by Tia Souders
The last time we came together, she vacillated between clutching the stone and pounding her chest while she screamed for God to let her join him. Following her antics were the threats to end her life. When my father subsequently put an end to her visits, her overall drinking increased considerably. I guess in a roundabout way she was simply making good on her word. Drinking yourself to a slow death didn’t change the fact that’s where you were headed.
I stood, staring at the cheerful faces of the gerbera daisies my father undoubtedly had left. Even when the first drops of rain began to fall, the fire coursing through my body did not diminish. I studied the delicate carvings in the gray marble headstone. Angel’s wings flanked words of devotion from grieving parents; To our one and only. To our son. My hands moved toward the words, tracing over the letters in his name, the spot where the parents I no longer recognized pledged their undying love for their child
“If they cared about me half as much as they loved you…”
Rain beat against my head and back, pelting my forehead and tracing a path down my nose. My hands clenched into fists while spots danced in front of my eyes. What would my life have been like had Michael never been? Michael’s death, my father severing my finger, those two events and all the ones in-between interwove into one main event, one series of dominoes where the passing of one incident caused so many others.
I remembered how my father said Juilliard wouldn’t accept someone with four fingers, and I wondered why all of these things happened—Michael, Mom, my finger.
“It’s his fault I’m like this,” I sobbed.
Curling into myself, I rocked onto my knees and glanced down at my hand. My breath huffed in ragged puffs as I ripped away the bandage with a grunt. My hand shook as I held it up in front of my face for the first time in nearly six months, taking in the sight of my missing finger.
I stared at the angry pink flesh pulled taut over the stub of bone. The place where my finger used to be—where I should have worn a wedding ring one day—and the cause of over five months of compensation and readjusting to the guitar.
I pounded the earth with my good hand, garnering little relief, before I turned and pressed my back into the gravestone. The hard edge of the stone dug into my skin, but I welcomed the discomfort. Because anything was better than the way I felt inside—unwanted and unworthy.
Turning my gaze to the bruised sky, I let the tears fall, mingling with the rain. I didn’t bother to wipe them away, nor did I bother to hold them back.
What if my father was right? No matter how well I played, would the board at Juilliard view my hand as a disability, a weakness?
Clenching my teeth, I kicked again at the moist soil beneath my feet, then reached down and clawed at the flowers, decapitating them and demolishing any evidence of their beautiful existence. When I turned back and glanced down, the loosened soil revealed something white protruding from the soil.
I reached forward and touched the object. It felt like paper, so I loosened the soil surrounding it, then pulled it free until I held an envelope in my hands.
I knew my father was the only one who visited Michael’s grave anymore, so this had to belong to him.
I turned it over in my hands and squinted at the smudged ink, until I could make out the return address, and everything clicked into place. My audition invitation from Juilliard. How fitting. My father buried the letter in the one place he figured I would never look, and had I not been so upset and looking for someone or something to blame for my life, I never would’ve found it. A few more days in the ground with the rain, and the ink would’ve been illegible.
I balled the letter in my fist, equal amounts of anger at my father and elation at getting an audition surging through my blood. I stood and glanced down at my clothes as a chill shook my body. They were soaked through. My tangle of emotions peaked then subsided as the cold went straight to my bones.
I took off in a run and raced back to my truck. Once I hopped inside, exhaustion hit me full force, and I slumped against the steering wheel. The wad of wet paper, once my audition letter, fell from my hand to the floor of my car. I drove back home, trying to focus through the tangle of thoughts in my head. Too tired to even be relieved when I pulled in the driveway and noticed my father’s car was gone.
I flung open the front door and stepped inside. The curtains were drawn, casting the living room in shadows, suiting my mood just fine. Prepared to crash on the couch, I stumbled into the room and grabbed a throw blanket off the chair, but I jumped as I nearly collapsed onto a slumped figure. My mother.
