Under a Silent Moon

3

Chapter Three: All-Consuming Apathy

LANA

I make my way downstairs for dinner and I can't help but feel like this is the Last Supper of some sort. I round the bend when I get to the bottom of the stairs and see Mom leaning against the wall that connects the kitchen to the living room. She's wringing a dish towel in her hands, focusing on the evening news. A boy's face flickers onto the screen--the same face I've seen plastered on telephone poles and shared on social media websites for six months now. 

Mom notices my presence. "Did you know him? Zackary Ions?"

I stare at the television and think back to previous years. "I probably had a couple classes with him before," I say, but what I really mean is, "Zackary isn't the type of person who would associate with me, so I have no idea whether we've been in a class together or not."

Mom nods and turns her face back to the TV wearing a deep frown. She's very sensitive, my mom. That's probably where Blake gets it from. Whenever something like this pops up on the news, she feels like it was her kid who was found dead or her kid who was kidnapped or hit by a car or missing, like Zack. 

It isn't hard to imagine what my suicide will do to her. I try to wave away the thought and instead focus on the delicious aromas wafting out from the kitchen. 

Just then, Amanda walks through the front door, dropping her forest green duffel bag in the entryway and setting her soccer ball on the bench. Her exhausted expression morphs into one of elation when the scent of mom's cooking reaches her nose.

Mom redirects her attention from the lost boy to her youngest daughter. "Just in time!" she bellows, and we follow her to the kitchen table.

Even with Mom's hectic work schedule as an RN, we always try to find time to sit down and eat a meal together once or twice a week. Mom usually has a line of questions for Amanda about her day and Blake always has barrage of interesting facts that he shares with us from his current event readings. Sometimes, as I listen wordlessly to my siblings, I wonder how I was chosen to be a part of this family to begin with. All of them live such interesting lives--a life that seems just out of reach for me despite my efforts.

One time, about two years ago, Blake suggested that I write down aspects that I like about myself in a journal. He said it would be therapeutic to see the things I liked most about myself written on paper so that I could physically see these positive things instead of passing by them in my thoughts. Unfortunately, in the back of my mind, it always came down to this: what does it matter what I like about me if nobody else likes these things about me?

I wonder where that journal is and make a mental note to locate it after dinner.

As Blake shovels a spoonful of potatoes and corn into his mouth, he asks me how my day went and if I had a good time scheming evil plots in my lair with my villainous sidekick Dr. Terrence the Ferret. Although usually quiet and laid back, Blake is a savage when it comes to food consumption. He reminds me of our dad in this way. It's hard to forget the image of Dad stuffing his cheeks with pink-frosted cake at my eighth birthday party. The visualization of this sends a pang of sorrow through me, and I respond to Blake with a half-hearted chuckle.

"Just another foiled attempt to take down the Batman," I respond, referencing our most beloved superhero.

"He isn't the hero Gotham needs," Blake tells me, wagging his spoon in my direction.

"He's the hero Gotham deserves," we say in unison.

Amanda rolls her eyes. "Nerds."

My sister goes on to tell us about soccer practice and how she almost scored a goal but Nicole, who is a shit player according to Amanda (Mom: "Watch your language at the dinner table"), actually put some effort into being a goalie and blocked her shot at the last second and that she almost quit the team right there and then due to utter embarrassment. It isn't uncommon for my sister to be dramatic, especially when describing non-existential crises, but with the exaggerated turmoil pressing down in my head today, I find myself quite annoyed at Amanda's anecdote. I resort to tapping my fork rhythmically on my plate in lieu of speaking my mind.

Blake notices this and flings a helping of potatoes my way, leaving bits of corn splattered across the table in its wake.

Mom glares at him over her glasses, but despite her silent warning, I smile at my brother. God, I'm going to miss him. Who am I going to have to talk to when he leaves this evening? Because of Blake's outstanding academic performance, he technically graduated high school in December. Even though his college classes don't begin until August, he's moving with his friends into their apartment today to spend the rest of the spring there and participate in a summer retreat that he explained to me but which I have forgotten the details of already and am too embarrassed by my short attention span to inquire again.

So, basically, he doesn't have to leave today. He just wants to.

I suppose I don't blame him. If I had the opportunity like he has to get out of the state and start fresh somewhere else, I would consider taking it as well. To an extent, though, I'm bitter. I feel it when he catches my eye and gives me a wink as we finish our meal. I feel it when he shoves the last of his boxes into the back of his Chevy. I feel it as he squeezes me tight, making empty promises of exciting summer trips.

I nod and smile a rehearsed smile as he tells me what all he has in store for Amanda and me, but his words are just added to the void within me, bloating it to maximum capacity, until I don't hear any more of his banterings and, in my mind's eye, visualize the orange prescription bottle waiting for me at my nightstand.

Before I can snap back into reality, Blake has started the engine and drives off. I stare blankly, following him down the road, until he makes a left turn and disappears from sight. Even with my sister at my side, I am alone. I tread up the stairs to my room with the image of my brother's smiling face still scorched in my mind. I try my best to push the grief away, and almost laugh at how much it feels like he is the one who died.

Mom is in the kitchen making a commotion of washing the dishes and cleaning up after dinner. I hear her and Amanda's muffled voices through the floor of my room, unable to make out anything intelligible. I catch snippets of words and laughter from the pair. I sit on the cushy purple rug at the end of my bed with Terrence, mindlessly feeding him treats. I'm usually stingy on how many treats I allow Terrence to consume, fearful that he will become obese from his gluttonous habits. He probably thinks it's his lucky day.

I could join them--Amanda and Mom--if I wanted to. And deep inside, somewhere where the old Lana is buried under years of mental and emotional torment, I really do want to. I want to be able to reach out to people and connect like I did when I was a child. It's as if my body has grown tired of effort and my mind tells me what's the point, anyway?

On occasion, it's been my sister who reached out first. Want to go to the mall? Want to come to my soccer game? Want to take a ride to the zoo? And every time, despite my underlying desire to be close with my family, I declined. Perhaps it's my self-deprecating personality. Afterwards, there was always a small pang of guilt, but my all-consuming apathy took over any emotion--good or bad--to the point where it really didn't matter to me whose feelings I hurt, including my own.