by Lily Jenkins
I turn toward the town. I want to go back. I want to take Erica in my arms and kiss her and tell her everything’s going to be all right.
But it’s not going to be all right. I’m a ticking time bomb, and ignoring that fact isn’t going to help anyone. I should never have gotten involved with her in the first place. Wasn’t that why I came here? To save everyone from myself?
My hands are back on my head, and I start to get a terrible headache from the stress. I start moaning. Making sound feels good, even if it hurts my throat, and soon the moan turns into a cry of pain. I scream out into the harbor, and the thunder crashes back in response. There are a few tourists walking by along the pier. A man puts his arm around his wife and moves her along, giving me a dirty look. I give him a sneer and he quickens his pace.
I’m such a fucking idiot, I think. If I had any guts, I’d jump into this water and end it all now. But I’m a coward. I can’t face things. I run from them.
After about twenty minutes of mindless pacing along the pier, I realize that I was probably supposed to be back at work by now.
“Fuck,” I mutter. I can’t face the shop. I can’t pretend everything is okay and go on working the rest of the day. I can’t have Levi ask what’s wrong, because I won’t tell him and having him be concerned will only make it worse. I just want to get away. I want it all to end.
I manage to take out my phone. I open the address book. There are only three names. Hers is one of them, and seeing it causes pain to cut through my chest like a knife. I select Levi’s name, and then click to dial. He picks up after a moment.
“Hey, man,” he says. “What’s up?”
I squint my eyes shut and press my fist into my forehead. “I can’t—I can’t make it back today.”
There’s a moment of silence. Then he asks, his voice serious, “Everything okay, dude?”
I can’t think straight. I can’t even think up a lie. “I just, I just can’t go back to work today.”
Levi is obviously concerned. “No problem, man. You need me to call somebody? You going to be all right?”
I’m nodding before I can talk. “Yeah.” The word escapes and it sounds broken and choked. “Yeah. I gotta go.”
I hang up before he can say anything else. The pain is beating down on me now. It’s unbearable. I feel like my body is being crushed under a rock. Then I think of Erica, and the pressure becomes ten times worse.
I sink down onto the boards of the pier and can’t get up for a few minutes. I don’t want to move. I don’t ever want to move again. It’s only the thought of Erica finding me here that gets me struggling back to my feet again.
I just want to get out of this town. I just want to get away and never come back. I don’t want to see anyone here again. I don’t want to—I can’t—she—
I start stumbling along the pier in the direction of Levi’s house. My bike is there. My bike is there, and I can get away once I reach my bike. This is my mantra as I make it through the gray blocks back to his house. The world feels cold and empty, and my mind is in a black place. When I see that Levi isn’t at home, I laugh. It’s not a happy laugh. It’s the kind of pained laugh that someone makes when they see how fucking bad the universe is. It’s laughing at the chaos, at the nothingness. At your insignificance. The laugh scares me a little, and I make my way into the house. It’s only when I’m inside, dripping onto the floor, that I realize I must have been walking through the rain.
That’s funny, I think. I didn’t even feel it.
But looking down, I see that my body is wet and shivering. I take in the fact but it doesn’t mean anything to me. I make it through the house and grab the ring of keys off the kitchen table. I don’t stop, leaving the back door open and heading to the storage shed with the bikes, with my bike.
My bike is the only one in the shed at the moment. The little structure smells like moist dirt and motor oil. There’s a red toolbox on the ground, with the lid open, and there’s a table with random parts spread across it. I think of Levi back here, working, alone. Levi who can’t get a date, and I think of how shitty the world is. I grab my bike by the handlebars and start to wheel it out of the shed. I’m shaking from the cold, and it’s starting to rain harder. As I wheel out the bike, the back wheel bumps against a rock and I lose my grip on it. The motorcycle slides sideways, the tires bumping against me, and falls to the ground with a dull clank.