I stared down at her face, peaceful with sleep—probably sleeping off a bender—then turned and made my way to the stairs. I took the first couple before I paused, and before I knew what I was doing, my feet moved on their own accord.
I returned to the living room, to the couch, where my gaze, once again, fell to my mother. Never before had I watched her sleep. Years ago, when she first started drinking, I had this innate fear she would stop breathing before my eyes. Now, it had more to do with wanting to avoid any form of interaction with her at all costs.
She looked almost peaceful, yet I hardly recognized her. The sharp contours of her jaw coincided with the gaunt angles of her cheekbones. Her once soft lips, which used to kiss me goodnight, were now cracked and dry. Frizzy blonde hair spun with more silver than I remembered lay in a tangled mess around her head, and her skin carried a sickly gray pallor. A trail of broken capillaries dusted across her cheeks and nose, and as I stared at this sad version of the woman I remembered, I realized she left her heart buried back at Michael’s grave a long time ago.
She had given up.
Before I could stop myself, I reached out. My fingertips traced the side of my mother’s face and cheek. Her skin felt brittle under my hands, as if it might crack.
I trailed my fingertips down her jawbone and stopped when the glint of something caught my eye. Pausing, I leaned forward, peering at her neck in the shadows. A necklace?
I reached out and plucked the chain in my fingers and tugged. A tiny silver heart emerged from under her shirt. A locket. One I had never seen before.
I licked my lips, glancing to the door as if expecting someone to be watching. The rise and fall of my mother’s chest and the soft pulls of her breath filled the quiet. Satisfied we were alone, I opened the piece of jewelry. Each half of the heart contained a photo: one of Michael and one of my parents.
Michael’s tiny body was swaddled in a white hospital blanket, but even the blanket couldn’t disguise the bluish cast to his skin. In contrast, the photo of my parents pictured a young and happy couple. Alive with smiles so huge they could light up the night sky.
The locket and the two photos inside pierced my chest like a knife. I swallowed over the ache in my throat as the silver heart fell from my hands and back onto my mother’s chest. I backed away from the couch on autopilot and drifted up the stairs on wasted legs before curling into a ball on my bed. I closed my eyes, shivering from my still-damp clothes, and wished for sleep. But even in my dreams, the images of those photos haunted me.
I dreamt of Michael not dying in a car crash but instead living. He was big and strong. The same age as me. I dreamt of my mother with corn silk hair against creamy skin and my father with a wide smile I had almost forgotten. I dreamt of a world in which I didn’t exist, one where I died in Michael’s place.
I dreamt of a world where my parents were happy.
15
The afternoon had warmed considerably. Still, the chill in the air raised my skin in goose bumps beneath my thin cotton shirt. I leaned forward on the bottom porch step, my butt aching from sitting on the hard surface. I placed my head into my hands and rubbed my puffy, sore eyes. I had woken up at noon after sleeping like the dead for hours. I then grabbed a sandwich and took a seat on June’s porch where I had remained ever since. Whether she noticed me out there or not, I had no idea. I was just grateful she let me be.
I choked on a laugh as a t
hought occurred to me. I missed another day of school, one among many this year. Wouldn’t it be the icing on the cake to get held back for poor attendance? All the worry over Juilliard would have been for naught.
I chuckled again, letting the irony sink in. Gripping my stomach, laughter continued to bubble out of me, even when I recognized the hysterical edge to the sound. After all, laughing was better than thinking about the argument with my father, the locket around my mother’s neck, or Juilliard, so I let the floodgates open, preferring aching abdominals to the chest-heaving sobs from last night.
When a pair of gray sneakers appeared in front of the porch step in my line of vision, I straightened. I glanced up to Tad’s small face, shielding my eyes from the afternoon sun with my hand like a visor, but when he nudged his glasses up with his finger, he reminded me of my exposed hand.
Oh, crap. My bandages…
They were still gone.
Tad’s gaze locked onto my exposed finger, and I froze. Waiting for his reaction, tears I thought had long since dried collected in my eyes. He met my gaze, and a knowing look flickered through his eyes before he knelt beside me, grabbed my good hand, and squeezed.
