So Terrence wants to know what’s going on, wants to help me, and in return I give him zombie answers to fairy godmother questions. Sucks to be him! In love with a boy who is clearly not telling him the truth! But wait—surely there’s someone who’d sympathize with the plight of the left-behind brother? How about the left-behind boyfriend? You know, the sad sack who hasn’t been the same since his accident. And what accident was that? Oh yeah, the one where he was so upset that his girlfriend was going to break up with him that he got in a car when he shouldn’t have and drove at a speed he shouldn’t have and hit a tree that he shouldn’t have. Almost so tragic. But didn’t it do wonders for the two of them? Didn’t they behave so nicely to each other afterwards? At least until she left. And remind me…why did she leave? Oh yeah…nobody knows! But the boyfriend? He’s starting to think…drumroll please…there’s another guy. She says she was worrying too much about everyone, but the boyfriend thinks she was simply worried about being caught. The brother doesn’t actually think the boyfriend’s right, but once it gets into the boyfriend’s mind—well, he kinda gets stuck on it, you know? And the missing girl’s best friend is as forthcoming as a fucking mime, which the boyfriend takes to mean she has something to hide. (An understandable reaction, no?) So boyfriend’s gone from sad to pissed. Best friend is one of those see-no-evil, hear-no-evil monkeys. And the missing girl is like see ya. So who can the brother confide in? His mother! Surely, his mother has some maternal instinct left. Surely, there’s got to be an ounce of maternal instinct in there somewhere! It’s been a week since he’s really talked to anyone and she catches him one night at a really vulnerable moment and he says to her, “This really sucks, doesn’t it?” And do you know what she says? She says, “It’s probably for the best.” And he knows he should keep his mouth shut. HE KNOWS THIS. But he can’t help it. He looks at his mother and says, “Who the fuck are you?” And she slaps him. Yells for her husband, screams to him what’s happened, works in the word ungrateful (as she often does), and then the husband pauses to make it clear what’s about to happen, that three-second pause where he decides exactly how he’s going to beat the shit out of you. This time, it’s the shove-against-the-wall, punch-in-the-gut one-two. You can see that, right? You can see exactly how that would play out, no? Hubby says, “Don’t talk that way to your mother!” and I’m actually thinking, If I fire her from being my mother, does that mean I can talk to her any way I want? And you? Like, I just want to quit the whole family. Even you, although as he’s yelling at me and decking me I’m certainly understanding at least part of why you’re not here. I just start howling. There’s no other word for it. It’s a howl, and it’s coming from really deep inside of me, and the moment I release it, it freaks us all out. He stops. She recoils. And I keep doing it, howling my lungs out as I bolt. (Are you following this? Yeah, I bet you are.) (No, I can’t just say that. I can’t just throw that out there, as if my room hasn’t been right next to yours all these years, as if I had no idea how bad the fights could get.) Here’s the thing, though—I bolt and he doesn’t chase after me. I am heading out the door and I realize that this is exactly what they want me to do. Get out of there. Leave them alone. Finally rid of us. Think of all the money they’ll save. And this is where the rage comes in. After all these years, this is how it emerges. Fire. I think fire. I haven’t made it out the door yet—I am still in the kitchen, and I look at the counter and suddenly I know exactly what I want—no, fuck it, I know exactly what I need to do. No one’s coming to get me. No one’s watching. So I set one end of the paper towel roll on the burner. I unfurl the roll so it goes across the kitchen. I am pressing the gas, lighting the flame. Tick. Tick. Whoosh. Now I can leave. I am not trying to burn the house down. I am just trying to do something irrevocable. Playing your game, but better. I don’t stay to watch what happens next. I just grab Mom’s purse from the kitchen counter and leave. When I get to the street I call Joe and tell him I need a ride. He says he’s about to meet some guys to see a movie. I’m like, Sounds great. I tell him to pick me up at the Exxon station, not at the house. He doesn’t question this. As I’m waiting for him, I hear sirens, see a fire truck pass. It’s gone by the time Joe gets there. Carson and Walter are also in the car, and I can see they’re not entirely understanding why Joe’s bothering to pick me up. They also