by Amy Reed
“Tell me about him,” I say. “Tell me everything.”
“He was the greatest,” Marcus says. “For a long time. Then he wasn’t.”
“Why?”
“He always liked to party. But I guess he got hooked. It was coke and Ecstasy at first. He stole a little money from Dad, but never got in any real trouble. But then he got in a bike accident and got prescribed Oxy, and it stopped being a party. He started going to different doctors to get new prescriptions, and filling them at different pharmacies. He got caught and Dad kicked him out of the house. He was supposed to go to Harvard. He had already been accepted early decision. But instead he started living with his girlfriend and got hooked on heroin when he couldn’t afford the street price of pills anymore.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say. I think back to all the times Marcus has mentioned his brother. I’d thought the past tense was because he was away at college or something, off to start a grown-up life.
“My dad was pissed when he found out Mom was secretly meeting with him. She’d take him out for lunch sometimes, buy him groceries. They were really close. When she left, he fell apart. If you can imagine falling farther than becoming a heroin addict.”
“Did he OD?” I say.
“No. Suicide. Even heroin didn’t numb his pain enough.”
I know I’m still tripping hard, but I feel almost ultra-sober, as if all this truth has taken me into a new realm where it is impossible for fear and hiding and lies to exist. I cuddle into Marcus and collect our discarded clothes to lay on top of us. The moist earth contours to our bodies; the grass sends up its feathery tendrils and secures us in place.
Marcus curls his body around mine. “I used to think my mom left because she didn’t care about us,” he says. “But now I think maybe the problem was she cared too much. And she didn’t want to. Because it hurt too much to care. Maybe she thought running away would help her stop caring.”
“Do you believe that?” I say.
“I haven’t decided yet. Maybe it makes it better. Out of sight, out of mind.” He pauses and the whole world inhales. “Or maybe it makes it worse.”
He squeezes me from behind and runs his fingers from my stomach to my breast, then traces a circle around the bump of the portacath implant in my chest. “It connects to my superior vena cava,” I say. “Easy access to my blood for tests and chemo and everything else so I don’t have to get stuck every single time. Plus, chemo’s too harsh to go through the little veins in the hand, which is where normal IVs go. It would burn them up.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Not at all. At first it did. Right after it got put in. It was really swollen and bruised and I remember being so embarrassed. I was pissed because I couldn’t wear tank tops or anything low-cut because it would show. It seems so stupid now. Everything does. All the dumb shit I used to worry about. Like how I looked and what I was wearing. Being home before curfew.”
“Which you’re not going to do tonight, by the way.”
“I’m totally okay with that.”
“I figured.”
“Tell me more about David.”
After a moment, Marcus says, “He was a genius. Like, certifiable. He was the one who was supposed to make my dad proud.” He pauses. “Now I’m all he’s left with.”
I pull his hand to my mouth and kiss his fingers one by one. “My sister’s the smart one too,” I say. “She’s the one who’s supposed to grow up and have a great career. I was supposed to marry someone with a great career.”
“‘Was’? Not anymore?”
“I don’t know. I used to be the pretty one. Then I was the sick one. Now nobody knows what I am.”
Marcus squeezes me tight. “I know what you are.”
I turn around to face him. The moon paints his face silver. “What am I?”
“You’re everything.”
We fill the next few minutes with slow, lazy kisses. But I want more. More secrets. More truth. “How did your brother kill himself?”
I feel him pull away. He is no longer in this world with me. “My dad has a gun,” he says from somewhere distant. “Even now. He kept it. The motherfucker kept it.”
“Marcus” is all I can think of to say. I pull him closer.
“You don’t recover from finding the person you love most in the world with his brains all over the wall.”
There is no breeze behind our little stone wall. The night has stopped its forward momentum. It is so still it almost goes backward.
I run my fingers over the crisscross of cuts on his arm. “So you did this,” I say. “To make it stop hurting.”
“Those were for my mom,” he says. “When David died, I stopped. Here, on my leg”—he points to the messy initials and date on his shin—“that was my last act of self-mutilation. The night of his funeral, I carved it into my skin as a reminder. As a promise.”
“A promise to what?”
“To not waste my life like he did. To not throw it away.” He looks at me so hard it makes the universe wobble. “And to never trust anyone. To never let anyone get close enough that they could hurt me. But—”
“But?”
“But then I met you. And I broke my promise. I let you in.”
I wrap myself around him. “You’re safe,” I say with all the air in my lungs, with every cell in my body. “I won’t hurt you. I’m not leaving.”
“Evie Whinsett,” he whispers. “I think I’m in love with you.”
“I love you too,” I whisper back.
“It’s just us,” Marcus says. “Just you and me. It’s just you and me against the world.”
There is something to live for. There is finally a reason for my miracle.
I don’t know what time it is when Marcus drops me off at home. The clock in his car is broken and both of our phones are dead. The sun hasn’t come up, but I can tell it’s closer to morning than to night. I kiss him good night and leave the warmth of his car. I must fight the magnetic urge to stay with him, to stay in the timeless space we created.
