The Dismantling by Brian Deleeuw Page A

sunlight slicing across the car. Amelia let go of Simon’s hand and covered her eyes. At Broad Channel, he helped her off the train, and they waited on the platform for the shuttle, Amelia slumped against the wall.
    Days later, centuries later, they arrived at the house. Inside it was cool and dark. Simon led Amelia up to her room. She lay on the bed, and he sat on its edge, holding her hand and talking, saying whatever came into his mind. He thought, without quite believing it, that if he let her fall asleep, she might never wake up. She squirmed against the mattress as he talked, and then suddenly she stood and pushed past him to the bathroom in the hall, pulling the door shut behind her. He stood at the door, his hand on the knob. He heard her retching, then the flush of the toilet. He withdrew his hand and stood in the doorway to her bedroom. He didn’t know what to do. A few minutes later, she came out of the bathroom, limp and flushed. She slipped past him and collapsed onto her bed. She said she felt a little better and asked if he would please call Dad now. “Okay,” he said, and he went downstairs to the phone in the kitchen. He stood there, leaning against the refrigerator, looking at the phone, then up at the wall clock. It was four thirty. His father would be leaving work in an hour, home an hour after that. He looked at the phone again, and then he went back upstairs and sat on the edge of his sister’s bed and watched her drift in and out of sleep.
    It was dark when he heard his father’s key turn in the lock. He hurried downstairs and told Michael that Amelia was sick, that she’d thrown up, that she said it felt as though something inside her skull were drilling its way out.
    His father put down his briefcase and frowned at the ceiling. “You brought her home from school?”
    Simon nodded.
    â€œWhy didn’t you call me?”
    â€œI did. At the office. Nobody answered.”
    His father looked at him. “And you didn’t leave a message? Don’t bullshit me, Simon.”
    â€œI’m not.”
    Michael shook his head and walked up the stairs. Simon waited in the kitchen, turning the dials on the stove, watching the blue flames blossom and die. His father returned a few minutes later and put the teakettle on. He said it was a migraine and nothing to worry about; their mother had suffered them too, the entire time he’d known her. He brought the steaming cup upstairs, and Simon followed him and watched from the doorway as he placed the cup on Amelia’s bedside table, drew the blinds, tucked her under the blankets. Michael placed a pill in her hand, told her to swallow it down along with her tea. Simon slipped down the hall to his own room and closed the door. He felt a gnawing sense that he’d failed his sister, that he’d been exposed as ineffective, dispensable.
    One Saturday morning in December, during Simon’s senior year of high school, Amelia woke up with the left side of her mouth and tongue entirely numb; by noon she’d vomited everything in her stomach, but still her brain remained incandescent with pain.
    Simon sat on the bed as she thrashed around under the sheets. She told him again that he didn’t have to stay with her.
    â€œIt’s okay,” he said. “You shouldn’t be alone.”
    She abruptly sat up and glared at him. “No,” she said. “It’s not okay. You’re not helping. I want to be alone.”
    â€œI thought you wanted me here.”
    â€œWhen did I ever say that?” She fell back against the pillows. “Please, Simon, just go.”
    She closed her eyes and turned away from him. He went into the hallway, closing the door softly behind him. He sat all afternoon in his room, trying to read, but instead he found himself staring at the wall that separated his room from Amelia’s and picturing her suffering. She’d described it to him and he’d witnessed it