The Best of Friends

by Berry, Lucinda

  Bryan lies at the top of our master bed with his arms casually folded behind his head. His eyes are glued to the TV screen hanging on the wall in front of him above our mahogany dresser. I’ve outgrown the dark wood and have been begging him to replace it for years. A bloody scene from The Walking Dead blares from the speakers. I hate the show—the zombies, the killing, being scared, all of it. Normally, I’d work on calming myself down, realizing how important it is to show an interest in the things he likes, but I can’t muster the strength.

  Tonight he hit my daughter.

  “Can you turn off the TV?” I ask. I don’t even say please. He ignores me and maintains his focus on the screen. “Bryan?”

  He turns his head slowly, like my presence has just registered. “Oh, hey, baby.” He pats the spot next to him on the bed. “Come sit next to me. I don’t want you to miss this.”

  I can’t take my eyes off his hands. Two hours ago they broke the skin on Luna’s face. I’m rooted to my spot in the bedroom doorway. He cocks his head to the side. “Come sit next to me,” he repeats himself, like I might not have heard him the first time.

  There has to be a line. That’s what my therapist says. Not the one he and I see together for couples therapy but my individual therapist, Beth. The one I see in secret, whose fees I pay for with the cash I take out in weekly increments as cashback from Target so Bryan doesn’t notice. She tells me that women leave abusive relationships when they’re ready and not a second before, and that it’s usually once some final line has been crossed.

  My line was pathetic—when he hit me in the face. I hated myself for it, but hating myself didn’t make it any less true. Whenever Beth asked me about my line in our sessions, I never once considered the possibility that it’d have anything to do with the kids. If she would’ve asked me the question when the kids were toddlers, it would’ve been a different story. Back then, I worried about Bryan losing his temper and flying off the handle when they were running around like tyrants and almost impossible to control. I was secretly glad he traveled so much during those early years, but I haven’t given any thought to him harming them in over a decade.

  “No.” I can’t believe I’m refusing. The words feel unreal coming out of my mouth. How many times has he told me not to defy him?

  Bryan sits straight up in the bed, his body a perfect ninety-degree angle. “What did you say?” He swings his legs over the bed in one swift movement before I can answer.

  He’s going to make me say it again. I can’t say it again. Yes, I can. I said it once. I can say it again.

  “No.” Not any louder, but I’ve told him no twice.

  He rises from the bed, and everything moves in slow motion as he steps toward me. Each step is methodical and deliberate. His impact on the wood floors reverberates in my head, making my insides cringe while I struggle to hold my body still. He thrives on my weakness. His eyes never waver from mine as he reaches me. I hold my breath as he enters my space. He’s too close. I fight the urge to push him away.

  “Don’t you ever do that again,” he hisses through gritted teeth. His chest inches from mine. “Do you understand?”

  I’m too scared to speak. Nod. Do something. Can’t move.

  He points to the bedroom door behind me. “Get out of here. I can’t stand to look at you.” The room tilts. Spins.

  “Go!”

  His scream shocks me into my body, and I bolt for the door, fumbling with the handle as he looms behind me. I stumble into the hallway like I’m drunk, and he slams the door shut. I fall into a heap in front of our door, shoving my fist in my mouth to stifle my cries. I never even got to say it wasn’t okay—that he can’t hit the kids. Did I get out words? Anything?

  Fear brings me to my feet. I saw the look that came over him when his backhand connected with Luna’s face, and it wasn’t one of instant guilt and regret. A fire was lit. There was a hunger. Some kind of thirst. Luna didn’t see it because she was too stunned to process anything, but my eyes were frozen on his while I held her against me and slowly backed us away from him. It wasn’t until she lifted her face and he saw the blood that he showed an ounce of remorse. It might not have even been that. He could’ve just been worried he was going to get in trouble. It’s hard to lie your way out of a busted lip.

  I scurry to the other side of the house and down the hallway to Luna’s room. I knock timidly at the door. I wait a few moments for her to answer and then knock again. Louder this time.

