12/12/2022 0 Comments Anastasia staring at the sun![]() ![]() After a moment, his face twists downward, and he takes a couple steps further into the room to carefully draw the striped curtains closed. The glare of the bulb bounces off the darkened window, and Charlie stops short, staring back at his reflection. I lead him into his childhood bedroom, flicking on the light switch as I enter. He nods, following me into the den and down the hall, but not before pausing and staring at the white chat box still blinking open on the computer screen. There are no bruises on his face now, but a scar glistens, jagged pink through his eyebrow. ![]() “Hey,” I repeat, and my brother looks up. Dad scurries off to turn up the heat, saying he’ll be right back. His hands are shaking at his sides-I can count every bone in his white-knuckled fingers. At least, that’s what Dad told me.Ĭharlie ignores my greeting but uncrosses his arms. When he was younger, he used to play with the kids in our neighborhood. This one is a standalone of Charlie from years ago, posing with a basketball in the street. His eyes are caught on the picture Dad put out by the door. For some reason, I thought he’d be dragging a suitcase behind him, but it’s not like he was away at camp.ĭad nods his head, prompting me to speak.Ĭharlie’s shivering, arms crossed in front of his chest. He’s not carrying anything with him, either. His hair is still cropped close to his head, and he’s dressed in nothing but a long sleeve, loose jeans, and a pair of sneakers, despite the seven inches of snow outside. It could be that I’ve grown since we’ve last seen each other. My brother’s tall, but right now he seems shorter than I remember. He spots me in the den, tugs off his gloves, and gestures me over as Charlie steps inside. Dad walks in first, stamping the snow off his boots. A few minutes later, I hear keys jiggling in the lock outside.īitter wind drifts in as the door opens, and I pull my sweater tight. Jenna logs off to eat dinner with her family. I don’t think she knows that I have a brother. I don’t tell her about Charlie coming home today. Jenna’s online, so we send a few messages back and forth. In the den, I turn the television on to a cheery sitcom, letting it play in the background as I sit down at the computer. I was only five, but I’m near positive Charlie’s room wasn’t this neat ten years ago. ![]() I don’t know why he chose to rearrange everything exactly how it used to be-I don’t even know how he remembers what it looked like back then. I don’t know why Dad decided to bring Charlie’s stuff out of the attic yesterday. I linger outside the door, which usually remains closed. On top of the dresser are rows of Matchbox cars, and on the nightstand sits an old Walkman and a pair of headphones. The carpet’s been freshly vacuumed, too, judging by the intersecting lines that pattern the floor. Dad’s washed the faded plaid sheets and made the bed: tucked in corners, fluffed up pillows, a folded Dale Earnhardt blanket at the foot. Charlie’s old room is one door down from mine I pass it as I move my things to the den. I wait around until then, working on an English paper in my bedroom, but the quiet unsettles me. He never told us who hit him.ĭad said he’d be back from the bus station with Charlie by six o’clock. ![]() ANASTASIA STARING AT THE SUN FULLHe had a full set of teeth, but his upper lip was bruised, blooming purple. The last time I saw him, two years ago, his sandy hair had been buzzed, uneven in patches across his scalp. “The same freckles,” he’ll remark, before turning and hurrying from the room. His eyes will turn glassy, and he’ll ruffle my straw-straight hair. On lucky days, when Dad’s not so tight-lipped, he’ll tell me that I look like her. When I was younger, I’d squint at that magnet, trying to find my smile hidden within my mother’s. The only real point of reference I have is a grainy photo magnet on the fridge, in which my mom and dad are posing in Steelers jerseys at the ’76 Superbowl. Dad cleared out her photos years ago, before he stored away Charlie’s. Charlie’s around eleven, all elbows and knees with a bottom tooth missing. I’m a baby in the photo, cradled in my mom’s arms, my chubby cheeks swaddled in a pink blanket. Even in the hall bathroom, above the toilet, now hangs a family portrait I’ve never seen before. Our coat rack is moved out of the way, so the shiny new frame on the console is immediately visible from the front door. Pictures of Charlie are displayed on the coffee table in the den, next to our bowl of foam fruit. Dad begins his transformation of the house weeks before Charlie’s return. ![]()
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