Thirty Sunsets (4 page)

So I go to the store/kitchen and rummage through cabinets until I find the cream, which has a picture of a smiley face on it, then beam that I’ve finally solved my brother’s problem. But the grocery guy tells me, “Whoa, hold everything, not just anybody can purchase this new miracle cream,” but I explain that my brother isn’t just anybody, he’s the best brother and most amazing guy you’ll ever meet, and nothing else is helping his rashes, so he really, really needs this miracle cream, and …

“Okay, okay,” Grocery Guy finally says, but he tells me in a somber tone to be careful; a little goes a long way. So I buy it, then skip from the store/kitchen to Brian’s bedroom and announce I’ve solved his problem. He looks skeptical, but I’m so thrilled that I open the jar myself and start slathering it on his face.

Uh-oh … I thought I was helping, but damn if that “little goes a long way” admonition wasn’t an understatement, because chunks of his face start falling off.

Too much! I’ve helped too much! The rash is gone, but so are his cheeks! His bones are jutting out, and he doesn’t even realize it yet. One of his eyes is starting to droop as the flesh underneath falls away. Brian totally trusted me as I slathered this crap on his face, and now his face is falling off, and OMG, wait till he sees, and what was I thinking, I was just trying to help, really I was …

I wake in a cold sweat and glance at the clock on my bedside table.

Only twenty minutes have passed since I dozed off—long enough to have another weird dream about Brian. I’ve been having them a lot lately. Sure, I’ve always had the occasional dream about my brother, but for the past few months they’ve taken on a jarring intensity and horror-show quality.

What’s up with that? It’s true I’ve been extra worried about him since he blew off Vandy, but that’s not all it is. Something deeper is nagging at me.

There’s something I don’t know.

I push myself off the bed and shudder, suddenly chilled.

Yes, I’m sure of it. Even though my sixth sense is too vague and sketchy to discuss without risking making a fool of myself, I totally trust it. I’ve always had a connection to Brian that clues me in when something’s wrong. I can
feel
it.

There’s definitely something I don’t know.

six

“Sorry. You go.”

“No, you.”

“No, really … ”

I don’t have the energy for another round of which one of us gets the seat belt clasp that Olivia and I have both inadvertently laid claim to. I let go of my seat belt buckle and watch the strap get sucked back into the seat.

“Put your seat belt on,” Brian tells me testily as Olivia, sitting in between us in the back seat, primly buckles up. “You were using the wrong clasp.”

I toss my hand dismissively in Brian’s direction, then turn toward the window, press my pillow against it, and settle in for a welcome bout of unconsciousness as Dad backs the car out of the driveway.

I guess my vibes are frosty enough to put everyone on notice, because no one, not even my neurotic mother, reiterates the demand for me to buckle my seat belt. Mom can only push her luck so far, you know: first I get blindsided with the news that I’ll be sharing a beach house with OMG-livia for a month, then I get sardined by her side for the three-hour car ride. Apparently Mom is willing to take her chances that Dad will drive safely enough to avoid flinging me onto the pavement.

I feel Olivia inch as far away from me as possible, but how far can she go without climbing into Brian’s lap? It must drive her nuts that our thighs will be plastered together for the next hundred-and-fifty miles. With her poof-tastic ponytail, hint-o-blush rosy glow, and painted-on Daisy Dukes, I’m guessing that intermingled thigh sweat is a Fashion Don’t.

From the front seat, Mom cranes her neck in my direction long enough to shoot me a Significant Glance. Until recently, Olivia’s Daisy Dukes alone would have been cause for a convulsive round of throat-clearing and brow-furrowing, but suddenly
I’m
the problem. I don’t know what caused Mom’s change of heart. A new reading of the Riot Act by Brian? A particularly home-hitting episode of Dr. Phil? An attack of conscience? (Mom has fretted before that Olivia desperately needs a mother figure.) Who knows. But for whatever reason, Mom is definitely aboard the O-train now, and O seems to sense it, squeezing Brian’s hand possessively as Dad cruises down the street and heads for the interstate.