  “Luna, please, open up. It’s your mom,” I whisper-shout. She probably has earbuds in. I wiggle the doorknob. Normally, I don’t go into my kids’ bedrooms without asking or being invited, but there’s nothing normal about this. The door is locked. “Please, honey, let me in. I don’t want to fight. I need to sleep with you.”

  Her feet patter across the wooden floor as she moves through the room. She opens the door a few inches like she hasn’t decided whether she’s going to allow me in, but she takes one look at me and pulls the door open wide. “Mom, what’s wrong?” Her eyes cloud with worry and concern. “Did he hit you too?”

  It’s the too that breaks me, and sobs erupt from somewhere deep inside. Luna grabs me and pulls me into her room, quickly shutting the door behind us. She wraps her arms around me and rubs my back, holding me while I cry like I’ve done for her so many times in the past. “It’s okay, Mom.”

  “No, it’s not, Luna. Your dad hit you. That’s not okay. None of this is okay.” I shake my head. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t protect you. I didn’t know he’d do something like that. I swear I didn’t.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” She swallows her feelings for the sake of mine. “What happened in there?”

  I take a seat on her bed. Fatigue seeps its way into me. “After you left the bathroom, I went into our bedroom to tell your dad to leave. Hitting you is unacceptable, and he needs to know that.” I swallow hard. “I don’t know what I expected, but it totally shocked me to find him watching TV and acting like everything was fine. I was so stunned that I didn’t say anything, and he took it as a sign that I’d gotten over what he’d done to you.” Because that’s what I’ve done for years. Let the argument or fight disappear into the air as if it never happened. I play along because nothing good comes from confronting him. I learned that back in the years when I still believed he could change. I shouldn’t be having this conversation with my daughter, but I’m left with no choice. “He asked me to come sit by him, and I said no. Then he made me get out of the room.”

  “And you just left?” Disappointment joins the concern in her voice.

  I can’t give her answers that make sense. I don’t know how he can move my body without laying a finger on it. How his physical presence becomes so large I can’t see around it and everything inside me shrinks to nothing. How it happens so fast that I don’t even know when I’ve fallen underneath his spell—the one that makes me fall in line with him.

  “I wasn’t always like this.” I burst into tears again. She doesn’t know a mom who existed before the fear, but I used to be strong. There were days when I was fierce. I want to explain this to her. Give her a picture of someone besides this mess. But I can’t. I lost that girl a long time ago, and I don’t know how to find her.

  TWENTY-THREE

  KENDRA

  I grip the shopping cart and stare down at the apples like I’m performing a careful inspection before I buy them. The reds swerve in front of my tear-filled eyes.

  Focus. I can do this. I’ve gone grocery shopping hundreds of times. Probably thousands. Besides, I came super early so there wouldn’t be many people shopping. I reach for a prepackaged bag of apples and toss it in my cart. Move on to the bananas. Panic claws at my chest while the other customers’ eyes bore holes into my back.

  And then I remember.

  I’m in Carlsberg. Nobody knows me outside of our insular suburban community, so I won’t be recognized. Most of these people have probably seen my picture on the news and plastered on social media, b
ut I look nothing like those pictures at the moment.

  The bananas are too ripe, so I move on to the cheese. Sawyer’s hated cheese since he was two. He said it smelled like puke. I quickly grab the provolone slices for Paul’s lunch and move along before the memories overwhelm me.

  Why am I doing this? I don’t want to be here.

  Paul wants me to close on the Fords’ house next week. He insists it has to be me since I’m the only one who can deal with Mr. Ford. He’s a cranky old billionaire who has more money than he could spend in two lifetimes, but he’s one of the most miserable people I’ve ever met. The other was Estella Viore. She wanted to buy an island.

  I can’t do this. What was I thinking?

  The thing nobody tells you about grief is that time moves on. Or my personal favorite that nobody stops telling you—time heals all wounds. As if I want time to go anywhere. I want the world to stop. For every person to quit moving around me. For the screens to quit flashing and the zombies to stop walking so slowly down the streets that they almost get hit by cars. I don’t want the cars to drive or the buses to come, because every minute feels like I’m leaving Sawyer behind and living the life he was supposed to have.

