I wanted to tell Nicky but he wasn’t around. He wouldn’t believe it. Even if he did, he wouldn’t see it as a sign that Sylvia was different now. I didn’t know why. All I knew was that the very sight of me disturbed Sylvia now, as if she was thinking about something important and couldn’t be interrupted. Whenever I managed to catch her eyes, they were deserted. I was used to looking at my mother and seeing a gleaming, perfect, well-loved version of myself shine back. Now it seemed as if nothing of me was left in my mother’s eyes and that scared me. If my mother couldn’t see me, who could? I would almost rather have the witch-mother who sat outside our bedrooms with her glowing red eyes. At least that mother cared about what we were thinking, even if it was only to prove we were thinking bad thoughts about her. This mother, the one in the kitchen with the mean hands, was worse than any witch I could imagine. I vowed to study Sylvia and see how much she had changed. Maybe it wasn’t even her sitting in the kitchen, the sunbeams crisscrossing her hair. Maybe she’d been transported or her soul had died but her body lived. Whatever it was, I wanted to stay as far away as possible. On the fifth day of storms I started up the closet game. The sight of Nicky’s hair capped over his brown neck as he bent over a stack of Lego blocks spurred me to action.
I entered the room on the balls of my feet, resisting the urge to dance. Behind my back I held his slingshot. For Nicky the temptation of an item taken away before he had thought to use it was too much, particularly if that item was a weapon.
I leapt in front of him and his head snapped up. I dangled the elastic of the slingshot before his eyes, holding it just out of reach as I would for a cat.
Nicky forgot about the Lego.
“Give me that. It’s mine.”
He made clumsy grabs at my wrists, stumbling to his feet. His ears reddened and his grabs turned into slaps.
He repeated himself: “You don’t need that. Give it to me.”
To taunt him further I wrinkled my forehead without smiling. I didn’t say a word.
Nicky attempted a few short kicks. I danced into the hallway, the slingshot high above my head, Nicky jumping and smacking my arms and back. With one foot, I neatly flipped open the closet door and tossed the slingshot into the darkness. Nicky scrambled after it. I kicked his feet in and slammed the door, dropping the hook snugly into the eye.
We were used to this game. Usually Nicky stood close to the door, taking light breaths that I couldn’t hear, until guilt or curiosity overcame me and I unhooked the lock. Then Nicky would bolt past me beneath my arm, glad to be small and hard and fast. I was fast too so he didn’t waste any time.
This week was different. The heat in the open air was unbearable enough. Inside the closet Nicky might feel like he was suffocating. I’d hidden in my own adjacent closet to escape Larry Jr. on his visits and I remembered the sweat. It stung my open eyes. I’d sniffed it into my nostrils and tasted it on the corners of my mouth. It poured down my cheeks and dripped from my chin. The back walls of our closets had removable boards that led into a crawlspace blanketed by fuzzy slabs of pink insulation. Nicky and I had ventured in there together once but he’d backed out right away, fearful of the pink blocks turning into parasites and attaching themselves to him. He said that if so much as a finger touched the pink insulation, our whole bodies would itch for weeks, maybe months.
Nicky gave in.
“Let me out!” he yelled, pounding the door.
In the hall, I stood back, unsmiling, my eyes on the doorknob, ready to spring for safety or seize Nicky at the slightest indication the catch wouldn’t hold.
“Lemme out. Lemme out. Lemme out.”
His voice got higher and quieter, almost singsong.
I pretended I wasn’t there, willing my ears to concentrate on the whir of a lawnmower next door. I considered tiptoeing down the stairs then sneaking back. Or just staying away. I had never gone that far. He might die if I did that. I was about to dare myself when a wail came from the closet, followed by a roar. My ears tingled. Maybe I should let him out. As I reached for the doorknob, I heard a thud. The shrill noise continued, sounding like a wheeze or a nasal guffaw.
I hit the door.
“Stop laughing, you idiot. I know it’s fake.”
Inside I wasn’t so sure. Where was my mom? Nicky’s laughing was loud. Usually Sylvia interrupted any loud games, telling us to pipe down.
Regular thumps began. I rested my palms on the clock wallpaper, my breath coming in pants. I knew exactly where my mom was: in the kitchen smoking or more likely, asleep on the couch.
I quietly lifted the hook and was halfway to the stairs when both the keening and thumping stopped. I listened for a few moments longer then stole back. When Nicky was through playing dead and rattled the doorknob, he would burst into the hall and I could stand with my arms crossed and say, “What’s your problem? It wasn’t even locked.”
I hung back, smirk in place, shaking from my shoulders down. Outside the lawnmower stopped; the air was motionless. From the closet came silence.
Maybe he really was dead. I curled my hand around the doorknob, ready to attack if need be. If he were dead, I’d be mad.
When I opened the door a few inches, Nicky flopped into the hall, arms raised over his head, armpits stained with sweat, his weight flipping the door all the way open. It swung back against Nicky’s shoulder. His eyes had rolled back so I could only see the whites and the pink line of his inner eyelid. A froth lined his lips. It was white and frilled with yellow and purple and smelled curdled, like Pablum.
I refused to believe it. Wishing something couldn’t make it come true. Besides, I hadn’t really wished it. Not deep down. I wanted only to see what would happen. I pushed at Nicky’s knee with my toes.
“Get up, Nicky. Stop faking.”
No response. I willed his eyes to open. Fear clutched my shoulder blades.
A few seconds later, Nicky’s eyes did open. He gazed straight up at me with hatred and non-recognition. Then he closed his eyes and his body twitched. The twitches turned to shudders and soon his legs and arms were thrashing against the walls of the narrow hallway. A thin stream of liquid spilled from the corner of his mouth and his head thumped against the floor. I screamed and ran downstairs. It didn’t matter any more about my mother. By locking Nicky into the closet I had made him a monster.
Sylvia was in the kitchen.
“Mama, there’s something wrong with Nicky, he’s on the floor hitting the wall. With his head. He’s out of control.” It was hard to get the words out for sobs. “I didn’t mean to do anything,” I said after a minute.
Sylvia’s face seemed to click back into focus. She dropped her cigarette and charged out of the room, her legs taking impossibly long strides. I was right behind her.
When we got to the top of the stairs, Nicky was sitting up straight, his hands on his knees.
Sylvia lurched down beside him, folding him in long arms like prehistoric bird wings.
“He’s okay, right?” I said, standing back at the top of the stairs.
She sat back and held Nicky’s face in both hands. “Get a cloth!” she yelled, not taking her eyes off Nicky’s.
I grabbed a facecloth and held it under lukewarm water, then wrung it out. Sylvia reached her hand out and I dropped the cloth into it. She swiped Nicky’s mouth a few times. Using the corner of the cloth, she patted the foam off his lips and dabbed at his shirt.
Nicky croaked. Slowly he recognized me. He didn’t seem to notice Sylvia.
“What?” he said.
“Did you call emergency? You have to call the volunteer fire department