In the dry air of Denver, Imogen rocks on the porch swing while her mother paces in the kitchen, waiting. She’s stuck in the same fetal position she sleeps in. She clings tighter to her knees. Her shoulders tense from the weight of her mother’s own rigidity, passing onto her daughter with each counter wiped and candle lit. Lost in the view, she barely notices when a truck grumbles onto the property.
“Imogen?” a voice calls from the end of the driveway. It sounds like her brother, but much rustier than she recalls, like his daily whiskey intake is finally having an impact on his otherwise pristine health, coating his throat in orange-brown-red muck. Though maybe it’s just the twelve-hour drive. Goosebumps coat her as the wind washes cold air onto her bare legs.
She walks towards Garret, slowly, her bare feet crunching the gray gravel below, wincing at the sharp rocks that lodge themselves between her toes. She swallows. When she’s finally close enough to see his particulars, she realizes half of his face is unfamiliar.
“You grew a beard,” she says, maintaining full neutrality. He chuckles and yanks the bags from the bed of the truck.
“What do you think of it?” Garret asks. She squints. In this dusk lighting, it looks almost gray, as if the black had faded from time in the sun. Her mind wanders to them in the bathtub together, both with clean, baby faces, a time before the divide between them. And then to a distant memory of her first boyfriend in the back of his mother’s minivan. She always left with an inexcusable beard rash.
“What does your girlfriend think of it?” With this, he smiles, flashing his unbrushed, yellow-white teeth wide.
“Ask her yourself.”
Imogen doesn’t even see her until she’s shut the door. She can’t be more than five foot two – like, half the size of her mammoth brother. She’s seen photos of them before, but something about watching her get out of his black Ford makes Imogen rethink every decision which led her to being here, in a cabin in the woods with only her family for company. Did she ever think these luxuries were worth what she’d have to tolerate? She keeps walking, pressing the pungent regret from her mind.
The two approach the door, each with a plethora of bags in hand, all neutral shades, except for one fuchsia purse, while Imogen trails a few feet behind. Their mother greets Garret with an extended hug. She keeps him tight to her chest and brushes her hand through his greasy hair. It’s a long enough embrace for Imogen to begin assessing the situation that is Lola Bergeson.
She already knows many things, thanks to the infinite power of social media. Her life, according to Instagram, consists only of food, family, and Garret. Imogen of course knows the other basic information. Her date of birth, three years before Garret’s. Her hometown. Her high school. But she knew Lola knew just as much—if not more—about her. Still, what Imogen doesn’t know, and what she wants to know most, is why Garret.
Later in the kitchen, the family stands around the island. In the silence, Imogen realizes how long these three days will be. The painful childhood memories seemed dull from the east coast; the scar tissue had healed over, in favor of the beauty of the mountains. But her brother keeps smiling at her, and a cruel part of her wonders if maybe she’d made it all up. Maybe it wasn’t so bad. These thoughts come through in a mousy voice that she immediately recognizes as her mother. Her real mother—not the one ingrained in her brain—pulls chicken from the fridge and speaks only to Lola.
“We figured, it’s been too long since we’d been somewhere as a family. And with this one across the country.” Her father’s thick hands pat her on the shoulder, and she shrugs him off, smiling meekly at his efforts, as if he’d even spoken to her once that day. They never talked though. Their text thread consisted only of her asking for money, and him sending it. “Bribing her with a vacation really was the only way to get her to visit. Though this is a wonderful surprise too. I’m so glad to finally be meeting you. My son’s been keeping you from me for far too long. And look at you. God, you are so cute.”
“Well, I’m happy to be here!” Lola says through light laughter. That’s how she looks, too. Light and dewy, like a lotus leaf. Every dig seems to roll right off her.
“Do you need any help with dinner? If not…” Her brother smiles at their mother, hands wrapped around Lola’s small waist, eyeing the door.
“Oh, you two just got here! Why don’t you go unpack? Imogen won’t mind helping me out.” They all look at Imogen, and she nods, then walks to the fridge and pulls out a white onion. Soon after Garret leaves the kitchen, her mother is back in the sitting room with a wine glass in hand and her father sits outside with a cigar while she cooks.
As Imogen sets the table, Garret appears in the dining room. It’s the first time in years she’s been alone with her brother. Her whole body tenses. He stands in the corner, unmoving, and she can’t think of a single excuse to go. Her brother is not entirely unlikable. He drew in an audience at his football games in high school and always hosted the parties at their house after they won. But growing up with him was never easy. They weren’t close.
“God, this is beautiful, huh? Beautiful place. Mom picked out a good one. I know you didn’t see the house from a couple winters back, but it was nothing like this.” Imogen nods. Their parents adore Garret, perpetually look at him the way mothers view their fresh-from-the-womb babies.
“Yeah. It’s nice. I like it.” Their parents never noticed the bruises he’d leave on the walls—or her—when he lost those same games. They defended him even when he lost his juvenile court case. He was their father’s best friend and their mother’s favorite child.
“Yeah?” he repeats. She nods again, folding and refolding the napkin in her hand, trying to maintain her ever-quickening breathing. Imogen only agreed to the trip out of spite. She didn’t want to miss out on taking photos of the peaks, on the other luxuries she cannot yet afford.
Though it was decided hundreds of miles away.
“What do you think of her?” Garret asks Lola.
“Mom?” He laughs at her question.
“No, no. We all know what you think of her. We all know that much. I meant Lola.”
