Hurry Home by Roz Nay

Author:Roz Nay [Nay, Roz]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Crooked Lane Books
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

RUTH

I hold Pim’s clothespin in my hand, trace over our initials. I couldn’t let them bury it with him. At the funeral, while Mom coughed out tight little gasps, I went to the casket to say goodbye one last time and saw it there beside his body, and I took it, hoping that somehow Pim would know that his home was always with me. I don’t consider that stealing.

But I did steal the photo of Pim from the family album the summer I left the farm. They wouldn’t have given it to me if I’d asked. I took it because it’s happy. It’s as simple as that. There was once a time when everything was okay. There were days when we weren’t in ruin, when I wasn’t the one to blame.

I took that photo, but I didn’t leave it lying on the coffee table for Chase to find. No, he sifted through my things. Maybe I should be angrier about that, but at least he only searched my bag hanging on the hook and didn’t get as far as Eli’s coffee tin, which remains stashed under the bathroom sink. I’m not mad at him; not really. Rifling through another person’s past is all any of us are doing anyway. And if you give a dog nothing but scraps, eventually it will seek out its own food. I tried to explain that to Alex when she finally returned home four hours later, but she didn’t believe me.

“You left it lying somewhere on purpose,” she all but spat at me. “You love that he found it.”

“Alex! Do you think I came here just to mess you up? I’m not trying to cause trouble, you know.”

“No?” she said. “Why break the habit of a lifetime?”

Perhaps she doesn’t understand that everything she lost, I lost, too. There are moments even now when I’m still flooded by Pim, the smell of him, his brown-berry summer skin, his laugh. He used to join Alex and me when we snuck out of our bedroom to watch television long after we’d been tucked in.

Mom liked scary shows—The X-Files or Dr. Who—and every Friday night, she’d make a bowl of popcorn for herself and settle in front of the TV while Dad worked on a puzzle in another room. The smell of warm coconut oil filled the old living room and kitchen. Our farmhouse creaked, but at twelve years old, I’d learned all the floorboards. Alex was seven and followed in my footsteps. Pim was right on her heels. We hunkered at the threshold of the living room and took turns peeping around to watch the TV, the carpet scratchy under our knees. When the show got scary, Pim would gasp, and our gig would be up.

“Willem Van Ness,” Mom would say, her words elongated. “You’re too young to see this. I’m drawing the line.”

Behind the couch, Alex and I watched as Pim’s whole face deflated. He covered his eyes with two flat palms, dimpled at every knuckle, as if not seeing the room meant Mom no longer knew he was there.

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