Thirty Sunsets

by Christine Hurley Deriso

  I’m still staring at him as if he’s just uttered something in a foreign language. “Pregnant.”

  He nods. “Right, sweetie. She was already pregnant.”

  “But … how did you get her pregnant if you weren’t dating yet?”

  Okay, I’m fully aware of how stupid that sounds, and I don’t recall actually forming the question in my brain, but somehow, those are the words that fall from my mouth.

  Because that’s the only explanation I can absorb: that Dad got Mom pregnant.

  “Um … ” Dad says, looking around the room for a moment before homing in again on me. “I wasn’t the one who got her pregnant.”

  Oh.

  My eyebrows knit together, my mouth open as if awaiting a fresh jumble of stupid words to fall out. “What happened to the baby?”

  Dad’s eyes fall. “The baby is your brother.”

  Oh. I have a brother I didn’t know about? Wait, no …

  “Brian,” I say, surprising myself by sounding eerily matter-of-fact.

  But that can’t be, so I’m really eager for Dad to explain what’s really going on and why there’s no reason to believe my world has just been shattered and why this whole thing is a giant misunderstanding and …

  “Right,” Dad says. “Brian.”

  He holds my hand between both of his. I pull it away.

  “Brian’s … not your son.” My voice is so flat, I wonder if I said the words aloud or just thought them.

  “Of course he’s my son,” Dad says, and I think, Whew, my world is still on its axis after all! I’ve just misunderstood …

  But then I get it. Brian is Dad’s son in a Very Special Episode kind of way. As in, not at all.

  “You’re not his dad.”

  I’m talking to myself now, just trying to take it all in.

  Dad grabs my hands, holding them too tightly to let me pull them away. “I’ve loved your brother since the moment he was born … since before he was born. He’s my son as surely as if—”

  “She’s such a hypocrite,” I say to myself in barely a whisper, peering blankly into space. “Such a friggin’ hypocrite … ”

  “No. Your mother is not a—”

  “She was using you,” I say in a monotone. “She’s still using you.”

  “Forrest, you know your mother and I love each other very—”

  “You said it yourself,” I say, pulling my hands away and rising to my feet. “You said you tried forever to get her to go out with you, but she wasn’t interested until … ”

  “That’s not what I meant, Forrest.”

  But I’m already heading toward the back door.

  “Forrest, wait!”

  What a Very Special Episode thing to say.

  “Wait!” Dad repeats as I fling the door open. He’s caught up with me by the time I’ve reached the stairs of our deck.

  “I need some time,” I tell him, aiming for calm to increase the odds that he’ll leave me alone.

  “Honey, you don’t understand … ”

  “Please, Dad? Just a little time to myself?”

  He stands there looking torn, then finally nods. “Please hurry back … so we can all talk.”

  Yeah, that’ll give me something to look forward to.

  “You really haven’t heard the … ”

  But I’m already running down the steps, toward the beach, away from my dad.

  He is my dad, right?

  Who the hell knows? Suddenly, everything I’ve ever be-lieved, everybody I’ve ever trusted … it’s all up for grabs, a giant crapshoot, just a big, heapin’ helpin’ of shit.

  By the time my sneaker-clad feet hit the sand, I’m running, running somewhere, running toward the water, I guess, I dunno, I don’t care, just running …

  People are milling around me—dusk is just setting in and a peachy sunset is piercing through billowy clouds—but I’m oblivious, still just running, just pushing forward, wondering if I can outrun the sound in my head of my life splintering into a million pieces. I run until I hit the surf, then fall onto the wet sand, holding my head in my hands as the lazy, rippling waves of low tide nibble at my sneakers.

  I’m vaguely aware of the outfit I’m wearing—the snug shorts, the B-52s T-shirt (campy, ironic, understated—like I’ve coolly thrown on the first thing I grabbed from the drawer)—and cringe as I remember I picked it out specifically for Scott.

