I want to pull her from our bathroom and pull my mother out of Not My Room Anymore, and pull Dad away from his office, and pull them all together, close the giant gaps between them and join their hands and say, There! Now don’t let go of each other. Don’t you dare let go!

But I can’t pull them together. They can’t hear me. And they can’t hear each other.

So, I knew what was coming when they all went out to dinner at Alfredo’s just before what should have been my eleventh birthday. It was two years since I died, and still no one could reach one another. They were floating away in different directions, each in their own orbit. Kiki didn’t seem surprised either, when Mom and Dad explained they were getting a divorce. She didn’t even cry, not then in the restaurant. Only later, alone in bed that night.

When we used to get bored on long car rides, Kiki and I would play the Worst game, trying to imagine the worst thing we could eat (worms), the worst thing we could wear (skunk skins), the worst job in the world (portable-toilet cleaner for me, slaughterhouse worker for her). Divorce was the worst thing that could ever happen to our family, we always agreed.

I should have been more careful. I should have tried to stay longer. I didn’t know I was the glue.

Away

18 | The Olanders

September 2013

Keith emerged from the shower to see Courtney still asleep in his bed, tangled in the steel-gray sheets with her long hair spread out across the pillow. He glanced at the time and realized he was going to have to get her up and out. He pressed a button on the remote control to raise the window shades and another to tune the bathroom TV to Bloomberg, though markets were closed today. Courtney didn’t stir. Ah, to be in your twenties and sleep like that. He raised the TV volume and ran the bathroom faucet to shave. By the time he finished and was patting his face with a towel, Courtney had rolled over to face the bathroom door.

“Hey there,” she murmured. “You’re up early.”

“I have to get going at eight, remember?” He slammed the bathroom drawer, his anxiety mounting about the day ahead.

“Mmm,” she said. “Too bad. I thought we could get room service and stay in bed all morning.” She gave him a sly smile, which did not have its intended effect.

“You should get up. It’s seven forty-five.” Keith left the bedroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, hoping his departure would propel her out of bed. In the kitchen, he poured himself a cup of coffee that had been brewed to perfection by the espresso machine, which had also ground the beans while he’d been in the shower. The elaborate machine had been a splurge, one of the few items he’d chosen for himself in this condo; the rest was standard issue with the furnished unit he’d purchased a year earlier.