I nod a little / none of this is rocket science.

  She smiles. “Let’s empty this dresser and get Carmichael to move the furniture out.” We shove the clothes and the weird contents of my top two drawers / mostly ponytail holders and old makeup / notes from school, into two bags. I find an envelope / letter from my sister. I move to put it into the trash pile.

  “I know what that is,” Mama says.

  Purple envelope / everyone would know.

  “Yes, it’s purple so I know who it’s from. But I know what it says,” she says. “Or I know what it did.” She fiddles with a burr on her fingernail. “It made you scared.”

  Again, not a mystery.

  “Do you know why the house is turning?” I ask.

  “I do.” She nods and we close up the two black bags. Carmichael and Richard arrive and move furniture out. Mama and I keep ourselves busy.

  “Is it me? Am I making the house turn?”

  “Not at all,” she says / stops and studies me. “You’re much too busy trying to fix things with that crowbar at night.”

  “So what’s doing it, then?”

  “The house is turning because it knows we’re coming for it.”

  I want to tell her more, but something stops me.

  “You still don’t trust me,” she says. “But you’ll have to soon. I can’t fix this on my own.”

  “Tell me what’s making the house turn.”

  “The boxes,” she corrects, “are turning because of lies.”

  “Whose lies?”

  “Everyone’s. But mostly your father’s.”

  “Daddy is the most honest person I ever met,” I say. Fresh yogurt / tortillas / makes his own soap.

  “He is, yes. That’s true,” she says. “But when he built these boxes, he was building a lie. Thought he could keep you all separate from each other to solve the problem. That’s not how to solve problems.”

  “Family meetings don’t solve problems, either.”

  “They do. As long as everyone is open.”

  “You never told us the reason you left,” I say. “Doesn’t seem very open to me.”

  “That’s because you know why I left.”

  Desperate people will say anything. Sister said anything / especially during the kiosk job. She was desperate for destruction / never felt special like Mama. Or Daddy. Richard had his good grades. I was simply younger and cuter. She was born empty. Bad energy. Circuits with shorts. Told a psychic woman so many lies that it blocked all her chakras and made her deaf.

  “Why didn’t you take me with you?”

  “You weren’t ready yet. Like Richard isn’t ready now and I wasn’t ready until you set me straight on Friday.”

  Daddy comes through on the intercom speaker. “Carmichael has asked more breakfast burritos. These will ready in fifteen minutes. How many for you?”

  Mama says, “I’ll take two, please.”

  I say, “I’ll have two, too.”

  “Yes!” he says. “Thank you for order!”

  Mama giggles / shakes her head / says, “He deserves so much better than what he got.”

  DADDY’S BREAKFAST DRIVE-THRU MENU

  I don’t know what breakfast burritos should taste like in a world where Mama is actually psychic. I suddenly want to put my palms in front of her and ask her to read them while doing my tarot cards and a decent chakra balancing.

  “We also have orange juice and pineapple juice! Do not forget to pick up with order!” Daddy says.

  Richard is out in the backyard with Carmichael. They are cleaning the bathroom fixtures / we will have the cleanest toilets in town.

  “Look at his aura,” Mama says to me / pointing to Daddy. “He’s so ready.”

  I look at him / his aura / have no idea what a ready aura looks like. All I can see is him flipping tortillas with his left hand while his right makes more eggs for the filling / maybe that’s ready.

  EMPTY

  Because we started so early, my room is completely empty by an hour after Daddy’s second breakfast-burrito cycle. Mama and I work to music she puts on / sounds like something Len would listen to. We move to the bathroom and remove any personal things from the cabinet. She grabs a plastic-wrapped four-pack of toilet paper that didn’t get ruined in any of the turning / throws it into her overstuffed station wagon.

  We move toward box #9 / when we get there, it’s gone. No door / no way in / no way out / no room / no box / no sister.

  Mama says, “This is how we should see things now.”

