The months of December and January are always the busiest times for Corner House. My impeccable detective instincts tell me that it all has to do with the New Year. Writers who swear up and down they’ll get something published in their New Year’s resolutions send flocks of submissions during January, with the hope of achieving their goals early. On the other hand, the writers who realize they’ve reached the end of the previous year without sending anything in for publication swarm to submit in December—saturating our inboxes with half-developed stories and first-draft shitstorms. Which is a long-winded way of saying that I don’t get very long to bask in the effervescence of my date before being plunged head first into stress season.
Luckily—or maybe not so luckily, depending on your point of view—Milo’s schedule also becomes increasingly busy, which is unusual for the start of winter but not unheard of, he says. This is the absolute last chance people have if they want to move in before the holidays. The lucky part is that I don’t feel like I’m the only one keeping our souls from intertwining.
Even so, he makes a point to call me Wednesday evening, and I spend damn near the entire conversation grinning like a fucking dolt. I can’t stop thinking about his lips—about how they seemed to fit perfectly on mine. The feel of his hands over my cold fingers. God, I’m becoming a sap and I don’t think I even mind.
Our conversation only ends when I see headlights on my driveway. Confused, I run to the front window. The car shuts off, plunging me back into the dimness of my incandescent bulbs. For a moment, I’m elated—thinking Milo’s made a surprise visit. But despite the darkness, there’s no mistaking the shadow making her way up the path. My serotonin levels take a steep dive.
“Everything alright?” Milo says in my ear, confused by my sudden silence.
“Yeah,” I say. “Well, that’s yet to be determined. I need to go.”
“You sure?”
“It’s just my aunt, I’ll be fine.”
He says goodnight, and reluctantly I hang up just as the doorbell rings.
“Hi,” she says when I answer, drawing out the syllable for at least four seconds too long.
“Auntie, what a surprise.”
I notice the large paper bag gripped in one hand. Without another word, she steps into the house and glides past me, swinging her purse back so she can slide off her shoes.
“I thought you might be lonely,” she says. “You’re always here by yourself.”
“You didn’t have to come over just to see me. I’m alright.”
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” she says, before turning to give me a tight hug. “It’s no bother. Besides, you shouldn’t be alone. It’s not healthy.”
I laugh a little. “Really, I’m fine. It’s not like I’m isolated. I go to work every day.”
“I’m going to cook dinner.”
I thought that might be her plan, judging from the paper bag. Aunt Evora makes for the kitchen, dropping her Louis Vuitton purse on the coffee table as she passes it. My immediate reaction is to roll my eyes, though I’m not entirely unhappy. She’s an excellent cook—I just wish I’d been forewarned about the visit. What if I wasn’t home? What if I’d had someone over? Milo, for instance.
You might if you had the balls.
In the kitchen, my aunt has already put my largest pot on the stove and pulled out containers of sliced beef and vegetables.
“So, who was that on the phone?” she asks while she starts cooking.
My face flushes as I clear my throat.
“Just a friend.”
“Ohhhh.” She draws out the syllable for nearly twice as long as her hello. “A girl friend?” she asks playfully, scooping the chopped vegetables into the pot.
The room feels even hotter. My frustration rises. “No—Auntie, we’ve already been over this.”
“I don’t know why you think the girls don’t like you. You’re so handsome. I’m sure the girls think so too. You could get any of them you want.”
“Auntie.” My hands have clenched into fists at my sides. “It was a man.”
She’s silent for a moment—grabbing a cabbage from her bag instead of answering right away. Maybe it’s because she’s busy slicing, but she doesn’t look at me. “You don’t have to be shy around girls.”
“He and I went on a date.”
At this she sighs, looking up at me as though she’s extremely tired of the conversation. I have half a mind to tell her how tired I am of this topic—not to mention the fact that she’s the one who’s always bringing it up.
“You know, Mariana said something to me about that after she stayed here,” Aunt Evora says, shaking her head. Referring to that as if it’s some kind of curse word. “How could you bring that up in front of a child?”
“There’s nothing wrong with talking about that to a kid. It’s not inappropriate.”
“She doesn’t have to know about those things.”
“She was the one who brought it up because of something you told her.”
“All I said was that you wouldn’t be getting married. Children have questions, Felix—what am I supposed to say to her?”
“Talk to her like a human being. I can get married. It’s allowed in every state. It’s only the church that’s stuck in its shitty ways.”
“Felix! Don’t talk like that. Besides, she’s not going to understand it. It’s confusing to children.”
Something darts across the living room.
I see it out of the corner of my eye, the same sort of shadow I’d seen at Namaste Nepal. I whip my head around, blood rushing. It looked like a fucking animal—I could swear—but the room looks empty from where I’m standing. Nothing out of the ordinary in sight.
