I tried to calm my clenching stomach as we approached our house, right down the street from the American Legion. Something about having the American Legion so close had convinced my father that this was the iconic, classic, all-American part of Seaside unlike the trash The Jersey Shore had turned our boardwalk into. He did his best to be patriotic. The only decorations on the front of our slate gray house were two large American flags. They were posted proudly on either side of the tall front deck with blinding white pine railings that had yet to be turned gray from the salt air.
While Paul Michael fiddled with his keys, I drifted right in.
The scent of Lemon Pledge and salt air mingled in my dead nose to create a smell only found in this house. My mother, also known as dirt’s arch nemesis, was known for scrubbing the house top to bottom after every trip to the beach, trying to vanquish every last speck of sand that found its way into her home. I almost considered taking off my flip-flops before going further into our house. When I remembered that I was dead, I found some twisted delight in walking through the house with shoes on. The afterlife makes you appreciate the little things.
I tried not to look at the living room, afraid I would see too many pictures of myself or, worse, none at all. Instead, I beelined for the stairs and sprinted up them as fast as my legs could carry me, again too anxious to look at the row of pictures hanging there. I noticed a light from under the door of the room I used to share with my sister. My upper lip began to sweat. After all that had happened, I wasn’t ready to face her yet. I wasn’t sure that I would ever be ready.
“Would seeing Mom and Dad first be easier?” Paul Michael asked behind me.
“I don’t know if I want to see anyone right now.” I pictured Greg, always looking at my brother and never at me. I couldn’t go through that once more tonight.