  “That must be hard for you.”

  Mama makes a noise like it isn’t.

  “She’s still your daughter,” I say.

  “She’s a very old spirit sent to us. Probably sent to me because they thought I could handle her.”

  “They?” I ask.

  “Don’t worry about it. Know this,” she says. “She may have been born here, grown here, and done her damage here, but never did you deserve an ounce of it.”

  We are doubting my mother together, you and I.

  “I should have put her in my car and driven as far away as I could back on the day I knew for sure,” she says. “Which was probably the bird incident. Your father could have raised you and Richard. I could have at least taken her away so she didn’t do so much damage.”

  I start to cry / something in her voice / she’s not lying. “I kinda hate you for not doing that,” I say.

  “I kinda hate me for not doing that, too,” she says. “Your father was never on board. His love for me was so big, he started with the boxes. Said it would solve things. Always with the ideas, your father. Smart as hell, can build anything, has no grasp on the human emotional process.”

  “He makes excellent lasagna but cannot feel,” I say.

  FAMILY MEETING LUNCH MENU

  Late lunch / pretend-2:00 p.m. / Daddy has made us all kinds of tiny sandwiches. He pours wine for Carmichael, himself, and Mama. Richard and I get water. Richard is filthy except for his hands / has dirt on his forehead / his eyes look clear.

  The kitchen table is gone from the living room / we sit on the floor / wall / plywood that keeps us from falling through.

  Mama says, “Another family meeting. Not as comfortable without furniture, but it’s good to be in a clean space.” Her voice echoes around the emptiness.

  “If we have one more family meeting this week, I will lose my shit,” Richard says.

  “This should be the last one,” Mama says.

  Carmichael says, “Concordia, I have always respected you. You are honest and remind me of my great-grandmother. She was smart and beautiful. I hope you do not mind me saying.”

  “She is the most beautiful woman on planet,” Daddy says. “You do not need to tell me.”

  Richard laughs.

  Daddy turns to him and asks, “Where do you go in car at night?”

  Richard stops laughing.

  “I check odometer,” Daddy says. “Also, I find long blond hair in car. Truda is brunette.”

  “Well, shit,” Mama says. “Do you finally have a girlfriend?”

  Richard stays quiet / looks like he’s about to crap his pants. “Why do you look so scared?” I ask. “You’re twenty-one and have a girlfriend. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  Carmichael looks to Daddy. “You said you would talk to him about this, friend.”

  “I did,” Daddy says. “We had man-to-man.”

  Richard still looks terrified / I am beginning to think this isn’t a normal girlfriend.

  “Can we see a picture? Can we meet her?” I ask.

  “Honey, I know what happened back then made you all fucked up,” Mama says. “But you’re a normal guy. I promise.”

  Carmichael says, “What you did is in the past.”

  “I didn’t do anything!” Richard says / his me-shaped hole.

  “Can someone tell me what’s going on?” I say.

  “You heard the rumor,” Richard said.

  “Was it true?”

  “No!” Richard says. He makes a frustrated sound and adds, “It’s complicated.”

  “Did you actually like her or something?” I ask.

  “I really liked her,” he says. “When I thought she was sixteen, yeah. Her texts were so funny.”

  “Oh,” I say / imagine Giselle as funny once / can’t grasp it.

  Mama says, “Please tell me this new secret girlfriend is over the age of sixteen.”

  “Jesus!” Richard says. “She’s not my girlfriend and, yes, she’s over sixteen. Okay? Is that enough?”

  “Why is her hair in my car if she is not girlfriend?” Daddy asks.

  “Why are you so freaked out about having a girlfriend?” I ask.

  “Look at how you all are! It’s like an interrogation! But you’re telling me it’s normal.”

  “You’re the one sneaking out and not acting like this is normal,” Mama says.

  “You’re acting like the rumor was true,” I say.

  Carmichael points to Richard and then me. “Tell her whole story. No secrets.”

