The memories we hold

 I take a deep breath and enter the room. Three limp plastic bags hang from my hands, clutched tightly between my fingers as I look around. The tiny attic is jampacked with toys, and I know full well three bags aren’t going to cut it but I step forward anyway. Dust rises from the ground with my every step as the wood floor aches loudly. The dirty window lets in a tiny portion of the raging sunlight outside. I don’t want to do this. I scratch my neck, desperately searching for a way to postpone the process.

 I start in the corner, with the tabletop games. Mom always insisted we buy one every time we went on a trip or on vacation. “You never know when the urge to gather up around the table and play a game together will come! We need to be ready.” She didn’t seem to realize that not only was that unrealistic because we had never, not even once sat down to play them, but also because we’d avoid her -and each other- the moment she pulled one out.

 She tried though, god bless her heart. She tried hard, but there was nothing keeping me and my siblings in the same room. Now I’d kill to spend another moment with Eliza, even one where we screamed and fought with each other. What wouldn’t I do to get kicked in the balls by her one last time. Still hurts like shit, just thinking about it. Actually, I should probably get checked because she did it more than once and I swear they’re still numb-

 Fuck. If I start overthinking every object I see from the get-go I’ll be here a long ass time. Into the bags you go. Box after box. Red box, green box, hey there’s even a yellow one. And then.. that. I pick up the small, dirtied up cardboard box of cards. I didn’t know she’d kept that. I sniff it. Still smells like nicotine. We were sat on her bed, playing with this deck the night she was cheated on by her boyfriend. Her eyes were red under the smudged mascara as she shuffled the cards, taking long drags from cigarettes that mom had no idea about. I’d never seen her so hurt before. I blink, put the bag down and open the withered little box. The cards are yellowed and faded, sort of distant. Of course, the first one I pull out is the queen of hearts. I hold it up near the window. Over her head, I can clearly see “Eliza” written in ballpoint pen. I sigh, placing the card back inside the box. This goes into my pocket.

 Next up is the plastic kitchenware grandma would bring over for my sisters, though I always played with them far more. Mum would have to sit Eva down by force so that I could pretend to cook an omelet, pretend to serve it and ask her if she could pretend to eat it. She absolutely despised this. Despised me. She’d have fits where I’d come back from school only to find the pink kitchenware cut up, laying on the living room floor as dad wrestled the breadknife out of her hand. And then she’d wonder why I don’t trust her with anything.

 I pick up the duct taped plastic and carefully deposit it into the bag. It’s not much, but it entertained me for multiple years and I’m thankful to it. Man, if mom heard me thanking the pink plastic plates she’d probably go on another tangent about my sensitivity and how it’s an admiral trait. About my classmates, and how they had no right to taunt me for it. She’d always tell me they were jealous, and that all the greatest minds were sensitive people. Ironically enough, her dedication to bringing this up at every opportunity was what made me think I was weird the most. So weird in fact, that she had to convince me I wasn’t to protect my feelings.

 But I’m getting distracted. I pick up the last purple spoon, the one Maya the family dog used to drag to her bed and chew on, and shove it into my pocket. I move on to the tubs of toy cars I used to get every year for my birthday. These I can just pick up and carry so there’s no need to dump them into the bags, but I sit down next to one to rummage through anyway. I pull one out and wipe the dust off of it. Immediately the sapphire color snaps me back, and I remember sitting on the couch on Christmas morning as the fireplace blazed and the house was engulfed by the smell of cinnamon. I patiently wait for Eva to rip open her presents, scoffing at each one just a little bit more than the last. Next is Eliza, who takes her time with the packaging. She carefully rips off the wrapping paper and folds it neatly into a pile next to her to use in her scrapbooks. She smiles at mom and dad and thanks them.

 It’s finally my turn. I jump up and grab the one my dad is holding out to me. It’s small and I want to get it over with fast in case it’s a disappointing one. Dad had repeatedly failed (miserably, I might add) in finding something I’m interested in to gift to me, so he just resorted to giving me something he would like. I rip the tape off and unfold the paper. It’s a toy car, but it looks exactly like ours. I look up to see him beaming with excitement. He says he got it custom made so I can show my friends how much cooler our car is compared to theirs. What he didn’t realize is that not only did I barely have one friend at the time, but also that his dad’s car was infinitely cooler than ours. Still, I smiled and thanked him, putting it  in my pocket for easy access when I’d need to dump it in the tub full of toy cars I never played with. I furrow my eyebrows, noticing that my eyesight is foggy. I wipe my eyes and sigh as the tears drip down my face.

 I slip the toy car into my pocket and move on to the stuffed animals, but before I can even begin to reminisce about them I hear footsteps that stop right outside the open door. I turn to see Eva gazing at me from the hallway.

“Hey.” She says, but I don’t answer. Instead I just stare at her, fists clenched by my side. The timid smile she was forcing released and a sour expression broke out across her face as she clicks her tongue. “You can’t seriously expect me to do all the heavy lifting to revive relationship.” she continues, crossing her arms over her chest.

“You can’t seriously expect me to want to have a relationship with you after all you did.” I snap back, my eyes hazy with humidity.

