Page 37 of PS: I Hate You
Still, there’s something about talking to my brother—or ranting at him, which I’m more likely to do—that does something for me. The act doesn’t make me happy, exactly.
But it briefly distracts me from the fact that he’s dead. That moment before a response is required, I can imagine one will come.
Maybe this is a creative and healthy coping mechanism.
Or maybe I’m losing my mind because I can’t cry, and I’m not grieving properly.
To avoid answering Dom, I snap open my menu, glad the list of food items is tall enough to block out his face.
We make it through the meal without further insults, mainly because we don’t speak. A few times Dom opens his mouth as if he’s going to say something, and I tense for him to bring up the way I drunkenly mauled him after our first ash-spreading adventure. But then he closes his lips and refocuses on his food.
When the bill is paid—I insist on a split check—I break the silence.
“When’s the reservation? Can we go now?”
“Yes,” Dom says on a sigh. “We can go.”
The drive takes us on winding roads through rural areas, but we eventually come upon a large stone-supported sign announcingwe’ve found ourselves at the Dismals Canyon. I follow Dom’s taillights up a short drive to a small parking lot. Nothing about the place reveals why we’d need a reservation.
“Now what?” I ask once I meet Dom outside of his car.
He nods toward a sign that points the way to registration. Gritting my teeth, I continue to follow him down an incline where we come upon an outdoor sitting area and a souvenir shop.
“We’re here for the night tour,” Dom tells the woman behind the counter. “Dominic Perry and Madeline Sanderson.”
My shoulders go up to my ears at the sound of my full name in his voice. My mom, Florence, and workers at the DMV are the only ones who call me Madeline. Even though Dom is on my bad side, too, I don’t want him Madeline-ing me.
The woman checks our names on a list, then directs us to wait in the shop or in the outside sitting area until the tour—whatever that is—begins.
Without the need for discussion, we head outside, where there’s a semblance of privacy.
The evening is cool, and I hug Josh’s remains close to my chest while glaring over the railing toward the sound of falling water. I have to use sound because in the dying light it’s impossible to see much past the deck we’re on.
“I don’t see why we needed to make a reservation for a night hike. And why would we hike at night? You can’t see anything.”
Dom doesn’t respond, which only infuriates me more. Maybe I can push him off the trail and he’ll get lost in the woods and I’ll never have to see his annoying, handsome face again.
But then he distracts me from aggressive thoughts by pulling out an envelope and holding it up so I can read the handwriting.
Alabama
34°19’38.00” N
87°46’57.00” W
Josh. He’s in that envelope. He’s also in my arms. Just like on the beach in Delaware, I canfeelmy brother beside me in this moment. Can pretend that he’s alive for a little while longer.
“Do you want to read this one?” Dom asks.
“Yes.” I thrust out my hand. But Dom doesn’t immediately pass the letter over. Instead, he holds out his empty palm as well.
A trade.
For a second, I clutch Josh closer, loath to let go of even this small portion.
“I’ll give him back.” Dom’s voice is surprisingly gentle, and I jerk my gaze up in time to catch some unreadable emotion flicker across his face. “You need two hands to open the letter.”
Damn his logic.