The house is quiet. My mind is too. After days of funeral planning, cemetery logistics, and grief, my mind has finally shut the fuck up. I'm sitting at the kitchen table under the yellow light. I'm just…staring. Staring at nothing. Moving might bring the pain back.
My phone lights up on the table, and my eyes flick down to it. It's Nick. Fourth text in the last three hours. I should text him back so he doesn't send the police again for a wellness check. Against my best judgment, I pry my arm from the table and grab the phone.
The movies. The movies? Doesn't he know that—? Yes. He does know. He just isn't thinking. He's typing again—damage control—but it's too late for that. I shake my head. My nose is filled with my mom's perfume. It isn't, really; I just imagine I smell it. Mom's perfume, Dad's cooking, Damian's art supplies. I need to stand up. I need to move.
I make my way upstairs. I haven't been up here since before the crash. There's only Mom and Dad's room up here. And Damian's. I wander to Mom and Dad's room at the end of the hall. The bed is neatly made; Mom couldn't leave the house without making it first. The air feels heavy up here. The drapes are open. Moonlight falls across the bed.
Dad's glasses are still on the nightstand. He must have put in his contacts before leaving. He was wearing them when I left to go hang out with friends. He was…he was wearing them, right? I close my eyes and try to picture them. Just like they were. The memory feels distant. I wish I had taken a picture of every inch of this house before I left. Even the house feels different. Bigger. I leave the doorway.
Damian's door is closed. I place my hand on the handle. Turning it feels like pushing a boulder through water. My other hand is shaking. Deep inside me, there's more shaking, somewhere where the tremors don't show. I take a deep breath and push the door open. His bed, unlike my parents', is a mess. His toys are scattered across the floor. Drawings of his imaginary world are pinned up all over the room. Damian the Daring and Cal the Courageous fighting dragons and minotaurs litter the walls. Cal the Courageous… I felt distant from him when Damian was around. I'm even further now.
I take a step inside the room. I'm expecting something to happen, but nothing does. I don't turn on the lights. I just wander over to his bed and sit on the edge of it. I pull out my phone, hands still shaking. With one hand I unlock it, and with the other I push my shaggy hair out of my face. From muscle memory, I open my voicemail and press play on the most recent one. The one I always listen to. The one the day before the—
"Cal." My mom's voice crackles through the phone. I can hear the hum of the car in the background. "Hey, we are just headed to Damian's soccer game. Just, uh, give me a call when you aren't busy."
"Hi, Cal!" Damian shouts from the backseat. "Remember, you said I get ice cream on Sunday when I win. Can we get mint chocolate chip? Please?"
My mom laughs. "Sounds like you have plans on Sunday if Damian wins."
"When I win!" Damian shouts again.
"Alright, sweetie, give me a call. Love you to the mountain and back…" She pauses, like she always does.
Before she can finish, my dad's voice cuts in, taking her line. "But please bring a jacket this time."
The whole car laughs, and Mom cuts back in. "Okay, bye."
The recording shuts off. Just like that, they're gone again. It's 11:45 PM. It's 11:45 PM on Sunday. I never got Damian his ice cream. I never got—
I fall flat on the bed and tears, like they always do, start to pour from my eyes. Not just drops—rivers. I reach over, grab Damian's teddy bear, and squeeze it against my chest. Nothing is changing. Everything is the same.
The phone downstairs starts ringing. I jump to my feet and bolt to it. I slam into a wall while taking a corner. It's stupid, but that phone ringing makes me hope that it's Dad. He refused to call my cell phone for some reason I will never understand. I know it isn't him. I just hope it is.
I rush back into the kitchen with the teddy bear's hand in mine. I nearly smack into the counter as I slide on my socks to grab the phone. I answer without looking at the caller ID.
"Hello?" My voice cracks.
"Hello, Mr…" The voice trails off as I hear the clacking of a keyboard. "Mr. Long. I'm sorry to call you so late." It's Nancy. She always seems to call this late for some reason, even on weekends, so I doubt she's sorry. "This is Nancy calling from Kirhand Insurance. The adjuster needs the information about the valuables left behind by your family."
The valuable items? I look down at the teddy bear I'm holding. I think about Mom's pin collection from everywhere we vacationed. I think about Dad's glasses.
"Just the valuable items, Mr. Long," she repeats. I've already told her all of this. I've already told her everything that has value now.
"Nothing to report," I say flatly. "The valuable things don't survive crashes."