Makena's Shadow

MAKENA'S SHADOW CHAPTER ONE

I'm supposed to be getting ready to board the plane right now; in fact, I can hear Mom's pissy voice hissing, "Gabriel Kane Foster!" She's saying my middle name kah-neh in that chalkboard scratching tone that makes me want to run away from, and not towards her. I move my head slightly just to let her know I'm still on this planet but I think it's pretty obvious to anyone with a brain that I don't want to leave. I don't want to go anywhere. Not with her. And I'm sure not going to stand next to her. Not after what she said.

"You evil, hateful little psychopath," are the exact words she used when I reminded her that if they had taken out an insurance policy on us like I suggested a while ago we wouldn't be in this situation in the first place. But I digress. After all, her stink bombs aren't the only reason why I'm dragging donkey.

Makena is.

I'm having a hard time remembering the last thing I said to my older sister. Was it, "I hate your guts," or, "I hope you die," or both, like I think it might have been? I keep going over it in my head again and again.

I reach down and gather the fabric around the handle of Dad's old army green canvas duffle; a relic he loaned me because they couldn't afford to buy me a carry on of my own. It smells like spoiled yak cheese and when I yank and hoist the bag filled with my clothes, shoes, and Makena's writing journal (yeah, I stole it out of her room while we were packing. It's my brotherly right to keep it) up into my arms, it fills my nose and permeates the air around me.

I see the hairy old woman next to me fanning her face and by the way she's tearing into me with her eyeballs I know she thinks the animal issue is coming from one of my orifices but there's nothing I can do about it, no excuses I could possibly give her that would make her believe that it isn't my fault, that sometimes things just happen so I stop and adjust my bag near her head. It sucks carrying it from underneath but as much as I would like to carry the gigantic body bag by its straps, I can't. It broke while Dad was serving in what he and his friends dub, 'the sandbox'; that place the rest of the world calls Afghanistan, that place Dad left us for twice, that place where he became a war disabled veteran.

While waiting for Mom to take the brake off of Dad's wheelchair, I put my bag down on the floor and untangle my ear buds. As I plug them into my ears, my mind shifts back to Makena and I marvel at the fact that it's only been two weeks, yet I can barely remember how tall she was or what her normal, everyday face looked like. I mean, I know the basics because me and Mom share those same features with her: mocha colored hair, warm caramel skin, deep brown almond-shaped eyes and long black eyelashes. I also know that even though I didn't think she was anything special, people always said she was attractive like Mom; unlike me, who everyone always guessed was Mr. Bean's lost love child. I do remember thinking that Kena was shaped like a deformed stick figure, and that her bubblehead wasn't proportionate to the rest of her but my brain must be spazzing because I can't grasp the exactness of my own sister without the help of pictures.

Mom's getting vicious, signaling me with sharp, manicured nails and a sour-looking face which means she expects me to get my bag and remove my buds. I gather the fart bag up again and pluck the left earphone out of my ear; act like I couldn't hear her before, even though nothing is playing in either of them right now. "What's taking you so long? Are you still thinking about that girl, what's her face?"

"Deanna." I mutter. You would think she'd know the name of my girlfriend by now.

"Whatever, Gabriel. You know, you better get your head on straight. Girls like her are like grease burgers. You can pick one up at every corner. Come on, help me get stuff together, let's go!" She snaps. Fearful of her heavy ring covered backhand, I grab whatever I can. The combination of my bag, dad's bag, her bags and her purse feels the way I feel: cumbersome.