The world has stopped its swirling, but there’s still a trail of electricity following me. My body glows where Marcus and I touched. Outside, the neighborhood is so quiet, unmoving. Everyone and everything sleeps. I’m exhausted and I want to sleep too, but my mind is racing, not ready to say good night.
Mom is in the living room waiting for me, as I expected. She is lying on the couch with a blanket over her. She sits up groggily when I turn on the light.
“Evie,” she says with a sleepy voice, not yet registering my crime. “What time is it?”
“I don’t know.”
She blinks herself awake, and I watch her face turn from sleep to confusion to fear. “Where were you?” she says. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Mom. I’m great.”
“Your father’s going to be furious.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
She studies me, and I know my serenity must shock her. I can feel the peaceful smile on my lips. Her fear, my father’s anger—neither of these things seems important anymore. Their feelings do not touch me. I am too happy to be bothered.
“Go to bed,” she says, and sighs. “We’ll talk in the morning.”
“Okay,” I say. “Good night.”
She looks at me like I’m a stranger and she can’t quite figure out how I got into her house.
“Good night,” she finally says, almost as a question, and I walk to my room and close the door.
It takes me a while to fall asleep because I can’t stop thinking. The night is on replay inside my head. I close my eyes and let myself drift through it. My skin tingles with the memory of Marcus. I run my finger over my lips, still soft with his kiss. When sleep finally takes me, I am in Marcus’s arms again.
twenty-eight.
IT’S AFTERNOON WHEN I WAKE UP. MY HEAD IS FUZZY AND my stomach is empty and acidic. I can hear my parents talking with low voices in the kitchen as I brush my teeth. I take a deep breath and prepare myself
for what I know is going to be an unpleasant conversation.
I walk into the kitchen and say, “Good morning.” Neither of my parents says anything. They look at each other as if wondering who this person is in their kitchen pouring herself a bowl of cereal.
“Are you ready to talk?” Dad says in his low, this-is-going-to-be-a-serious-discussion voice.
“Sure,” I say, inspecting the half banana I find in the fridge.
“Will you sit down, please?” Mom says.
I take a seat across from them at the breakfast table. I wonder if they’ve been sitting here all day, waiting for me, like this—hands folded in front of them, cups of hours-old cold coffee on the table as props. I look my mother in the eye, then my father. I take a big bite of cereal and chew for a few moments as they stare at me. I swallow and say, “So am I grounded? Should I call Will and tell him I can’t go to prom tonight?” I take another bite of cereal. They look to each other for help. They have already lost. I am running this show.
“Where were you last night?” Dad finally says.
“Hanging out with a friend.”
“A friend we know?” says Mom.
“No.”
“We’d like to know who you’re spending time with, Evie.” As usual, Mom is the good cop, her voice soft with concern.
“What the hell are you doing with a friend at three o’clock in the morning?” Dad growls with his bad-cop voice.
“We were just walking around and talking. I guess we lost track of time. Sorry if you were worried.”
“You should have called,” Mom says.
“My phone died.”
“You lost track of time for three hours after your curfew?” Dad says, his agitation rising. “I find it hard to believe that was a mistake.” He’s leaning forward in his seat. His hands are fists.
His energy is threatening to overpower mine, so I match it. I lean forward too. I show him I’m not scared. “So maybe it wasn’t a mistake,” I say. “Maybe I wanted to stay out that late.” Mom’s mouth opens in shock at my brazenness. “So am I grounded or what? I should tell Will.”
Mom shrinks into herself, shutting down. She does not know how to be a part of this conversation anymore. She does not know how to talk to this version of her daughter. For a brief moment, I feel sorry to be putting her through this, but then I look at Dad, at the sliver of saliva on the side of his mouth, and I am all anger once again.
“No, you’re still going to prom with Will,” Dad says. “Don’t think I can’t tell when you’re trying to get out of something. You’re not going to make that poor boy suffer more than he already has. Maybe if you spend more time with him and Kasey and your old friends, you’ll remember who you really are.”
“Oh really?” I say with a tightening throat, the acid in my stomach rising. “That’s what you think is going to happen? Who am I, Dad? Who exactly do you think I am?” My fists are as hard as his.
“You’re definitely not this girl who stays out all night doing god knows what with people we don’t even know.”
“This isn’t you, Evie,” Mom says from her shrunken place. “You’re a good girl. We know that. That’s why we’re so worried.”
“So I’m not grounded?” I say, slouching back in my chair. They will not get me worked up. I am beyond this. I am beyond caring.
“Damn it, Evie. Are you even listening?” Dad says.
“Yes, Dad, I heard you. My punishment is I have to hang out with Will and my old friends.”
“How the hell is that a punishment?” Dad says.
“We want to know exactly what you’re doing, where you’re going, and who you’re doing it with,” Mom says, trying valiantly to add some firmness to her voice.
“You’re getting off easy,” Dad says. “Your mother and I are not exactly in agreement about this.”
“So I can’t hang out with new friends?” I say.
“Not unless we meet them first,” Mom says. “We want to get to know them.” Dad looks at her like if it was up to him I’d be locked in my room for a year.
“What about Caleb?” I say. “Can I go see Caleb at the hospital?” Somewhere deep inside, a part of me cringes. How dare I bring him into this? How dare I use him to lie?
