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‘What’s all this?’ Jet rubbed her eyes, following the noise of dinging plates and low voices, into the dining room.
Luke and Sophia were here, sitting at the table, Cameron’s high chair tucked in at the end. Something green and swampish wiped around the baby’s mouth.
Mom was serving from a platter of scrambled eggs, bacon on every plate except Dad’s. Too much sodium. ‘Finally,’ Luke said, glancing up at her. ‘You’re awake.’ Like he was annoyed about it somehow.
Not as annoyed as Jet. Couldn’t sleep for hours, worried about running out of time, then slept in till eleven, forgot to set an alarm. Didn’t forget, actually. Didn’t have her phone.
Her parents could have woken her. Actually, it was very out of character that Mom hadn’t. ‘What are you doing here?’ Jet asked her brother. ‘Come sit down, Jet,’ Mom said, handing out pieces of toast. ‘I asked them over, thought we could have a nice family breakfast.’ Emphasis on the nice. ‘Jet, hi,’ Sophia said, a tremble in her bottom lip. ‘I’m just … just so sorry …’ ‘Why?’ Jet pulled out a chair. ‘The eggs aren’t that bad, are they?’ The last thing she wanted right now was a family breakfast, for people to ask stupid questions, like whether she was OK or whether she’d slept well. ‘Did you sleep well?’ Sophia asked. ‘Like the dead.’ Jet took a bite of buttered toast.
Dad picked up his coffee, inhaled it, hiding his face in the oversized mug.
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Luke shoveled eggs into his face, picking up a piece of crispy bacon with his fingers, taking a bite. The crunch of the bacon, not a world away from the crunch of a human skull. ‘Luke, slow down,’ Mom told him, like he was a teenager again. ‘Gotta get to work,’ he spoke through his mouthful.
Mom banged her elbows on the table, put her fingers by her temples. ‘You can be here for your sister, Luke,’ she said, suddenly tearful.
Luke slowed down.
Paused to pick up his knife too. That’s when Jet noticed it, the graze on his knuckles, both of them actually. Freshly scabbed, the surface cracking when he tightened his grip on the cutlery. ‘What happened to your hands?’ Jet asked him.
Luke coughed. Banged his chest until the eggs went down. ‘Sorry, wrong way.’ He held his hands in front of him, fingers outstretched, flexing. ‘Oh, this? I was visiting one of our sites on Friday morning. Tripped over one of the foundation trenches, banged them up a little, catching myself. Just a scrape, it’s nothing.’ ‘I hope you were wearing a hard hat, if you were on site?’ Dad said, the mug echoing his voice back. ‘’Course,’ Luke answered. ‘I know what I’m doing, Dad.’ Dad tried to smile. ‘So, you won’t be falling in any trenches again?’ Luke chewed his cheek.
Sophia piped up now, resting a hand on Luke’s back. ‘I think it’s going to be Mason Homes’ best project yet.’ ‘Mason Construction,’ Dad corrected her.
Sophia’s cheeks reddened and Luke shrugged off her hand. ‘No, I know,’ she said, speaking across the table to her father-in-law. ‘But Luke’s been thinking, he might change the name, wh-when he takes over.
Thinks it sounds more, well, homey.’ Dad had another sip of coffee, finished it with a shrug. ‘It’s been called “Construction” for forty years, since I set it up. Don’t think there’s anything wrong with the name.’ There wasn’t any meanness in his voice – Dad didn’t know how to do mean – but the color drained from Sophia’s face. ‘No, of course there’s nothing wrong with it.’ ‘I gotta pee,’ Luke said, chair scraping as he pushed back from the table, disappearing into the hall. Jet was the one dying, and yet somehow Luke
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had managed to make it all about him. He was good at that. ‘Sophia,’ Jet said now, trapping her with her eyes. ‘I wanted to ask you
something, about Halloween.’ ‘Sure.’ She still looked pale. ‘You came over to the house when we were out. Twice.’ Leaving the question between the lines.