  Scott. That guy from a lifetime ago. The one from a parallel universe. The one who stood me up a mere hour ago. The one I gave a shit about before I realized I had real problems. The one who made sense in my world when my world wasn’t full of deception. Thirty sunsets, my ass. Thirty zillion lies. And counting.

  Fitting, no? Scott’s done apparently nothing but lie the whole time I’ve known him, and my family has done nothing but lie the whole time I’ve known them, with me going about my business ludicrously believing what I was told, inexplicably trusting people, imperviously living my life as if I had a goddamn clue.

  They’ve all been lying to me … even Brian.

  Because Brian knows. I’m sorry, Olivia mouthed to him when her mom blathered about genetic testing. I’m sorry I told my mom what everyone on earth besides your idiot sister has apparently known forever, that you’re not who she thinks you are, that she’s not who she thinks she is, and that, oh by the way, I’m your confidante now, not your what’s-her-name sister. Half sister, that is.

  How could Brian know this without telling me? Haven’t we always told each other everything? He’s the only one I ever told about my weird OCD habit of alternating which side of my teeth I brush first—left to right in the morning, right to left at bedtime—one of a million ways I’m committed to an insane notion of symmetry. I’m the only one who ever heard Brian’s confession that it was him, not his friend Ty, who accidentally ripped the upholstery of a new chair the very day Mom bought it.

  Sure, our relationship took a sharp turn south when Olivia came on the scene, but at least that was a betrayal that fell within the parameters of a world that made sense.

  This … this betrayal … a betrayal that makes a mockery of every single moment of my childhood, my life up to this point, considering that it was all based on a lie—this defies the very laws of physics.

  I feel my heart pounding through my B-52s T-shirt.

  “Damn, where’s my sunscreen?”

  What?

  I look up and see Scott.

  Oh my god.

  He pretends to wipe his brow. “All your hotness is giving me a sunburn.” He ludicrously draws out of the Rs on burrrn.

  “Please go away.”

  Scott drops to one knee and peers into my eyes. “Slather some sunscreen on me, baby.”

  I gaze past him into the ocean. I don’t even have the energy to tell him to go to hell.

  “Whatcha pissed about?” he asks, then draws in a quick breath. “Hey, wait … that dinner with your family … that wasn’t supposed to be tonight, was it?”

  I’d give my right arm if I could summon a mythical sea creature to swallow this joker whole right about now.

  He slaps the side of his head. “It was tonight! Why was I thinking you said tomorrow? Damn! I’ve definitely been sniffing too much paint. Oh, baby, look, I’m so—”

  “I really need my privacy right now. Please leave me alone.”

  “Oh, please, baby, you gotta give me another chance. Hey, I know how to make it up to you. I’ll cook dinner for you … ”

  Damn.

  I’m crying now.

  I absolutely hate crying in front of this moron, making him think I care about some damn dinner, giving him the impression that he’s so much as a blip on my radar screen. But there you have it. I’m sitting in the sand crying. I wipe my tears roughly with the heel of my hand.

  “Oh, baby, don�
�t cry.”

  I swear to god, if Scott calls me baby one more time, I will shove a jellyfish up his nose.

  “It was an honest mistake, baby,” he says, and honestly, where’s a jellyfish when you need one?

  I glance up at him. “This really isn’t about you,” I say. “I’ve got some family stuff going on right now. A little privacy? Please?”

  “Are you sure you didn’t say tomorrow? I could have sworn it was tomorrow that I was supposed to—”

  “Scott.” I look squarely in his eyes. “I really need to be alone right now.” I stand up and start walking toward my house.

  “Baby!” Scott beseeches. “It was an honest misunderstanding! Can’t a guy make a single mistake? Jesus. What are you, Queen Perfect? Never made a single mistake yourself? Never got a date wrong? Must be nice to be so goddamn … ”

  My walk turns into a trot; I’m desperate to distance myself from the sound of his voice, the smugness on his stupid face.

  “Yeah, run, Little Miss Perfect!” he shouts angrily. He’s angry? God, this is rich.

