Spring comes too early this year and brings death instead of life. Today twin robins lie with their backs flat against the gravel that Spencer has scattered around the house to prevent weeds from taking over. Their spindly claws are still tense, as if they are perching on an invisible branch above them. Maybe they were lured to migrate by the snow melting away and soaking into the soil like frosting on a warm cake, only to be left frozen in a cold snap. In all fairness, it is only February. I doubt they would find much food anyway, with worms still warming themselves in a ball of mucus under the ground. I readjust the messenger bag slung across my shoulder and continue walking to my car to leave for work.

I park in the last available space in the lot, finding my door nearly pinned shut by the truck straddling the line next to me. In the process of squeezing through, dust covers my hands and clothes. In the bathroom attached to the lobby, I wash my hands three times, only stopping when the touchless soap dispenser wheezes out its final portion of foam. I dry my hands with a stiff paper towel and go to the front desk. 

“Good morning Peggy,” I aim a smile towards the receptionist.

“Morning, Mara. You’re late again.”

“I know, you know me. Always getting distracted.” 

Peggy shakes her head. “Bring me a coffee next time at least.” She continues typing, her almond-shaped acrylics clacking furiously. I grab a sticky note from her desk and doodle a cartoonish bar of soap dancing.

“Anyways,” I say as I stick the smiley soap on her monitor. “The women’s restroom is out of soap. I thought I would let you know. Thanks, Peg!” She pulls the note off and sticks it in the growing pile of neon and pastel at the corner of her desk. I think she humors me in hopes that one day I’ll stop coming in late and pestering her. My hope is that one day I’ll come in and hand her my two weeks’ notice.

At my own desk, I log in to my company-issued account and start writing. I can’t say that as a little girl I dreamt of writing copy for a carpet installation service, yet five times a week I find myself emailing essentially anything you can imagine immediately deleting or scrolling past to my supervisor for approval. Reimagine your living room with the newest color in our Naturals collection. Refresh your worn carpet with a polyester variety inspired by the exotic beaches of the Caribbean Islands. Every day can be a vacation. What bullshit. The carpet in the room I took over at my brother Spencer’s place is covered in stains with unidentifiable origins. I can only hope they resulted from spilled food and not less-appetizing substances. 

The night I left my ex-boyfriend’s house, Spencer led me into his house, threw open the door of his spare room, and began dragging his sound equipment and amps out. His eyes were sleepy and tinged with red. “Sorry about all the crap, man. I wasn’t expecting you.” 

I had never seen Spencer so pale—his lips were drained of color and cracking like dry ground.  He had arranged nearly everything to move to Nashville with his best friend a couple of years ago but had decided to stay when we heard that our dad was sick. We—my sister Laurel, Spencer, and I—had all decided that someone needed to stay with him during the day. Spencer was the only one who could take a break from working, and he wanted to be close to him anyway. He moved in with Dad and handled everything, from taking him to doctor’s appointments to cooking for him and paying the bills. Sometimes Laurel and I would offer to relieve him on the weekends, but for whatever reason Spencer always said no. Maybe he just wanted to make sure everything was okay. Unsurprisingly, Spencer was there when Dad passed. He didn’t call us until a few hours later. I always wondered what he did in that extra time. Even after Dad died, he never left town. Dylan had gone ahead with their plan, albeit with a new guitarist, renting a run-down apartment and booking whatever dive bars that would let them play. Spencer was left to read the flyers for their performances on Facebook. 

I set my bags on the cleanest-looking spot on the floor. Spencer was using the room as a makeshift closet—with much more space to pile up chairs, winter coats, and broken appliances. I recognized most of it from our childhood home. Grabbing one of his guitars and my mom’s old blender, I followed him out of the room. “I know, I’m really sorry. I wasn’t sure where else to go. I couldn’t sleep in that apartment one more night.”

“Hey, I get it. Trust me.” With the room now somewhat cleared, Spencer turned to face me. “What happened, exactly?”

I spotted a hangnail on my thumb and began picking. “It’s not a big deal.”

“That’s clearly not true,” he said.

“I don’t want to talk about it right now.” The last thing I needed was to get my brother arrested for beating up my ex after sharing the gritty details. 

“You know what you need? Let’s get high as shit. I can set up the N64.”