  My insides twist up.

  Richard looks like he’s going to yell / cry / act out a Portuguese tragedy. Then his shoulders relax and he takes a deep breath. “Part of it was true,” he says. “I did go to the rec center to pick Giselle up. It was six in the morning. Only she wasn’t waiting for me and she wasn’t sixteen. That’s when sister showed up.”

  “Oh,” I say. Richard / the rec center / was booby-trapped / Eris.

  Richard sighs. “She had screenshots of all the texts we’d sent—she got them from Giselle’s phone—and then she told me Giselle was thirteen. She had a list of demands.”

  “Demands?” I say.

  “Like blackmail,” Mama says.

  “I said no,” he says. “I was so upset. I was scared. I was a lot of things, I guess. So she spread the rumor and somehow Giselle’s parents found out. I don’t even know. I spent most of that time trying to hide from the whole world.”

  Daddy clears his throat. “I should have not let you hide,” he says.

  “You wouldn’t have been able to stop me,” Richard answers.

  “But look at how much shame,” Daddy says. “You did not do something wrong. Your sister did. This does not explain why you allow her to talk to you.”

  Mama says, “Or why you’re hiding a girlfriend now, three years later.”

  Richard, our rifle, can’t handle all this truth in one place. His Plutchik’s Clock is spinning like a Twister spinner.

  Mama says, “You don’t have to tell us about your girlfriend. But you have to stop listening to your sister. She’s controlled your mind for too long.”

  Richard stands up / shame on his face turned to rage. “She’s family,” he says. “The only family I have left who isn’t crazy. Look at you three! He’s building a plywood prison, she’s setting world records, and you,” he spits at Mama, “are a fraud and a liar.”

  “In your pocket are four things,” Mama says. “A penny, a rock from a walk you took with your girlfriend two weeks ago by a lake, a piece of wrapped chewing gum, and a condom.”

  Richard goes to say something / puts his hand in the pocket of his jeans.

  “Your sister told you so many lies you can’t succeed. You don’t know who you really are. You had such good energy as a boy. I know it’s still there. She covered it with her energy, is all.”

  “It is my fault,” Daddy says / on the verge of tears / bellowing. “Your mother knew what to do many years back. I would not allow it.”

  Richard looks to me. I look back at him / don’t know what to say. “I’m sorry, Tru. You’re not crazy. None of you are. I just can’t—it feels so mean to just drop her. We went through a lot together.”

  “You only went through things she caused,” I say. “It’s a setup.”

  He looks at Mama and Daddy. “If she’s so sick, why didn’t you get her help?”

  Mama chuckles in a sad way / Daddy, too.

  I say, “They did.”

  “Do you know how many times they investigated your father and me?” Mama says. “Child services, the police”—Daddy shudders at the word—“psychiatrists calling us to tell us we were the problem because we— Ugh. I can’t even repeat it.”

  “These people nearly took you and Truda away from us,” Daddy says. “She said we starved her and many worse. Many, many worse.”

  “So we tried,” Mama says. “But psychology didn’t work.”

  Richard says, “Huh. I didn’t know that. I guess you should have told us.”

  I look around me at the plywood. “Even if they’d have told us, she would have found a way to make you believe what she wanted. Come on. How many back-seat car rides have we done together?”

  Richard nods / knows / remembers. “I always felt like I had to choose a side and it always had to be hers,” he says.

  “And your head was so covered in shame,” Daddy says, “that you fell in love with a little girl.”

  Richard, our rifle, puts his head in his hands. If you look hard enough, you can see a million screwdrivers stuck into him / he’s been misfiring all this time / sight’s set off-kilter. He reaches for his phone and opens it. He goes to his contacts and blocks our sister’s number.

  “What do you feel?” I ask.

  “Scared.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she’s going to be so angry.”

  Mama says, “She was born angry. She’ll die angry. She’ll be born into some other unsuspecting family angry, and die angry again. It’s her destiny. Centuries of bad energy.”

