Page 36 of Deranged Imposter

I shouldn’t be standing next to this family when they complete the last step of the service.

A soothing rub on my trembling knuckles fills my lungs with air as I grip his hand harder. I purse my lips and peek at him; his emotionless eyes never leave Zico’s picture, but his face defies his detachment.

He’s grieving in his own way.

When it is our turn to sign our names on the ten-page heartbreaking letter to Zico, I can’t stop shaking under my skin. He uses the maroon pen, Zico’s favorite color, and scribbles his name with a flow of elegant cursive.

The reflective watch on his right wrist flickers under the stained glass windows.

“Zico was left-handed, too,” his aunt ruminates with a dismal smile on her weary face.

He passes the pen to me while she recalls a fond memory of her nephew having elbow wars when they sat together.

“I’m ambidextrous,” Mikah says simply.

I’ve only seen him use his right hand, but that one time when he wore a watch on his right wrist made me think. Dominant right hands are more likely to wear watches on their left side, and vice versa.

Maybe he’s assimilating his brother as a way to cope. Trauma, especially one as devastating as losing a sibling, can do unmeasurable damage to a young boy.

He tries to avoid things leading back to Zico, and despite multiple failures, some of Zico’s habits sneak through Mikah’s actions.

The end of the memorial service lands on a semi-gloomy afternoon, with one o’clock striking on watches and sunlight at its peak temperature. Mikah doesn’t stay a minute later, and no one blames him for it.

The service is held near his family home, so it only takes a three-minute drive to make it there. His bruising fingers coil around my hand again, pulling me along the front entrance where a housekeeper opens it for us.

The employees greet him, but he ignores them, promptly rushing up the curved stairwell.

A new wave of emotions crashes into the receding thoughts, forcing my heart to overfill with tense heartbeats as we barge into his old room.

It’s the same as last time. The housekeepers keep it as original as they can when cleaning, and after years, it still doesn’t get easier to be in here.

“What are you doing?” I ask, nervously patting down my modest, dark navy dress.

He goes through his walk-in closet, coming out with things to put onto the mahogany desk, before rummaging through the drawers.

I come up behind him, curiously observing as he sifts through papers and folders. I scan the file of sensitive contents: his birth certificate, the social security card, and a copy of his family’s will.

Is he running away from home?

“Mikah,” I whisper, tugging on the sleeve of his suit.

It’s the same shade as my dress, something I noted when he came out of the bathroom wearing it.

Other family members wore neutral colors to be respectful of the service, but none were the same shade as ours.

It made and still makes my stomach tumble down a hill with somersaults. It’s weird to focus on this trivial bit, especially today. So egregious.

“I’m not coming back here again,” he utters.

An awful pinch behind my ribs has my nails digging into his forearm. I want to poke through his brain for a reason, a justification for the urgency to make such an important decision without discussing it with his parents first.

Part of me is terrified, but I can’t point out in which context. However, I’m also relieved.

Mikah goes home when there is no other choice, often struggling with his internal fight never being resolved. I never realized how uneasy it makes him to even think about walking into a place that obliterated his childhood.

I overstepped when I tricked him into returning here for an inconsequential gathering in hopes of finding a romantic partner. If not, then a business marriage.

“Why?” I gently rub the part my nails scratched.

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