by Laura Wiess
Do something.
It would go a long way toward saving us. Trust me.
This is the borderline.
The fourth month.
Time to step up and either say hello, goddamn it, or good-bye.
No. I take that back.
Don’t say good-bye. Never say good-bye.
But say something.
God, Dad. You didn’t even leave a note.
I’m sorry. I am. I didn’t mean to yell at you. I just . . .
You put us in a really hard place.
Can I tell you something else, and promise you won’t be mad?
I’m afraid to say it because once I do, I can never take it back, but . . .
I hate the way you died.
I’m ashamed that you chose to leave us, like all we had as a family wasn’t enough to keep you here.
Like I wasn’t enough to keep you here.
I’m ashamed of what it supposedly says to the world, hate the way people look at me now, like I’m so pitiful that I couldn’t even keep my own father alive, or so awful that you killed yourself just to get away.
And I don’t want to feel that way.
Don’t want to spend the rest of my life hiding out here alone because I’m less than now, because even if people don’t say it you can still see it in their eyes and it makes me feel small, really small and sick inside.
I don’t want the terrible way you died to become more important than the wonderful way you lived but I don’t know how to stop it.
You kissed me good-bye a thousand times before, Dad, but did you do it that morning?
Did you?
Because until I know that, I feel like I won’t know anything at all.
Chapter 54
My mother calls Auntie Kate and spends almost two hours holed up in the bedroom talking with her, door shut, her muffled voice rising and falling, then comes downstairs looking exhausted and climbs right back onto the couch.
She doesn’t eat anything, only takes the two Advil I bring for her headache and lies down under the afghan to sleep. I stand there gazing at her, at the psych-impact book now sitting on the top of the pile, and feel like burning it.
Instead, I bend down and kiss her cheek. “I love you. Hang in there, okay?”
She opens her eyes and looks at me, then closes them again. “I love you too, Rowie. I’m sorry for all of this.”
“It’s okay. I get it,” I say softly, stroking the wisps of ash-brown hair back from her forehead, her temple. “Up, down, down, up. We’re in the same club, here.”
“Then I say we rescind our memberships,” she mumbles with the ghost of a smile. “The perks suck and the dues are way too high.”
“Yes, they are,” I say, and stay there petting her hair until her breathing evens and I know she’s asleep.
And then I rise, tiptoe into the kitchen, scrawl a quick note—I’m going out for a while. I’ve got my phone. xoxo, Row—and, grabbing some cigarettes from her open pack, slip out the door and head for Bedford Street.
Chapter 55
I get to Bedford Street early, by twenty to seven.
It’s on the south side of town, back in the World War II section of houses built around an old deserted, dilapidated tire factory. They’re small and close to the sidewalk with maybe three feet of lawn. Some are neat, bright and proud, others shabby with chipped paint, scrubby-looking grass and sagging roofs. There are no driveways and so the narrow street is lined with parked cars and the occasional giant maple tree, the great, gnarled roots heaving the sidewalks.
I walk slowly, looking at each house, wondering what I’m even doing here and how I’m supposed to recognize Payton’s. Brown with a porch. Right. This brown house has twin dragon planters brimming with pink begonias. That one is littered with kid’s toys. This one has a dog chained to the railing that cracks an eye and watches me go by.
That’s three brown houses so far, and none of them seem right.
Somewhere up ahead there’s music playing, and even though it’s faint I recognize the song: Evanescence’s “Bring Me to Life.”
“Save me,” I murmur, and walk faster, following the music.
And when I finally get to the end of the street, to the brown house with the wide porch where the music is pounding and a motorcycle is parked up on the grass, I see Payton and another guy sitting on the steps, and another girl and guy hanging out on the railing.
My footsteps falter.
I wasn’t expecting a party.
I don’t know what I was expecting, and in that split second if I could turn around and sneak away I would, but—
Payton spots me and rises in surprise. “Hey, no shit, I didn’t think you’d show.” She picks up the wrist of the guy sitting next to her, looks at his watch, and her eyebrows go up. “Early, too. You must have really wanted to see me again.”