  “You better run!”

  What the hell does that mean? Not that I care.

  “You little bitch!”

  Did he really just say that? I quicken my pace.

  Then I hear the thud of bare feet running on the sand.

  And getting closer.

  Oh god. He’s running after me.

  I’m more mad than scared. The nerve of this guy! Is he serious ? Has a bigger jerk ever walked the face of the—

  He grabs my arm from behind.

  His eyes flash with anger as he jerks me toward him, but then he turns cajoling again. “Don’t be mad. I’m still thinking about you in that pink bikini. You can’t do that to a guy—look so smokin’ hot and then cut him loose.”

  “Let me go.”

  His eyes flash with fury as his chin pitches forward.

  “Scott, lemme—”

  But his grip tightens.

  “You’re hurting me.”

  My eyes scan the beach. A few people are around, but none close enough to summon without making a scene. And that would be ridiculous, right? To make a scene just because some jerk is …

  I gulp as I realize he’s pulling me toward a canopy-covered gazebo, one of those flimsy little structures moms prop on the beach to keep their babies in the shade. Flimsy, but private. Once the flap of the canopy is closed, no one can see inside. No one can …

  Scott pulls me inside, closes the flap, presses his face against mine, and starts kissing me.

  I push him away. “Let me go.”

  “C’mon, baby,” he murmurs, “don’t be mad. Let’s make up.”

  I try to protest, but he’s pressing his mouth tightly against mine, his tongue probing as I start to gag and push harder against his chest.

  He’s panting, his hands sliding down my waist, his fingers digging into my flesh, and I feel faint as I try but fail to gasp for oxygen.

  Finally, I shove him with the palms of my hands as hard as I can. He stumbles, but his arms still have me in a vise grip.

  A bulging vein in his neck throbs. His eyes look wild and enraged, yet cold and calculating. Like an animal’s. He roughly pulls me closer and starts kissing me again.

  I consider squealing as loud as I can with his face pressed against mine. But would anyone hear? And even if they did, would they realize I was in trouble, or just assume I was horsing around on the beach? Should I try to bite his lip? I’m not sure I can, and even if I could, would it just enrage him more?

  Of course it would. If nothing else is clear to me right now, I have perfect clarity that Scott will accept nothing less than complete control.

  He’s trying to yank down my shorts, but he’s struggling to hold me still at the same time. He eases off a bit, redistributing his weight.

  “Please don’t … ”

  His eyes narrow, staring at me.

  “You’re hurting me,” I continue. “Please don’t hurt me.”

  His eyes flash hesitation for a nanosecond, then go cold. “Just go with it,” he demands.

  “Not like this,” I plead, desperate not to further incite him. If I can just keep him calm … just remind him that I’m a person, like his mother or sister …

  “You’re really hurting me,” I tell him again, trying to make eye contact.

  “Then hold still. I got no time for goddamn teases.”

  “Then let’s do this right,” I whisper in rapid-fire pants.

  He studies me warily, then gives a creepy smile and starts to lower me to the ground.

  “No!” I yelp, struggling to stay on my feet. “I don’t mean now. Don’t you want to make it special for me? I’ve never done this before. I don’t want it like this, not in the sand. Besides, somebody might come back. I saw a mother and her kids just a minute ago, looking for shells. I think this is their—”

  “Nobody’s coming,” he says contemptuously.

  “No, really! I saw the mom and her kids here earlier today. This is their gazebo; I’m sure of it. And they were just on the beach. I’m sure they’ll be back any minute. I think they—”

  “Shut up,” he says, then shoves me hard onto the sand.

  I try to lift myself up on my elbows, but he’s already on top of me, pinning me to the ground.

  “Scott,” I mutter, pushing my face to the side. “I have a venereal disease.”

  He laughs coldly. “You just said you were a virgin.”

