But what I hate the most about him are his eyes. I hate how I feel when I look at them. Not that his eyes are accusatory, but I always get swallowed up in guilt when he's looking at me. Because no matter how much his individual features annoy me, they complement each other very nicely. I look down at my feet and wish the last five minutes never happened. I shouldn't have walked in here. I shouldn't have looked at the sketch he drew. And I shouldn't have stared so long at him just now. Because I'd give anything for him to look at me the way he looked at me when he thought I was Honor. The fact that I want that embarrasses me more than being caught in his room.
I rush past him, refusing to look at him as I make my way out into the hall. I walk straight to my bedroom door and open it, then slam it shut. I fall onto my bed and I feel the tears as they begin to sting at my eyes. I don't even know why I'm emotional. It's so dumb.
What a weird, shitty day.
I pull my phone out of my pocket to text my father. I rarely ask him for anything, but this is an emergency.
Can you stop by the thrift store on your way here and see if they have any trophies?
I wait a few minutes to see if he responds, but he doesn't. Sadly, I'm not surprised.
I lie down on my bed, pull my blanket over me, and think about the picture Sagan drew of me swallowing a boat this morning. It's such a strange picture. I hate how much I like it. I hate that no matter how hard I try not to, I like him a little more every day. Part of me wonders if it's actually him I like, or if I'm just a jealous person. I've never been jealous of any of Honor's boyfriends before him. But then again, they were all dying.
I'm so angry that he's living here now. I was convinced it would be easy to avoid him, but now he's living in the room across the hall from me. I'm going to be subjected to their relationship and to him kissing her and loving her.
I know my father doesn't believe in God, but luckily, atheism isn't hereditary. I hardly ever pray, but I feel like now is as good of a time as any. I roll onto my back and look up at the ceiling. I clear my throat. "God?"
Not gonna lie. It feels weird talking to the ceiling. Maybe I should kneel like they do in the movies.
I throw the covers off and kneel on the floor against the bed. I lower my head and try it again with my eyes closed.
"Hey, God. I know I don't pray as much as I probably should. And when I do pray, it's always something selfish. I apologize for that. But I really need your help. I'm sure you saw what happened with my sister's boyfriend a few weeks ago. I can't stop thinking about him. I don't like the person it's turning me into. I've been having these irrational thoughts, like maybe he was meant for me and not Honor. Maybe you created him as my soul mate, and because Honor and I are identical, his soul got confused and fell in love with her. Because they're nothing alike. They have nothing in common. She doesn't even like the best parts of him. But even if they were to break up, there's no way it would work out between us. I'd never do that to my sister, and as much as I'm attracted to him, I could never love someone that was once with Honor. It's out of the question. So I'm not coming to You to ask You to show him the error of his ways. I'm coming to You to ask if You would just send me someone else. Someone who will completely take my mind off him. I don't want to have the thoughts I've been having anymore. Or at least I don't want to be having them about my sister's boyfriend. I wouldn't mind having these thoughts about someone else. So . . . yeah. I'm merely asking for an alternative soul mate. Or even just a distraction. I don't even care if it has to do with another person. Any interest that isn't Sagan would be great. Whatever you can spare."
I open my eyes and then crawl back into bed. Praying is so awkward. Maybe I should do it more.
"Oh, yeah. Amen."
Chapter Five Merit, wake up."
I didn't know it was possible to roll my eyes before opening them, but I accomplish this feat. "What," I grumble, pulling the covers over my head.
"You need to wake up," Honor says. She flips on the light to my bedroom. I pull my cell phone out from under my pillow to see what time it is.
"It's six in the morning," I mutter, annoyed. "None of us wake up this early." Not to mention she knows I don't go to school anymore, so what's it matter if I'm awake?
"It's six in the evening, dumb ass. It's your night to take Mom dinner." She slams the door.
It's six in the evening? Which means it's still today. Shitty today.
Joy.