She laughs and everybody else turns to look at me.
“Hi.” I’m blushing, I know it. They’re all older than me, wearing jeans and kind of biker-looking clothes, while here I am in my cute little black shorts and plum tank feeling really young, lame and stupid. “Sorry.”
“No problem,” she says as I walk up, and motions me after her. “Come on.”
I send the others a vague, self-conscious smile and, feeling like a fool, follow her up the wide wooden steps worn smooth in the center, across the porch and in through the screen door, where an older CD player with the speakers facing the open windows is playing “Bring Me to Life” over and over.
“Good song,” I yell, right as she lowers the volume to half of what it was.
“It’ll work,” she says, and motions toward the couch. “Have a seat. Want something to drink? A beer? A shot?”
Oh hell. “Uh . . . a beer, I guess.”
“I also have Smirnoff Ice,” she calls over her shoulder, heading into the kitchen.
“Um, okay,” I say with a sinking feeling, and gaze around the living room. The furniture is random, worn and beaten, a rickety-looking bookcase, the brown and orange plaid colonial couch I’m sitting on, a faded blue oriental rug on the floor and an old, scarred oak coffee table.
But what grabs my attention is the lone eight-by-ten framed photo hanging in the middle of the blank, beige wall behind the TV.
I rise and edge around the coffee table to take a closer look.
“Oh,” I say softly, because I’ve never seen them before, not close up.
So this is Corey, this husky, teddy-bearish guy with the round face, chubby cheeks and light brownish-red beard, with the gentle smile and the blue eyes fringed with ginger lashes gazing down in wonder at the bald, pink-cheeked, blue-eyed infant in his arms . . .
And that is Sammy gazing solemnly back, Corey’s finger clutched firmly in his tiny hand.
My father was right.
Corey did love his son.
I can see it, too.
“Oh no,” I whisper, and draw back, put a hand over my mouth as the sad obscenity of it rushes back, as the strangers I saw that day from a distance turn into real people with faces and a home and history. “Oh God.” And as I start to turn my gaze falls on a sock, a tiny little blue-edged, inside-out baby sock lying on the floor back between the TV stand and the wall. I stare at it a long moment, then turn to find Payton standing behind me holding a bottle of beer and a Smirnoff.
“I’m sorry, I just . . . I wasn’t . . .” I stop, flustered, like she caught me doing something wrong. “There’s a sock down there on the floor.”
“Yeah, I know,” she says coolly, setting my drink on the coffee table near where I was sitting and sinking down into the chair. “Leave it.” She cocks her head, studying me. “So, why did you come, anyway?”
I stare back at her, bewildered. “What?”
“Why are you here?”
Is this a trick question? “Uh . . . you invited me?”
“So? You could have said no,” she says, quirking an eyebrow and taking a swig of beer.
“Wait. Am I missi
ng something?” I say with an awkward laugh.
The screen door opens and the other girl sticks her head in. “Hey, Pay, we’re out of here.”
“Shit, already?” Payton says, rising and padding over. “We haven’t even gotten to the whole bon voyage thing yet.”
“Yeah, well, Clay wants to make Delaware tonight, so . . .” She shrugs and enfolds Payton in a hug. “You need to get away from here, girl, and come back down to Pensacola. Your mother would be happy to see you again.”
“My mother,” Payton says with a snort, and pulls back, her face hard. “If she wanted to see me she would have come up for the funerals. Christ, a stranger off the street’s been better to me since Sammy died than she’s been my whole life.” She shakes her head. “No, she’s just looking for a new drinking buddy now that my aunt finally got sober.”
“So then come down for me,” the girl says as the Harley roars to life outside. “Trust me, you could use some fun in the sun again.”
“Yeah, we’ll see,” Payton says, and follows her out as if I’ve ceased to exist.
I sit there a moment listening to them all saying good-bye over the Harley’s rumble and trying to figure out what Payton meant, asking why I came tonight.
