Lemon Meringue and all Things Sweet

Chapter Six

Floral curtains shudder around the window as the wind pours in. The force of the door slamming nearly startles me from my chair. In swift reaction, I pin my arm across the painting I'm working on, fighting against the wind trying to take it. My bare skin cools from the wet paint underneath. 

"Mama!" I cry as the wind picks up. 

The banging of the shed door outside accelerates in tune with the wearying whistle of the spring wind. Grey sweeps across the sky, swallowing my room in its darkness. When it's clear my cry wasn't heard, I sacrifice the paper and run to my window, forcing it shut. 

I watch the painting sway tauntingly to the carpet, landing face down. I hope it comes out. I rush to my knees and begin peeling it back delicately. Urgent footsteps approach the landing outside my room. Please don't get mad. Please don't get mad. I'm sure paint is washable. I stare at the distorted daubs across the paper that once held the smiling faces of my sister and I. The "17" remained legible despite the tactile features stamped into it from the rug. I look at the backwards matching numbers that lay printed on my floor and sigh. It was almost her birthday. 

"Lemon!" My mom cries as she whips open my door. She doesn't even look at the paint smudges. I do my best to stand up in front of them.  

"There's been an accident."  

...

I wake in sweat-drenched sheets, relieved when I notice Scarlet's body engrossed in slumber. I peel myself from the bed. The hands on the clock point to half-past five. 

After pulling on leggings and a tee, I sit to tie my sneakers. My eyes trail across the floor until they reach the faded stain by my desk. I stare at the number my sister never reached and it stares back like an expiration date on a jar of pesto. 

Scarlet suggested that I switch my bed and desk so I wouldn't have to see it. My mom offered to strip the carpet. I begged her not to touch Emma's room but our therapist insisted that we do it the year that Emma would have left for college, "it is a natural development every family must experience," she advised. I cried for weeks at the boxes that should have gone to a dorm, but instead became destined for a Salvation Army somewhere, the most important ones still collecting dust in the basement. When my mom redid the upstairs flooring, replacing all the carpets with hardwood, I refused her offer to do mine as well. The therapist may have won her over on Emma's room, but I was determined not to let anyone touch mine. Everything remains exactly how it was. 

Before leaving my room, I give one last glance to a peaceful Scarlet. Normally, I'd leave a note,  but knowing my girl, she'll sleep until noon. The window is shut. 

As I descend the stairs, I try my hardest to minimize the squeaking of my sneakers. It's been a long time since I've worn running shoes. 

The TV is muted, its flashing colors illuminating the room where my mom lays cocooned on the couch. I silently wonder how many nights this occurs. 

The air is crisp and motionless, a papery frost fans across every surface of the neighborhood. It was dark enough for the street lamps to be on, casting an orange hue on the sparkling ground. As I'm jogging, the sound of my shoes pounding the concrete bounces off the houses I pass. The sound gets more aggressive, my focus solely on searching for patches that don't look slippery. I begin to leap, desperate to avoid an accident. 

The lights remain off in every house on the street. Before I can process the distance I made, I reach the main street that separates my neighborhood and the beach. I haven't crossed this road since I was eleven. I stop, swallowing dry air, and rub the drip from my nose with the front of my shirt. My lungs burn. I'm not sure if it's the brisk temperature or my emergence out of retirement. I wasn't experienced enough in running to even answer that question.