Sophia nodded, too many nods, cartoon-quick. ‘Yeah, to drop off those cookies I baked. Don’t know if you saw them, pumpkins and bats.’ ‘Saw them,’ she said. ‘Ate two of them, before …’ ‘Oh,’ Sophia said. ‘They were fine. A little dry.’ Jet straightened in her chair. ‘But you came over twice. First to drop the cookies, and then again an hour later.’ ‘Did I?’ ‘Yes, you did. The doorbell camera recorded you. I can show you the video if you don’t –’ ‘– Oh, sorry,’ Sophia laughed, too much breath behind it. ‘I remember now. I left my phone here. Thought it was in my pocket, but I must have put it down somewhere. Came back to get it when I realized.’ Jet’s turn to nod. That made sense, the phone thing. But she was enjoying watching Sophia squirm; she was normally so rigid. She didn’t use to be like this, when they were teenagers. Sometimes Sophia had even been the funny one. ‘Which room did you leave it in?’ ‘The kitchen.’ Sophia was ready with the answer. ‘Got baby brain at the moment, don’t I, hun?’ She looked up at Luke, who was back in the room. ‘Huh?’ He wasn’t listening. ‘Jet was just telling us about the doorbell camera footage, from that night.’ Luke glanced across the table, locked onto Jet’s eyes. ‘Does it show what time it happened? When exactly it …’ ‘Not exactly,’ she replied. ‘But my Apple Watch told us. 10:46 p.m.
That’s when someone whacked me over the head.’ Jet spread jelly over a second piece of toast. ‘Say, Luke, where were you at 10:46 p.m. on October
thirty-first?’ ‘You joking?’ he laughed. ‘Kinda.’ Jet shrugged. ‘But, actually, I do want to know. I need to know where everyone was. And if you don’t answer, then everyone’s going to
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think you murdered your own sister.’ She showed him the inside of her
mouth: the sticky, munched-up toast. ‘Jet.’ Mom pressed her temples harder.
Luke threw a corner of bacon at Jet, and the baby squealed in delight. ‘I was at home, like I told the cops,’ he said, half sullen, half smiling. ‘Me and Sophia got home around 10:15 and put Cameron to bed. Then we watched some TV.’ ‘Which show?’ Jet asked, eating the small bacon projectile that had landed in her lap. ‘Friends,’ Luke said. ‘Sophia loves Friends.’ ‘Then we went to bed,’ Sophia added, wiping the green goo from Cameron’s face. ‘So you two were together all night?’ Jet pointed her fork at them. ‘And, Mom and Dad, you were together, driving stuff from the fair back to storage at the MC offices?’ She clapped her hands. ‘Well, it looks like you all have alibis, then.’ Jet turned to the baby, accused him with her knife. ‘Cameron,
what about you?’ He blew a bubble. ‘Don’t we know who it is already, Jet?’ Dad said, dragging his fork through his untouched eggs. ‘They’ve just got to find him.’
