the table from the attention. “My history teacher told me today that my term paper from last semester was one of his favorites…and I’m thinking about trying out for cheerleading next year!” I shoot her a glare when I hear that. “Also Emery Lambert invited me to her birthday party next week, which is so cool because she’s never spoken to me before, so I obviously have to go.” She pauses to take a breath, and my mom cuts in.
“That’s great, Gwen.” She turns away before Gwen can say more, and Gwenie’s face drops. I try to catch her eye, but she’s staring down at her plate like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. My dad is silent at the other end of the table.
“What’s happening at school for you these days?” My mother turns her attention to me, but I ignore her. I’m still trying to get Gwen to smile, or at least meet my eyes. “Zach. Hello? I asked you a question.”
I finally turn toward her. “Why are you even here?”
I’ve caught her off guard, and she tilts her head back for a beat. “Excuse me?”
“I said, why are you here?”
She looks around the table, at my sister and my father. “I live here.”
“Could have fooled me.” I stab at a piece of meat on my plate so hard that the table shakes.
She clears her throat and gives me a tight, fake smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “I know I haven’t been around much….This case has been ramping up, and—”
I cut her off. I don’t want to hear her lame excuses. “I don’t think you get it. You can’t just show up here whenever it suits you and think things are going to be normal.”
Her eyes widen, like she thinks I’m out of line. Like she thinks I’m the one who has something to be sorry for. “Excuse me? ‘Show up here’? I sleep here every night. And I’ll remind you that I’m your mother, so watch your tone.” I can tell she’s getting ready to go full lawyer on me, and all the fight drains out of my body.
“Sorry.” I’m back to mumbling. Across the table, Gwen looks like she’s about to cry. I swallow hard.
My mom sighs and runs a hand through her hair. “It’s okay. I don’t want to spend our time together fighting. Now, can you please tell us how school is?”
I look around the table before answering. Gwen’s still hunched over her plate, my dad’s fading into the wallpaper, and my mother has bags under her eyes that look like they’ve become permanent fixtures on her face.
This is our family dinner.
It’s late. It seems like it’s always late, like the days just slide by me and the nights are the only times I can hold on to. I’m standing in my bedroom, staring at my white walls, where posters used to hang. Posters of bands I went to see with Lucy and Chim and Jordan, art museums my parents took Jordan and me to when we were younger, all the bullshit stuff I used to be interested in before I realized none of it matters. I took them down after Jordan died.
Now the walls of my room are bare.
The thick envelope clutched in my hand is unopened. I know it’s another letter from him. It says so right on the postmark: Los Angeles County jail, Twin Towers Correctional Facility.
I only know one person there.
David Ecchles.
The boy who killed my brother.
* * *
—
I usually leave these letters unopened. I opened the first one, and after that I knew better. I stuff them under my mattress, around my room, try to forget they exist. I can’t throw them out; in some perverse way, they’re my last connection to Jordan. Everyone else around me has healed, moved on, put up memorials, but these letters are my reminder that nothing will ever be the same. And I deserve to be reminded. Punished.