Some Quiet Place

empty for her. But I give them to her nonetheless, because besides her parents, I’m all she has.
    Finally, she sighs. The sound is broken. “Okay. Goodbye, Liz.”
    Her tone is infinitely sad, resigned, like this is the last time we’ll ever speak.
    Standing in the middle of my room, hardly noticing the mess of splattered paint and tarps, I study the partially finished mural. The green and the smell permeate everything. These images mean something for me, they have to. But where’s the connection? What is the timeline here, who are all the players?
    You ruined everything .
    He’s found you .
    Please come back, please …
    The sound of music pierces the silence—it’s coming from Charles’s room. Some kind of rock, the singer screaming rather than attempting something remotely melodious. Outside, the wind howls and pushes at the glass panes of my window. Ignoring it all, I trace one of the tree trunks in the mural with the tip of my finger, thinking, attempting to remember what may have been erased. Around and around like a chaotic carousel.
    You will forget everything.
    You’re completely human—I’d know if you were anything else. You haven’t been sought out, collected, or studied.
    I rocked my daughter to sleep every night, I sang her songs, I dressed her, I fed her, I played with her, I carried her inside of me for nine months. She knew me, and I knew her.
    Sometimes you know things you shouldn’t. You say things.
    You’re not normal. They should lock you up and throw away the key.
    “Liz?” An impatient tap on the door. I turn away from the mural, sensing Emotions on the other side of that door. Emotions and Charles. He’s upset. I open the door a crack and slip out into the hall before he can see the walls of my room. In his present state, I’m not sure how he would react. “What is it?” I ask, acting concerned.
    There are no lights on. My brother is a dark shadow as he rubs the back of his neck in an agitated manner, but I see the Emotion standing beside him is Guilt. Something must have happened with Mom and Dad. Charles sighs, taking my attention away from them. “Listen, would you do me a favor?” Without waiting for me to answer he goes on, “I need you to cover for me tomorrow night. I know it’s my turn to do the chores, but me and some guys are going to do test runs on the track. I just finished some more tweaks on my car and I want to see how she does.”
    “It’s fine,” I say. He’s not going to tell me what’s bothering him, and I won’t ask. Guilt stares at me with a half-smile, her hand tight on Charles, eyes luminous in the dim lighting.
    He nods, hesitating. “Okay, then.”
    Just as my brother turns to go, I say, “Charles?” He turns, and I notice how much he looks like our mother, too. I study his face. “Do you remember what I was like as a baby?”
    If he’s surprised by the question, he doesn’t show it. The Emotion fades as Charles smiles at me, probably thinking about how odd I am. “Sure, Liz. You were annoying as hell.”
    “What do you mean?”
    Charles sighs and fidgets—he’s working the night shift at Fowler’s soon—but he indulges me. “You were a handful, Liz. You were always wandering off, exploring. And you never stopped talking. Ever.”
    “Do you love me as much as you did then?” I don’t know why I ask; there’s no motive behind the question. No purpose to the knowing. What’s come over me?
    Now Charles lets his impatience show. He doesn’t have time for dumb questions from his little sister. “Yeah, of course, Liz. I got to go, okay?” The words aren’t real, and he avoids my gaze as he swings around—the sounds of his footsteps bounce off the walls and echo in my head like a heartbeat. Thump, thump, thump . He leaves me there in the darkness.
    “Elizabeth? Are you even listening?”
    I raise my eyes to Joshua’s. “Hmmm? Oh. Yeah, I’m listening.” My voice carries through the stacks, and Mrs. Marble lifts her head, giving me a look. I wave at her in apology.
    Joshua pushes a list into the side of my hand, where it’s laid flat on the table in front of me. “Since you and I never seem to get anything done, I did this at home by myself,” he tells me. “It’s the project, divvied up between us. All you have is a poem and a peer review. You can just give me what you’ve done on Thursday. Oh, and since Mrs. Farmer wants the poems and the story to have a sort of theme going to them, I just picked one out …