don’t understand why I’m holding a purse. I tell them I was left holding the bag, har har, and Joe’s the only one who laughs. (Strangely, nobody comments on the fact that I’m beaten up. Or maybe that’s not strange at all.) When we get to the movie theater, I leave the purse in the car, under the front seat. But I take the wallet in with me, and use the ATM as much as I can. (Mom’s password is Darren’s birthday. Awwwwwww.) I go into the movie and sit with the guys, last one in. Right during the previews, my phone starts buzzing like crazy. It won’t stop. I look and see it’s Darren calling. And—I know, stupid—my rage answers the phone and says, “Can’t talk—I’m in a movie,” then hangs up. Hysterical, right? I turn off my phone. It isn’t twenty minutes later when I feel my arm yanked out of its socket and, look, it’s Darren in the aisle, and he’s hollering at me in the middle of the movie. Completely drunk on his own rage—no alcohol needed! People are shushing him and he’s breaking my arm, so I try to pull away and that’s when he really starts going to town and other people start screaming because—hey!—Darren’s brought his gun, and guns are a big no-no in crowded movie theaters nowadays. Carson and Walter are peeing themselves from fear, but Joe’s on his feet and saying, “Sir!” to Darren, like he’s going to talk Darren down, and that’s when the movie theater security guard comes storming in and draws his gun. Someone has the wisdom to stop the movie and turn on the lights—people are shrieking and they’re all pushing to get out of there, and Darren may be a mean bastard but he has no desire to be shot, so he puts his gun down and says that—swear to God!—this is a private matter between him and his son, and I’m like, “I am NOT your son,” which confuses things even more, and we all just hold there—Carson and Walter leave, but Joe stays—until the police come and Darren is taken away. And, yeah, it makes the news—but, you know what, I don’t think it makes the St. Louis news. I think this means you were online checking out the news from back home. I’m not sure if they mentioned the house—Joe drove by later and it’s still there, so my damage was likely limited to the kitchen. The news stations probably focused on Darren, with interviews of people who were trapped in the theater saying how scared they were that it was another shooting. But I’m going to be honest with you—I wasn’t scared. I was pissed. At him. At Mom. At you. At everyone, including myself. I was supremely pissed at myself. Because now there’s no going back. And I’ll be honest—part of me would’ve liked to leave the bridge up instead of burning it. I’m not sure if you feel the same—I guess time will tell. Oh, and by the way, I’m not going to Union Station in St. Louis. I am not getting rid of my phone, because you know what? It’s one of the only things I have left.
This is how my new life begins: on the top bunk where Joe’s brother Max used to sleep before he headed off to that party school and never looked back. With Darren in jail, or maybe not in jail. For a while, Terrence texted every five minutes, asking if I was okay, and I answered every six minutes, saying yeah. Because how could I even begin to explain it? Now he’s asleep and Joe’s asleep and you’re asleep in some room I can’t picture, maybe with someone I can’t picture. It’s really late and I’m not even sure what else to say to you. You know now that I’m not coming. But here’s the thing: The cord hasn’t been cut. The bridge between us hasn’t burned because who the fuck builds bridges out of flammable materials? We spent way too much time putting those stones in place, sister of mine. You are getting another chance to be truthful with me. And I mean really truthful. I believe you when you say you were worried about things. But I don’t believe you when you make it seem like that’s the only reason you left. If we’re going to do this—if we’re going to start new lives—we have to
do it right. Believe me, there’s a part of me that wants to go to you, that wants to ride passenger seat on whatever journey you’re on. But I’m not sure that’s what I should do. Because you’re right—you’ve never been good at doing two things at once, and if there’s something you need to do, supporting me isn’t going to make it any easier. And if I go to you and you fuck it up—I will never get over that. So you do you, and I’ll do here. There’s also the fact that I can’t just leave school. I can’t just leave Terrence. I can’t just leave everything I’ve ever known. I’ve left Mom and Darren. Irrevocably. But I’m not ready to leave here, especially because you haven’t told me a single thing about where I’d be going and what I’d be doing there.
