by M. Billiter
“Isn’t that better?”
I nodded.
“Don’t forget the sign.”
I draped another piece of yarn around her neck, which was attached to a poster board that hung across her chest.
“Who’s laughing now?” was written in red paint that dripped and made it look more menacing than I’d intended. David wanted it that way.
“Nice job.”
I propped her up as best as I could against the foam padding, then quickly grabbed the duct tape from my backpack and began to wrap her to the post. I used the entire roll of neon green tape. I couldn’t let her free herself until the entire Albany campus got a good look.
She wasn’t going anywhere until some unlucky soul found her.
“Make no mistake. No one will rescue this girl. She’s beyond rescuing. But someone may free her.”
Agreed.
“You could leave her naked with just the sign.”
But as soon as David suggested it, he changed his mind.
“Nah, that’s going too far.”
Agreed.
“We don’t want to be cruel.”
Agreed.
“Our work is done.”
I stared at her duct-taped to the goalpost, and it all seemed like a dream. I mean, it wasn’t that bad. Even my mom said hair grew back.
“So really, how much damage have we done?”
I didn’t have an answer. My brain went blank.
I took a few pics with my phone before walking beneath the full moon that led me here.
14
Aaron
“It’s taken me sixty-seven years to realize that hurting someone because I’ve been hurt by them doesn’t work.”
The priest leaned his elbows on the podium like he was addressing a locker room full of football players rather than a congregation dressed in their Sunday best.
“Trust me,” he said, “I’ve tried all the workarounds. From convincing myself that I was simply giving the person a taste of their own medicine to the ever-popular quoting a verse out of scripture to justify my actions, nothing ever worked. Sure,” he continued, cutting the air in front of him with his hand, “it temporarily relieved my conscience—but only temporarily.”
Father Truman slowly made eye contact with each section of the church. I followed his gaze toward the choir loft where kids Jack’s age sat beside the Phantom of the Opera-type pipe organ. The organist was hidden, which made it even more Phantom-like. My focus turned to the domed ceiling in the cathedral. Oak trim offset the cream-colored dome that was sprinkled with blue- and gold-painted stars. It was like looking straight into heaven, or at least what I imagined heaven looked like.
“Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus” was etched along the base of the ceiling. No matter how many times we went to mass, I always translated the Latin into English: “Holy, holy, holy.”
“The temptation to act on how we feel is, well, tempting.” Father Truman smiled and turned his attention to the pews opposite us.
Stained glass windows with images of haloed saints and the blessed virgin filled the wall. The glass art of Mary holding baby Jesus on a cloud with angels beneath them made me sad. One glance toward the altar with its wooden crucifix told how that story ended.
If Mary couldn’t save her son, what hope was there for other sons and their moms?
Hope. That was my problem. I still clung to the little bit of hope I had left.
I looked past Mary and baby Jesus toward the sunlight that poured through them, providing a glimpse outside.
“When we give in to temptation, the enemy wins.”
The enemy? My attention returned to Father Truman.
“God uses us in ways that don’t always feel positive and we don’t always understand.”
What the fuck?
“Often it’s not for us to understand. When people we love, and even those we don’t, hurt us, Jesus calls us to love our enemies.” Father Truman seemed to be lost in his rhetoric. “But that’s not very easy to do, is it?”
Try impossible.
“I know that often the number one emotion ruling my heart, besides my deep, deep love for Gladys Hadley’s blueberry buckle,” he said with a chuckle, “and Phil Newman’s smoked ribs.”
The congregation laughed with him and so did I.
“But the emotion that tends to consume me and rule my thoughts is resentment, followed closely by his cousin anger. When I’ve been hurt by someone, my refusal to forgive that person is often caused by a resentment that’s blocking my heart.”
This guy’s on fire.
I quickly glanced down our pew. My mom looked like she was sleeping with her eyes open. Branson picked at his nails—or what was left of them. Carson was texting. The only family member actually listening to Father Truman’s sermon was Jack, who rested his small hand on my knee. For a family that practically took up an entire pew while others stood, only two of us, me and little Jack, were engaged in what was happening.
Sonuva— I stopped myself before finishing the thought and almost laughed. Isn’t that how resentment starts?
“The hard truth is this: when we lash out at others, regardless of what they did, we injure our souls.” Father Truman gripped the side of the podium. “What saves the soul is mercy. God the Father is merciful. Are you? When people have hurt you, are you merciful?”
My thoughts ricocheted in my head like a racquetball pinging back and forth between my conscious and subconscious with no place to land. Suddenly Jack’s hand gripped my knee, which unbeknownst to me had begun to bounce.
“It’s okay, Aaron,” he whispered.
But my leg was as busy as my mind trying to adjust to Father Truman’s sudden off-topic message. Mercy? The guy should’ve stuck with resentment and anger. Mercy was as misplaced as a nun at a bachelor party. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.
Ambushed. I felt ambushed.