I spoon mashed potatoes onto a plate next to a piece of blackened chicken. There may not be much about Victoria to like, but her cooking has always been good. I do wonder, though, what it must be like to have to cook extra food every night for your husband's ex-wife who lives in your basement.
I spin around to grab a roll for the plate, but I bump into Sagan, who has appeared behind me. "Sorry." I try to move around him before having to inhale his scent, or God forbid, look at his face. I move left, he moves right. We're still in each other's way. I move right, he moves left. Are you freaking kidding me?
He laughs at our little dance, but that's because he can breathe when he's around me. He only loses his breath around Honor. I finally spin and walk the other direction and go around the bar. Right before I reach the basement door, I glance back in the kitchen. Honor is now standing next to her boyfriend, making her plate. But he's staring at me with a quizzical look.
He must think I'm such a bitch, especially when something as simple as being in his way happens. I'm not able to laugh it off like he does. I get frustrated and go the other direction.
"Merit?"
I'm not even halfway down the stairs and she can tell it's me. She's somehow memorized the footsteps of everyone in the house. I guess when all you do is watch Netflix and play on Facebook, you get pretty good at listening to footsteps.
"Yeah, it's me."
She's sitting on the couch when I make it down to the basement. She closes her laptop and slides it to the floor. "What's for dinner tonight?"
"Chicken and potatoes again." I hand her the plate and take a seat next to her on the couch. She looks at the plate and sets it down on the table next to her.
"I'm not really that hungry," she says. "I'm trying to lose ten pounds."
"Maybe you should go for a run. The weather is nice."
She frowns. I think I'm the only one who still tries to encourage her to go outside. But at this point, it's not really encouragement. It's more a sarcastic suggestion.
"You haven't been down to see me since last week." She reaches up her hand to brush my hair over my shoulder, but she hesitates before touching me. Her hand falls back to her lap. "Have you been sick?"
Frustrated is a better word. The older I get, the harder it is to understand her phobia. I get not wanting to leave your house, but to hole yourself up in a basement for years while your children continue to live their lives upstairs seems more like the world's longest temper tantrum than a social phobia.
"Yeah, I haven't been feeling well," I say.
"Is that why you've been out of school?"
I narrow my eyes a bit, wondering how she knows I haven't been going to school.
"Your principal called today to check on you."
"Oh. What did you tell him?"
She shrugs. "I didn't answer my cell phone. He left a voice mail."
I let out a quiet sigh of relief. At least the school doesn't know the extent of her social phobia. They still call her before calling our father whenever an issue arises.
My mother tosses the blanket off her lap and stands up. "Can you mail something for me tomorrow?" She walks the length of her living room--all four feet of it--and grabs an empty box from her shelf. "I have some books I promised I'd get to Shelly."
My mother may not leave the basement, but she's got more friends than Honor and I put together. She's obsessed with reading and has joined several online reading groups. If she isn't watching Netflix, she's reading a book or doing video chats with her book friends. I sometimes walk in on her video chats a
nd she'll introduce me and make me talk to her friends. She tries so hard to put on the air of a normal mother leading a normal life. But sometimes when I'm forced to be in one of her videos, I get the urge to scream, "She hasn't left the basement in two years!"
"Shelly said she mailed me a package last week. It should be here tomorrow."
"I'll bring it down when it gets here," I assure her. She writes an address on the box and while she has her back to me, it's the first I've noticed of her outfit. She's wearing a black maxi dress that goes all the way to her feet. "Your dress is cute. Is it new?"
My mother nods, but doesn't reveal how she got it. She must order her clothes online because she hasn't had a visitor other than her children and occasionally my father when they need to discuss a parenting issue. It's a shame, too, because she's gorgeous for her age. It doesn't matter that she hasn't left the basement in forever; she still takes very good care of herself. She applies makeup every morning and her hair is always washed and styled. She probably still shaves her legs every day, which makes no sense because if I decided to never leave the house again, the first thing I would do is stop shaving.
