Final Room

03 | mia allen

CHAPTER THREE | MIA ALLEN

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          Xavier is more of an open wound than I am.

          In theory, that is. He was in no way involved in The Incident—and didn't even come home for the funerals, which is something that pissed off my dad so much he refuses to acknowledge it to this day—and I'm certain he has his own worries over in Alaska, but I don't want to compare myself to him on yet another aspect of our lives.

          There's no real explanation behind his departure from Chicago, from the family home, away from me. I've never gotten one, at least, and I don't expect him to ever pull me aside for a heart-to-heart conversation to tell me all about why he left. We used to be close, but not close enough for that sort of interaction, and he's always been a lot more closed off, private than I am—or used to be. One day, he simply left the city, bags packed, and moved away to Alaska where he can't be bothered.

          Until the day I show up there.

          I'm not looking forward to this. I miss him terribly, like something inside me has been stolen, and it has never been easy trying to come to terms with a life without my brother when he's still alive yet voluntarily out of reach. I don't know how he'll take me invading his personal space when there must be a good reason for him to be so far away from all of us and everything he's ever known, and I don't want to be a burden on him.

          I see the toll my prolonged presence in the house is taking on my dad, forcing him to change his entire daily and weekly routines to accommodate me, and Xavier has never been the type of person to settle. I assume that's why he left—he was too tired of his routines in Chicago, too tired of being confined to one space, and Alaska is different enough.

          "I don't think that's a good idea," Dad begins.

          Mom scoffs. "Of course you don't."

          "Sharon, Jesus Christ. Will it kill you to hear me out?"

          "It depends. Are you going to make me feel bad for thinking about what's best for our daughter and pursuing it instead of sitting around and waiting for things to miraculously get better?"

          They never used to fight before The Incident. Having to deal with me in the house in a time I'd usually be spending elsewhere has only stressed out my dad even more, and it's only natural that he has to somehow find an outlet to release his frustration that doesn't make him lose his job. I suppose there's some pent-up anger and resentment from the divorce, even when they forced themselves to present a friendly, united front for my sake—and Xavier's when he was still around—but these interactions don't make me feel any better.

          "Look," Dad says, with a small sigh I'm certain she'll interpret as being condescending. "I don't doubt you have a different kind of insight, but this is Xavier we're talking about. He left for a reason, and I think we need to look out for both our kids. Maybe he won't be too thrilled to have someone else around, and that wouldn't be ideal for Wendy. Not now."

          Mom deflates. "I know."

          "Then—"

          "I've spoken to Xavier."

          The air in the room tightens.

          My body is so stiff I can't move, even if I want to, and it's as though my heart has been punched out of my chest. I don't know what this feeling is, exactly—fear of what will happen, jealousy that the one person who gets to talk to him isn't me—but I don't like it. Whatever it is, it keeps me glued to my seat, a hand resting on the dog's back for comfort, and I can't bear to look at my parents.