door, leading myself into the kitchen, where I promptly run into a mass of warmth.
“Oh shit, fuck, my bad,” I stutter, stumbling backwards. In my haste I had forgotten that Angus’s new caregiver starts today, and had proceeded to slam right into her. Great job, Nessa, really good way to start that off.
“Nah, you’re all good.” I look up, startled by her voice. It’s different, sounds like she might be from the north, maybe Belfast. However it’s not the accent that throws me off, but the familiarity of it. The huskiness to it, how it sounds almost like she gargled the words before speaking them. Her voice reminds me of Mom’s when she sang, before she lost the strength to breathe on her own. The girl’s eyes, the color of the ocean when the sun hits it in the summer, look up to mine. She might be around five foot two, a whole 8 inches shorter than me, making me self conscious. I hunch my back further, trying to make myself as small as possible. God, she’s hot I think to myself. I’m sure my cheeks have flushed a fiery red, and I hope she hasn’t noticed how flustered I am.
We stare at each other half a beat too long, our eyes are trying to communicate something, but I don’t think either of us know what. I wrack my brain for something to say, wishing I could put together some perfect equation of letters strung together into words to prove myself worthy to this girl (who’s name I can’t remember, I think Dad might’ve said Carly?). I’m pulled out of my trance by a low humming noise, the sound Angus makes when he’s frustrated. I pull my gaze away from the pools of cerulean water and look over at my brother. Before I have time to walk over and ask Angus what he needs, I hear the whiz of Ang’s cup flying across the kitchen. In slow motion I watch his glass of orange juice take off over the table and land on my white shirt. I cringe as the sticky, cool substance seeps into my top, surely staining it bright orange. I glance at the clock mounted above our sink while praying desperately that it isn’t already 9:00 and that I’ll have time to change before biking off to the hell hole that is school. Fuck. It’s already 9:16. I glare at Ang, who senses my anger, and sends me a small, shame fille smile, evidently regretting his outburst. My frustration stays, but it’s not aimed towards him anymore, it’s now angled at myself. I need to get my act together. It’s not fair to Ang to ignore his needs because I’m distracted by his (incredibly) attractive caregiver. Lucky bastard gets to spend all day with her while I’m stuck in school trying to ignore the constant homophobic torment of my classmates.
The clock continues to tick, reminding me that there’s no time for my little pity party. I throw on my brave big sister face and wink at Angus, rustling his hair as I pass him, then wave a hasty goodbye to the girl. And then I’m off. As I cycle through the singular block that is downtown I prepare myself for the harassment I know will follow my entrance to school.
Not even 3 meters into the building and it begins.
“Yo dyke,” some guy yells to me from down the hall. “What happened to your shirt? Your vegetable of a brother piss on you or some shit?”
I can feel the dampness of the orange juice soak deeper into my skin, the syrupy concoction leaving my chest feeling sticky, and his words leaving me mortified. I’m tired of feeling ashamed of my brother, tired of being ridiculed and humiliated because his brain works differently. Angus is the best person I know, he cares about everyone and their mother, even when they aren’t worth being cared about. Red, hot fury burns within me, threatening to explode. Deep breaths Nessa, you’re already on thin ice. I can’t afford to blow up on this kid, Ms. Shelby, the principal, already threatened suspension the last time I was sent to her.
“What? You can’t talk either?” The first guy’s little croney sneers at me, his yellow teeth glowing under the fluorescent lighting of the hallway. He then proceeds to mutter something under his breath, a word I know all too well. I take a step towards him.
“You wanna say that again chump?” I snarl at him, my eyes narrowing in disgust. He stands up straighter, trying to look get to eye level with me. He cackles, edging me on.
“What’re you gonna do about it? It’s not like you can go crying home to your mommy.”
That’s my final straw. Two bounding leaps and a roundup later, my fist connects with his jaw. The thunk of his body hitting the linoleum floor reverberates through the hall, causing my heart to thud even faster in my chest. Then I hear it, the click clack of Ms. Shelby’s heels making their way down the hall.
With no time to think, I whip around and run. My beach runs are finally paying off. I sprint up the hill, through downtown and around the path, legs pumping and breath ragged. A flash of bright red alerts me that I made it home. While glancing around me to make sure no one was able to catch up I turn the key in my door, crossing my fingers that my dad isn’t home to question why I’m back so soon.
Ang waves at me from the couch, a huge grin spread across his face. I walk over to him, the expression on his face calming the storm of emotion that is my stomach. Angus may not speak verbally, but as he pats the cushion next to him and switches the channel to National Geographic I know he’s saying “I love you.” I also know my dad will get a call soon, and then I’ll surely be in for it, but for now I clutch the feeling of pride that has blossomed in my chest. Being suspended will be worth the smile plastered on Ang’s face.