It's kind of quiet and peaceful, but not a good quiet. Not like a tranquil, Japanese garden kind of quiet. This is the eye of the hurricane, calm before the storm; like the calm before everything you know disintegrates into ash and vanishes before your eyes.
I enter my house warily, footsteps as quiet as I can make them, my hand inside my jacket clutching my penknife. Just in case. The door bangs shut behind me and I wince.
"Cory?" yells my mother. I sigh, wishing I'd shut the door quieter, but with my stomach turning slightly I walk into the kitchen to see my mother at the table, glasses on, examining some sort of file on the kitchen table. She looks tired, but happy. Like she's spent her entire life following the rainbow and just found the pot of gold.
"Hi, mom," I say, dropping my backpack on the table and opening the fridge. It's stocked full, which is weird, because my mom usually doesn't have the time to go grocery shopping – she's a big shot at some law firm – and seeing all the snacks inside both unnerves me and overjoys me. "What's with all the food?"
"I have good news," she cheers, her face opening up. "The best news!"
"Dad's coming back from his business trip early?" I ask. Kind of a stupid question, because Dad never comes back early, and I know my mom misses him when he's away.
She smiles slightly. "Yes – but there's more."
What could possibly be better than Dad being home in time for Christmas? Did she get a promotion? No, I'm pretty sure that's not it. I glance down at the files on the table and my heart freezes as I catch sight of "Harbor View House." Suddenly, the unease roars up all around me and I grasp the edge of the table hard.
"Jake's coming back?" I whisper, my face white.
She nods, a giant smile on her face, expecting me to mirror her joy but all I can is to rush over to the kitchen sink in time to throw up whatever lunch I had.
Jake's coming back.
***
My dad comes home late at night, stubble on his chin and red eyes from lack of sleep. I sit at the kitchen table waiting for him, my dog Sierra by my feet. He grins when he sees me. I guess he remembers when Jake and I would wait for him at the door of our house. The second he entered, Jake would grab his right leg, and I'd grab his left, and he'd pretend to be destroyed by his two little sons. Jake and I would high five each other over our dad's body. Then he'd pick us both up and give us whatever trinkets he'd gotten at the airport, usually lollipops or the like.
This time, it's not quite so innocent. He lets his smile slip like melted butter when he sees my expression.
"So you heard."
"Damn right I heard," I assert. "Are you forgetting what happened the last time that freak came back?"
"Don't call him a freak," my dad says wearily. That's a never-ending battle between the three of us. But he is a freak, and he always will be; however offensive it is to Mom and Dad – too bad. I tell it like it is. "And yes, your mother and I talked about this extensively. He's on new meds, and the doctors say–"
"Fuck the doctors!" I say. "They said a lot of bullshit last time too, and..." my face crumples, "...and you want to see what I got for it?" I yank up my shirt, revealing the pink scar that stretches from my hipbone to my sternum. "That's what I got. That's what you and Mom and those bastard doctors gave me. That's all the freak is good for. Hurting and tearing apart..." I break down into tears, embarrassed, humiliated, and I feel like I'm 12 years old again, hiding out in the bathroom and hoping he doesn't get to the knives again, praying to Jesus that my mom and dad get home soon.