I started this email much angrier at you than I am now. I really wish you’d been there to see the look on Darren’s face when the police showed up, when it dawned on him what kind of shit he was in. (Oh, and my arm wasn’t broken…just bruised. I think the cops were focused so much on getting him out of there that they didn’t really focus on me. And Joe and I didn’t exactly stick around to talk to them. There were plenty of other people willing to be witnesses.)
It’s time to tell me what you’re doing, what your life is like now. Even if you don’t want to tell me why you left…I will give you (for now) a pass on talking about the past as long as you tell me about the present. I’m not going to tell anyone—you should know that by now. And I’m not going to show up there—you should know that too. But if we’re going to have new lives, let’s at least tell each other about them. And if it gets worse here, I know what station to head toward.
I didn’t do any of this to make you worry. It wasn’t about you—and while your departure may have been an indirect cause of the events that led to the Showdown at the Regal, it feels like it would have happened anyway, even if you’d stayed. The rage on both sides was waiting to be triggered. I’m not telling you all of this to make you worry more. If anything, you should worry a little less about me. I’m out of there. I am going to figure this out.
Meanwhile, school is going to be verrrrrry interesting tomorrow…and by tomorrow, I mean in three hours.
Your (newly liberated OR woefully screwed) brother,
Ezra
Subject: Holy Shit, Ez.
From: Bea
To: Ezra
Date: Thurs 11 Apr 11:34 CST
Oh, Ez. My life isn’t more important than yours. Don’t you see? For so long, I thought my life was the least important thing.
If I’m being fair, I can’t blame that completely on Mom and Darren. (Well, maybe Darren.) She had her moments, right? I’m not misremembering that? Like when I got my period for the first time and bled all over my jeans, and Darren had a fit because we weren’t “made of money” (as if I’d done it on purpose), and Mom took me into the bathroom and told me he was just a man, he couldn’t understand. “You let me handle Darren,” she said, and then she went to the grocery store and bought my favorite cake—that Raspberry Dream cake, which was like eighty percent frosting, the one I only had on birthdays.
There was also a trip we took, just you, me, Mom. This was BD, Before Darren, and for five happy days it was the three of us, and we got in the car and drove to the beach. Somewhere in the Carolinas. I remember white sand and grassy dunes and picking up sand dollars. Mom bleached them white for us, and at night we crawled into her bed and I read Coraline aloud until we fell asleep, one by one, and before we left she told us she loved us and to never forget it.
I’m not making that up, am I? If I am, don’t tell me.
But even then, even in the best moments, I never felt my life was important. To you and me, maybe. But not to anyone else. Not even to Mom, not even when it was just Mom and me, before you, before Darren. Because the thing I always knew is that somehow I was in her way. Not just because she told me so once. But because I felt it.
Do you know how many times I’ve wanted to do what you did? Just light a match. Poof. Goodbye, Mom. Goodbye, Darren. Goodbye, house.
I guess, in a way, that was what I did by leaving. I guess, in a way, that’s what we’ve both done.
Subject: My New Life
From: Bea
To: Ezra
Date: Thurs 11 Apr 11:46 CST
My first night here, I slept on the grounds of the St. Louis Art Museum, which is in this area called the Hill. It made me feel safer somehow being near all that priceless art, like, with all that stupidly expensive security, nothing could happen to me as long as I remained on the grounds. Not that I’m a priceless piece of art, but I’m the only me I have. During the day, I’ve been walking a lot, trying to learn the city. I’ve decided I like the Hill neighborhood best. It’s filled with Italian markets and Italian restaurants and Catholic churches flying the Italian flag and one- and two-story houses with tidy yards. The air here smells like Mario’s Good Family Food—warm and rich and full of spices—only even more mouth-watering. (Remember the time we sneaked into their kitchen and stole an entire vat of breadsticks and hid them in our garage? And lived on them for two weeks straight and Mom never caught on?) (Insert evil laugh here.) I found a hostel on the Hill, but it’s $30 a night and crowded, and you know I don’t sleep well around other people. Not Sloane. Not even Joe. You’re the only one, Ez. When you were little and convinced that Bigfoot lived in your closet, I would lie on the floor by your bed and stay awake as long as I could just to make sure you felt safe. But at some point, always, I would drift off. Those are the only times I ever remember having good dreams, sleeping there on your floor. Because I felt like I was doing something good and unselfish, like somehow I’d found my calling—to keep the monsters away from my little brother. I wish I’d been better at it.