  “It’s … AIDS … from a blood transfusion … ”

  “Lying bitch,” he says, then yanks my head back into position so he can kiss me. He’s biting my lower lip, still digging his fingers into my flesh, making me gasp for air again … oh god oh god oh god … I shut my eyes tight and summon every ounce of energy I have, then …

  Oooooomph!

  Scott’s eyes widen, then squeeze shut as he moans in pain, gripping the testicles I’ve just crushed with my knee. I push him off of me, fling open the flap of the canopy, and run like hell.

  twenty-four

  Is Scott behind me?

  I don’t know; the only thing I’m conscious of is the sound of my own heaving breaths. I can’t pause to look behind me. Keep moving forward … keep moving forward …

  Should I be screaming? I don’t know if I can; I don’t think I have enough oxygen to do anything except keep running. My sneakers pound the sand—slap, slap, slap, slap—and my breaths course through me like hot lava. If people are around, I’m oblivious. Just keep moving toward the house …

  I push past marram grass and feel insanely relieved when I reach the other side, as if a border of waist-high, wisp-thin grass is going to shield me from harm. But I’m still pushing forward, running as fast as I can, pumping my forearms, inhaling oxygen in convulsive gulps. I reach the stairs of our deck and climb them two at a time. It’s only when I reach the landing that I glance anxiously toward the beach.

  No one is in sight. Scott hasn’t followed me … unless he’s lurking somewhere out of sight, ready to pounce when I least expect it. I have a sudden sick feeling that I’ll never rest easy another moment of my life, forever vigilant against the possibility of being pounced on unexpectedly.

  But I’m safe now, just a few steps away from my back door, a few steps away from Mom and Dad, a few steps away from shedding the most profound sense of aloneness I’ve ever felt. Mom and Dad, mind if I hold your hands for the rest of my life?

  I practically collapse against the back door, then reach for the knob to open it.

  Oh god … it’s locked.

  I glance anxiously toward the beach again as I start slapping the door furiously. It occurs to me that slapping the door this hard should hurt my hand, but nothing hurts—not my red palms, not my exhausted lungs, not my shaky thighs. My only focus is on getting inside.

>   I see Mom and Dad rushing toward the door through the windows, and I’ve never been so glad to see them in my life. What if they hadn’t been home? What if I’d been stuck outside this locked door, knowing Scott could spring on me at any moment? I think my heart would have exploded with fear. Literally exploded. I believe that now—that a heart can explode with fear.

  “Forrest, what in the world … ?” Mom is saying.

  “Rape … rape … ” I gasp. “He tried to rape me.”

  Dad holds my arms to steady me and looks deep into my eyes. “Who tried to rape you?”

  “Scott … the guy who was supposed to … oh god, he tried to rape me … ”

  “What does he look like?” Dad asks me, his voice steady yet menacing.

  I shake my head. “Look like? I don’t know … he’s … does it matter? I’m sure he’s gone by now.”

  Dad looks at Mom. “I’m calling the police,” he says.

  “No!” I cry.

  But Dad’s already reaching for his cell phone.

  “Dad! Nothing happened! I don’t even know his last name … ”

  He’s pressing numbers on his phone pad.

  “Dad! Please!”

  He pauses and looks at me. “He tried to rape you.”

  “Yes, but … I got away. Nothing happened. Please, Dad, nothing happened!”

  He resumes pressing numbers. Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god …

  “Forrest,” Mom says, pulling my arm.

  “No!” I shriek, but Mom won’t let go. She’s pulling me toward her, then pulling me down the hall to my bedroom. I’m too weak and disoriented to resist.

  Once inside the bedroom, Mom lowers me to the bottom bunk. I sprawl on the mattress, spent and exhausted. Mom lies down behind me and wraps her arms around me. I should sob now … right?

  Right. I should sob. I want to sob. My brain has hit the “sob” button of my limbic system, so why am I not sobbing? Nothing would feel better right now than to vomit out my emotions in a steady stream of wails.

  But I’m not sobbing. I’m just lying there, clutching my mother’s arms.