What kind of question is that, and what kind of answer does she really expect?
Because I’m lonely and don’t have any friends left or anything better to do?
I can’t say that.
Because I feel like we’re connected in a terrible, domino-effect sort of way and that maybe we should stick together?
I reach over, pick up the Smirnoff and twist off the jagged cap.
Take a sip and then another, longer one.
Suffer the brain freeze and then drain the bottle.
Because Payton is my only link to Eli?
Yes.
Those other sad, pathetic reasons are true too, but Eli is the only reason I came tonight.
There is so much I want to know.
Chapter 56
But I guess tonight’s not the night I’m going to find out.
I take a swig of my third Smirnoff Ice.
Bring me to life.
I’ve been here for forty minutes now and that song is still on repeat, Payton is still ignoring my feeble attempts to talk about Eli, the four-pack of Smirnoff Ice is frosty cold and free and the twilight hot and steamy, thick with dead air.
Tilt the bottle and gaze into it.
There are only three of us left here now, and two of us are getting very friendly over on the faded old plaid love seat that someone must have dragged from Payton’s living room out here onto the porch, while the other one of us sits alone on the wooden step pretending she doesn’t see what’s going on and wondering if she should just leave.
Too bad I have nowhere else to go.
I glance over at Payton, her hair woven carelessly back in a stubby braid, her bare feet propped against one of the love seat’s overstuffed arms, her head resting on her boyfriend Richie’s meaty thigh. My being here hasn’t exactly held them back any, as so far they’ve smoked some weed, killed two four-packs of Smirnoff and are working on a third, and have been talking and laughing in slurred voices too low for me to hear.
At first I said, “What?” and “Excuse me, I couldn’t hear what you said,” thinking maybe she didn’t get how rude she was being, but when she just smirked and said, “That’s okay, I wasn’t talking to you,” and went back to murmuring, I decided that grieving mother or not, I really didn’t like her.
Not that I think she cares.
Actually, I don’t think she cares about too much of anything right now.
But I don’t know for sure because she’s so flip about it, because the one thing she did say while we were in the kitchen getting the rest of the Smirnoffs out of an otherwise empty refrigerator was that partying’s what happens when life kicks your ass and leaves you for dead, if not on the outside then definitely on the in.
A fat, bristly horsefly lands on the edge of my bottle.
I wave it away.
The couch creaks.
“C’mon, babe,” Richie says, hoisting himself to his feet and drawing Payton up along with him. He’s short and stocky, just graduated chef school and works for UPS. “Let’s go.” He pulls her tight against him, mumbles something that makes her snicker and together they weave into the house without a backward look.
The old wooden screen door bounces shut behind them.
Great.
I swish what’s left of my Smirnoff Green Apple Bite around in the bottle.
Stay or go.
I don’t know.
I’m not drunk but I’m not exactly sober, either.
I smile wryly, tilt my head back and drain the bottle.
Set it down with a quiet thump on the step beside me and reach for the last one in the four-pack. I’m sweating, the bottle is sweating and my hands are too slick to get a decent grip. I frown down at it, my hair falling into my eyes, fighting to twist it open when someone says, “Uh, hi. Is Payton around?”
“She’s inside with Richie,” I say without looking up, still wrestling with the bottle.
And then, in quiet disbelief, “Rowan?”
“What?” I glance up, impatient, flick my hair from my eyes and go still.
Time hiccups and for a dizzying moment we’re back in the park on prom night, laughing, happy, the sweet scent of autumn olive on the breeze, and then I blink and it’s gone, all of it except for Eli, who is standing on the cracked and crumbling sidewalk, a leaner, raggedy, panting Daisy at his side, a bulging, grease-stained Burger King bag in his hand, and staring at me like he’s just seen a ghost.
“Hi,” I say, voice trembling, and hold out the bottle. “Can you open this for me, please?”
Be kinder than necessary, for everyone you meet is fighting some kind of battle.