The vision has had its effect though. Dread clenches my stomach and I’m momentarily relieved of the heat on my face. I even forget the indignant anger that was surging through me seconds before.
“Look,” Evora says, reeling me back into the conversation. She’s oblivious to what just happened, though I can’t shake my dread. “It’s fine if you want to be—whatever. Just don’t talk about it in front of a child. She can learn what it is when she’s older.”
The statement is so damn chockful of offensive nuggets that I can’t even find the words to begin picking it apart. I stand frozen on the spot, paralyzed by a mixture of indignation and lingering fear. What is so goddamn inappropriate about telling a child queer people exist? If I’d have known about people like me growing up, maybe I wouldn’t have turned out to be such a fucking nutcase. Besides, if Mariana were growing up in any other environment besides the hyper-orchestrated Catholic school Evora pays for, she might’ve already learned about these things.
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But Evora isn’t done. I don’t know what’s happened to put her in such a divulgatory mood, but it’s really reached into her stash of bigotry and pulled out all the stops. She dumps the cabbage into the pot and turns to face me with disappointment on her face—the kind of disappointment you usually reserve for an insistent child who refuses to cooperate despite countless attempts at mediation.
“Maybe if gays didn’t go about waving it in people’s faces, your parents would still come around.”
I don’t have time to react. A thud from behind me makes me spin on my heel. My eyes comb the shadows, looking for the source of the noise. But as far as I can tell, nothing’s moved. Still, anxiety and fear continue to rise within me, joined by a resigned sadness. A dreaded lump forms in my throat.
“They can reach out to me any time they’d like,” I say in a low voice, turning back to the kitchen. “I haven’t waved anything in their face—in fact, I haven’t had anything to wave in their face in a very long time. It’s not my actions that are keeping them away.”
But they are, in a manner of speaking. Aunt Evora’s not completely wrong. If I hadn’t insisted on being out, we might have talked to each other in the past few years. I’d be hiding a large part of myself, but surely there are other parts of me they enjoyed. Other aspects of their son they liked besides his hoped-for willingness to marry a woman.
Then they might’ve said something to me at Dores’ funeral.
The floor creaks. I don’t allow myself to look, knowing I won’t see anything even though I have the strong sense that someone is standing right behind me. I might be able to feel the slight disturbance in the air as their breath sweeps over the back of my neck. It’s all I can do not to shudder.
Don’t look. Nobody’s behind you. Your aunt would’ve reacted by now if there were.
So why do I feel this way?
“Yes, well, maybe that’s true,” Evora says quietly, and it’s perhaps the most accepting thing she’s said since arriving. “Come, the pancit is hot.”
I eat in silence while Aunt Evora talks at me, carrying on about mundane things as if we hadn’t just brought up my parents for the first time in months. Dazedly, I lift forkfuls of the—admittedly delicious—noodles into my mouth. All the while trying desperately to ignore the inescapable sensation of eyes watching me. Anytime I do give in to the feeling and look behind me, there are none to be found. It’s only my imagination. Perhaps a result of my anxiety.
Or perhaps something more.
But I shake the thought away. I don’t need to start leaping to conclusions. That’s how you drive yourself crazy.
The truth is, I’m sort of glad for the distraction—without admitting it to myself, of course. If it weren’t for the fear and agitation coursing through me, I might be more focused on the hurt, the rejection. The absolute fuckery that is my parents living within driving distance and wanting nothing to do with me. Half of all loneliness is voluntary—but they’re a weighted side of the coin. They will always hide their faces.
Dores had tried several times to rekindle our relationship. Despite my immobility, she was always willing to believe that someday they’d change their minds. If she tried enough times, wore away at their defenses, she’d break through and then they’d see the error of their ways. I think she thought of that as her ultimate goal.
Even your death couldn’t bring them around. And that was the most extreme move you could’ve made.
“You’re not eating your food,” Evora says disapprovingly. In her mind, there’s no greater insult. “You don’t like it?”
“I do—No, it’s great,” I say hastily. “I’m just not very hungry right now. I’ll save it for later.”
She eyes me suspiciously before taking her plate to the kitchen.
“Don’t let it sit for too long,” she says. “You know it’s best when it’s fresh.”
I twirl my fork absentmindedly amid the glass noodles. My apathy is here to stay for the time being.
“I’ll leave the rest for you, okay?” she says. I hear the rustle of her going through her bag and know that she’s brought extra reusable containers for this very purpose. Aunt Evora is nothing if not prepared. When the leftovers are safely in the refrigerator, she gathers her things, stuffing them in her handbag. Her aversion to driving late at night means she never stays late unless someone else takes her home.
“Thanks, Auntie,” I say, trying my best to mask my lack of enthusiasm. Although the sense of a third presence in the room remains, its importance is waning beneath the growing listlessness in my mind. Part of me wants to call up Milo as soon as she leaves—craving the warmth of his voice—the other side of me wants to sulk in a dark corner alone.