“You know it’s like 2 a.m., right?” I said, laughing. It didn’t sound totally unappealing though, and I was a teenager when I’d last played Dad’s old video games. 

“Time means nothing. You really think I need to be fresh and perky to supervise some kids making fucking cheeseburgers and mopping the floor? C’mon. I’ll let you use the purple controller…” He was already blowing the dust off the system.

“Only if you want me to absolutely crush you. Surely you haven’t forgotten that I’m the queen of Mario Party.” The transparent controller felt smooth and cool in my hands, still like an extension of my body after hours of tournaments with Spencer and Laurel growing up. This controller was the most coveted one. I scratched the metallic green splatters of Laurel’s nail polish from the time she had insisted her manicure was dry enough to play. We had owned newer systems, but there had been something comforting about the blocky shapes attempting to be round and knowing every detail of the few games our dad had kept. Always the comedian, Laurel would waste her time driving backward in races or backing me up in mini-games to make sure Spencer wouldn’t beat me. Needless to say, she was used to placing third. I hoped I wasn’t too rusty. “Promise you won’t cry when you lose?”

Spencer finished plugging in all the wires and lit up a joint. “In your dreams.”

Several months later and I’m still living with my younger brother. I guess it could be worse. It could also be much better. On my way back from the office, I pull into the driveway at Laurel’s gorgeous Tudor house. Her husband Greg insists on keeping the nicest yard in the neighborhood to bolster his property value. Once I endured a thirty-minute lecture on the dangers of water features over cocktails despite Chloe’s attempts to pull me away to play. Visitors who happen to stop by when Greg is home find themselves on an extensive tour of the house and grounds. A stone path leads from their paved driveway to the front door, lined with an army of solar-powered garden lights. Each year, Laurel and Greg lay down rich, pungent mulch, prune their boxwood shrubs into plump little spheres, and tend to a gradient of hydrangeas. The only thing that distinguishes their yard from a photo in an edition of Better Homes and Gardens is Chloe’s bubblegum-pink playhouse peeking out from the side yard. 

Greg had been on a business trip when Laurel and I set it up. By the time he returned, his daughter had a whole narrative developed, complete with tiny furnishings and a family. She was a fairy doctor (not to be confused with a doctor fairy). Fairies landed on her doorstep with broken wings or allergies—tragic in a society housed in flowers. She was also a single mother with two adopted babies—a stuffed hippo and a doll with a single tuft of bleach-blonde hair sticking up from the middle of her head. I laugh to myself as I remember his face when he stepped out of the car and Chloe greeted him from the doorway of her perfectly pink plastic home. I could practically see the images of dead grass patches flash through his mind as the horror of plummeting curb appeal became a reality. He let her keep it though, on the condition that Laurel and I help him rotate its location regularly and keep it mostly out of view from the street. Chloe hops along with a rolling suitcase while we lug it across the lawn and pretends she’s moving to a new neighborhood. Sometimes she keeps the same story, but more often she switches jobs or finds a new twist. If only it were that easy.

Before I can even push the doorbell, Chloe rushes out to greet me with a hug. I squat to receive it.

“Hey Bug, how was school?” She is wearing a blazer just a few sizes too big that nearly swallows her frame. According to her, this is her “Kevin jacket”—as in Kevin McCallister, from Home Alone. It doesn’t matter that he never wears a blazer in the entirety of the film. She won’t hear it. What about this red sweater? Nah, Kevin likes the suit jacket. Chloe has dedicated quite a bit of time setting up “Kevin traps” around the house with Legos and yarn since she started watching the movie several times a day. Typically, the victim is one of her parents, but there have been a few occasions where I have found my shirt soaked with water or stubbed my toe on a stack of books. I consider myself lucky that Chloe doesn’t have access to a hardware store.

“It was good. Mr. R let us play with kinetic sand,” she says. “Let’s draw.”

Chloe runs to grab some markers and I spread paper out on the dining room table. Laurel comes in from the kitchen wearing an apron. Her hair is neatly tucked into a French twist, but a few pieces have slipped out to frame her face. 

“I didn’t hear you come in,” Laurel says, smoothing her apron.

“Yeah, Chloe opened the door. What are you up to?”

“I’m trying to make quiche, but this pie crust is kicking my ass. Wanna stay for dinner?”

