Tear Me Apart

by J. T. Ellison

  “I was ashamed. Miscarriage wasn’t as out in the open as it is now. I didn’t want to talk to anyone about it. And I knew this was going to be a perfect solution. I wanted the baby. She was mine, and we agreed, and the doctor helped everything go smoothly, I didn’t see any reason to say anything.”

  Juliet steers the truck off I-70 onto the Dillon exit.

  “You’ve been lying for more than seventeen years,” she says, turning into the parking lot of the restaurant.

  “I haven’t. Mindy is my daughter. She has been since before she was born.”

  “It’s still a lie of omission. My God, Lauren.”

  “You don’t get to judge me, Juliet. You don’t know the things I’ve been through. You don’t know me at all. You were just a child. What was I supposed to do, confide in you? You were worried about school, a science fair if I recall. This was way above your pay grade.”

  “I’m not judging. I’m just saying, I’m family. You could have told me. Did Mom know?”

  “No one knew.”

  Juliet puts the truck into Park, turns in her seat. The light is dim in the car; they are parked in the shadow of the restaurant, and though the sun is glowing on the frozen lake, this small corner of the lot is steeped in shadows.

  “Tell me the rest, Lauren. Why am I not supposed to talk to Jasper?” Juliet asks, her teeth clenched.

  Lauren blows out a breath. “Because he doesn’t know. I’ve never told him I’m not Mindy’s biological mother.”

  19

  The silence in the truck is overwhelming. The enormity of what Lauren has just confided hits Juliet, hard. Lauren closes her eyes as if she realizes it’s too late; she can’t take it back. That everything is going to come out now, and she is powerless against it. She begins to worry at her stained sleeve. Juliet lays her hand on Lauren’s, and she stills.

  Juliet starts to speak and stops a few times. She has to admit, the relief she feels is overwhelming. The idea of a baby switched at birth was almost too much to bear. This—adoption—will tear Mindy apart, but at least she’ll know she was raised with Lauren and Jasper because she was wanted, not because of a fluke mistake. And another family won’t be dragged into the judicial morass, either.

  When she finally finds words, her tone is curious, detached. Not at all the judgmental little sister, but the rational scientist solving a puzzle.

  “How could you not tell Jasper?”

  “Because he didn’t care. When I met him, Mindy was a tiny, squalling, milk-sucking beastie. That’s all he knew. He was madly in love with her from day one, bless him. What did it matter?”

  “I don’t know—he might think differently about her, about you?”

  “She wasn’t his, and he loved her anyway. It wouldn’t have made a difference to him if he’d known I adopted her. He wouldn’t have cared. It didn’t matter,” she emphasizes again. “She’s mine. She is mine.”

  “I understand how you feel. No one could have been a better mother to Mindy, Lauren. You’re an incredible mother. But she’s not biologically yours. And she’s sick. And we need to find a donor. Which means you need to ’fess up, big sister, to all of it, so we can go find Mindy’s birth mother and get her tested, right away.”

  Lauren shakes her head. “It’s impossible.”

  “I work for the CBI. Trust me when I say nothing is impossible.”

  “But this is. I don’t know who the biological mother is. I don’t have an address. I don’t even remember the girl’s name, if I ever knew her real one, which I seriously doubt. She was a sweet, mixed-up Hispanic teenager who barely spoke English and was thrilled to be rid of the baby. Trust me, I doubt she’s ever looked back. I know I haven’t.”

  “You paid her money. There will be a record—”

  “Cash. Up front. No receipt. All that paperwork made me feel like I was buying a child, so I—we—agreed not to have any. There are no records to find.”

  “Give me the doctor’s name, then.”

  “I don’t have it.”

  “Now you’re being stubborn.”

  Lauren slams her fist into the dashboard. “You don’t understand.”

  “I do understand. You’re trying to save your own skin because you’re worried Jasper is going to boot you out the door when he finds out you’ve been lying to him all these years.”