“Okay, I have everything. Kiss me goodbye,” Aunt Evora says, walking to my front door. I stand and follow her, leaving my slowly cooling bowl of food on the table. The presence doesn’t follow and I breathe a sigh of relief. Tension in my shoulders releases. I can focus on my self-pity now.
I lean down to peck my aunt on the cheek. She smiles like a doting guardian, glad to have saved me from a lonely meal. Little does she know I’m about to get fucked up on solitude after she leaves.
“Eat,” she says. “It’ll make you feel better—and don’t forget what I said.”
“I will and I won’t,” I respond, not wanting her to clarify which part of what she said I should keep in mind. Regardless, there’ll be plenty of her shitty words echoing around my head for the rest of the evening. That’s a given.
I stand watch until her taillights disappear, shivering out on my frigid driveway. Then, heart sinking lower and lower with each passing minute, I trudge back inside. I really don’t feel like eating the rest of that pancit in my bowl. It won’t make a difference if I just scoop it into the container with the rest of the noodles. Who knows when I’ll get around to it—or maybe I won’t. The dish can spoil like half of the other shit in my refrigerator.
Anytime I step inside after being in the icy night, the warmth of my home comes as a surprise. I pad my way back to the dining room and grab my room-temperature food. I know I should eat something—when Aunt Evora arrived I was starving—but all traces of my appetite are completely gone. The sight of the food is almost repulsive, even though it probably looks just the same as any other time she’s made it.
I step into the kitchen.
The bowl slips from my hands.
For a split second, everything’s in limbo. My heart leaps. The bowl tumbles through the air. Vegetables spill over the rim. The more I stare, the more my heart tells me I should run. But my brain can’t seem to send the command.
Every knife in the kitchen—every knife I own—is out of its respective place. The set of steak knives removed from the cutlery drawer. The bread knife, chef’s knife, paring knives, and a half dozen others I’ve collected over the years all laid out across the kitchen counters. Pointed at me.
The bowl hits the floor and shatters.
Assorted vegetables and noodles go flying. The crash wakes me out of a stupor, and I back away, finding it difficult to breathe. What’s happening? What’s going on? What sick fuck did this? Why would anyone—
Was it Aunt Evora? She’d been in the kitchen last.
No, that doesn’t seem right. She might be overbearing and bigoted at times, but this isn’t the sort of prank she’d pull. She was busy cooking food, and the only time she hadn’t been cooking food while in the kitchen, she’d been packing up her things. She wouldn’t have had time. I was watching her.
I drag my eyes away from the knives, sweeping my gaze across the surroundings. The closed cabinets, unlit lights. Then out into the dining alcove behind me—the table exactly the way I’d left it, liquor cabinet untouched, hanging plants, bookshelves—
The sense of being watched returns. Not necessarily eyes, but a consciousness I can’t place here inside these walls with me, focused on my movements, my emotions. Homed in on the fear that grips me now.
But there’s nobody there. I know that. I can’t see anything. I’m creeping myself out and for what reason?
Is it because of my sister? Dores and her disease.
I’m a fucking idiot. Transforming my fear into anger, I grab each of the knives and shove them back into their drawers, their sleeves, their slots in the knife block. This isn’t the work of a disease—this is the result of a troubled mind. Aunt Evora had probably used all of these knives at some point tonight—or she’d taken them out to see what I had to work with. If she hadn’t put them away, that was annoying, but it didn’t mean anything bad. She wasn’t exempt from slips of the mind. Things happen.
No. I was taking the information I had and extrapolating. Perhaps I’d spent so much time blocking the thought of my sister’s death out that it was bleeding into other things. I hadn’t had time to grieve—I still didn’t have time to grieve. And that’s affecting my ability to reason, I guess. Fucking hell. I need to get ahold of myself.
With the knives put away, I trek upstairs, tired and annoyed and wishing I was face to face with Milo. His presence was enough to calm me. I wouldn’t have had such crazy thoughts if Auntie hadn’t driven him from my mind. I think about texting him, but I don’t want to overdo the communication. We already talked on the phone earlier. He knows Evora came over. I’ve absorbed plenty of warnings about being overbearing. Significant others don’t like to be suffocated.
Not that he is my significant other.
Whatever. I need to get out of my own head.
I enter my bedroom, trying to remember where I’d left off in the book I was reading—a high fantasy story about some rebellion or another. It had some pretty clever bits, but mostly I was in it for the gay romance story arc. The rest was a bit contrived.
Fuck if it is only eight. I undress and slide into bed. As I roll over to grab the book from my nightstand, my hand slides under the pillow and I recoil in surprise, my heart once again racing from shock and pain and fear. Holding the damaged hand close to my chest, I reach forward with the other and yank the pillow away.
Beneath it is another knife, sharp and glinting and waiting for me.