The house had never been this quiet. It wasn’t completely silent. There were the subtle mumblings of condolences, scraping of dishes, shuffling of feet, and waving of church fans. But the house that was once full of laughter, loud rock music blasting from upstairs, Tchaikovsky accompanied with the sound of pointe shoes, Pride & Prejudice playing at full volume, loud typing, and the soft hum of the old sewing machine had changed. The joy and excitement were gone.
Whitney couldn’t recognize it—the place she had spent nearly thirty years in—without noise. It didn’t help that three of her four daughters had gone and left, and Lacey had stopped talking to her amid her teen angst. All she had was Andre—her joy, her love. She’d known his day would come, just not so soon. And his last breath was the final curtain of noise in the home.
It was now a quiet place for mourners. She passed through family, friends, in-laws, and co-workers, all offering an apologetic, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Whitney yearned to cry. To kick everyone out and grieve alone. She didn’t cry. She sucked it up, offered a weak smile, and said a quiet, “Thank you.”
She walked towards the corner of the living room, right where it happened. She noticed Freddie and Lacey. The oldest comforted the youngest. Jules hid into her boyfriend’s shoulder. They were all crying, snot dripping down. Whitney rushed past them, trying to ignore it, because the mere thought of her daughters in pain hurt her in unimaginable ways.
When she finally reached the corner, she saw her. Her black dress was far too scandalous for a funeral; those hand tattoos weren’t appropriate, and her silk press was a week past wash day. Whitney never got why she was so okay looking like a mess. Nonetheless, she still approached her. The girl in front of her didn’t shed a tear, nor did she talk. She stood, eyes glued to the floor. Whitney smiled at her and let out a deep breath.
“Hi.”
Nico nodded slightly, barely acknowledging her, eyes not leaving the scratched hardwood. Her mother moved to give her a hug, but Nico quickly put her hands up, stopping her mother.
“No, Mom. Don’t. Do not try to do that, okay? I’m fine,” she defended, before letting out a nasty burp smelling faintly of cigarette smoke and a coke.
Her mother scrunched up her nose at the stench. “Really? Nicole, he died on your birthday. You’re telling me you don’t care a bit?”
Nico shrugged. Her dress strap fell a bit; she quickly lifted it up. “Well, like, I am sad,” she said, shifting her weight, shoulders hunched. “I’m not gonna cry, though. It’s not the end of the world, you know?”
She always tried to act like everything was fine. Whitney despised the walls her daughter had built, and her proneness to deflection.
Whitney frowned at her. “Nico, it’s okay to cry.”
She shrugged. “Okay.”
“I love you.”
Nico scoffed. Unbelievable. “Okay.”
“I love you, Nicole,” Whitney professed. Nico met her mother’s watery eyes.
“Okay, Mom,” she grumbled. She pointed towards the garage door with her ring-clad thumb. “I’m gonna go to the garage. Ice cream’s still in the freezer, right?”
Whitney nodded slowly, acting like her heart wasn’t shattering. “Yeah.”
Her daughter nodded. “Cool.”
With that, Nico walked towards the garage, leaving Whitney alone again. She’d watch her go inside and then shut the door. And that was it.
***
Nico always liked the garage. It smelled like hardwood and vanilla and was surrounded by childhood relics. Lacey’s ballet bar was still mounted; all of Freddie’s science fair posterboards were hung proudly, even Jules’s designs were strewn around.
The only thing of hers was a softball bat, from her softball phase in middle school, resting by the freezer. She ignored it, going to open the freezer. But the minute her hand touched the handle,her eyes found the bat once again. As if acting out of her body, she slowly released her grip. Before she knew it, she bent down to pick up the bat.
Nico was ten years removed from wielding it, but the minute she picked it up, it seemed perfectly fit in her hands. She spun it once. Then twice. And on that third time, she held it up, ready to swing. She caught sight of an old painting of the Pacific Coastline. With a hesitant breath, she rammed the bat right through it. She had no time to grieve for the old thing. She found something else—some old trophy, probably Freddie’s. She broke it. Then she ran around the garage, finding anything fragile. She screamed, as she knocked over the old TV. It dropped and the glass flew everywhere. One shard dug right into her hand. She let out a sob, before spinning around, nearly toppling over. She bid farewell to the old skeleton Halloween decoration, a ceramic vase, and picture frame housing the family photo at Disneyland, all in one go.
“Motherfucker! Fucking shit!” She screamed, barely able to see whatever the hell she just hit through her watery eyes. The only sense she had was sound. Her ears fell victim to the shattering echoing throughout.
She should have stopped, but she couldn’t. Anyone would think she was insane, just wailing, destroying everything in her path.
The door burst open, and hordes of funeral guests entered in on her rampage. She heard them, and yet they went ignored. Her aunts and uncles whispered in shock, cousins laughed, grandparents gasped. And her sisters… oh, her sisters. They stood by the door watching the scene unfold. They didn’t know what to do. Witnessing this girl’s madness made them forget her. That girl was gone. That girl was destroying family memories in hysterics. That girl was not their sister.
Before they could say anything to stop her, “NICOLE!” boomed through the house.
Whitney marched in, eyes bulging out of her head, fists clenched at her side. She quickly snatched Nico up from her waist. Nico started resisting, kicking and screaming and swinging the bat around like a mad woman.
“Let me go!” She shouted, weakly pushing away from her mother’s iron grip. “Let go of me, bitch!”
Whitney shook her head, sobbing. “Put the bat down!”
“No!” Nico swung the bat around through the air. When nothing broke, when she couldn’t hear things falling apart, she just held it tight. Then more water works came before she could register.“No! Just let me—”
“You’re done!” Whitney’s voice was loud and powerful and tired. Tired of twenty-three years of this woman who she loved to death. “Put the bat down and get the fuck up on out of this house! What is wrong with you?!”
Nico threw the bat across the room, before pushing her mother. The poor woman stumbled back. Nico wiped her tears, as Whitney stood there, breathless.
Her hands shook, as she looked around at people who stared at her like she was insane—the ruined mascara and bloody arm didn’t help. “He’s gone! He’s not coming back!”
Whitney nodded slowly. “I know.”
“He died in the living room! He went splat right in front of us! And you didn’t even say his heart was bad!
Why?”
“Nico—”
Her head dropped in her hands. “This is stupid!”
Lacey stepped forward, wobbling forward. She was always so sweet to Nico. She placed a hand on her older sister’s shoulder and smiled big. “Nico, it’s okay.”
She scoffed at her, pointing a finger in her face. “It’s not!”
“Everything will be okay,” she assured, voice small.
“Shut up!”
If Nico had been in a better state of mind, she would’ve stopped it. Lacey was too innocent to be wrapped up in her shit. And yet Nico still slapped her across the face. The realization hit her immediately as Lacey began to sob. Nico quickly looked down at her hand, as if it betrayed her.
“Shit…” Nico trembled, “I’m sorry.”
Lacey ignored her, running into Freddie and Jules’s arms. They were the normal ones, the ones who didn’t rage and self-destruct. They were safe ones. Not Nico.
Whitney couldn’t hold back anymore. She stomped towards Nico, yanked her, and dragged her right out of the garage. Nico didn’t fight, run, scream, or hit.
She just let it happen.