‘Who?’ Luke demanded. ‘JJ.’ Luke turned to Jet. ‘It was JJ?’ The rage undisguised in his voice, and in his fists, gripping the table too hard. ‘No, we don’t know,’ Jet said. ‘He’s just skipped town, won’t answer his phone.’ ‘And the text,’ Dad said. ‘The Sorry text.’ ‘I’ll kill him.’ Luke slammed one hand on the table, making the cutlery jump and the baby flinch. ‘Luke, please,’ Sophia said. ‘Not in front of Cam.’ ‘No one is killing anybody,’ Mom said, voice rising, taking charge. ‘I don’t know why we’re talking about any of this, wasting time. You all know why you’re here.’ Did they? Jet looked around at her family. Why were they here? ‘Jet.’ Mom twisted in her chair, knees pointed this way, her voice soft and hard at the same time. ‘It’s our last chance. Dr Lee said it would be too late once the aneurysm forms. If we want to save you, we need to take you back
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to the hospital now, right now. This morning. Right now. Please. The whole family agrees.’ Jet’s stomach twisted, the toast suddenly tasteless in her mouth. ‘Do you, whole family?’ Jet announced across the table. ‘You think I don’t get to make decisions about my life, about my death? That you know better than me? You can’t understand for one fucking second what it’s like to have to make a choice like that. Fuck. And Sophia, I swear to god if you say anything about my language …’ None of them would look at her, except Mom, and the baby. ‘I’m not choosing to die on the operating table. The answer is no. Sorry, whole family.’ The answer was no, and the other answer was that pain above her right eye – new this morning – which might mean it was too late anyway, the choice out of her hands. Certainly out of her mom’s hands. ‘Fine.’ The chair screeched on the oak floor as Mom stood up, marched over to the sideboard. ‘I went to the funeral home this morning, picked these up.’ She came back to the table, dropped two brochures in front of Jet with a
slap.
Jet looked down at them.
One for caskets, every shade of wood, varnished and shining.
The other for urns. ‘What the fu–’ Jet began. ‘– Mom.’ Luke buried his face in his hands. ‘You can’t do th–’ ‘– Go on,’ Mom cut him off, pointing to the catalogs. ‘Make a decision, Jet. That’s what you care about, your choices? So make another choice. Go on. What’s it going to be? Burial or cremation? Pick one.’ ‘Mom, there is something really fucking wrong with you.’ Jet shoved the brochures away, a plate sliding off the table, shattering on the floor.
Cameron started to cry. ‘This is what you’re doing to me!’ Mom screamed, hysterical now, tears merging with lines of snot. ‘Why won’t you listen? I can’t lose you – I can’t bury another child, Jet. I won’t do it. It’s not fair.’ ‘Not fair?’ Jet asked, incredulous. ‘I’m twenty-seven. I’m the one who has to die before I’ve even had a chance to live.’ ‘So don’t!’ Mom pleaded. ‘Don’t die, Jet, please! I know you think I’m being the bad guy, and I don’t care – if it saves your life then I’ll do anything! Please, Jet, don’t do this!’
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‘It’s already done, Mom!’ ‘I can’t do this.’ Mom’s face folded, came undone, hand pressed over her mouth to hold it together. She hurried out of the room, blindly, bawling into her hands, crying so hard she couldn’t breathe, coughing around them. Up the stairs, a thunder that shook the whole house.
Dad sighed, got to his feet. ‘Now you’ve upset your mother,’ he said, eyes downcast. ‘Hold on.’ Jet rounded on him. ‘I’ve upset her? Unbelievable. She put a fucking catalog of coffins in front of me, Dad. For fuck’s sake! For once, I wish you would just pick a fucking side, the right side.’ ‘Luke, let’s go,’ Sophia whispered, picking Cameron out of his high chair. ‘No, no, no,’ Jet said. ‘You stay, enjoy your nice family breakfast. I’ll go.
I’m going.’ She sniffed, wiped her nose on her sleeve. ‘I’m leaving. Can’t live here anymore.’ ‘Jet, don’t say that.’ Dad stepped toward her, arms open. Eyes kind, but his kind wasn’t good enough now. ‘I mean it, I’m not doing it. I have six days until I die, and I’m not doing that here, like this. I’m going!’ Jet was out of the room before any of them could call her back, not that calling would have made a difference. Her mind was made up. She had something important to do, the last thing she would ever do, and she couldn’t do it in this house. It was hard enough.
In her room, she grabbed two backpacks and headed to the drawers. Hey, at least she didn’t have to take too many clothes, right? Like packing for a week’s vacation. Less than. She grabbed a handful of underwear, a couple bras. A few T-shirts. Sweatpants and jeans, stuffed them in. Into the bathroom to grab her hairbrush, her toothbrush. Her makeup bag – would she even need that? Did the walking dead need concealer? Left the white bottle of Lotrel, the pills she took every day for high blood pressure, for her kidneys, because what was the fucking point now? Didn’t need them anymore.