  It’s swirling. It’s coming. Not here.

  I release my cart, turn on my heels, and race for the sliding glass doors at the front of the store. I burst through them into the sunlight and try not to sprint when I hit the blacktop parking lot.

  Where’s my car?

  I twirl in circles as I press the fob.

  All I hear is the loud buzz in my ears. The rest of the sound in the world is turned off.

  Press again and again.

  Brake lights flashing.

  There.

  I hurry toward it, but the animal sounds are forcing their way out. My head swirls. Stomach heaves. I fumble with the handle. The world thrums around me as I slam the door. I can’t breathe. Where’s the air?

  The empty halls reverberate the sound of my shoes as I make a beeline for the office. The high school looks nothing like it did when I roamed the halls as head cheerleader and homecoming queen so many years ago. They’re on their fourth remodel, and all the traditional brick is gone. They’ve replaced it with a new modern and sleek design. The school secretary, Mrs. Newton, called me on my way home from my breakdown at the grocery store to come get Reese because the janitor caught him vaping in the bathroom before first period. I’m glad it was only vaping and he didn’t get busted with anything else. Paul and I still haven’t talked to Reese about selling drugs at school. Neither of us has brought it up again, like we somehow agreed to mutual denial on the topic, but it was the first thing that popped into my mind when Mrs. Newton called me about the incident. He was probably waiting to sell somebody pills or some other drug the teenagers are doing that I don’t know about.

  The principal and vice principal are at a conference in San Diego until tomorrow. Their assistants suspended Reese until they get back, even though they didn’t want to. They kept stressing how they wished they didn’t have to do it because of everything going on, but they couldn’t go against school policy. Pine Grove has a certain image to maintain, and they don’t take lightly to anyone tarnishing their reputation. Vaping in bathrooms is for kids in public schools.

  I whip open the office doors and immediately spot Reese in the farthest corner. His entire body is curled in the chair like he’s trying to hide from me or anyone else who might walk by and spot him through the shiny glass windows. I hope the entire school sees him. Maybe it’ll shame him into never doing it again.

  “Hello, Kendra,” Mrs. Newton says with a forced smile from behind her U-shaped desk in the center of the room. Her salt-and-pepper hair is cropped short, and fifty extra pounds hang on her frame, but I recognize her wide-set champagne-colored eyes and flat, freckled face from the days when she was Ms. Raph. She didn’t like me then, and she likes me even less now.

  I flash her my most apologetic smile and reach for the three-ring binder to sign Reese out. I quickly scribble our names in their designated spots. “So Dr. Charles will be emailing me, or should I expect a call?”

  “Probably both.” The smile has disappeared from her face. She looks at me like I was the one vaping in the bathroom.

  I turn around and shoot Reese a serious glare, hoping he heard what she said. This isn’t the first time Reese has gotten into trouble, but everything else he did was annoying and immature stuff like belching loudly in someone’s ear during a test or hanging smelly socks outside of his best friend’s locker. I motion for him to get up before turning back to Mrs. Newton.

  “I’m sorry about all this,” I say like she has any way to save our reputation. She nods with her best fake understanding as I hurry Reese outside, and we move through the parking lot as fast as we can. Neither of us speaks until we get in the car.

  “How could you be so stupid?” I snap as soon as we pull out of the school parking lot and head toward the boulevard. Fury pounds my forehead.

  He slinks down in his seat. “Sorry, Mom. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “No, you weren’t thinking—you weren’t thinking at all! You were only worrying about yourself.” I smack the steering wheel. “Everybody’s already talking about us, and now you’ve just added all kinds of fuel to the fire. Can you imagine the things they’ll say?”

  “That’s what you’re worried about?” His eyes ignite with anger. “What people are going to think about us?” Disgust twists his face. “I might be dumb, but you make me sick.”

  Anger surges through me. I can’t look at him. I’m dangerously close to the edge. My hands shake on the wheel. I have to find a way to calm down. Images swerve in front of me as I drive.

