I stay up in our bedroom for the rest of the morning, trying not to admit to myself that I hope Joey comes up in search of me. We need to talk, the two of us. I need to apologize again, if nothing else. But he doesn’t join me and I stay upstairs, rattling around the attic like an uneasy ghost.
A little before noon, I hear the phone ring down in the kitchen. It’s Mom, I’m sure, calling to tell us to pick her up. I sit on my bed, my suitcase open at my feet as I rearrange what clean clothes I have left, and wait to be summoned to join in the family trip.
But Joey doesn’t bellow my name from the bottom of the steps—after a few moments I hear slight creaks and look over to see him peeking up from the stairwell, halfway up the stairs so his head barely tops the edge of the floor. Turning back