She sighs and waves her hands impatiently. “Look, what matters is I’m back now and-“

“No.” I cry out. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to have a brother after you have left me for so long. This is your way of coming back? No phone call, no warning, no nothing. Just coming here and expecting me to roll out the red carpet for princess Eva like I was forced to as a child. Fuck that. Fuck you. Get out, don’t even try to talk to dad, he doesn’t remember you. And if he does, that would be even worse for his health right now. Do you even know he has dementia? He’s been suffering for so long and you still weren’t here for him.”

She waited for me to calm down and shook her head. “I knew you’d still be a brat… You haven’t changed one bit. Of course I knew, that’s why I left in the first place.”

I stare at her, dumbfounded. “What do you mean?”

She groans and glares at me. “I didn’t -and still don’t- want to spend multiple years of my life babysitting my vegetable dad. Mum already was his slave before he got dementia, and I decided to get out of this hellhole before our cult family forced me into that role as well.”

 “She’s not.. He didn’t… How can you even be so sure they’d do that to you? Mom always said she’d support us no matter what we wanted to do.”

“Because I became an adult years ago, whilst you’re still a child. You need to realize that people say shit to coerce you into submission all the time. Even Eliza knew this by the tim-“

“Don’t say her name!” I yell, choking. “How dare you!”

I charge at her, trying to push her out of the door whilst unable to see through my tears. She easily pushes me to the side and walks to the window while I struggle to get back up.

“Look, you need to accept that she was just an idiot who crossed the road without looking-“

“She was a CHILD.”

“A teen. As I said, an idiot. And mom and dad were idiots for letting her go to her ex’s house by herself.”

“They were busy! You were supposed to look after us!”

“Their brat, their responsibility. I never did any of that, nor had anyone looking after me. Survival of the smartest, I guess.”

She’s not even joking. The words come out of her mouth so effortlessly, so calmly, as if it were common sense and I was the weird one here. She’s talking about Eliza’s death as if it was a scrape in the knee.

“What the fuck is wrong with you.”

“Many things, actually. Most of them are just horrible parenting. Thankfully I didn’t end up like either of you.” She says and shivers.

“What is that supposed to mean?!”

She looks at me up and down. “Just look at yourself, Micheal! You are stuck in our parents’ attic, cleaning it out for your mother who has only ever suppressed you. You’re holding onto dumb souvenirs of your dead sister and braindead father who never even paid attention to how you felt or what you thought.”

“That’s not true…” I say, trying to think of a comeback.

“You know it is, Micheal.”

“Stop.”

“I’m just here to get you out.”

“Get away!”

“Why won’t you let me help you?”

“NO!” I push myself off the ground and run out of the door. I charge down the stairs, shaking and crying. I look around, then peer into my parents’ bedroom. Dad is still asleep. I look up. She’s there. She’s staring down at me with her disapproving eyes, as if compelling me to do something. I close dad’s door. She shakes her head, looking away as she slowly descends the staircase. I feel frozen in place. She peers into my soul before turning to the door and leaving.

 I don’t know how much time has passed. I blink, trying to focus on the face in front of me. I feel the warmth of my mom’s hands on my cheeks and her soft voice wafting to my ears.

“What’s wrong, Micheal? What happened?”

“She” The tears rush up again. “came back.”

 She doesn’t need any details to understand what I mean. She lets go of me as her eyes widen in surprise. She’s holding her breath so hard, as if someone is threatening to take it away. “She came here?” she whispered. I nod.

“What did she want?”

I swallow hard. “To take me with her.” I almost tell her everything, but manage to stop myself in time. She has suffered enough, there’s no reason to tell her that Eva blames her and dad for Eliza’s death.

“But you’re still here.” She responds.

“Did I ever say I left?”

Her face scrunches up as tears flood down her cheeks. She takes a shaky breath and hugs me tightly. “Please don’t leave me.” She cries out. “You’re the only one left.”

Her wails echo through the empty house. I inhale deeply as I fight with my urge to cry along with her. My heart is contorting into weird shapes, making me nauseous. I hold her firmly, both of us shivering with emotion.

“Come on.” I whisper, caressing her shoulder softly. “Let’s go clear out the attic together. And let me take those.” I continue, reaching for the forgotten grocery bags she came back with on the counter.

“I got your favorite, you know. Chocolate chip cookies.” She says and sniffles.

“Thanks, mum.” I say and smile at her. Chocolate chip isn’t my favorite. It was Eliza’s. I take them out of the bag and spread them out on a plate. She eats a few, wiping her eyes with her palm as I organize the groceries, and then we go upstairs.

 We keep the tabletop games but stuff all the other toys into the bags and drive them to the orphanage she was planning to donate them to. I talk to the nice people there while she gives out toy cars, dolls and stuffed animals to the kids. She sits down to listen to the excited squeals of children of all ages as I take out the things from my pockets. I gaze down at the three objects for a long time and, inhaling shakily, hand them to the child passing by me.

“These mean a lot to me.” I sniffle. “Please take good care of them.”

 I gaze at the kid as she runs off to play and turn to face my mom. I take her hand and we go back out to the car. As we’re driving back, I watch her looking over the little kids passing the street. Her eyes still full of tears, have deep creases connecting them to her temples making her look old like a tortoise. She opens her mouth and her sweet voice hangs in the air.

“They get to live another day.” She sighs. “I’m so glad, they get to live another day.”