Maybe she's in an online relationship. Normally I wouldn't advocate for those, but I support anything that might give her motivation to leave the basement in the future.
I take the box from her and head toward the stairs. I used to hang out with her for longer periods of time, but it's gotten hard to do that lately. I'm starting to resent her. I used to feel sorry for her and assumed her social phobia wasn't something she could control. But the older I get and the more of my life she misses by choosing to stay in the basement, the angrier at her I am. Sometimes I get so angry when I'm down here, I start shaking and have to leave before I explode on her.
Which is where things will lead if I don't get out of this basement right now.
"See you later, Mom," I say as I head back up the stairs.
"Merit," she says, calling after me.
I let the door to the basement close behind me.
Victoria is in the kitchen, cutting up a chicken breast for Moby. Everyone else is already at the table eating. I grab a plate for myself, just as my father walks through the front door. It's half past six now and his football game starts at seven, so he has his dinner plate made before I do. When I finally walk my food to the table, there's only one empty seat left. Right next to what's-his-face. Honor is on the other side of him, leaning into him and laughing at something he just said. I'm sure it was clever, whatever it was.
I plop down in my chair and scoot it forward. Moby is seated on my other side, to my relief. "You have a good day?" I ask him.
He's shoving a bite of corn in his mouth when he nods. "Tyler got in trouble for saying bastard."
Most of us laugh, but Victoria gasps. "Moby, that's a bad word!"
"Technically, it isn't," my father says.
Victoria glares at my father. "It is when you're only four and you say it at preschool."
"What's a bastard?" Moby asks.
"A kid born to parents who haven't gotten married yet. It's what you almost were," I reply.
You would think I slapped the kid with the way Victoria reacts to my comment. She immediately pushes her chair back and stands up. "Go to your room!"
I laugh because at first I think she's kidding. But then I stop smiling because her anger is authentic. You've got to be kidding me. I look at my father and he's staring at Victoria, his fork paused in front of his mouth. I look back at Victoria. "He asked what a bastard was. Did you want me to lie to him?"
Victoria's eyes are boring into mine. Her nostrils might even be flaring. I've never seen her so mad. I honestly didn't say it out of cruelty. "A bastard is a child born out of wedlock," I say to Victoria. "Isn't that what he almost was?"
Victoria points toward the hallway. "You will not speak that way in front of my child, Merit. Go to your room." She looks to my father for backup. "Barnaby?"
I scoot back and fold my arms over my chest. I'm not backing down. "So you want me to lie to your child?" I look at a wide-eyed Moby. "Since sex is a bad eighties TV show, a bastard is the commercial." I look at Victoria. "Is that better?"
"Merit," Utah says. He says it like I'm the one out of line at this table. I turn my attention to him.
"Are you seriously taking Victoria's side now?"
"Can we please just make it through one meal as a family without a fight breaking out?" Honor says, frustrated.
"Barnaby?" Victoria says, still standing, still waiting for him to punish me.
My father wraps his hand around Victoria's wrist and tries to get her to sit back down. "I'll deal with her later. Let's just eat, okay?"
Victoria snatches her hand away from my father and grabs her plate. She walks toward the kitchen and tosses her food into the trash can.
"Save the scraps," I call out to her.
"Excuse me?"
I point to the trash. "The scraps. Wolfgang can eat them."
"Wolfgang?" my father says. "Why are you bringing up that bastard dog?"
"And here we go again with that word," Honor mutters.
"Is that why there's a bag of dog food by the back door?" Utah asks.
My father's eyes move to the bag of dog food. He stands up. "Is that dog here?"
I take a bite of my mashed potatoes because I have no idea if I'm about to be sent to my room, but I'm hungry. "He showed up in the middle of the night last night," I say with a mouthful. I swallow and throw my thumb over my shoulder. "He's in the backyard."
"You let him in the backyard!?" my father yells.
Victoria throws her hands in the air. "Oh, this is just great. You get angry at her for allowing a dog in the yard but not for calling your son a bastard?"