“Sure,” Mom says, almost smiling. “I think that’d be good. How is Caleb, by the way?”
Dad shakes his head. “No, Pam. We are not here to chat about Caleb. We’re here to talk about consequences.” He pounds his fist on the table at “consequences,” as if that will make up for the fact that they are so terribly ill-prepared to do this part of parenting. They’ve only ever had two angels as daughters. They’ve never needed to be strict. They’ve never needed to come up with a punishment for something this severe.
“Fine,” I say. “So I’m allowed to hang out with Will and Kasey and Caleb and the people from my past so I can stay the same old Evie and never change.”
“That’s not what we mean, honey,” Mom says. “Of course you’re allowed to change.”
“Oh, I’m so glad I have your permission.” I stand up. Neither of them says anything, and I don’t know if it’s from shock at my talking back or because they’re actually so dumb they don’t hear the sarcasm in my voice.
“I’m going to start getting ready,” I say as I put my cereal bowl in the sink. “I’m meeting everyone for dinner at six.” Another lie. “I can still use your car, right, Mom?”
“Yes, we already talked about that, didn’t we?” She doesn’t seem so sure.
“But there is going to be absolutely no drinking,” Dad says. “Right, Evie?”
“Right.”
“We have your word?”
“Yes, Dad. I promise.”
“And you promise to call us for a ride if you do drink?” Mom says.
“Pam,” Dad scolds. “Don’t give her any ideas. Jesus, it sounds like you’re giving her permission.”
“But we don’t want her driving drunk,” she pleads. “I’d rather she be drunk and call us than to drive because she’s afraid of getting in trouble.”
“Are you done?” I say. “Because I have to take a shower.”
They look at me, their mouths slightly open. They blink simultaneously.
“I’m glad we had this chat,” I say, and walk out of the kitchen.
Smart parents would do something. They wouldn’t let me talk back like that. They’d demand I come back to the table. They’d make sure they had the last word. They wouldn’t let me make them look like such fools. But my poor, naive parents don’t know these rules. They give up too soon. They just let me go.
And I think that’s exactly what I wanted. I want to be free. I want to run wild. But a softly nagging part of me almost wishes they would have tried a little harder, would have been more formidable opponents, would have put up more of a fight.
Maybe I actually want them to hold me closer. Maybe I want them to try to keep me safe.
twenty-nine.
I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT NORMAL LOVE IS SUPPOSED TO FEEL like. Maybe that’s what I had with Will—warm but not hot, comfortable but not thrilling. Our love was safe.
What I have with Marcus is something entirely different. It feels almost dangerous. He makes everything else disappear until I am lost and he is the only one who can find me. I crave him like I still crave pills—like a surge of lightning that lights up every part of my body and soul. I want him to fill me up until there’s no room left for anything else. I want him to consume me.
It seems such a waste of time to do anything besides be with him. Tonight is the worst waste of all: prom with Will. The worst parts of high school plus the most foolishly loyal part of my past, all dressed up and full of expectations I cannot fulfill.
Jenica’s new boyfriend is here to pick her up, corsage and all, and they’re in the living room with Mom and Dad taking pictures, everyone doing their happy-family routine without me. Jenica is doing it all right, this daughter performance. The funny thing is I used to do it even better than her. She
was always the surly one while I was the cheerful princess, but now we’ve changed places. I know I should be out there with her; Will should be slipping a gaudy corsage on my wrist and I should be pinning a boutonniere to his suit, and we should be giddy with the spectacle of it all. We should be double-dating with Kasey, going out to dinner before the dance, sneaking a little champagne in the parking lot beforehand, just enough to get tipsy but not enough to get drunk. We should dance and be happy, maybe make out in the car before going to the after-party. This is supposed to be a rite of passage. This is supposed to be fun.
But I am beyond all that. It seems so foolish. I managed to get out of dinner with Will and Kasey and her date, some guy I’ve never met, by lying about having a physical therapy appointment, even though I haven’t had physical therapy in weeks, even though it’s six o’clock on a Saturday night and who has physical therapy appointments then? I know Kasey didn’t believe me, but she didn’t say anything. She wasn’t about to break Will’s heart even more than it already is. He pouted, but he believed my excuse. He had to. What choice did he have? What else would make it bearable to sit at home, waiting, while everyone else he knows is out having dinner with someone they love or will at least make out with later tonight?
But I can’t think about that. If I imagine what he must be doing right now—alone, all dressed up and nowhere to go, still loving me even though all I do is reject him and lie to his face—a tsunami of feelings threatens to drown me. It hurts too much to imagine how I’ve hurt him. And now that I’ve quit the pills, I am no longer immune to pain. It is always there, storming around me like a hurricane, threatening to wipe me out entirely.
I pull Jenica’s old dress over my head. I lace up my black winter boots, the only things beside tennis shoes I can wear with my bad leg. I run some pomade through my hair and sculpt my baby-bird fluff into a kind of faux hawk. I line my eyes with thick black eyeliner and paint my lips blood-red. I walk through the living room where the rest of my family is acting so normal. I feel the mood sour as soon as I enter.