I breathe out through my nose and lean down to pick it up. Except that I’ve underestimated its weight, and only end up giving it a little tug before dropping it to the ground again. This time part of the exhaust pipe hits me on the leg, on my shin, and it fucking hurts. I lift up my leg to hold the spot with my hand, and the pain is like a spark that lights the fuse of my anger.
I look down at the bike and my vision turns red with rage. I kick the bike, my boot thudding into it. This hurts me more than I have damaged the bike, and this fact makes me even madder. I scream out, upset with everything and just wanting to hurt something. I kick the fucking bike again.
It barely budges, and I get so fucking furious that my eyes dart to the toolbox in the shed. I spot a wrench and immediately snatch it up. “Fucking bike!” I scream, and swing the wrench toward the metal, like I’m chopping wood with an axe. There’s a satisfying clang, and a solid dent when I pull the wrench away. This feels good, and I hit it again. And again.
When the wrench isn’t doing enough, I look back in the shed. I want to find a hammer, but instead I notice more tools hanging in the back.
There, leaning against the lawnmower, is a sledgehammer. I don’t even know why Levi would have this. If he’s like most guys, he has it because it’s cool to have tools, even if you have no use for them. I grab the sledgehammer by the handle, and its weight feels fucking nice in my hands. I take it outside and stand before the bike, staring down at it. It’s sad and dented in the rain.
The sight of its weakness fuels my anger again. I lift up the hammer far behind my shoulders, and then bring it down with a yell. It smashes into the bike, shattering the front axle. I laugh like I’m winning a battle, and lift up the hammer again. And again. And again.
I kind of lose control.
When I come back to myself, the water is streaming off my hair into my face. My muscles feel torn from the exertion, especially those in my chest. I look down and see I’m standing over a bunch of metal parts sinking into the mud. It’s not even a bike anymore. It’s nothing but junk.
“Fuck,” I say, realizing what I’ve done.
I drop to my knees, and the pain inside feels like it’s tearing me apart. I pick up a metal chunk and hold it in my hands, knowing I can never fix it.
I’ve broken it. I’ve broken everything.
He doesn’t call. I keep looking at my phone, expecting him to call.
I’m back home. Honestly, I don’t even remember how I made it back here. Everything from the time Adam walked away until now is all in a daze.
Gone? Could he really be gone? I had wondered what would happen if it ended, but I always thought there’d be more time. This is out of nowhere. It—
It reminds me of losing Conner.
I can’t breathe. It feels like my heart is being squeezed. I clutch my sides and bend over, struggling to gain control of myself. But I can’t. All I keep thinking is that this is my fault. That this is just like with Conner, and it’s all my fault.
Why did I say anything?
But—But—he said I wasn’t his girlfriend. I wasn’t wrong. He should have cared.
But he didn’t. He said to forget him.
My head feels light and I squeeze my eyes shut. The whole room feels terribly far away for a moment, as if I’m floating past myself. Then it’s like I’m observing myself, detached, and I feel nothing. This scares me; I can feel that it scares me, but I also feel nothing.
This was how it was after Conner died. This was how it was when I couldn’t cry. Except this is worse. Because I’m having trouble feeling anything at all.
I sit up on the edge of my bed, my face stone and my body rigid. Thoughts pass through my head, cold and logical.
He left. Adam has left. There’s nothing for me now.
I picture my mother. My father. Nicole.
No one would miss me.
No one would—
Then I think of Adam again, his face, his touch, and my resistance falls away so fast I feel like I’m in an elevator that has entered free fall. All at once my emotions are back, and I am so overwhelmed with them that I feel nauseous. I stumble to my feet and throw open my door, rushing to the bathroom. I barely have time to lift the toilet lid before I’m sick, my body heaving. It feels terrible. A cold sweat erupts on my arms and face, and my muscles are tense but tired. My stomach grumbles, and I’m sick again.
It’s a good twenty minutes before I feel stable enough to stand and lean against the bathroom sink. I wash my face and brush my teeth. I look awful. My hair’s a mess, but what is more noticeable is the hollow way my eyes look. Wide and empty. It doesn’t even look like me.