  Reese fumes in the passenger seat. His school uniform is already untucked, and the shorts will be off within minutes of our arrival at home. His white Converse rest on the dashboard in defiance. I don’t give him the satisfaction of asking him to take them down. He stares straight ahead, eyes in hostile slits.

  “You are making a difficult situation worse,” I say after a few minutes pass.

  “Why are you crying?” Irritation fills his tone.

  I wipe the tears off my cheeks; I hadn’t realized I was crying. I hate that I cry when I’m angry. “Things are pretty tough right now, Reese, or haven’t you noticed?” I snap.

  “Yeah, I bet it’s really hard losing the good son and getting stuck with the bad one. That must be really difficult for you.”

  All the air is sucked out of the car.

  It takes me a second to find my voice.

  “How could you say something like that?”

  “You know it’s the truth. Everyone does.” His voice is sad, resigned.

  “Don’t you say that!” I unleash a scream. “Don’t you ever say that again!”

  “Mom, pull over! You’re going into the other lane!” Reese shrieks.

  My hands grip the wheel as I shake. I can’t control the trembling in my body any more than I can control the swirl of emotions whipping through me.

  “Mom!” He tugs on my arm. “You’re too upset to drive.”

  I signal right and turn into the Ralphs parking lot. My hands grip the wheel even after the car is parked. Anger and hurt throttle me. There’s no telling where the hurt ends and the anger begins.

  “God, you almost got us killed,” Reese says. “You should let me drive.”

  “I’m not going to let you drive. You don’t even have a license.”

  “Well, let’s get an Uber home, then, because I’m not driving with you when you’re acting all crazy.”

  “I’m not acting crazy,” I say, but the hysteria still lines my voice. I take a deep breath, slowly releasing my hold on the wheel. “We’re not going to get an Uber either.” I put my hands in my lap.

  “What are we going to do?”

  “We’re going to sit and take a minute to get ourselves together.” My head pounds in rhythm with my heart.

  “I’m together.”

&
nbsp; I rub my temples. “Okay, so I’m not, and I need some time.” The silence only lasts for a few beats before Reese starts messing with the radio and trying to get his phone to play through the speakers. I place my hand on top of his to stop him. His music annoys me. It’s not even music—just mostly made-up words and ridiculous sounds. My touch softens him.

  “I’m sorry that I always screw up, Mom,” he says.

  “You don’t always screw up.”

  He nods. “It’s okay. I know I do. I just—”

  I put my hand up to his lips to stop him from talking. “Please, Reese. Stop.” I fumble with his seat belt, releasing him from its hold. “Just come here.” I pull him against my chest and circle my arms around him. He clings to me and starts crying. The parking brake digs into my ribs, but I ignore it. “I’m the one who is sorry,” I whisper into the top of his head while he cries. “I’m so sorry.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  DANI

  My hand trembles on the spoon as I stir the creamer into my coffee and wait for the rest of the house to wake up. I’ve been up all night. I lay still as a statue next to Luna until Caleb’s nightly screams sent me to his bedroom. I was terrified Bryan would come out while I calmed him down, but he never did. Luna slept through it too.

  My eyes sting like they’ve been rubbed with sandpaper. Before Luna fell asleep last night, I told her to stay in her room this morning until Bryan leaves for work. I said it like I have some master plan in place for us as soon as he’s gone, but I’m as clueless this morning as I was last night. What am I going to do if he goes into her bedroom and tries to talk to her? Do I try to stop him? That’s never worked. What if he doesn’t go to his office? It’s already past nine. Anxiety grips my chest.

  How am I supposed to kick him out of the house he pays for? That’s what he’ll say. It’s what he’s said before. My head swirls with possibilities. None of them good. This is why I’ve been too scared to leave. Nobody ever talks about the logistics of leaving, like getting out of an abusive relationship is simply working up the courage to go. But I have to find a way out for Luna. She’ll never speak to me again if I stay. Memories from last night pummel their way into my consciousness.