I hold up my fork. "I said he was almost a bastard," I clarify.
"Why do you always do this?" Utah whispers. He's so quiet when he says it, which means he's not directing his question at Victoria on the other side of the kitchen. Surely he isn't talking to me.
"You think this is my fault?"
"It usually is," Honor says. "We can't get through one meal without you doing something to piss her off."
I laugh incredulously. "And that's my fault?" I raise my voice loud enough for Victoria to hear our conversation. "Maybe she gets pissed off because she's an unreasonable person. Just ask the little brother she abandoned."
I make sure to look at Victoria so I can see her face. Sure enough, that last sentence was a shocker.
"What did you just say?" She's looking at me like she either didn't hear me or doesn't want to hear me. I open my mouth to repeat what I said, but my father interrupts me.
"Merit," he says, more defeated than angry. "Go to your room."
Victoria slowly turns her head toward my father. "You told her about Luck?"
He immediately shakes his head. "No, they don't know about Luck. She's pushing your buttons."
Now I'm dying to know what she doesn't want us to know. I take two more quick bites of my potatoes in case I'm forced to carry out my punishment. "I'm not pushing her buttons." I swallow and wipe my mouth and then prepare to explain myself. Not that I should be required to do so.
"Wolfgang showed up here last night. It was raining and I felt bad for him, so I let him in the backyard. Then I found out Pastor Brian died and forgot to tell any of you about the dog. I went to Tractor Supply to get dog food today and this weird guy in a kilt asked me for a ride to his sister's house, which turned out to be this house. His name is Luck, he's Victoria's little brother, and he's asleep in Dad's office, since Sagan apparently lives in the guest room now. And like it or not, the definition of a bastard is a child born out of wedlock. And in case any of you forgot, Victoria got pregnant while Dad was still married to Mom, so Moby was practically a bastard."
When I finish my explanation, everyone is quietly staring at me. I face forward and give my full attention to my food.
"He was wearing a kilt?" Sagan asks. As much as I wish he wasn't
talking to me, I appreciate him trying to ease the tension with humor. "What color was it?"
I force myself to look across the table at him. A small smile plays across his lips.
"Green plaid."
He nods appreciatively. "Can't wait to meet him."
"My brother is here?" Victoria says. Her voice is much quieter now. "Luck is here? In this house?"
I start to respond, but I don't have to because Luck is now standing at the end of the hallway. "Technically, it's not a house," he says to her. "It looks more like a misunderstood church."
I'm starting to understand what Luck meant about conversations being a Ping-Pong match, because we're all looking back and forth between Luck and Victoria, waiting for the emotional reunion.
Victoria's hand goes up to her mouth. My father walks up to her and puts his hands on her shoulders, trying to take her attention away from her little brother. "Sweetie," he says soothingly. "Let's go talk it out with him in the bedroom."
Victoria shakes her head and pushes past my father, toward Luck. "You can't just show up unannounced, Luck. You need to leave."
Luck doesn't move. He looks a little surprised by her reaction. "You aren't going to hug me first?"
Victoria takes a step closer to him. "Leave," she says. "And next time you want to show up without apologizing first, try calling. It'll save you money on travel!"
"Victoria," my father says in a whisper. He pulls her in the opposite direction. "Go to the bedroom. I'll be there in a second." She immediately starts trying to hide the fact that she's sniffling a bit when she walks away from Luck, toward their bedroom. My father faces Luck.
Luck smiles and walks toward him with his hand out. "You must be my brother-in-law," Luck says. My father reluctantly shakes his hand.
"Barnaby."
"I honestly thought she'd be over it by now," Luck says. "She's right. Maybe I should have called first."
"Be over what?" Honor asks. Luck swings his gaze to Honor and he gives her a familiar smile, but then his smile disappears when he notices me.
He looks back at Honor, then back at me. Then he points between us. "Which one of you gave me a ride today?"