by Kyla Stone
“She hurt herself,” I say.
There’s a silence punctuated only by the creak of the bedsprings as he adjusts his bulk.
“She hit herself.”
“Yes. I couldn’t stop it.”
“Why? Why would she do that?”
“I don’t know. To try and show me how much pain she was in, I guess.”
“Did you love her?”
“Of course. I loved Eve. But it was hard sometimes. She wanted love—she craved it—but she couldn’t receive it. Couldn’t believe she really had it, even when she did.”
My fingers curl into fists in my lap. “I remember fights. I remember her screaming at you, accusing you of not loving her anymore.”
“She could never believe she was loved. It didn’t matter what I did. It was never enough.”
“Did you ever worry about us? Home all alone with her? Did you worry about her hurting us? Because I remember—”
“Yes! Is that what you want to hear? Yes. I worried about her all the time. I know she loved you girls with all her heart. But yes, I worried about you there, with her. Constantly.”
Anger sprouts in my gut. “Why didn’t you do anything? I don’t remember you ever doing anything. You’d come home after being gone for days, and we’d be in the same clothes you left us in. All the food in the fridge was spoiled. One time, we survived on Cheerios and peanut butter because Mom never left her bedroom.”
The memories seep into my mind, dark and painful. Once in a while Mom would call to me—never Lux—to bring her water or a plate of crackers. Entering the bedroom felt like an invasion. The drapes drawn tightly over the windows cut off most of the light. The stench of sweat and body odor permeated the stale air. The dark, cloistered room was a mausoleum.
We survived by making it a game. It was Lux who made it seem real. She was vibrant and animated, throwing herself into the role she’d chosen. She made our fantasies come alive through sheer force of will.
Wooden spoons became swords or wands, our father’s oversized dress shirts ball gowns or wedding dresses, a scrap of cloth tied around our heads a crown or American Indian headdress, a bowl of stale Cheerios a feast fit for a king.
We lugged our mattresses into the living room and made castles, dungeons, and labyrinths with the couch cushions. We scavenged the cupboards for food, camping out beneath the kitchen table like it was a cave.
Lux made things seem almost normal. She called Mom’s depressions ‘vacations’: “I’m sorry, my Mom can’t come to the phone right now. She’s on vacation.” In reality, Dad was gone and Mom was too sick to brush her own hair, let alone make us breakfast or help us get ready for school.
There was only us. “Why didn’t you do anything?”
“I tried,” Dad says. “I asked her—I begged her—to get better. She went to three different therapists. Each one prescribed medications that didn’t work, or she wouldn’t take them. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how to stop her from being so sad.”
My heart thuds against my ribcage. I rub at the slim half-moon scars on my upper arm. “She wasn’t just sad.”
He shakes his head wearily. “No. She wasn’t just sad.”
I turn my head so Dad won’t see the wetness gathering at the corners of my eyes. “Sometimes she was so angry. Like when she screamed at us, or grabbed our arms. Once, I forgot to hug her when I got home from school. She shredded my homework. She’d get so upset, no matter what we did. And you were either gone or you just watched it happen.”
“What do you want from me, Lena?” His expression hardens. “You want me to admit I was a terrible father? That I escaped through work but left you and your sister to fend for yourselves? That I couldn’t love your mother enough to make a difference? That I wasn’t a good enough husband to make her want to stay alive?”
My mouth opens, closes. My bones are filled with lead, my limbs too heavy to move. “I didn’t mean that.”
A shudder ripples through him, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “You’re right. I wasn’t the father you needed. Or the husband she needed.”
His admission only weighs me down more. Maybe he’s right. Maybe dredging it all up just causes more pain. “Dad—”
“It’s the truth. I betrayed her. Is that what you want to hear?”
“No. I—”
“It was my fault, why she died—why she chose to leave us. What I did …”
My stomach churns. “What are you talking about?”
But he only shakes his head, panting. His face is an unhealthy, papery white. “It’s hard—to breathe.”
Instantly, I’m on my feet. “How can I help? Should I call the nurse?”
“Water. Please.”