I punch my pillow and plug in my earbuds. Elliott Smith’s plaintive song fills my head as my eyelashes flutter shut: “Going Nowhere.”

“Get Mom.”

Brian’s voice is calm despite the blood streaming in rivulets down his cheeks. The gash on his head has already matted his brown curls. His gold-flecked eyes are solemn but stoic; he holds my gaze, no doubt sensing that if I look away, I’ll crumple to the ground.

That can’t happen. The greenway is pretty isolated right now; Brian and I got an early start this Saturday morning to walk the path to the riverbank in search of arrowheads, and no one’s in sight right now. An hour from now, a steady stream of bikers, skaters, and runners will fill the path, but our only current company is a bird chirping overhead, its perky tune sounding downright sadistic in light of the carnage below.

The greenway was built over train tracks, and this section is a ravine with steep, jagged granite on either side. It was typical of Brian to opt for a leisurely journey to the riverbank—I’m more of a direct-to-destination kinda girl—so I was already tromping well ahead of him when I heard him scream. I spun around and saw him lying face down on the pavement a hundred or so yards behind me. He’d clearly attempted what he’d done a hundred times before—shimmying up the rock as far as he could go before lowering himself, foothold by tenuous foothold, back to the greenway—only this time, he’d fast-forwarded the trip back down, apparently twisting around in midair and falling onto his chest.

As I ran toward him, my eyes blurry with tears, I saw the gash on his forehead. His palms and knees were bloody and gravel-flecked too. By the time I reached him, he’d lifted himself up, then flopped backward onto his butt, dazed but steady. Brian’s always steady.

Mom. Get Mom.

So I’m running to get her, and here’s where things get weird, because in real life, six years earlier, I’d actually done just that—gotten Mom—and Brian was in the emergency room by the time Scooby-Doo was on. But now, in my dream, and even though I’m vaguely aware it’s a dream but am still terrified as crap, I get home, then forget to tell Mom about the crisis I’ve rushed home to report. Instead, I go about the urgent business of a ten-year-old on a Saturday morning, which mostly involves going to Shelley’s house three doors down and playing Barbies. Hours pass before I realize OMG, I forgot all about Brian and he’s lying there bleeding and I was supposed to get Mom, and OMG OMG, how many hours have passed and is he even still alive and will he ever forgive me and how can I ever make this up to him and …

“Forrest!”

“I’m coming, Brian!” I cry as I race back onto the greenway.

“Forrest! Forrest … ”

“Forrest!”

My eyes open slowly, my head still pressed against the window of the car.

“Forrest!” Brian repeats.

“What … ” I mumble.

“Time for breakfast,” he says.

My eyes squint against the white-hot morning sun. I blink a couple of times and sit up straighter to survey the Golden Arches we’re approaching.

Dad pulls into a parking space. Even as we pile out of the car, I can’t shake the dream and keep glancing at Brian for confirmation that he’s alive and well.

“Wait
up
,” Olivia tells him with a pout as we head inside. But instead of putting her prissy ass in gear to catch up with Brian, she puts a hand on her hip and plants her feet. Brian has no choice but to turn back around to collect her. He sheepishly trots to her side, then takes her hand and leads her inside.

That’s right, bro: she’s got you moving backward. It’ll be the story of your life if you stay with this princess.

I need to pee, but Olivia heads for the bathroom when we get inside, so I’ll wait.

“Put your seat belt on when we get back in the car,” Brian mutters as we stand in line, and you know what? I’m touched. It’s been driving him crazy that I’ve logged a hundred miles without a seat belt.

“Yes, Forrest,” Mom chimes in, craning her neck to get a better look at the menu in case oh, I dunno, McDonald’s has suddenly started serving brioche. “I insist you wear your seat belt.” Now that’s just annoying.

Olivia emerges from the bathroom and sidles up against Brian.

“Whatcha want, baby?” Brian coos, and omigod is this gonna be a long month.