And that pissed me off. It’s why I didn’t go to mass. I didn’t need some pedophile preaching to me about mercy. Where’s God’s mercy for my mom? What’s up with that shit? Mercy, my ass.
“The fastest route to mercy is through prayer. Pray for the one who hurts you,” Father Truman said.
Praying for someone who hurt me wasn’t new, but it wasn’t practical.
“When you pray for the person who hurt you, it changes lives,” Father Truman continued.
I shook my head. Nope. It just reminds me how pissed off I actually am.
“When you can’t forgive someone, pray for them. When you pray, the desire for revenge lessens. Nothing good happens when revenge is driving you. This I know.”
I was about to grab my jacket and Jack’s hand when something in Father Truman’s voice made me pause.
“There was someone who had hurt me terribly as a young man. It was a pain that nearly splintered me off from God. I nursed that grudge the way an alcoholic finds comfort in a bottle. In a perverse way, the more I thought about this individual, the more powerful I thought I became.” His gray hair remained stationary while his head swayed from side to side. “But I wasn’t powerful. That was the enemy’s lie. The enemy fed me that lie, and I ate it up because I didn’t want to be the victim. I was willing to do anything so I’d never have to feel victimized again.”
My leg stopped bouncing and my thoughts slowed down.
“And in that enemy-fueled thought process, I began to believe that making that individual pay for what they had done to me was just.”
It is just.
“Anytime we want someone to pay for what they’ve done, we lose. Revenge is the fuel that sparks war; it’s the rust that erodes families and breaks apart neighborhoods. Revenge is the bitterness that corrodes your soul. The only way we win against the enemy of darkness is through prayer. We must always pray for our enemies. Good can fight evil through the power of prayer.” Father Truman bowed his head before returning to his seat on the dais.
The enemy of darkness.
My leg didn’t bounce and my mind settl
ed down as his sermon sank in. I was lost in my thoughts when Jack patted my knee. I glanced at his finger that pointed toward Branson, who was smiling like he had just won the lottery.
“What?” I mouthed silently.
He passed his phone toward me. Snapchat was on the screen. I enlarged the picture of some girl, who looked like she was sitting against a goalpost, with paint on her face and a sign around her neck. She looked bald, or maybe she was an albino. There wasn’t much hair there to know.
The Snapchat message posted below the picture read THOT, which I knew was slang for “That Ho Over There.”
I shrugged and leaned over Jack. “So?” I mouthed back. “Who is she?”
Branson grinned, leaned across Carson, and whispered, “That’s the sorority girl from the Albany campus. You know, the one who was so mean.” A burst of laughter flew out of Branson, who quickly checked himself before whispering toward me, “That’s karma. That’s what happens when you make an enemy out of the wrong person.”
“Did you do that?” I mouthed when I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. During high school, Branson experienced more than one fugue state, which was like a blackout for people with schizoaffective. During those episodes, Trevor commanded Branson’s thoughts and actions. At the time, Branson didn’t realize that Trevor only existed in his mind. During one, Branson came to in the boys’ restroom in our high school with bloody knuckles. Another time he came out of a fugue state on the side of the road in a stolen car with no memory of what led up to either event.
I wouldn’t wish a fugue state on anyone. Nothing good happens. The only thing they were good for was to realize the person experiencing them was on the cusp of a complete psychotic break from reality.
Branson glanced at his phone and stifled a laugh. “I wish.”
When I didn’t smile, he shook his head. “No way. It wasn’t me, bro. That’s messed up,” he said a bit too loudly.
Messed up was exactly what Trevor did with Branson’s life when he was in command.
Who the fuck knows? Some girl was bound to a goalpost if for no other reason than some sick revenge.
That made me think about Father Truman’s message. I leaned against the pew and tried to wrap my brain around his logic. I knew it was his job or vocation or whatever to help save our souls, but something about his message was off.
Harboring resentment or exacting revenge may corrode the soul, but praying for someone in hopes they wouldn’t harm me again was like aiming an empty gun at an armed robber. Pointless.
Father Truman was right about one thing—someone always got hurt. But it wasn’t going to be me.
15
Aaron
I stared at the document on the kitchen table.
LIVING WILL OF TARA LOUISE LAFONTISEE
DIRECTIVE TO PHYSICIANS
DECLARATION
* * *
Declaration made this 20TH day of OCTOBER. I, Tara Louise Lafontisee, being of sound mind, willfully and voluntarily make known my desire that my dying shall not be artificially prolonged under the circumstances set forth below and do hereby declare:
* * *
“What the fuck?” My throat tightened. I glanced toward the front room, but everyone was asleep. Even though it was Monday, no one had school, so no one stirred before nine. It was October, which meant one thing: hunting. Wyoming loved extending weekends because Wyomingites loved hunting.
My flight was scheduled for late afternoon, but I woke early to get a jump on the homework I’d put off so I wouldn’t return to Ohio with any regret. Now as I stared at the stack of legal-sized papers on the table beside a note from my mom, regret was all I felt.
* * *
Guys, if you have any questions, just ask.