I race to the kitchen and hold a glass beneath the tap with trembling fingers. I see now how his health crumbled beneath the immense load of his guilt, the mass of his body like a weight of shame and remorse crushing him into the grave.
He blames himself. He’s suffered every moment since Mom’s death. His guilt has destroyed him almost completely.
When I return, I hand him the water and watch him drink, watch the hitch of his Adam’s apple in his throat. “Should I call Ellie Delmonte? Are you in pain? She said she can give you something stronger.”
He shakes his head and takes another swallow.
I take the glass and put it on the nightstand. Tears tremble in my eyelashes. “She was sick. She would have done it anyway.”
He turns his face to the wall. “Maybe.”
But the word is empty, and we both know it.
25
Lux
I close the front door to Reese’s apartment and hug myself as I step out into the blustery snowstorm. It’s been snowing heavily since mid-afternoon.
Everything—the lawn, the driveway, the top of the car, the trees—is carpeted in a thick layer of white. The wind swirls up the loose snow on the ground. Wet flakes pelt down from the rapidly darkening sky.
I follow Reese to his Thunderbird, shivering while he unlocks the doors. It’s less than thirty degrees, but Reese is dressed in khaki shorts and a long-sleeved skateboarding shirt.
I slip inside the car and cup my hands over my mouth, breathing hot air on my freezing fingers. “There’s only like one day left in February. You’d think it’d be frickin’ spring already.”
“Remember where we live?”
“Southwest Michigan,” I deadpan. “Where we shovel snow to make room for more snow.”
“It could be like this for the next two months. Or it could be sunny and seventy next week.” Reese flicks on his headlights as he pulls out of the driveway.
“I vote for seventy and sunny.”
“You’d be warmer if you wore more than that stupid jean jacket all winter.”
I glance at him, his hawk-nosed profile silhouetted against the light from the street lamps flaring through the car windows. “What do you care?”
He just shrugs. We pass a cop car, and Reese swears softly, tapping the brake pedal. The cop keeps going. Our headlights are dim circles of yellow in the gauze of swirling snow.
I kick at the backpack crumpled at my feet. “What’s this for?”
“Nothing to worry your pretty head about.”
The car is warm now. I fan my fingers in front of one of the heating vents. I’d rather be back at the apartment getting wasted. I haven’t had anything all day. The familiar urge, that scrabbling, itching need, that wanting starts its dark rustling beneath my skin. “Who is this guy again?”
“I told you before. He’s like my uncle.”
“Like your uncle or your uncle?”
“Anybody ever tell you that you talk too damn much? Chill out, Princess.”
He’s wound up tight tonight. I settle back in the cracked leather seat and leave him alone. Get through this and then we’ll head back to Reese’s, where he’ll give me what I want, what I need.
I pull my phone out of my jacket pocket. I scroll through my messages. Or lack of them
. I still haven’t heard from Simone. I click on Felix’s name. A single text. R U Okay?
My eyes go hot and gritty. I stare at the screen, my fingers hovering over the keys. I hit delete. I can’t talk to him. I won’t.
At least Eden is finally texting me.
Room stinks like cat food. How’s Phoenix?
Bitchiest. Cat. Ever.
Hahaha. Forgive me?
I don’t hesitate. Always.
Where U @?
I text: With Reese.
She responds a second later. He’s sketch, girl.
Whatever. Plans?
@Simone’s
I click off my phone. Eden is loyal to a fault. No matter what happens, she always comes back around. Simone, on the other hand, is fierce and territorial. Once she picks a side, it takes forever for the smoke to clear. But it’s the three of us. It’s always been the three of us.
I imagine what the two of them are doing right now without me. At Simone’s, we always watch marathon reruns of Fresh Prince of Bel Air on BET, then work our way through her collection of movie musicals for the thirtieth time. Moulin Rouge! is her favorite. Eden and I always lobby for Les Mìserables. Or she’ll break out an impromptu class and try to teach us swing dancing, lecturing us on the differences between Modern Jive and the Lindy Hop.
