Page 45 of The Otherworld

“Where does it come from, then?”

“Farms grow our food, usually someplace far away. We have to buy it with… money?”

“I know what money is.”

Adam stifles a laugh. “Wasn’t sure.”

“Papa pays the supply man. For the coffee and such.” I glance at the stove, where the coffee is now percolating, filling the room with a rich aroma.

That’s when Adam’s phone starts ringing on the counter.

“That will be Jack,” I guess as Adam rises from the table and limps over to the phone. “Hopefully he’s sitting down.”

A grin curves onto Adam’s face as he answers the call.

13

Back From the Grave

JACK

I leave my phone on, waiting for Orca’s call.

The battery drains, drains, drains. And then it’s gone. My room goes dark as night falls, and the storm rages outside.

She doesn’t call.

I wonder if I imagined the whole thing—Orca, the lighthouse, the hope that Adam could still be alive.

Mom knocks on my locked door at midnight. Can I come in, Jackie? I don’t answer her, and she eventually leaves me alone.

Sleep comes in blurry, shifting waves, exhausting me more than anything. It sucks me into dark, unconscious bouts of oblivion, then smashes me against the rocks of brutal reality over and over again.

When morning comes, I lie staring at the ceiling—haunted by my brave words from the past week. All the times I stubbornly back-talked Mom and Dad, insisting that Adam was still alive. Refusing to grieve. Pissing Dad off. Making Mom cry. Holding out that flicker of hope like a burning match in a hurricane, desperately cupping my hands around it, bending my reality around it, losing my mind because of it.

Dad accused me of causing trouble by not accepting that Adam is gone.

But he doesn’t understand.

Even if I did what he wanted, “accepting it” wouldn’t be a onetime decision.

My brother is dead.

I couldn’t accept it once and move on.

I would have to accept it over and over again every morning when I woke up and remembered that he’s not here anymore.

Every morning for the rest of my life.

And I don’t think I can do that.

I don’t think I can go to bed each night remembering and wake up each morning forgetting—just for reality to hit me again like a kick in the balls. I don’t think I can get through the next week, the next month, the next year—

Remembering.

Accidentally calling him. No answer.

Wanting to tell him something, even if it’s just a stupid joke, something only he understands.

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