  “No, you don’t understand. It’s impossible. The doctor has absolutely no information on the girl, no records, nothing. It was a closed, private adoption, with legal guarantees that I will never try to contact the birth mother.”

  “In other words, it was an illegal adoption.”

  “No. Not...illegal. I guaranteed I would never try to find her, that’s all.”

  “Well, now you’re going to break that vow.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are. Because if you don’t, I will.”

  Lauren stares at her little sister. “What do you mean, you will? You will do nothing of the sort. This is my family, my decision. You don’t have a say.”

  “I don’t have a say? She’s my niece. And I won’t let her die if there’s a way to save her life. You can’t possibly think you’re going to be able to keep this secret, do you? The doctors know she’s not your biological child. How long will it be before they slip in front of Jasper? He’s not stupid. He knows something’s wrong.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “You really do have blinders on, big sister. Everyone knows something’s up with you. Look at you. You’re disintegrating before our eyes. Look at your arm.”

  Lauren glances down. She is bleeding again, has been clawing at her skin while Juliet confronts her. Juliet feels a strange recognition with this gesture, something long hidden rearing up. A fragment from the past, barely even a memory. Lauren across from her at the big round wooden table, the red checked tablecloth—it was Colorado, we got that at Target—playing with a bandage on her arm, fraying the edges, and their mother smacking Lauren’s hand away, yelling, “Stop doing that!”

  Juliet doesn’t recall seeing Lauren do it ever again. Until now.

  “Juliet, if Mindy dies—”

  “If she dies, then you’ll tell? You think that will make this all right? This lie? This epic, world-changing lie?”

  “Stop screaming at me. This is my life. My choice. I won’t break the rules that I set out for myself.”

  “The rules you set out for yourself? Fuck yourself. This is Mindy’s life. Who cares what you think about the way things ought to have been done? This is what has to happen. And trust me, if you don’t step up, I will do it without you.”

  “Do that, and I will never speak to you again, Juliet Ryder. I swear it.”

  “Empty threats. You don’t speak to me now, Lauren. What difference would it make?”

  The bitter words hang in the air between them.

  “I’m not hungry anymore,” Lauren says, looking out the window.

  “Neither am I,” Juliet replies. “This whole charade makes me sick. But we’re going to go inside and eat a proper meal because you are out of your mind, and maybe some food will help you think with clarity.”

  She pulls the keys from the ignition and opens her door, then sticks her head back inside.

  “And, Lauren, when we get back to Vail, you have to tell Jasper.”

  “He’ll never forgive me.”

  “You should have thought about that before you decided to base your entire life with him on a lie.” Juliet slams the door hard enough to rock the truck and stalks into the restaurant.

  20

  The sun is bright on the fresh powder, shimmering off the frozen lake twenty yards from the truck. Lauren pulls a fresh tissue from her purse, dabs at her arm, then applies a new Band-Aid. She didn’t realize she’d pulled the other one off, finds it crumpled under her left heel.

&n
bsp; The bones in her wrist are sharp; buff-colored skeleton’s hands on her wasted, skinny thighs. Juliet is right, there’s not much of her left. She has shrunk over the past month.

  The well of fear threatens to drown her. Juliet isn’t kidding. She is going to force Lauren’s hand. Another wave of panic hits.

  Lauren can feel the edges of her world unraveling. Images she forced away long ago come back to her—Kyle’s hateful, sneering face, the wrenching pain in her abdomen, the blood on her hands. The small ball of warmth with wisps of black hair and translucent skin, silent, so silent, so still. The healthy cries from Mindy’s crib, the sleepless few weeks before she’d met Jasper, when she thought she might die of exhaustion and frustration.

  That familiar tug of desperation fills her now, the sense of being out of control, of not having any recourse, of the world spinning too fast for her feet to move on the earth.

  What is she willing to lose to save Mindy’s life? What cost will the truth bring?

  Juliet is right, damn her. She is going to have to talk about this with Jasper. She is going to have to admit the truth, that Mindy isn’t hers. And suffer the consequences.