Chloe skips into the room and sits right next to me. “Aunt Mara, stay for dinner! Please?”

“How can I say no to that cute little face?” I uncap a marker and turn back to Laurel. “Any plans this weekend?”

Laurel sighs. “Greg and I were hoping to visit that quaint little bed and breakfast his coworker recommended, but our babysitter bailed on us. At least it’ll give me a chance to start repainting the study.”

“I’m not doing anything,” I say. “Why doesn’t she come stay with Spencer and me?”

Laurel clears her throat and looks at Chloe. “Honey, do you want to grab the glitter glue from my room?”

Chloe jumps at the chance to use the craft supply that is normally held in lockdown without close supervision. Laurel sits down next to me.

“Look. You know I love when you come spend time with Chloe. It means a lot to her.” 

“I love it too, that’s why it would be perfect. And Spencer hasn’t seen her in ages.”

She fiddles with the paper, straightening out the edges. “That’s part of the problem, Mara. He’s not exactly in the best place right now. And you know how I feel about that dump you guys have been holing up in.” 

“That’s unfair, Laurel. You know he’s been having a hard time dealing with everything.” I look around her dining room, focusing on the glass cabinet that holds Greg’s grandmother’s wedding china, and avoid my sister’s gaze. I know she thinks I’m having a hard time too. I guess I am. But she’s the one with decorative dishes. What good is a plate that’s never smeared with food? I wonder if they ever use them. Dad used to tease Laurel mercilessly for breaking glasses and bowls. She was so clumsy. I remember her returning the clothes she borrowed from me with spaghetti stains on the sleeves and splatters of grape juice. Now even her apron is a milky white. Chloe returns with her chubby hands sparkling and full of plastic tubes. “I would be the one watching her, and I’ve babysat plenty of times here. I think it would be nice for her to get out of the house.”

“I’m going to Aunt Mara’s?” Chloe asks. “Can I bring my hippo?”

Laurel presses her lips together tightly. “I guess we can try it this once. But if anything happens it’s not going to be pretty,” she finally says.

Chloe is already hard at work on some sort of horse that seems to be made of waffles. I pull a pencil out of my bag and sketch Chloe riding on a waffle-horse, donning a tiara. The mane and tail are made of maple syrup and the center jewel on her crown is a pad of butter. 

“What do you think?”

Chloe taps a marker against her chin. “I think it needs a bacon scepter.” With a few brown scribbles, she declares, “perfect!”

I laugh and add some grape jelly spots to the horse. When Chloe goes back to work on her own drawings, I slowly trace the outline of a sunny, plant-filled living room with huge picture windows. It looks just like home. Or, what used to be home before we had to sell it to pay for Dad’s treatment. After I color in the drawing, I fold it into a tight little square and place it at the bottom of my bag alongside a graveyard of spearmint gum wrappers.

I wake up early on Saturday morning to rapid chirping outside my window. The robins’ family has outlived them. Spencer is opening the restaurant today, so I tackle the mountain of dishes.  Resisting the urge to gag, I scrape crusted food off the bowls and plates. Why do we continually let it get this bad? When I pull the plug, the smaller chunks of food swirl down the drain in an underwater tornado, and I use the tines of a fork to force the rest down. Cleaning can make you feel so dirty. After I throw out the leftovers rotting in the back of the fridge, I decide that it’s time to restock. At the grocery store, I pick up some essentials, plenty of ice cream, and a box of cinnamon sugar cereal. I dodge the obstacle course of carts, toddlers throwing tantrums over candy bars, and elderly couples walking at an infuriating pace on my way up to the fourth register. Calista is working her usual Saturday shift. Her line always moved the fastest when I started shopping here, and now it’s a weekend ritual for me to seek out her register. As I place my groceries onto the belt in groups, she chuckles.

“Those are the greenest bananas I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“What can I say? It’s an exercise in patience,” I reply.

Her fingers are heavy with rings—a clashing arrangement of silvers, golds, bulky stones, plastics, and even a braided friendship ring on her left pinkie. I wonder how many flimsy plastic bags she tears a day. The parking lot must be covered in rolling oranges and splattered tomatoes after she works. There’s no way huge rings are allowed by the store uniform policy. I think that makes me like them even more. Calista scans the pints of mint chocolate chip and moose tracks. Her touch draws the condensation to her palms like they’re magnets. She dries her hands on her thighs.