Anyway. If I need to, I can go back to the art museum, which is free and quiet and has a night sky with more stars than I know what to do with. So I’m okay. It’s you I’m worried about.
Subject: More.
From: Bea
To: Ezra
Date: Thurs 11 Apr 12:31 CST
What My Life Is Like Now
There is loneliness. And guilt. And worry over what I’ve done to you. There is fear about what comes next and what will I do and will I have to go back home—a home with no you—tail between my legs, and beg the forgiveness of Mom and Darren and be a good girl forever and ever amen. There is this big fat nagging doubt in the very back of my mind that says: YOU CAN’T DO THIS. YOU WILL FAIL. YOU WILL ALWAYS FAIL AT EVERYTHING, NO MATTER WHAT YOU DO, BECAUSE THAT IS WHO YOU ARE. YOU ARE A LOSER. YOU ARE A FAILURE. YOU ARE NOTHING.
I try not to listen to it, but when someone tells you those things enough, you can’t help it. Because if they speak loud enough and often enough, that’s the only voice you’re able to hear. I try to remind myself it’s not my doubt, it’s the doubt of them. Namely Darren, who put it there. Did I doubt myself before he came along? Before Mom fell under his spell and forgot every single maternal instinct she ever had? I can’t remember because it’s been going on for so long. Can you remember? Like, did we ever believe in ourselves, really believe in ourselves? Maybe it’s not fair to lump you into that, so let me rephrase: Did I ever really believe in myself without stopping to worry or play devil’s advocate or think, You can’t do that, Bea. You’re not smart enough, brave enough, nice enough, pretty enough, funny enough, enough-enough.
Now when the fat, nagging doubt gets too loud in my brain, I say, GO AWAY, DOUBT. GO AWAY OR I WILL SET YOU ON FIRE BECAUSE APPARENTLY SETTING THINGS ON FIRE IS SOMETHING THAT RUNS IN THIS FAMILY, AND I WILL BURN YOU DOWN TO THE GROUND LIKE A HOUSE.
And I stop listening to anyone but me.
Because here’s the other thing about my life now: I’m free.
Free.
In case you don’t recogn
ize the word, it means this: I can be anything. Anyone. Sometimes I’m Bea. Sometimes I’m Veronica. Or Kelsey. Or Claire. Or Pippa. Or No One At All. I’m free to fuck up without someone holding it over my head or saying, That’s just Bea, she always fucks things up. Without someone saying, See there? See what you did? That’s what you always do. Why should we ever expect anything out of someone like you when you only let everybody down? I can screw everything up out here, with no one to see but me, and you know what? The world doesn’t end. It keeps right on going and so do I.
I’m also free to get things right and to actually do some good without anyone making a big deal over it because it’s just so out of character and unexpected. I’m free to do whatever, whenever, and there’s no one here to judge me or tell me I can’t, I shouldn’t, I won’t, I’d better not or else. I’m scared shitless. But I’m also braver than I ever knew.
Here’s another thing. I can sleep during the day and stay up all night. You know how I love night. The darkness. The stars. Houses all lit up inside. Everything is clean and quiet and peaceful in the dark. You can’t see all the dirt and the trash and the scars everywhere, on everything, on everybody. So many scars. Night is clean. Night is safe. So I stay awake and pretend this is what the world looks like all the time.
And here’s another thing. I’m smart. Okay, I always knew this, but there’s I’m too smart to study because school bores me smart and there’s I’m surviving one day at a time out in the big, bad world because of me and no one else, and I’m still here and no one’s hurt me yet because I will never let anyone hurt me again smart. Well, guess what? I’m both kinds, only I never would have known I was the second one because, according to the people back home (pretty much everyone but you), I’m A LOSER, A FAILURE, A NOTHING.
Take Me With You When You Go Page 4