  She has to do it now, get out ahead of this. She can’t let Juliet be the one to tell him. Jasper will never forgive Lauren, but maybe, for Mindy’s sake, he can learn to live with her deception. She alone can frame the situation. Make him understand.

  She marches inside where Juliet has already taken a table by the window that looks out onto the lake. There are two glasses of iced tea on the table. Lauren assiduously avoids her sister’s gaze when she sits down, as if she can see right through her sister’s body. Like she’s a ghost. Like she doesn’t exist.

  “Juliet.”

  At last, Juliet’s head turns, and Lauren is shocked to see her sister’s red-rimmed eyes, her nose rabbit-pink. Juliet Ryder doesn’t cry at anything. She didn’t cry when she broke her wrist in fifth grade, when her steady boyfriend broke it off the weekend before they left for college, when she missed the astronaut program by a fraction of a point. Juliet Ryder doesn’t cry, ever, period, yet here she is, struggling for control, in public, no less.

  Lauren covers her sister’s hand in hers. “I’ll tell him tonight. Then I’ll go back through my files and see if I can find the doctor’s name. I don’t remember her name, only that she was Hispanic, that’s all I recall. You’re right, we need to find Mindy’s birth mother and try to find a match among her family.”

  “Thank you,” Juliet manages, but Lauren grips her hand harder until she feels a knuckle pop under the pressure, and Juliet’s eyes grow wary at the pain.

  “But I will handle this, Juliet. This is my family, my mistake, and it’s my responsibility. Not yours. You stay out of it from now on, you hear me? I will take care of things.”

  Juliet simply nods.

  “Good. Now, do you still want onion rings?”

  21

  UNIVERSITY HOSPITAL

  NASHVILLE, TENNESSEE

  1993

  VIVIAN

  Liesel has been a silent member of the ward for two weeks. She won’t participate in group, she won’t participate in one-on-one, she certainly won’t participate with me more than the perfunctory. She seems to like art, though, paints with abandon during arts and crafts, but as for the rest, she is mute.

  After art, when we’re cleaning our brushes—me extra thoroughly—I finally decide to go for it.

  “You were crying in your sleep last night. Again. Want to talk about it?”

  There is a long, pungent silence, before a small, quiet “Maybe.”

  “We could go smoke.”

  “I don’t smoke anymore.”

  “Then our room.”

  “Fine. I guess.”

  Twenty minutes later, after I smuggle us in sodas and the sandwich crackers with sour cream and chive cheese I know she likes, I shut the door almost all the way and we have a small party, sitting on the floor in between the beds, our blankets as a combo picnic blanket and cushion.

  Munching her crackers, she finally tosses an opening salvo. “Do I say anything, in my sleep?”

  “You keep saying ‘no.’ Over and over. And punching the sky.”

  She nods, calmly, as if she was expecting this. “That’s all?”

  “Yes. But you seem...upset. Scared. It’s freaky.”

  “Why do you sneak out at night? What are you doing?”

  A test. I decide I have nothing to lose. “One of the night guys lets me smoke in the lounge.”

  “What’s he want in return?”

  “For smokes, nothing. But for information—everything has its price.” I shrug. “I haven’t paid it.”

  “Would you?”

  “Fuck an orderly for information? If I had to. If it was important enough.”

  I sound braver than I feel.

  “You’d do that to find out about me?”

  “He offered. I said no. I would much rather hear it from you.”

  “Don’t ever trade yourself for information. You’re better than that. Swear to me you’ll never do it.”

  “I swear. Okay? I swear. Now, what’s the story?”

  “I tried to kill myself. That’s why I’m here.” She pushes up her left sleeve, and I have to admire the vertical slice that starts at her palm and heads toward her elbow. It is straight, uniform, still red against her pale skin, but clean and healing well. In the light, I can also see multiple scars, two inches long, straight across the soft flesh of her inner forearm. Only two of the horizontal lines intersect the newer slice. They are much older, a perpendicular railway built over a long time.

  “That’s pretty work.”

  She slides the sleeve down. “Thank you. Precision is important to me.”