Grabbed her notebook from the bed, and the pen she’d stolen from Jack Finney, put them in the second backpack, along with her MacBook. She went to the socket to pull out the – the – the – what’s that fucking word, the white wire thing that gave it more battery. Never mind. She grabbed it,
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unplugged it, shoved it in the top of the bag. Hoisted both up onto her shoulders, still wearing her pajamas.
Downstairs, she slipped on her shoes and her jacket. ‘Bye, Reggie. Love you.’ She bent to kiss the top of the dog’s head. Not even her dog, really. Her parents’ empty-nest dog, when Jet left for college.
But he was her dog now, and they all knew it. Reggie most of all. ‘Jet.’ Dad came around the corner. ‘You’re not really going.’ ‘I am really going.’ ‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘Your mom wouldn’t want this.’ ‘It’s not always about what she wants, Dad. I have to go. I’m going.’ He reached for her backpack, held on to one strap. ‘But, Jet, you can’t … you’re not –’ ‘– Not what, Dad? Responsible? I can do this on my own. I can.’ Just then, the mail slot crashed open, a handful of letters scattering to the Welcome mat. Footsteps on the drive, doubling, the mailman hurrying away from the yelling inside.
Reggie rushed toward the mail, but Jet beat him to it. ‘Look, see, Dad,’ Jet sniffed, hysterical too now, in her quieter, flippant way. ‘Here I am picking up my mail. Ah, see, two letters for Margaret Mason. Picking up my mail like a responsible fucking adult.’ She stuffed the letters in the open backpack, ripping it away from Dad’s hands. ‘Might even be able to wipe my own ass soon.’ Cameron wailed, Luke and Sophia coming to stand in the hall. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll get there too, bud.’ Jet grabbed her keys and her wallet from the wooden bowl on the side table. ‘Where are you going?’ Luke asked, because he felt like he had to. Jet knew her brother. ‘Literally anywhere that isn’t this fucking house! I’m not going to die in here again. Tell Mom she can choose the casket. I really won’t care, I’ll be dead.’ Jet opened the front door and struggled through, flipping off the doorbell camera as she passed. Unlocked her truck and climbed inside, starting the engine, hitting the steering wheel just once, with the heel of her hand. Fuck, that hurt; she wouldn’t do that again.
She checked her mirrors and backed out, waving to Dad and Luke and Sophia in the open doorway.
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A curtain twitched in the upstairs window just as she reached the street.
Mom’s blotchy face pressed to the glass, watching her leave.
Jet knocked. Three times. Waited two seconds. Knocked again. Waited. But she’d waited long enough, sitting in her truck, wondering what the fuck she should do, where the fuck she should go. She really only had one answer, only one person in this whole fucking town, so she knocked again and again and again. He’d forgive her for the hostility; he always did.
A click and the door swung inward, Billy’s confused face in the crack. ‘Jet.’ He pulled the door the whole way. His eyes looked swollen, hiding underneath those dark curls. ‘I asked at the bar downstairs, they told me you lived in 1B,’ Jet explained. ‘You OK? Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean that. Stupid question.’ His gaze settled on her bags, another question forming on his lips, skirting his teeth. ‘Yeah, so,’ Jet said, sucking in a breath. ‘I was wondering … can I stay with you? Here? In your apartment?’ Billy’s mouth didn’t move but his eyes did, tracking across her face, a flash of his old light behind them. ‘Probably won’t be much of a roommate,’ she laughed. ‘I definitely won’t be paying any rent, might keep some strange hours, eat your food. And I know I come with baggage.’ She gestured to the backpacks on the floor, but they both knew that’s not what she meant. ‘But it’s not like it’ll put you out that much, ’cause, you know, um, like, I’ll be dead by the end of the week.’
Billy swallowed. ‘Is that a yes?’
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