Orange Juice

Mystery Girl

I need a fucking job. The saying goes, "Idle hands are the devil's workshop," but that doesn't apply to me. My idle hands are so close to taking action, to storming into the devil's lair and strangling him. No, I can't go down that path. My mind is overwhelmed with overthinking. No, I need a job.

This morning, Colby left for school with my dad. Dad decided to reduce his working hours to three days a week. Retirement wasn't suitable for him. I imagine his mind is similar to mine. We can't stay still; we have to keep ourselves occupied to avoid dwelling on that one night. Sometimes I wonder if he just can't look at me, the disappointment, the guilt. He's just as stuck in that vortex as I am.

I heard mom whimpering this morning. Her good days and bad days still come and go, even after ten years. I've been trying to avoid thinking about it, but I know that's not how our minds work.

Today marks ten years since that day, since Levi decided that life was all too much for him. Tonight, we will raise a toast to him. Mom will have a glass of wine with dinner, maybe even two. Dad will have a few beers. It will be my first anniversary spent with them.

However, I had been toasting him every year, every hour of every day for the past ten years. Every time I relapsed, I blamed him and raised a toast, thanking him for leaving me. "Thanks for the pain, for showing me the dark side of life, big brother." It became tiresome, just like me. I'm not sure if I will ever find peace or make it through. But fuck, do I miss him.

Finally ready to emerge from my dingy little cave, I ascend the creaky wooden stairs and step into the kitchen. There, I find my mother shaping ground beef into thin patties. A faint smile tugs at the corners of my lips, knowing that Levi loved burgers. And my mother's homemade cheeseburgers were his absolute favourite. She possessed a special talent for making them. Nothing compared to them.

"Want some help, Ma?" I inquire, meeting her bloodshot eyes. The pain still lingers, evident in her gaze. No parent should ever have to bury their own child. In that regard, I can't related to her pain.

She shakes her head, "No thanks baby." her usual icy tone absent. I swallow hard, fearing that it may have been a mere slip, a fleeting moment where she momentarily forgot her disappointment in me. Or perhaps, just maybe, she has found it in her heart to forgive me.

She gestures towards the stack of leftover pancakes on the kitchen table. I grab two and place them on a napkin, reaching for the sticky bottle of syrup. With a dollop in the center of each pancake, I fold them and devour them swiftly, washing them down with the remnants of orange juice in the carton.

"You could use a glass, you know," Mom scolds lightly, just like she used to when I was a teenager.

Carrying the tray of patties to the fridge, she stops beside me, her eyes glazed over. The slow rise and fall of her chest creates a lump in my throat. "I'm sorry," I whisper.

Snapping out of her trance, she asks, "Sorry for what?"

Sorry for being a disappointment, for not answering his calls that night, for sneaking around behind everyone's back with his best friend, for being so infatuated with Andy that I missed all the signs, for the alcohol and the relapses, and the money spent trying to keep me on the right path.

I shrug. "Everything?"

I wait for her apology because despite everything she owes me one, they both do. But I know she believes that raising Colby for me is her way of making amends. However, their actions don't erase the trauma. The phantom bruises and memories of that night still ache. But do all of my mistakes erase her guilt? His guilt?

Mom clears her throat, pulling open the refrigerator door and sliding in the tray. She sighs as she closes it.

"You have an appointment today," she taps the calendar on the door. I brush off the slight condescension in her tone.