Last time we had a sleepover, Simone had a whole stack of books by Naomi Wolf, Gloria Steinem, and Virginia Woolf for her Feminists of the 20th Century research project. She picked up a Kate Chopin book called The Awakening and handed it to Eden. “You’ll really like this one,” she said with a wink and a pop of her gum. “It’s all about sex.”
“What—what’s that supposed to mean?” Eden sputtered, almost spitting out her mouthful of Nerds.
“Come on, Skittles. You haven’t noticed that almost all your bizarre animal facts are about doing the deed?” I said, giggling so hard I could barely get the words out. Eden seized the opened bag of peanut M&M’s and flicked one at me.
“Candy war!” I cried, chucking a handful of Sour Patch Kids at Simone.
The food fight was truly epic. We laughed so hard my stomach muscles were sore for a week.
My gut twists. I miss them like a phantom limb.
Reese jerks the wheel, and we turn into a long driveway. He parks the Thunderbird next to a red truck covered in snow. “Don’t forget the backpack.”
I sling the empty pack over my shoulder and climb out of the car. I bow my head against the slanting snow and step inside Reese’s boot prints.
The house is an adorable two-story with a wide front porch and crisp yellow siding. There are two white rocking chairs and window boxes that’ll hold flowers if this frickin’ snow ever stops.
Reese knocks twice. We wait a moment before the door swings open.
“Well, hello and come in,” a middle-aged, balding man says, beckoning us into the living room. We step inside, stamping our feet against the threshold.
He closes the door and thrusts out his hand. “My name’s Floyd. You’re a mighty pretty girl.”
I shake my bangs out of my eyes and smile at him, the way I know Reese wants me to. “I’m Lux.”
His hand is warm and a little oily, like he’s just lotioned it. He looks like a kindly neighbor or someone’s favorite uncle. His face is broad and ruddy, his eyes friendly beneath the pale dome of his forehead.
“Nice to meet you, Lux.” He steps back and makes a wide gesture with his arms. “Please, make yourself at home. I’ve got hot chocolate, tea, and cookies in the kitchen, if you’d like some.”
“No, thank you.” The living room walls are paneled with a rich, dark wood, the carpet a plush, creamy white, and the furniture is all gleaming black leather. A huge entertainment center takes up an entire wall, including a seventy-inch, curved-screen TV. “Nice place.”
“You sure about that hot chocolate?” Reese says, slanting his eyes at me.
I remember Dad’s version, homemade and the best, richest hot chocolate I’ve ever tasted. “I guess so. I don’t want to cause any extra work.” I duck my chin and flash Floyd a shy smile.
“No problem, sweetheart. I already set out a mug and a couple of cocoa packets. The kitchen’s right through that archway there. You can leave your bag here, by the door.”
I’m being dismissed. “Okay. Thanks.” I scrub my feet on the mat, drop the backpack, and head into the kitchen.
The kitchen is so shiny with steel and glass, I have to blink a few times to adjust my eyes. It smells like something burnt, toast or maybe popcorn. Wooden blinds are drawn over all the windows, so I can’t see outside.
“Have a seat,” I hear Floyd say to Reese. Their voices become hushed. I heat up a mug of water in the microwave, stir in the powdered chocolate, and sit at a round glass table. Smudges and fingerprints smear the underside of the glass, like whoever cleans it only bothers with the top.
I glance at my hands wrapped around the mug. Three long scratches scrape my skin from my knuckles to my wrists. Phoenix. She’s doubled in size, at least. She spends her time streaking around my room in snarling, hissing outrage.
She attacks anything that moves, my feet in particular. She won’t let me pick her up or even pet her, and she’s bitten me more than once with her tiny, needle-sharp teeth. Still, sometimes she’ll claw up my bedspread and curl into a ball at the foot of my bed at night. I’ll wake up to her warm little body pressed against my ankle or the arch of my foot. It’s progress.
I sip my watery drink, the gritty granules sticking to my tongue. It’s nothing like Dad’s. Thoughts of Dad always seem to slip into my mind unbidden. I don’t want to think about him. He’s dying.
