Seeing Shane Gray ✓

four | remember

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August 26

I get home in the evening, skipping going shopping with my friends. They're excited for the football season, and since Riley is kinda-sorta dating the star quarterback, she wants to dress to impress. As for me, I'm not feeling so well. I'm tired all the time now.

Maybe Marla is right and I should see a doctor. She's noticed it, the changes in my behavior and metabolism. Having to eat something every few hours or drinking excessive amounts of water that make me rush to the bathroom every two hours is bad enough, suddenly feeling the urge to sleep is another thing entirely.

It's not normal as far as I can tell.

Walking straight to the kitchen, I pull open the refrigerator and peek into it. I see a loaf of bread and grab it, taking out a jar of peanut butter while I'm at it. I don't want to eat something sweet but the sinking of my heart and spinning of my head tells me I need to eat and fast. The thought of mom and dad coming home to find me passed out on the kitchen floor is frightening.

But maybe that'll make them care about me again.

Sighing and shaking my head, I take a knife off the stand. I jump up to sit on the kitchen counter before putting some peanut butter and jelly on cold bread. I take a bite and the dry sandwich clogs my throat, refusing to go down. I choke, getting off the counter and filling a glass of water from the sink. When I can finally breathe again, I open the fridge and pull out a carton of milk, drinking from it.

I hear the lock of the house click and door open, freezing for a moment before Mom comes into my view. She catches sight of me and stops in her tracks, a faint smile appearing on her face.

"Oh, Taylor, it's you," she says, her voice so distant I almost don't recognize it.

She looks the same as she always did, dressed in a long blue cardigan that stops below her white top. Her hair which she had set in the morning is coming undone and she isn't wearing any makeup. While both Carter and I inherited Dad's Asian features, Mom is surely the prettier one. I have Dad's dark-brown almost-black hair and the same brown eyes that disappear when I laugh. Even my button nose which Carter sometimes smacked as a child because he wondered if I'd squeak. He'd sometimes said he wished he looked more American. Maybe then he would fit into the crowd better. He didn't admit it to anyone but me, though, and said I shouldn't tell anyone unless he did first.

He never told anyone how he felt.

"You're home early," I speak, holding the cold and tasteless PB&J sandwich between my fingers.

Mom nods, leaving her bag on the kitchen counter and opening the fridge. She closes it without taking anything out. Reaching into one of the upper cabinets, she grabs a bottle of champagne. I frown when I see her removing a glass from the stand next to the sink, rinsing it, and pouring herself a drink.

It's barely evening, mom.

"I wasn't feeling so well," she says, lifting the glass to her glossless lips.

"Yeah, same," I say, knowing she hasn't asked me why I'm back early. It used to bother me, it still does a bit, how she never asks how I'm doing anymore. It's like I'm not even here.

It's like I died with Carter.

"Will Dad be coming back soon too?" I ask, almost hopeful.

A part of me misses the family time we had, having dinner together every evening and talking about our days. Mom would tell us about the kind of customers she saw at the retail store and Dad would complain about his overbearing boss and lazy colleagues. I liked talking about my classes and the badminton team. Carter usually listened before taking out his Gameboy. This would result in Dad telling him it's impolite to do that at the dinner table and that he was becoming aloof. He never argued, shaking his head and excusing himself from the table.