– Mom.
* * *
If I have any questions? How ’bout why? Why did you have this drafted?
Instead, I continued reading.
* * *
If at any time I should have an incurable injury, disease, or other illness certified to be a terminal condition by two (2) physicians who have personally examined me, one (1) of whom shall be my attending physician, and the physicians have determined that my death will occur whether or not life-sustaining procedures are utilized and where the application of life-sustaining procedures would serve only to artificially prolong the dying process, I direct that such procedures are to be withheld or withdrawn, including hydration and nutrition, and that I be permitted to die naturally with only the administration of medication or the performance of any medical procedure deemed necessary to provide me with comfort care and to alleviate pain.
* * *
Nope. Tears threatened to spill down my face, and I didn’t care. Why? She didn’t. She doesn’t want life-sustaining procedures? Who does that?
She’s given up.
I lowered my head, and all the losses and hurt I’d kept so carefully hidden erupted inside me.
I punched the table with my fist. It stung but not enough. Then I pounded the table until my knuckles bled and my hand was numb. But the pain was still there.
“Come on, Mom. I need you to fight.”
My cries went unheard. The truth was right in front of me.
* * *
2. If in spite of this declaration, I am comatose, incompetent, or otherwise mentally or physically incapable of communication, or otherwise unable to make treatment decisions for myself, I hereby designate my sister, Serena Ann Lafontisee, to make treatment decisions for me, in accordance with my Living Will Declaration. I have discussed my wishes concerning terminal care with this person, and I trust her judgment on my behalf.
3. In the absence of my ability to give directions regarding the use of life-sustaining procedures, it is my intention that this declaration shall be honored by my family and physician(s) and agent as the final expression of my legal right to refuse medical or surgical treatment and accept the consequences from this refusal. I understand the full import of this declaration, and I am emotionally and mentally competent to make this declaration.
4. If this declaration is to be carried out, I direct that before any life support systems are discontinued, all viable body organs that can be used as transplants in order to prolong the life of another or to replace the body part of another be removed and donated to the appropriate persons or agencies.
5. This declaration shall be in full effect until it is revoked.
* * *
The document was signed and notarized.
* * *
No. She wouldn’t do that. My mom wouldn’t have discussed her wishes concerning terminal care without telling us first. But she had. My aunt knew what she wanted. But in the likely event that my aunt, who lived in Paris, was absent, my mom wanted her family—her children—to honor her intentions against the use of life-sustaining procedures.
But when it came down to it, the child she expected to honor her wishes wasn’t Branson, Carson, or Jack. It was me. As the oldest, if even by a minute, my role was solidified. She expected me to tell the doctors to stop trying to save her life.
No. I won’t. I will not be the person who pulls the plug on my mother’s life. And it pissed me off that she thought I would. Or worse, that I could.
Doesn’t she know I would be taking two lives? Hers and mine? Doesn’t she care?
I hit my fist against the wall that separated the dining room from her bedroom. I hit the wall again, hoping I’d punch a hole into her room. But I didn’t, and there was no response from her. No surprise. My mom had enough painkillers in her bathroom to euthanize a horse. Maybe that was the way to do it. Just check the fuck out. She had, so why not me?
My cell phone buzzed in my jeans pocket. I quickly grabbed it and muted the volume. Jack was still sleeping; no reason to have my little brother wake up to this.
I glanced at my phone. A text from Hannah surfaced on the screen.
Where’d u go?
Home.
When I didn’t text back, another message appeared.
/> Wat happened 2 u?
What didn’t happen?
I thumbed the screen to my airline app and searched for an earlier flight. There wasn’t anything or anyone here for me, not anymore. I charged my credit card the difference, stuffed my books in my backpack, and texted Hannah.
Ever eat @ an airport?
A laughing emoticon appeared.
Good. Then it's a d8. Meet me @ hopkins international @ noon.
I ripped a sticky note from the counter and intended to let my mom know how fucked up it was to leave what amounted to her goodbye letter on the table. I grabbed a pen and stared at her directive to her physician. The hurt felt wider than the square-shaped paper. Besides, what would I say? Please don’t die? Start fighting? Don’t leave me?
I couldn’t swallow. The pain was too great. Maybe this was my penance. I couldn’t begin to count all the times I’d let my mom down and disappointed her. Or all the times she had been there for me. The scales weren’t nearly balanced.
I wiped my nose on the sleeve of my sweatshirt and wrote what she needed from me. Really the only thing I could give her.
* * *
Ma, I’ll do it.
* * *
I held the pen and stared at the words. It’s not enough. She’s done everything for me.
* * *
I won’t let you down. I promise. Love you, Aaron.
* * *
I pressed my hands against my eyes to stop the crying, but it didn’t work. Mom. Please. She filled a space in my heart that was as tender as it got and bruised just as easily. The ache of losing her went directly to that space, and I felt lost. Alone. It was why I’d hopped on a plane and came home. Being home was supposed to fill the void. When did that stop?