I took a steadying breath and swiped at my face, pushing the last of the tears away.
“They say acceptance is the first step,” Tad said.
I laughed. “To what? Realizing you have a problem? What is this? Intervention?”
A smile touched his lips, revealing a small dimple I had never noticed. “Maybe.”
“What are you intervening?”
He shook his head, his expression solemn. “I don’t know why this happened to you. Maybe there was never even a reason,” he said, gesturing to my hand. “But maybe you’re finally on your way to accepting it. Juilliard is a deadline to reach, and that’s all you’ve thought about. It’s like you’ve never really accepted the fact you’ve lost an actual part of your body, other than how it affects your playing. You’re one finger short and nothing’s changing that.”
I thought back to the morning of the accident so many months ago. In the following days, depression settled in, followed by frustration at the obstacles I would have to overcome if I still wanted to reach my dreams. What came next was sheer determination to make things work. But I continued to hide my injury, even after the doctors removed the bandages and stitches. Had I been avoiding the reality of it?
I pursed my lips, releasing a long breath. “You’re pretty smart for a twelve-year-old.”
The freckles on his cheeks spread with his smile. “I’ll be thirteen soon.”
“Right, in a month. I forgot. You’re pretty smart for an almost-thirteen-year-old.” I suppressed a laugh.
“That’s better”
“So, what now?”
Tad turned, his gaze holding mine. “Now you shred it like Tony Iomi.”
I laughed. Reaching over him, I rumpled his hair, for the first time feeling something other than bandages over the flesh of my severed finger. Though the sensation felt strange, a weight I hadn’t known I carried lifted from my shoulders.
I glanced down at my hand, looking at it in a whole new light. My hand—the hand of a survivor.
* * *
“Are you sure you don’t mind me hanging around with you guys?” Tad trailed behind me as we got out of my car and headed into The Clover. “Cuz if you don’t want me to be here, I’ll just go. I can take a hint. I’ll just leave… if you want me to.”
I rolled my eyes. “Tad, give it a rest, will you?”
He smiled and stumbled over a gap in the sidewalk. “So, you don’t care then?”
I gripped the strap of my guitar case tighter as I opened the heavy glass door. “I don’t care.”
The weekend had finally come. The first days of March brought with them a warm front. People milled around outside and some packed their things to take advantage of the weather with a weekend at Virginia Beach. In a day or two, the warmth would exit, tempering the collective spring fever. It was a shame to spend the day indoors, but I had plans with Laird, so the sacrifice was worth it. I only had a couple weeks left until auditions, causing the passing of time to become a tangible detriment. Juilliard was virtually all I thought about. I needed reassurance and guidance, so I planned to practice all my audition pieces for him to see which areas needed improvement.
“I just don’t want to be a third wheel,” Tad continued.
I stopped just inside the entryway and turned to him with my poker face. “Tad, you’re right. You are a third wheel. Maybe you should go.”
His face fell, but his effort to maintain a smile was comical, if not heartbreaking. “Okay. You’re right. Do you want me to just wait in the car, or should I call June?”
I said nothing, only stared at his puppy dog eyes beneath his thick round glasses. “You could just walk home.” Before I could stop myself, I exploded with laughter. “You should’ve seen your face,” I said, pointing. “You looked so pathetic.”
“Hey!”
“Sorry.” I smacked him in the arm, then said, “But come on. You know you’re not a third wheel. Laird loves hanging out with you. And so do I.”
You’re like the brother I never had, I thought. But I said nothing, knowing a comment like that would go straight to his head.
His expression brightened, and his chest puffed a bit as he stood a little taller and prouder than before.
“Okay. If you guys want to do a little touchy-feely or need some alone time, though, just say the word. Like I said, I can take a hint.” He raised his hand as if in oath.
I glared at him over my shoulder and shook my head. More like the annoying little brother I never I had.