I leave the bathroom and go downstairs to the kitchen. Suddenly I’m overwhelmed with hunger. I eat three of my mom’s Pop-Tarts and wash them down with Pepto-Bismol. My stomach is still upset, but I manage to keep these down. I’m still not able to think clearly. I stand in the kitchen a moment, wondering what to do now—what to do? what to do?—when my eyes land on the cabinet that holds Pete’s cat food.
It gives me something to do.
I stumble into the garage and flick on the light. Surprise, surprise: Pete is hiding out. The garage is beginning to smell, and I know I only have so much more time to try to win Pete over before I have to rehome him.
No. I will win him over. He’s a cat. How hard can it be? He just needs to trust me.
I walk into the center of the garage and set down the food dish. “Here you go, Pete,” I say, and at first it’s quiet, like I’m alone in the garage. I’m used to this though. I wait.
A moment later there’s a flutter of movement in the shadows. Then Pete sticks his face out. Two green eyes watch me, then he sticks out a foot. His white paw is so tiny and delicate, and I wonder how I have been so terrified of this creature for so long? He looks so harmless. He steps out of the shadows and creeps up toward me. He still doesn’t trust me, but at least he seems to be getting used to me, because he walks right up to the food dish and sticks his nose into it. Then there’s a good long period of chewing, occasionally lifting up his head to gaze at me.
“Hi, Pete,” I say softly. He stills for a minute at my voice, and his eyes close slightly. Then he dips his head down again to eat, and I continue. “I know you don’t like me yet, but there’s no reason not to. I’m here to help you. I—I don’t have a lot of friends, Pete. Nicole and I had a fight. You remember Nicole?” No reaction. “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter. You probably won’t be seeing her again. And Adam.” My voice chokes, and I have to fight back the emotions before I can continue. “He won’t be here either. He said, he said—”
But I can’t go on. Tears are streaming down my cheeks, and I just feel so alone in the world. I reach out without thinking and put my hand on Pete’s back. He freezes, but he doesn’t scamper away. I take this as my cue, and run my hand down the length of his body. When I get near his tail, his rear end lifts in the air. I laugh a little. Was it this easy? Was I supposed to just pet him? I take my hand and set it down again right below his neck, and stroke him one more time, and again he seems to be enjoying it. When I place my hand on his back a third time, I say, “I love you, Pete.”
Maybe it was the sound of my voice. Maybe Pete forgot just who was touching him. Because as soon as I say this, Pete turns his gaze on me with a look of absolute ferocity. I understand at once why people in the Middle Ages thought cats were the tools of Satan. My hand is barely lifting up off of him, trying to retreat, when he snaps his paw out and scratches me, hard. His sharp nails land on the back of my hand, right above the wrist, and I cry out and try to pull away. He’s too quick for me though, and before I can get away, he’s jumping at me, digging both front claws into my forearm and slashing away.
“Ow!” I scream, and shuffle backward as fast as I can. “Bad cat!” I scream. He stands back, staring at me with his demonic gaze. I’m sure he’s thinking about attacking again. I can see it in his eyes as clearly as if he could talk. “Shoo!” I yell, and stamp my foot on the floor between us. “Shoo!” This breaks his nerve, and he runs so fast he practically flies to his hiding spot behind the boxes. My breath is coming out in heavy bursts, and I look down at my arm.
There are long gashes on my forearm, and little swipes on my hand that are already being obscured with blood. It stings, and the blood starts to drip from the long gashes too. I stand up, wobbly, and make my way into the house. I leave a trail of blood drops on my way to the upstairs bathroom, where I try to dig out the bandages and rubbing alcohol with my one good hand. The entire time I’m muttering curses to myself: “Damn cat. Goddamn it, Pete! How could you—ow!”
I turn on the faucet and run my wounds under the water to wash away the blood. He didn’t bite me, though. Adam told me to watch out for that, as apparently cat bites can get infected easily. If he bit me, I’d have to go to the doctor. I turn off the water and dab my arm dry with a piece of gauze. Then I take out the cotton balls and start dabbing the cuts with alcohol. The stinging makes me grit my teeth, and by the time I’m applying the antiseptic, I’m crying again.
