Your Eyes Tell

3 / now

Nick Peterson grew up in a house with scraped paint on the walls, leaks from the ceiling, creaks on certain spots on the floorboards he and his brothers learned not to step on when they're sneaking in or out, and outdated furniture—especially the hideous gray sofa with mysterious stains (one of them's salsa) and holes in its padding. The screen doors are close to being ripped off (one more tantrum from any of his brothers), and the wire for the oven doesn't work unless you prop it up on a bottle or a toaster, and that's only when the light turns red.

Nick loves it. His family was big and loud, there was never—there couldn't be a quiet day in the house. There were always meals on the table with extra servings because they were all growing boys, and Nick had to share his bathroom, but he had a bike and he could go to school without being bullied (imagine having four older brothers), and nothing else mattered.

And then the house lost its liveliness—one by one.

Harlan, the eldest, the first high school graduate, moved out first. He went to a culinary school down south, and he found a cheap studio to live in with his best friend, and ever since Nick can remember, Harlan has always talked about leaving this small little town where everyone knew each other a little too well. So he did.

The twins—Robb and River—separated. Robb didn't technically move out, his college was just a twenty-minute drive away, but he stayed out most nights and crashed wherever. River went to a Sumac League and took a part-time job at a shoe store to pay rent for the nice apartment he's living in.

Jude got a scholarship in a fancy college a state away—where it's colder, lonelier, newer. Happier.

And Nick, the youngest—lived alone at first, then lived with love, now living with the ghost of that love. Missing home.

There are only five occasions in a year in which the remaining Peterson children are complete: six months ago, 24th of February, their mother's birthday; today, 18th of September, Robb's second death anniversary; Thanksgiving, or else their mother would cut their heads off; 1st of December, their father's birthday; and Christmas, or else their mother would cut their heads off. Birthdays of the children are susceptible to low number of attendees and busy schedules, and Nick and his brothers had an agreement that whoever couldn't make it to their parents' anniversary would have to pay for the expensive gift—because they weren't always complete.

As soon as Nick gets out of his car, bag heavy on his shoulders, he hears it—noise from inside the house, and he smiles, taking a deep breath. Home sweet home.

"Littlest brother!" Harlan yells from the kitchen when he steps inside, pulling his hood down. His brother is wearing his designated kitchen apron he only wears when he's cooking at home. "I missed you!"

"Oh, sweetheart." Helene, Nick's mom, drops everything she has in her hands and jogs a little to hug him. Nick breathes in her scent—his mom always smells of freshly-baked cookies and lullabies and fabric conditioner, hugging her tight. "Nicholas. You're here," she whispers, voice cracking.

She has to rise up on her tiptoes now and to tilt her head to look at him—she's so much smaller than Nick, but when he was young, he remembered thinking that his mother would be able to protect him against anything in the world.

He supposes it's still true, a mother's fierce love never goes away—even to the children no longer alive.

"Hi, Mom," Nick whispers. "Yeah, I'm here."

Helene pulls away, frail hands cupping his face, eyes watering. Nick smiles at the wrinkles, the hair once brown washed out with gray and age, the sagging skin on her cheeks. He thinks his mom is still so beautiful. "How are you? How's Kaia?"