I spotted Laird sitting at one of the empty tables. We had been seeing each other a couple times a week since our date at the café in Virginia Beach. Though my resulting breakup with Derek had caused old insecurities to resurface, Laird and I had grown closer in the past months. Any doubts I had had been tempered by his reassuring presence.
As I drew closer, I noticed the thick textbook open in front of him along with a glass of orange juice and an uneaten muffin. A black and white photo of a woman stared up from the page.
“What do we have here?” I asked, lifting the book cover when he didn’t notice our approach. “Women’s Studies?” I raised a brow at him.
He chuckled. “I know. It’s an elective course and we have an exam Monday.”
“What can be so hard about studying women?” Tad asked, wrinkling his nose.
Laird smirked. “You have no idea.”
I laughed but sobered when Laird’s expression turned serious, and he snapped the book shut. “It may just be an elective, but all it takes is one class, no matter how easy you think it is, to bring down a GPA. And right now, I’m averaging a B, so I have to do really well on this next test.”
I pinched his cheek. “My little nerd.”
He turned me around, eliciting a yelp of excitement, and wrapped his arms around me. When his lips brushed the back of my neck, heat flooded my face.
“Ugh. All right, you guys. Take it somewhere else. You’re making me sick,” Tad said, rubbing his stomach.
The washboard muscles of Laird’s stomach shook against my back as he stifled a laugh. Reaching up, he yanked my ponytail as he always did, then stepped away. “We’ll keep it strictly PG-13.”
Tad narrowed his eyes, eliciting another chuckle from Laird.
“How about we go outside to play? It’s too beautiful out not to. Plus, I need some air.” Laird slid his hands down my arms, but when he got to my hand he froze.
My finger. I was so comfortable with him and Tad I forgot.
Sweat pricked my face and back, and I fought the urge to run and hide. I would’ve felt no less exposed if I were naked.
The passing seconds seemed like hours, and panic swelled in my chest as I imagined the things running through his mind. Then in one swift motion, as if he had never paused in the first place, he lifted my left hand to his face and
kissed the back of it. My heart thumped against my ribs as I turned around, braced for the worst.
I glanced up at him and his blue eyes bore into mine. “You’re beautiful.” He touched my forehead with his. “Beautiful,” he whispered again.
From behind me, I hear Tad leave, and I’ve never been more grateful the boy knew how to make an exit. My legs turned to putty as relief swept through me like a high tide, and I clung to him—a rock in a churning current. Nothing else existed as I stood on my toes and crushed my mouth to his.
He backed me against the bar, never losing contact. The sweet tang of orange juice on his tongue rippled through me. He nipped at my lower lip, and as he pulled back slightly to kiss my jaw, sensation wrapped my body in waves. My breath rasped, forcing me to nudge him backward. He gazed at me with lust-filled eyes, his breathing ragged, and suddenly, Doug’s words from months ago hit me.
He’s in college, has more experience. And a guy gains experience only one way.
“I’m not going to sleep with you,” I said. The moment the words spewed from my mouth, my eyes widened and I slapped a hand over my lips which formed a shocked “o”.
I’m such an idiot.
He shook his head, as if clearing a fog and blinked. “What?”
Smooth, Sam.
Swallowing, I said, “You know that night at The Clover, with Doug… Apparently, it stuck with me.” I tapped the side of my head.
Laird raised his hands and took a tiny step back. “Sam, hold on a minute. Yes, we were getting a little heated, but we were hardly rolling around on the floor.”
Oh, gosh. He thinks I’m lame.
I fought the urge to cover my face with my hands. “I know. I’m sorry, but we’ve been seeing each other for a while now. And I know you’re in college, a whole other league, and so I just figured you’d have… expectations. I’m just not there yet. This all popped into my head just now without warning. And I obviously made a fool out of myself by blurting that out like I did…” I let my voice trail off, allowing myself to drop my head into my hands this time, wishing I could disappear into the floor.
