Beach House
by Elizabeth Lerman
“That’s a nice color on you,” mom says and she is there in the doorway, in the mirror, where I do not expect her. I feel myself flinch. I turn around and know I’ve missed my mouth because she is smiling and Reggie runs past the bathroom pointing a fleshy finger at my face. His giggle is sticky and thick. I launch my arm into the hall and deck the little shit when he barrels back towards us. Mom’s scream comes at the same time as her slap and we are all crying by the time Ronny hauls himself upstairs, wheezing hard from one flight. Reggie takes after him.
I watch the two of them waddle away. They glare at mom and me as they go. Besides the blood blooming under Reggie’s nose, they look nearly identical, in their brightly colored board shorts and those swim shirts for people who want to hide their stomachs. Mom sees what I see and even though her baby is bleeding and my hand is hovering over the outline of hers, we start to laugh and the sound rises like the tide and Ronny looks disgusted as he takes Reggie downstairs, shaking his head, saying what are you two? Saying, really, what the fuck is wrong with you? But we keep laughing, mom mouthing sorry, sorry, blowing kisses to Reggie before shutting the door in his red face. She looks at me and wipes the tears from her eyes.
We sit together on the bathroom floor and draw lines in the sand. We play a game of tic-tac-toe and she wants to be circles, she says, because exes feel so violent. She doesn’t vacuum in the summer, she says, because that’s the point of a beach house.
“It’s supposed to be sandy.”
“I know,” I say.
“Ronny complains.”
“Yeah.”
“I wish you were here more.”
“I have school.”
“I know,” she says.
“Why did you marry him?”
“It’s boring.”
“The answer?”
“Life.”
“Is that good?”
“For me.”
“Since when?”
“Since now.”
“Those shirts are awful.”
“I know.” She laughs again, and so do I. We stare at each other until our smiles burn out.
“Don’t hit your brother,” she says.
“Okay,” I say.
“Can I fix your lipstick?”
“Okay.”
“It really is a nice color.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you eating with us?”
“I’ll get something in town.”
“Promise?”
“Yes.”
“You need cash?”
I say no but she gives me some anyway. She hugs me hard and breaks my heart. She smells like saltwater and it slips from my eyes. My cheek still stings.
Elizabeth Lerman is a creative writer based in Brooklyn. She loves woods, waves, wildlife, horror, highways, and alliteration. Her writing has been published by Curlew New York, Coffin Bell Journal, Blood Tree Literature, and Ruminate Magazine, among others. She thinks her current novel-in-progress will be the one she finally finishes. You can reach Elizabeth and read more of her work via her website www.elizabethlermanwriting.com and on Instagram @elizabethlermanwriting.