So what? The doctors have said that for years. This time it’s true. This time, it’s my fault.
I jerk myself from my seat, nearly spilling the hot chocolate. I can’t sit here like this, allowing my mind to wander. This is when the darkness boils up, when the demons start creeping into the hidden corners of my thoughts. I need to do something, anything.
I head down the hallway, looking for the bathroom. Which door is it? They’re all closed.
I push on the second door to the left. The latch gives way with a muted click, and the door swings open. I fumble for the switch, flooding light into a room that’s most certainly not the bathroom.
It’s a small room lined wall to wall with glass cabinets, every shelf crowded with weird objects. I glance quickly down the hallway, listening as Reese cracks a joke and Floyd laughs. I step into the room.
The first two cabinets contain a display of feathered tomahawks, bent and rusted knives, and ancient guns probably used in the Civil War. The next cabinet is filled with Nazi paraphernalia: a folded flag, a couple of faded red armbands, a beige uniform, stacks of yellowed pamphlets marked with swastikas, and a framed black and white photograph of Hitler. In the picture, Hitler looks benign and almost friendly.
The hairs on the back of my neck prickle.
The next cabinet’s shelves are lined with skulls. Some of the skulls are bleached white, others are yellowed. Most are of small animals, probably squirrels, rabbits, and coyotes. One looks like a cat. A few others might be dogs. I shudder.
Three large skulls gape out from the center of the middle shelf. They’re unmistakably human. These are not the bleach-whitened bones from the skeletons in science class. These are ochre-stained, almost brown.
My heart plummets, all the blood draining from my head. I take an involuntary step backward. Where would someone get something like this? You couldn’t just buy them, could you? I mean, eBay sells some crazy crap, but certainly not this level of disturbia.
Where do you get a human skull? And what kind of twisted, messed up person wants one? Suddenly I can imagine Floyd as one of those serial killers you hear about who used to coach little league and host neighborhood barbecues. The neighbors never had a clue. The whole time, a psychopath lurked behind that bland, innocuous face.
I should leave. I don’t belong here. My mouth is dry, m
y throat thick. Thoughts buzz like bees in my head, nervous and agitated. I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. The skulls stare at me accusingly with their blank, empty eye sockets.
Yet, that familiar urge is there, niggling at the back of my brain. I have a bad habit of doing the opposite of what I should. It’ll only take a second.
I wiggle the tiny metal key and open one of the glass cabinet doors. I look for something small, something innocuous, something not imbued with evil or death.
The sound of voices drifts from the living room. I reach in, careful not to touch any of the dusty artifacts, pick up a flint arrowhead, and slip it into my pocket.
I flip off the light and hurry out of the room, quietly shutting the door. I pause for a moment in the hallway to calm my thudding heart. The voices in the living room grow louder. Reese and Floyd must have moved from the couch toward the front door.
I dash down the hallway into the kitchen and slide back into my seat at the glass table by the time the two men enter through the archway.
“How was it?” Floyd says, smiling. He looks different, somehow. I imagine the shape of his skull beneath his sloping brow and shiny, pink skin.
I tighten my fingers around the mug to keep my hands from shaking. “Huh?”
His eyes are too big. They stare at me, unblinking. “Your cocoa. Did it hit the spot?”
“Um, yeah, thanks. It was great,” I mumble.
He comes closer until he’s hovering over me. I sense the heat of his body, smell something stale and slightly sour. “You’re a real pretty girl, you know that?”
The arrowhead in my pocket is a burning coal. “Thank you.”
“You’ve got the body of a woman. Reese treating you like a woman?”
My heart jams in my throat. He’s not actually saying what I think he’s saying. He’s old enough to be my dad. Ten minutes ago he seemed bland as milk. Not anymore.
I slide out of my seat and catch Reese’s gaze. Let’s go. “Thank you, sir, for your hospitality.”
“Anytime,” Floyd says, smiling hard.
I cross the kitchen, aware of Floyd’s eyes on me the whole time. I slip my arm around Reese’s waist. “It’s getting late. My family will be worried. Can you take me home?”
