When I wake up, Juliette is gone. But it feels like she’s here. There’s also a chance I’m still sleeping.

5

Juliette

WHY AM I STILL HERE?

My throwing a blanket over Abram’s admittedly decent body was the type of random act of kindness I’ll look back on someday, a tear in my eye, and think, Remember that one time I cared? From the hallway, I watch as Abram flips around on his side so he’s facing the back of the couch, blanket not quite covering him, his sweatpants drooping even further and revealing more than just a hint of butt-naked butt. It looks pretty much like what one would expect, if one were inclined to have such expectations: white, two cheeks, firm. And what about that bizarrely pleasant scent—a mix of shampoo, salt, and this morning’s cologne—I picked up while sitting underneath him on a big pile of unswept dog hair? What about how I wouldn’t mind smelling an encore?

I walk forward toward Abram, allowing myself one more close-up of his cute face. It really does look like a younger version of his father’s, and yet I’m still not hating his guts. What would it be like to lean down and press my lips against his? I bet it’s warm there, near his breath. Might be nice not to be freezing for once in my life. Maybe kissing Abram would turn out to be the best thing I ever forced myself to do for no apparent reason.

Something’s wrong with me.

I decide to give myself the grand tour of his house and reflect later, eventually ending up in the master bedroom. There’s an iPad on the dresser; I touch the Home button and a paused game of Candy Crush appears. The bed Abram’s father should’ve had enough self-control to sleep in more often is empty and unmade. Suzy Morgan has allowed a photo of their wedding day to remain on a stand beside the TV—bad choice. On the other side, a Zumba Blu-ray box sits unopened atop a good two years’ worth of mint-condition Women’s Health magazines. I’m not sure who’s doing a less adequate job of taking care of themselves, this family or mine. Too close to call.

I wonder if Suzy read any of her husband’s texting exchanges with my mom. That’s exactly what I did while waiting around the hospital, went through my mother’s personal things, starting with her cell phone. Wish I’d stopped reading after the first sext.

I force my eyes to swallow the hot tears welling up inside them—they don’t taste nearly as good cold—and struggle with the urge to throw something at myself. That Yankee Candle on the nightstand, perhaps. I step into the walk-in closet before temptation strikes me down.

The hanging space and cubbyholes have been unevenly divided between husband and wife, Ian’s tailored suits and shiny wing tips taking up the majority, too many of Suzy’s garments getting the second-class Tupperware bin treatment. A year after her husband’s death, Suzy’s still afraid to claim what’s rightfully hers. Not acceptable. I start removing blazer after blazer from the hanging rod and flinging them to the floor. Do the same with the wing tips. Then a bunch of shiny leather belts that look identical. I can smell Ian Morgan’s woodsy cologne wafting up from the growing pile. If I were a garbage bag, where would I be?

Abram’s still fast asleep in the living room when I grab a box of Heftys from underneath the kitchen sink. I go back to finish the job I probably shouldn’t have started in the first place, before his mom gets home.

*   *   *

An hour later, I’m turning the key in my front door. I didn’t come away from Abram’s house empty-handed; took a roll of garbage bags (we’re out) and my Doritos Locos Supreme, which I took a few bites of on the way home, but I’ll deny that to the grave. I find my father passed out on the couch in his office. What is with everybody falling asleep today? I place a blanket over him, too, careful not to wake him.

I take my garbage bags to his bedroom, the place in the house he most avoids. I will myself into my parents’ walk-in closet, which hasn’t been touched since that night. I think about asking my father if it’s okay that I do this, but I know his answer will be hidden underneath a mask that makes it impossible to tell if he really does care. I know that mask well, wear it every day, so I must be equally annoying to deal with.

My mother might have been selfish with her time, but she was very generous with her things. Shoes, lipsticks, perfumes—if it wasn’t already on her person, I had carte blanche. Oh, that smells so good on you, Juliette. Don’t be a stinge—spray a little more. And definitely wear my Gucci belt with those jeans, yes? My mother climbed the corporate ladder, made her own money, so there was really nothing wrong with her always having more of everything … except that everything was never enough.

Sharon Flynn lived in a world of scarcity, probably because her parents themselves died before she graduated high school; in response, she accumulated things, promotions, lovers. And who better to keep around as a backup than a man like my father with a large trust fund and zero desire to spend it? In other news, I need to quit googling “grief coping mechanisms.”

I pick up a slinky black dress. The Chanel label I was once so enamored of seems so silly and pointless now. Just a word on a thing. Why are we keeping this? In case she needs a sexy cocktail frock in the afterlife? For me? I can’t even bring myself to wear my favorite pair of her least-overpriced jeans. My dad certainly isn’t going to jump up from the couch, grab an empty box and start organizing away, so I’m the default family member who has to place each item, once so essential to my mom’s persona, into a stolen garbage bag. And rather than completely lose my mind to the sadness of what I’m doing, it’s much easier to blame her for putting me in this position.

6

ABRAM

JUST HEARD MY MOM SCREAMING “Oh my God!” from another room. I throw off a blanket I can’t accurately remember putting over myself and run to her bedroom. She’s inside the closet, surrounded by a gang of stuffed garbage bags.

“Mom? You okay?”

She doesn’t seem to be in any pain, although she’s wearing a tight red mummy dress that looks like a challenge to move around in. Dad always liked her in red.

Mom turns to me, confusion in her eyes. “Did you do this, Abram?”

I look down again at the bags, then up at the empty hangers that once held my father’s clothes. “Maybe?”

“Maybe, what?”

“Tonight’s been kind of a blur.”

“Have you been drinking?”

“Strictly Sunkist.”

My mind flashes back to Juliette. Here. In my house. Sipping from my can of soda. Staying awake through my boring stories. Watching me succumb to sleep. Bagging up my father’s old clothes?

“Well, you’ve been meaning to go through this stuff anyway,” I say.

Mom usually appreciates when I look on the bright side for her, but she’s determined to crack the Case of the Walk-In Closet Organizer first.

“You didn’t invite anyone over tonight, Abram?”

I hate lying to my mom, especially after what she experienced with Dad. Still, I’m not quite ready to tell the truth about this one.

“I may have had a visitor, yes … but it was nothing.”

“Was it a girl?”

“It was a … Juliette Flynn,” I answer, finally.

She gasps.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I saw her at CVS, and the hanging out just sort of happened on its own. Did you see I replaced your Big Red?”

She points to the gum in her open mouth, then says, “Of all the people you could have over past midnight, Abram, when I’m not home … you choose Juliette Flynn? Are you trying to traumatize the poor girl?”

“I thought you wanted me to check on her every once in a while.”

“At school. Not in my bedroom closet!”

Technically, I wasn’t awake when she was in here, but I don’t think knowing that detail will help my mom come to terms. Eventually, I convince her this discussion would be better had in the kitchen while having ourselves a snack. She can’t eat in the red mummy dress, though, and I step out so she can change.