“She seems nice,” she says, then quickly realizes how it sounds. “She’s really pretty.” “She is, isn’t she?” He smiles down at the floor, then, reaches towards his pocket and pulls something out of it.
“You think this is pretty enough for a girl like her?” He opens the black velvet box.
Inside of it is a gold ring with a diamond in the center.
“It’s classy,” Imogene says, her knees shaking beneath her.
“Don’t tell her, okay?” He puts it back in his jacket pocket. “Not that you’ll have to keep it quiet for long. I’m doing it tomorrow.”
“What?” she asks, but without any breath, it comes out like a whisper.
“I wasn’t sure before, but I mean… how couldn’t I? Look at this place.” He gestures towards the floor to ceiling window, towards the sun setting behind the silver mountains. Imogen doesn’t stop bobbing her head, even as he leaves to go out back with their father. Although she dreads any idea of fate, it does feel predestined. She is the only one that will admit how dangerous Garret is. Someone needs to warn Lola. She resets the table until the oven dings.
That same night, Imogen sees it. The sign she’s been waiting for, that she tolerated a dinner with the three least tolerable people she’d ever met for.
Through the shut door, so close to her own room, she hears them fighting. Nothing clear, but there’s yelling, that much is obvious. Imogen initially curls back into her sheets, the heavy quilt lulling her to sleep. But she can’t ignore it. She knows her brother’s every move. After they fight, he’ll leave. Though they were all in an unfamiliar town, he’d find the nearest bar and drink.
It always gave him so much power—his leaving.
Their mother needed him, lest she stay up all night drinking a warm bottle of white wine and imagining her son dead in a ditch. Fights were soon forgiven in favor of his safety.
Imogen’s suspicions are confirmed when she hears a door slam. She lugs herself off the edge of the queen-sized bed and walks to their door. Still holding her breath, she knocks on the door.
“Garret?” Lola yells back.
“No.” Then, she adds, “It’s Imogen!”
“Oh, come in!” When she opens the door, she sees Lola sitting on the bed, watching reality TV at a low volume, face unwrinkled. She is too young for Botox, Imogen knows it’s all natural, but it really does seem like her face is artificially frozen. She has absolutely no wrinkles. It sends a chill down Imogen’s spine, the unbothered look on Lola’s face.
“Hi…” Imogen stands awkwardly in the doorway, waiting.
“Hi, hi! Come sit.” She presses pause on her show and pats the bed next to her. “I feel like we’ve barely gotten to speak.”
“Is everything alright between you two?”
“Me and Garret?” Lola presses her eyebrows together. Her face still does not wrinkle, but her confusion comes through clearly in her head tilt, like their old Golden Labrador.
“Yeah, I mean, I heard…” Imogen trails off, and spins the ring on her middle finger. “Everything.”
“Oh yeah, but it wasn’t anything big. Just a disagreement. I try not to sweat the small stuff.” Imogen looks at Lola, her own wrinkles ever present. Lola’s smile isn’t even pained.
“But… are you ok, though? I know how Garret can be. I mean, when we were younger…” Imogen presses her hand against Lola’s knee. She stares heavy into Lola’s blue eyes, refusing to look away. “If you do not feel safe, you can tell me. You should tell me.”
“He’s not hitting me, Imogen, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Imogen stares, forcing her gaping mouth shut. Lola’s bluntness is jarring. She hadn’t even considered that. That he could fight without going too far. That Lola might’ve been perfectly capable of taking care of herself. Tears well in Imogen’s eyes as she removes the hand from the woman’s knee. Her stomach turns. Lola keeps talking, like there’s any more to say.
“I’m sorry, I do know what happened. And he really is sorry about all of it. I’ve seen him sob over it, and you know he doesn’t cry often. But he’s different now.” After a minute or so, Lola looks back at the TV. “ Isn’t that why you were willing to come?”
Imogen pushes the door open. Her voice rises, trying to hide her turmoil. “I’m glad you’re ok, Lola. Really.”
She rushes into her room, to her bathroom, and drops her body in the acrylic tub. It’s cold against her bare thighs. She turns the knob all the way up and watches steam flood from the silver faucet. It’s something she missed, in her tiny shower in her tiny apartment back home. The one thing she can thank her mother and father for.
When the water first touches her, she flinches. But soon, it rises around her. Her sweater clings to her. In the heat, she can think clearly. She’d read that when you die, you relive every moment in seven minutes. This feels like death. The maroon brick home with the waving flag. The hot summers and the long sleeves. The doors with no locks. It makes her queasy to even think of these memories. She leans over and dry heaves, desperately trying to expel whatever is so rotten inside of her.
Her sweater drips as she steps out. The water pools around her feet onto the marble tiles.
She wrings out her sweater, still sticking to her chest.
When the sun rises, Imogen is still in the damp clothes. After changing, she walks out to the sitting room. The house is silent, with everyone but her mother and her gone out to breakfast.
Her mother doesn’t greet her. Imogen almost walks past her. But as she flips through a magazine, something stops her.
“Why didn’t you stop him?” At first, her mother’s face is blank. Quick, realization washes over.
Imogen expects something when she sees that face on her mother. Maybe an apology. As she stands there, asking her mother the question that’s made a home on the tip of her tongue, her mother breaks eye contact and flips the page of her magazine.
Disappointment rises in Imogen, a knot in her throat. Though it was small, she thinks to herself that she can find solace in the memory of her mother’s face. She recalls what Lola said earlier. Her brother shed tears over the pain he’d caused her. However deep inside, they hold the wretched memories. She wipes the beads of sweat off her forehead and keeps walking.