  “When did you start cutting?”

  “A few years ago.” She shrugs. “It’s no big deal.”

  “I tried it once. It freaked me out.”

  “It makes me feel good. Dr. Freakazoid says I’m looking for an unhealthy release for my psychic pain, but really, it just feels good.”

  “I have a tattoo. I liked how that felt. The needle going in and out—it hurt, but there was something good in the pain, too.”

  “Serotonin rush. It’s addictive. Let me see.”

  I slide down the shoulder of my shirt. The tattoo is small, a butterfly, on my shoulder blade. It is yellow with blue spots. I dig it.

  “I had to use a fake ID, and the tattoo guy didn’t buy it for a second, but he was an anarchist and loved the idea of sticking it to the man, so he did it anyway, for half price.”

  “It’s very pretty. Maybe I’ll get one. See how it feels.”

  I pull up my shirt. “I have my belly button pierced, too. Obviously, my nose, too. They won’t let me have my jewelry, think I’m going to use it to stab out my eyes or something.”

  She touches the hole in my stomach. Her fingers are soft, her nails chewed down, and it feels good. Strange, but good. I realize no one has voluntarily touched me without anger in months.

  I yank down my shirt. “You said you killed someone.”

  Her face shutters. She shifts on the blanket, staring over my shoulder now, at nothing. “I did.”

  “Liesel, tell me. You’ll feel better. I swear I’ll never say a word.”

  With a deep, racking sigh, a girl old beyond her years, she begins to speak.

  “I told the police what I’m telling you.”

  “Which means it’s the truth, or it’s the story your lawyer told you to stick to?”

  “Is there a difference?”

  * * *

  She tells me everything. In detail. Enough that my stomach turns and I look at her in a new light. She has been through hell, my roommate. More hell than me, that’s for sure. She almost makes me feel like my depression isn’t important. That I’m
being selfish by not being happy.

  “So that’s how I ended up here. That’s how I ended up with this miserable life. Do you feel sorry for me?”

  I know I am looking at her with a combination of horror and sympathy on my face. I shut my eyes briefly, take a breath.

  “No. You did what you had to do. I’m sorry you’re being punished, but I don’t feel sorry for you.”

  “What about now?”

  She takes my hand and puts it on her stomach. The uniform sweats they provided the night she was brought in have hidden the pregnancy so well.

  22

  THE WRIGHTS’ HOUSE

  CURRENT DAY

  Shaken by her confrontation with Juliet, Lauren pulls into the cobbled driveway of their house, seeing it with fresh eyes. It looks deserted. Not like they have been on vacation, but that they have decamped without warning. The rose trellis by the garage has cracked, a large, packed snowbank leans against the house where Jasper hasn’t bothered to shovel it away. Their windows are grimy, the curtains pulled. There is snow on the balconies, piled up high. Lauren cringes to think what the stone beneath is experiencing; they’ll have to regrout the entire lower level come spring. A mountain house needs regular upkeep, lots of tender loving care, and they have fallen down on the job.

  The house is too big for them, but cozy, nonetheless. They bought it thirteen years ago, the second they realized Mindy was going to be tethered to the ski slopes and had come to the attention of the Vail Ski Club, one of the best paths to becoming a world champion skier in the country. Designed to look like a European ski lodge, with vaulted wood ceilings and balconies, it was overpriced then, but the views are incredible, and from the moment Lauren entered the living space, all she wanted to do was grab a brush and paint the scape in front of her. That feeling has never changed. The second floor is almost all windows; they can see three separate mountain peaks, plus have a clear view of Vail’s back bowl ski runs.

  The way the prices have risen in this area, they could sell it for ten times what they paid, or more, but that is little comfort. Even with the rising costs of Mindy’s treatments, Lauren has no desire to sell her life. She’s poured body and soul into making the house a home. Every room has been ministered to; she’s marked them all like a cat leaving its scent behind. She loves it with abandon, like she does Mindy. It is as much a part of her as her arms and legs. She will never willingly give it up.