Sister and I don’t talk about the ghosts down in the basement, the soft wood boards creaking below our feet, or the kicked-in kitchen cabinets.
“This used to be my room.” I tell her, one foot in the doorway, stepping in and out time. I scan the cracks across the ceiling. There is the lucky penny I crammed into the closet door frame. The smears of nail polish from when Dad caught me wearing it without his permission. The window frame splintered from when I tried to crawl my way out. The smiley face scribbled on the blue walls in pencil, its face dripping down like tears.
“I’m painting the walls pink.” Sister says. “To cover up the stains.” She sighs, despite her optimism. There is a slight upturn in the corner of her lips, a whimper caught behind her teeth, and I know she is wiser than her age. I remember being wiser than my age; the way the collection of sighs put pressure on my ribcage.
“It will look beautiful.” I say sincerely, but it feels like lying. The way the air catches in this room, like dying bugs in spiderwebs. And I remember what it felt like to welcome spiders.
“We can caulk over the hole in this wall.” I tell her, and I run my fingers over its jagged edges, flooded with visions of Mom and Dad, and the nostalgia of the horror of adolescence.
“Okay.” Sister says, suppressing another sigh. She stands in the light from the window, and her face, unlike my own face, casts a shadow along the wall. She leans over the paint can, and unlatches the lid, revealing swirls of light pink.
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She hands me a paint roller, and we take turns running it through the pools of goop. We paint the walls around the holes, around the smiley face, around the window frames. I am careful to miss these places of recognition, afraid to lose the dreary memories that have made up my life.
“You missed a spot.” Sister whines. She reaches her brush toward the smiley face, but I pull her hand away. She shakes her head at me.
“It all has to go.” She reminds, and sighing one last sigh, I put the brush against the smiley face. I run him through, and I watch him fill with pink. Until he’s gone. Until it’s all gone. I laugh when it’s over, and I let the ghosts stay in the basement.
“When it comes together, it’s going to be good as new!” I promise. We will add another coat of paint when the first one dries, and then another, and sooner or later, the smell of paint will fade, and along with it, the memories.