“Are you planning an ice cream and movie marathon this weekend?” Calista brushes a captive piece of hair away from her lip gloss and smiles. The soft pink mirrors the fluorescent lights overhead. 

“My niece is actually visiting this weekend. I figured I would be the fun aunt and keep her supplied in sugar.”

“The famous Chloe?”

I notice that the belt is empty, yet Calista is still looking at me with interest. I blush. It surprises me when she remembers offhand details that I’ve shared. “The queen herself.”

Calista finally finishes the transaction. My total appears in green digits on the register. Damn. Spencer’s addiction to frozen breakfast sandwiches is catching up to me. After paying, I grab my card and bags. Calista writes her number on the bottom of my receipt— “just in case you need help finishing the ice cream.” I look at the bubbly numbers and my stomach flips. I thank her and rush to be met with a blast of humid air as the doors slide open. The stickiness clings to me for the entire drive. I sing along to the radio and let the AC give me goosebumps.

Back home, water has gathered in beads on the dead birds’ feathers and their bodies have deflated like paper bags as their insides soften and fall apart. Another robin lands between them and I almost drop my groceries. It seems to look right into my eyes. The rusty red of its chest stands out harshly against the nearly colorless grass. I decide to move them before Laurel arrives with Chloe. I’m sure that she won’t want her daughter playing in a yard with corpses in it. I set the groceries on the counter inside, then put on a pair of yellow rubber gloves. It won’t hurt to pick up sticks and pull some dead plants from the ground either. I stuff a garbage bag with debris before I reach the birds. I look away while I gingerly place them on top of their bed of leaves and twigs. I throw the gloves in, too, and tie it closed. 

Later that afternoon, Spencer comes home from work just as Laurel and Greg are unloading Chloe from their minivan. Once she’s out, she looks around and reaches for her dad’s hand. I grab Chloe’s overnight bag from Laurel. The zipper doesn’t fully close, revealing the doll hair and yarn between its teeth. 

Spencer removes his visor and ruffles his hair, resting his hand on the back of his head for a moment before letting it fall to his side. I told him about the visit last night, but he surveys the family as if they had just sprouted from the ground, complete with budding leaves at the tips of their fingers and noses. “What’s up?”

Laurel and Greg look at each other. Greg walks Chloe over and she switches from his hand to mine. I point to Spencer.

“Do you remember your Uncle Spencer?”

She shakes her head then reconsiders for a moment. “Maybe,” Chloe says. “Hi.”

Laurel explains Chloe’s bedtime routine to me, emphasizing that I should make her complete her math worksheet earlier rather than later. Chloe pouts. That can wait until Sunday morning before they pick her up. Before Laurel returns to the passenger seat, she pulls Spencer aside and whispers something in his ear. He furrows his brow then gives a faint nod. He goes inside saying something about needing a shower. Greg and Laurel blow kisses to Chloe as they back out of the driveway. She jumps and catches the invisible kisses in a tight fist before placing them on her lips.

Inside, I show Chloe the air mattress I inflated next to my bed for her. Thrown over the comforter is my baby blanket. I found it when I was attempting to clean the room. It’s covered in strawberries and dainty white blossoms. The corner with the largest strawberry is worn thin from my habit of rubbing it between my fingers. Chloe dumps out the contents of her bag.

“Did I come here when I was a baby?” She asks. “Did I use this blanket?” I hear Spencer tuning a guitar in his room. We sit on the edge of the air mattress.

“No, you’ve never been here. Spencer moved here a few years ago and I came to stay with him for a while until I could find somewhere else. That’s my old blanket.”

“Why do you still live here?” Chloe pulls a skinny doll with red, wavy hair from her pile and begins brushing her hair. She’s sporting a sock dress with hastily cut arm and neck holes. Laurel must have taught her how to make dresses from socks like we used to.

“I don’t know,” I reply honestly. We sit in silence for a few minutes, and I stare at a particularly large brown stain on the carpet. I can’t help but wonder what Calista might be doing now that she’s probably home from work. I thumb the crumpled receipt in my pocket. Chloe passes the doll to me. 

“Can you give her Dutch braids like you did last time?”