It’s a different kind of crying now. I’m learning that there’s a broad spectrum of tears, like there’s a variety of laughter. These are tears of exhausted frustration. I just can’t take it anymore, trying to help Pete and trying to be a good friend and a good daughter; I can’t take the trying when all I do is fail. I wrap my arm with a bandage and wrap a smaller set of bandages on my hand. I look down at myself, and I have a flashback to the bandages I wore after the accident. I was lucky, they said. I only had minor, superficial cuts from the glass. Nothing was broken. I was sore all over for a week, not that I noticed much with everything else going on, but otherwise, I was fine. Physically fine. Which, naturally, only added to my guilt.
Conner was so far from fine that he had to have a closed casket at his funeral.
I realize I’m standing in the bathroom, staring at the first aid kit, zoning out. I look at the kit again, seeing it now, and don’t bother to put it away. I just turn off the light and close the door.
I’m tired, so I go to my room and shut the door. I fall onto my bed and press my face down in the pillow with my eyes open. My arm stings. My eyes feel raw from tears. But mostly I feel like I don’t know what to do with myself. I feel lost. I feel so terribly lost.
It’s some time later—I don’t know, I’ve lost track of time in the swamp of my thoughts—when I hear a knock at my door. When I don’t answer, I hear my dad’s voice calling to me.
“Erica? You in there?” His voice is disgustingly cheerful. It’s the verbal equivalent of bright sunlight when you’re hung over.
I test sitting up and groan, then fall back to the bed. For some reason, he takes this as an invitation to enter.
I hear the door open but don’t look up.
“Honey,” he says, and sits down on the edge of the bed. “Guess what I found?” I don’t respond. He must really want me to respond, because instead of just telling me, he nudges me with the corner of an envelope, and asks again, “Have you seen this?”
I turn over, looking up at him with my red eyes. He gives a little start at my expression, and then tries to ignore it. He smiles.
“It’s for you,” he says, and holds out a padded envelope. When I don’t reach for it, he puts it in my hands, and notices my bandages for the first time. “What happened?” he asks.
I sit up fully, my back propped up against my pillows. Who does he think he is? He’s ignored me for almost a year, and now because some letter comes in the mail, he thinks he can be my best friend? I take the envelope.
“It was mixed in with the rest of the mail and I didn’t notice until I got to work.”
I look at him briefly. I didn’t know he’d started opening the mail at work. Is he that uncomfortable spending time at home?
I reopen the envelope and a bunch of stuff falls into my lap. A colorful brochure with obnoxiously happy college students, sitting on a grassy field. I sneer and open it, and look at the terribly fake photos of students engaged in stereotypical activities: a girl with lab glasses on peering into a test tube; a preppy-looking guy smiling with a stack of books in the library; two girls, both with perfect teeth and coordinating outfits, carrying trays filled with desserts in a school cafeteria. I set the pamphlet down and pick up the letter. It’s on thick card stock, with an embossed logo and a real-looking signature from the dean of students.
I glance at it, not really seeing the words.
“It’s a welcome reception,” my dad tells me, and takes the letter from my hands. He starts to point at parts. “And parents are welcome to attend. It gives you a chance to look at the campus before school actually starts, meet a few of your classmates, check out the dorms. It sounds like a lot of fun.”
I feel nothing.
“I noticed that the RSVP date was this weekend, so I went ahead and called to reserve your spot.”
My eyes widen slightly. “What?”
“I figured we could go together. A father-daughter trip, like we used to do.”
I shake my head. “I can’t go.”
“Sure you can,” he says. “I even booked us a hotel. That way, if the dorm room they give you isn’t that great, you can stay with me nearby. We can make a weekend of it. See a show, visit Central Park. See where you’ll be living your new life.”
My breath starts to come in shorter and shorter, and I have trouble getting enough air. The room feels so small. I want to push my dad away, he’s so close. “I can’t go,” I repeat, my words a gasp. “I—I—”