“Ummmmm … ” She holds a French-manicured fingertip against her plump bottom lip. “Do you think they have yogurt?”

Her lashes flutter as she looks up at him, all baby-blue-eyed preciousness, and it occurs to me to direct her attention to the menu, but really, who could bear to spoil this adorable Kodak moment?

“They have parfaits,” Mom tells her, breaking the spell. If Olivia hasn’t learned by now that Mom is the ultimate buzzkill, well, there’s no time like the present.

“Do you like parfaits?” Mom persists, just in case Olivia isn’t yet clear that intimate moments will be hard to come by for the next few weeks.

But Olivia keeps gazing into Brian’s eyes (you’ve got to give her props for at least
trying
to blow Mom off, and good luck with that), conveying some kind of subliminal message that it’s now his responsibility to translate to us.

“She’d rather have plain yogurt,” he tells us, as solemnly as if announcing that North Korea has opted for democracy.

“Well, all you have to do is spoon off the fruit,” Mom says, a subdued hint of
ya gotta be kidding me
flashing across her face. “Or just eat around it.”

Olivia’s urgent eye contact with Brian is still speaking volumes.

“I’ll take care of it,” Brian says, and now it’s our turn to order, so he’s asking a polyester-clad teenager if she can hold the fruit on Preciousness’s yogurt.

The teenager looks confused, so Brian leans into the counter to more fully explain why he’s giving her something besides a friggin’ number, seeing as
this is McDonald’s
for crying out loud.

Olivia, of course, hangs back, not wanting to suffer through the tedious details of her specialized McDonald’s order.
Just give me what I want
, her pouty, dismissive expression seems to convey, and against all odds I have no doubt that fruit-free yogurt will soon emerge, miraculously, from Brian’s loving hands.

Having never had an actual boyfriend, I briefly ponder what it would be like to have some sap fawning over me, granting my every desire, arranging for a fruit-free parfait upon command, and truthfully this scenario would make me gag even if I were on the receiving end of this Bounty of Love.

“Fruit’s good for you, you know,” Mom says under her breath, no longer able to withhold her disdain.

“Olivia likes cantaloupe,” Brian says as the rest of us place lowly, uncomplicated orders. “Mom, can you make sure we have lots of cantaloupe at the beach house?”

I’m tempted to volunteer my interpretative dance skills for Olivia’s entertainment at the beach house, should that be to her liking, but now I’m too hungry to be catty. Olivia’s order has caused quite a stir among the McDonald’s staff, with lots of murmuring and scuttling about involved. We may not eat for another forty minutes at this rate. Damn her fruit-free parfait!

Mom is doing that Cher thing where she runs her tongue slowly along the outline of her mouth, but whereas this gesture makes Cher look sexy, it makes Mom look homicidal. She’s gripping her arms across her chest and digging her fingernails into her flesh. It seems entirely possible that her head might explode.
Still lovin’ on Olivia, Mom?
Still thinking it was a swell idea to invite her to our beach house for a month?

Dad is whistling “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.” Nothing rains on Dad’s parade. You gotta love that about him.

The food eventually materializes (Brian looks insanely pleased to present Olivia her fruit-free parfait), and we settle glumly into a bright-yellow booth. Brian and Olivia share one side, or rather I should say that Brian, Olivia, and her huge Prada bag share one side. I sit on the other with Dad, Mom, and Mom’s fanny pack.

I wolf down my food, casting furtive glances toward Olivia as she takes dainty bites, wrapping her luscious lips around a plastic spoon turned arch-side up. Is there anything normal about this girl?

Dad is sharing the five-day forecast he’s committed to memory, noting the pros and cons of scattered afternoon thundershowers (a shame if we get chased off the beach early, but if we hit the showers by four p.m., we’ll have a good chance of catching an early bird special), and I’m playing trivia on my smartphone. The question is how many times the Beatles say “yeah” in “She Loves You,” so I’m singing the song in my head and counting the “yeahs” on my fingers. Olivia curls her lip at me.