My trip from John Wayne airport to our house feels almost as bleak as the flight itself. The only difference is that in the car, I can’t cry. The hum of the tires against asphalt drones like a low dirge, and the air-conditioning blasts stale, recycled air that smells faintly of dust and old leather. My sister, Marja, fills the silence with chatter about her summer in Australia. Her voice is bright, animated, rising and falling like waves, but I drift in and out, catching fragments—kangaroos, beaches, late-night bonfires—letting most of it slide past like static.
“Where are Mom and Dad? Why didn’t they come pick me up?” I cut into her monologue, my voice thin, brittle.
She stares at me, blank and unblinking, her knuckles tightening on the steering wheel. “Where is your head? I literally j