  “Can’t you save her with your powers?” Richard asks / snarky.

  “Are you gonna tell us about your girlfriend?” I ask. “I’d really like to meet her.”

  “Like I can bring her here,” he says.

  Carmichael laughs like this is the end of a movie / slaps his knee.

  Richard tells us: They met on campus / she’s twenty-three / she’s funny / gets straight-A grades like him. Ten seconds / no name / at least he didn’t say it all in Portuguese.

  Mama smiles / says, “She sounds lovely.”

  Daddy makes his Somewhere Else noise in agreement.

  Richard says, “I’m sorry about being so stubborn. I was scared. I really thought I might be what everyone said I was.”

  I notice an anomaly / we are listening to one another.

  I notice an anomaly / Mama isn’t completely psychic, or if she is, she hasn’t mentioned what happened on the couch of the townhouse when I was ten. She looks at me as if she knows what I’m thinking, but she will wait until I tell her. This is only fair / nothing I can do about it now / boundaries / heal / rest.

  * * *

  —

  Mama says, “Today we rebuild.” She looks at Daddy / locks eyes / inhales / exhales. “It starts with you, my love. You need to tell us what’s troubling you so much that our home has become a carnival ride.”

  Daddy swats the idea. “I do not believe in this American sharing.”

  Mama gives him the look of a confident bear.

  Daddy starts to laugh, too. He says, “I am very sorry to all of you. Carpet on wall. No toilets.” He shakes his head. “I am builder with no work. Father with no family. I talk at food, mostly. I dance with wooden spoon of my mother’s. I missed you, Concordia, and am glad you have come home.”

  “And I’m so sorry I left with no explanation,” she says to us.

  Mama explains that she and Daddy had a long talk / deliberations after the bird-stabbing. “Most other parents wouldn’t catch it,” she says. “But I did. And I knew what I had to do.” She explains Daddy wouldn’t let her / how it got worse with age / how she came to the decision to say Don’t call me. “I couldn’t cope with her while he was off at that mall. She knew it and did everything to break me.”

  “The kiosks wouldn’t let me think!” Daddy says, half a mouthful of tiny sandwich.

  “You didn’t sleep for a month,” Mama says. “You were not yourself at all. I know, sweetheart.”

  Daddy softens at sweetheart and his shoulders drop. “I did not know what to do. A man must know what to do.”

  At this, he puts his Somewhere-Else head into his Somewhere-Else hands and sobs into Carmichael’s lap / Carmichael rubs his friend’s head / the house starts creaking / turning / Daddy’s tiny sandwiches start to tumble off their plate / wineglasses are quickly gathered by Mama.

  FINAL TURN

  I have never seen my father cry this way / raised to believe only toddlers and teenage girls did this / never saw it on TV / thought I was a freak for those nights in my room where I just can’t stop. I don’t look directly at him, but from the sound, I can tell Carmichael’s jeans are full of snot and drool and shame.

  Mama reaches over and ruffles his hair. Even Richard puts his hand on Daddy’s back and rubs in circles.

  Box #2 / the living room turns slowly / Richard, Mama, and I rise into squat position / try to balance. Daddy and Carmichael stay on the floor / as it lifts to become the wall again, Carmichael scooches himself toward the corner, coaxing Daddy along with him. Daddy cries and cries / wails like grief / lifts his right hand and hits the floor for his pain. To understand anything is to understand energy.

  Mama stumbles toward the corner and Richard catches her before she falls. She looks at him / holds his face in her hands / says, “You deserved a better childhood. I’m sorry.”

  This makes Daddy cry harder / I didn’t even think he could hear us.

  * * *

  By the time Daddy stops crying, the house has righted itself. In the living room, the carpet is finally back under our feet / we no longer have to crouch to get through sideways doorways.

  To understand energy is to understand yourself / we are all Paleolithic.