—T. H. THOMPSON AND JOHN WATSON
Chapter 57
Eli does, taking the bottle from me, loosening the top and handing it back as if in a daze.
Bring me to life.
“Thank you.” I set it down on the step next to me without drinking. “Hey, Daisy.” I lean forward, holding out a hand for her to sniff because if I don’t I’m going to stare at him until I cry. “You’re skinny. Is this heat getting to you?”
Daisy wags her tail and licks my fingers.
“No, she’s . . .” Eli stops and rubs his forehead. His hair is pulled back in a ponytail, revealing the sharp curve of his cheekbones and the shadowed smudges under his eyes. “So, wait. How are you?”
“Getting there,” I say, wishing he looked happier to see me. “You?”
He shrugs, avoiding my gaze. “How long have you known Payton?”
“Since today. I met her this morning. She invited me over tonight, so . . .” I reach for the Smirnoff and take a healthy slug.
“Did she,” he says in an odd voice, and glances up at the house.
“I didn’t know you were going to be here, if that’s what’s bothering you,” I hear myself say defensively, and stare down at my feet, miserable.
“No, but she did,” he says.
My head jerks up and I meet his gaze, see a light in his eyes that wasn’t there before.
“It’s okay,” he says with a quick shrug, and sits down on the step next to me. “Don’t worry about it.” He sets the BK bag down between us and opens it up, releasing the mouthwatering scent of hot, salty French fries. “Hungry?”
“Okay,” I say helplessly, and take the large fries and wrapped sandwich he hands me. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” he says, setting one on the step beside him. “I brought extra. Payton had this whole bon voyage party idea but I guess we’re it.”
“What do you mean, bon voyage?” I say, stuffing French fries in my mouth because suddenly I’m starving. “Who’s leaving?”
He’s quiet for a long moment and when he looks at me his gaze is dark and unreadable. “I am, tomorrow. I’m going back to Houston.” And
then he takes an unenthusiastic bite of his sandwich and gazes out at the street, completely missing the moment the last of the numbness fades and I can feel again.
Chapter 58
“Oh,” I say, staying very still. “Why?”
He swallows with effort and sets the Whopper down on its wrapper. “I have some stuff I need to take care of.”
“But you’re coming back, right? I mean, you’re not going forever . . .” I set my food aside and stand, dizzy, wishing I didn’t drink all of those stupid Smirnoffs. “Are you?”
“Hey,” he says with concern, pushing himself up off the step and touching my arm. “Are you okay?”
I gaze up at him, searching his face. “Why are you leaving?” And it’s none of my business, I know, because it’s been too long and—
“I have to,” he says, falling back a step and running a hand over his hair. “It’s important.”
I hear the truth in his words. He’s leaving no matter what I say or what I want, and once again I’m going to be left behind to miss someone and there is nothing I can do about it.
Except this.
“Bye,” I say, and, wheeling, take off down the street.
Chapter 59
I hear Daisy give a sharp yip of excitement behind me, hear Eli mutter, “Shit,” Daisy’s tags jingling and his hurried footsteps coming up behind me.
“Rowan, slow down,” he says.
I shake my head and keep walking.
“Row, come on,” he says as, panting, Daisy gallops up alongside of me. “She can’t run in this heat.”
“Wasn’t it hot in Iraq?” I say, walking faster.
“She’s in kidney failure,” he says.
I stop and swivel. “What?”
“Yeah.” His matter-of-fact expression cracks for an instant, revealing the despair underneath, and then is carefully smooth again, under control. “That’s why I’m going back to Houston. Well, part of it.” He glances at Daisy. “I want to visit my dad’s grave, too. It’s been too long.”
Kidney failure. Daisy. His father.
Shame washes over me, hot and sobering. “I’m sorry, Eli. I didn’t know.” And that’s on me too, for letting the months stretch and not realizing that while time stopped for me it didn’t for everyone, that life is still happening all around me and I’m not the only one struggling, not the only one who could use a friend. “So is Houston the only place they can cure kidney failure or something?”