After about an hour of styling her dolls, then giving Chloe braids to match, I put in the DVD of Home Alone that Laurel packed. Chloe sits on the couch and doesn’t take her eyes off the screen despite the lack of novelty. Now would be the perfect time to start dinner. I head to the kitchen, peeking around the corner one last time to see Chloe still hugging a pillow with a slight smile. I laugh quietly to myself as I grab the ingredients for baked macaroni and cheese. I can’t remember the last time I made food in the oven. When I open the door to put the baking dish in, I discover a pile of hot cookie sheets. I sigh. Equipped with oven mitts, I grab as many as I can. Suddenly, I hear a loud noise, followed by Chloe screaming. My handful of cookie sheets clatters to the floor like thunder. The edge of one burns a line on my inner arm as it falls. I run to the living room, but the couch is empty. The television is playing softly.

“Chloe?”

“Aunt Mara!” she cries.

I find her at the bottom of the basement stairs clutching her arm. A wave of nausea hits me when I see the unnatural bend. The handrail is torn from the wall and a bottle of glue is leaking onto the floor next to her. 

“What happened?” I ask to look at her arm more closely, but she refuses, and her eyes widen as I reach towards her. I pull my hand back. Soon Spencer is downstairs. He scoops her up and we take her to the car. Spencer drives and I sit in the back holding Chloe. I press her head against my chest so she won’t see the tears form in my eyes. On the way to the hospital, she tells us between sobs and hiccups that she was making a Kevin trap by putting glue on the handrail. She hadn’t known that it was loose and when she clutched it for support, it fell and took her with it. Why didn’t I remind Spencer to have the railing repaired weeks ago? We had simply stopped using it on our trips downstairs to wash laundry and forgotten. Laurel is never going to forgive me. And neither will Chloe. I kiss the top of her head, right on the tender spot where I parted her hair in a careful line. I have to call them.

With a tearful apology, I hug Chloe one last time, her parents watching me closely. My head aches. Laurel and Greg had shown up after the doctor had wrapped Chloe’s arm in a blue cast. I was surprised when Laurel had entered the room trembling and refused to say a word while Greg spoke calmly with the doctor. I wish they would have screamed at me instead. Before I go home, I drive around for a while with my windows open, only listening to the sounds of cars going past. As my tears dry, my skin stiffens like a papier-mâché mask. Chloe’s fingers looked so tiny poking out of her cast. She asked me to decorate it with farm animals. Eventually, I make my way to our old house. I stop in the street, not bothering to pull over. Few cars ever pass through. Dad hated it, but we used to play in the road—tossing around a basketball or drawing with chalk until we heard someone coming and ran away squealing. Their honks would betray us to a night without dessert. Now the windows are dark and reflect my taillights. I turn the key. When I step out of my car, I notice a real estate sign leaning slightly in the yard across the street where our favorite neighbors used to live and host cookouts in the summer. It lists an open house for tomorrow afternoon. The house has seen better days, but the faded paint and crooked shutters that are illuminated by the moonlight are sort of charming.

I lie down in the yard to see the sky better, pulling my coat tighter around me. It almost feels warmer near the ground. I lift my sleeve and run my fingers across my burn. The cold air on my blistered skin makes me shiver and I pull my sleeve down again. As I think about the day, I remember all the ice cream still sitting in my freezer. Maybe I should get help from Calista. I halfway dream that I’m walking through the empty bedrooms and kitchen, asking about closet space while she goes to explore the attic. I would mention using my company to carpet the basement— “it’ll be like having a white sand beach in my house,” I would say to see her laugh and watch the lights bounce off her lip gloss.

I wake up shivering again in lightly frosted grass. It’s beginning to melt away in the sun. My joints are stiff when I try to stand. In the light, I notice that the front door is painted a vibrant fuchsia and boasts a peony wreath. It’s beautiful. I can imagine myself sitting on the porch swing with a glass of iced tea or a book, watching Chloe run around in the yard. Inside I could make lunch for Calista or play games with Laurel, Greg, and Spencer. Just like we used to. We would let the sun flood the rooms with light and wait until it’s dark outside to turn on all the lamps. With the little phone battery I have left, I dial the number on the receipt I’ve kept in my pocket. 

“Calista? Are you free today?”