The Brightest Stars

“The same. I’ve barely heard from him since he’s been staying with my uncle. Who knows when he’s coming back?” I sighed, gliding my fingers down Tina’s neckline.

“Is he in school there yet?” she asked.

“No. They keep saying they’re going to sign him up, but haven’t.” I tried not to think much about it, but my brain didn’t work that way. Once I cracked the door open, the wood snapped off of the hinges and everything rushed in.

“It sounds like they don’t plan on it,” Tina said.

“Yeah. I figured as much. He won’t talk to me about it, and his scholarship to the community college expired last month.”

Little pokes of stress rapped at my shoulders and down my spine. I understood that Austin couldn’t bear to live with our dad any longer, but I was conflicted; he was my twin, twenty and headed nowhere. He shouldn’t be living in the next state over with our thirty-year-old uncle who smelled like Cheetos and watched online porn all day, but I also didn’t want him to live in my house with me. It was complicated. I still couldn’t believe my dad had let him leave in the first place. But I really couldn’t blame my brother. Again, complicated.

“Honestly, Karina, you can’t take on full responsibility for this. It’s not good for you and at the end of the day, your brother is the same age as you. Or five minutes younger, if I remember?”

“Six.” I smiled and moved my hands down to her shoulder blades.

I knew she was right, but that didn’t make it any easier.

I moved my hands along her skin, using a compression stroke. “You have to decide what’s best for you,” she said. “You’re starting a new chapter and you should have the most de-cluttered life possible.”

Easier said than done.

“I’ll ask my dad if he’s heard anything from him.”

Tina didn’t say anything after that. She must have known that talking about the dinner with my “family” would be too much for me that early in the day, so she just enjoyed the rest of her treatment while my thoughts boiled inside my brain.

IT WAS ALMOST SIX when I finished for the day. I had three more clients after Tina, and each of them occupied my mind in different ways. Stewart—I called her by the last name stitched into her ACUs—was an army medic who had the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen. She kept me busy talking about her next post, about how, with her job, she could be stationed almost anywhere in the world, so being posted to Hawaii was like hitting the jackpot. It was nice to see her so happy.

Some people loved to move around in the military and Stewart was one of them. She was only a year older than me, but she’d already been deployed to Iraq—twice. And man, did she have stories. At twenty-one, she’d had experiences most people couldn’t dream of. But when those experiences turned into memories … well, they started playing through her mind on a constant loop. Never waning, never quiet, those memories became background noise that eventually took up residence in her head—tolerable, but always there. I knew all about it. My dad’s brain was full of that clamor. With six tours between Iraq and Afghanistan, his background noise blared throughout our house. His house.

I thought about all of this while Stewart lay on my table. I was glad she could open up to me, that she could unburden herself by talking and releasing a bit of her background noise. I knew better than most that it wasn’t just the physical aspect of massage that reduced stress, that helped a body come alive.

It was almost poetry the way Stewart talked about her life. I felt every word when she spoke. I thought about things I tried hard not to. She connected me to something and when she told me everything she had been through and everything she knew, she opened me up to a different perspective.

For instance, Stewart talked a lot about how, in the United States, less than eight percent of living citizens had ever served in the military. That included all the branches—every veteran who had ever served, even for one term. Out of over three hundred million people, less than eight percent. It was hard for me to realize that the way I grew up, moving from post to post, trying to make new friends, trying to adapt to strangers every few years, wasn’t the reality for most people. For most Americans, anyway.

Less than eight percent? It seemed impossible to me, that small of a number. From my great-grandfather to my dad, my uncles and cousins who were scattered across the country (except that loser uncle my brother was living with), everyone around me wore a uniform or lived with someone who did. The world had never felt so big until Stewart and her statistics.

She talked a lot during our sessions, like Tina. But unlike Tina, Stewart didn’t expect me to share. I could hide behind her experiences, many of which forced me to bite back my tears. Maybe that’s why her sessions went so fast.

THE WATER CAME BACK on right after Stewart left. I washed the sheets and towels, and while I was waiting for my next client or a walk-in to arrive, I worked on a new playlist.

Elodie managed to be busy with a client each time I finished with mine. I was dying to ask her how she knew that soldier with the strange name, but we kept missing each other. I usually didn’t get involved in other people’s drama—I had enough of my own—but Elodie didn’t know many people here. The only other army wives she talked to were on Facebook. My next client was a sleeper. He usually conked out within five minutes, which left me with the entire hour to think about my brother. Oh—and how much I was dreading tonight’s dinner. I was slightly envious of Austin for being so far away in South Carolina, sleeping past noon and working part-time at Kmart.

I also thought about Elodie’s friend, how he wore pants throughout his treatment and how the amount of tension he held in his body wasn’t healthy for such a young guy. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-two. If that.

My last client of the day was a walk-in who left me a big tip for a thirty-minute pre-natal massage. Her belly was so full and she seemed so tired. I almost asked her if she was okay, but I didn’t want to be rude.

I walked by Elodie’s room again. The door was closed and for a second, I even imagined that her soldier friend might be in the room with her. My imagination sure ran wild.

Before I went home, I helped Mali restock the back room and the towel warmers, and folded the laundry. I wasn’t in a rush to get home, especially on so-called family dinner night.

When I finally left for the day, I took Mali’s delicious leftovers home with me. That whole thing about pregnant women eating for two might be an old wives’ tale, but it was still important for Elodie to have nutritious meals. I carried the food in one hand and tried to call my brother with the other. Voicemail.

“Hey, it’s me. I was just calling to check on you. I haven’t heard from you in a few days. Call me back. I’m going to Dad’s for Tuesday dinner. You suck for not being here.”

I hung up and put my phone in my front pocket. Around me, the sky looked like the sun couldn’t decide to set or not, staying an orange color that made everything look just a little nicer. The parking spots in the alley were all full. Bradley’s white truck was there—parked sideways, taking up two spots—and the truck bed was so full of mattresses it reminded me of that fairy-tale about the princess and the pea. He walked out the back door and tossed a pillow into the pile.

“Water’s back!” he shouted, waving his hand.

“Yeah …” I said, smiling. “Thanks for being on the water company!” I added.

Okay, that was awkward. I could feel it and I knew that conversation would mull over inside my head later tonight. My brain usually worked that way. Bradley didn’t seem to notice or overthink my words the way I did—he just told me to have a good night, locked the door to his shop, and climbed inside his truck.

Doors slammed, tires crunched over branches, and voices filled the rest of my short walk home. I thought about dinner tonight and what forced conversation we would have during at least three courses.

I had to be at my dad’s by seven, which meant I had to be ready to leave my house by six forty. I neede

d to shower and put actual clothes on, even if I was just giving my appearance minimal effort. My dad’s wife had stopped commenting on my looks once I lost enough “extra pounds” to please her. Small mercies, I guess.

I really wanted to stay home and eat leftovers with Elodie. I’d had variations of that same thought every single week since I moved out. I thought it would go away, that I’d get used to the routine. But nope. I hadn’t and didn’t think I ever would. Sure, dinner once a week was better than living there—by far. But, I hated the task of it, hated that my entire week revolved around Tuesday at seven. When I did my laundry, when I washed my hair, when I could work. It all revolved around this dinner. I guess I wasn’t as much of a grown-up as I thought.

I WAS STARTING TO HATE FACEBOOK. Every single time I opened the app, there was either a newborn baby, a proposal, or a death. If it wasn’t that, it was politics, with everyone shouting so loudly they couldn’t hear what the other was saying. The whole thing was exhausting and I had barely posted anything in months. I never felt like I had anything to share with people I hardly knew. And unlike Sarah Chessman, who had moved away my senior year, I didn’t feel like every Crockpot meal or selfie was social media worthy.