by Julie Frayn
“Reese, what?”
“Reese. Reese. I…” She turned to look at the woman, sudden realization and anguish twisting in her guts. “I don’t know.” She clenched her eyes shut and wept.
Chapter 38
August sat in a dim room, the same police woman from the subway station by her side. Constable Minty, another cop had called her. Minty. Like Reese’s freshly brushed teeth. Like his tongue in her mouth.
The EMTs who had examined her found no physical injury. They told the constable, just Minty to them, they thought she may be in shock. Said it right over her head like she wasn’t even there, like she couldn’t hear them. Minty took her to a hospital – just in case. Maybe Amber was there too, being taken care of by kind nurses, fed, washed, bandaged. She should have run up and down the halls screaming Amber’s name. But she had no voice, no will to run.
The doctor agreed with the EMTs. No physical injury. Just emotional trauma. Just. Nothing to do but let time heal her. Then Minty, who didn’t appear interested in leaving her side, brought her back to the precinct. To this dim room.
Was this station close to the ministry? Was Guy in a jail cell somewhere in the building? She should run up and down these halls screaming his name, but she just couldn’t make it happen. Still no voice. Still no will.
Minty pulled a chair close to August and sat facing her, Minty’s wide rear spilling over the sides of the seat. She ran her hands over her dark hair, pulled tight and smooth into a high ponytail, then took August’s hands in hers.
“Hon, we called your parents. They’re driving in to get you tonight. We told them what we could, but we don’t know very much. Do you think you’re ready to talk about it?” Minty raised her over-plucked eyebrows and nodded at August like an idiot.
She just stared. Nope. Not ready to talk.
Minty sighed. “All right then. We told them you’re okay.”
Wrong.
“And that a boy you knew died.”
Right.
“That he jumped.” Minty squeezed her hands. “August, it wasn’t your fault.”
Wrong again. It was all her fault. She’d held on for dear life to some childish romantic notion that they were meant to be together. That she would save him, cleanse his damaged soul, fill his empty heart, teach him how to love and how to be loved. But in the end, all she gave him was death. Maybe he’d have been better off if they’d never met. Maybe he wasn’t ready to be fixed. Maybe he was doomed from the start.
Through all of her self-accusatory reflections, her regretful confessions, through every silent, self-loathing thought, Minty just kept on babbling. Grief counseling, support groups, coping skills, talk her feelings out. Shut the fuck up.
She didn’t know how long she’d sat in that room because time ceased to matter. She hadn’t spoken since she’d given Minty Reese’s name in the subway station. Since she realized how much she still didn’t know. There was no reason left to speak, no meaning in mere words.
Then her parents burst into the room.
Her mother kept repeating her name, crying, wailing. So relieved. So sorry. So happy.
Happy? Happy?
Apologies spewed forth – someone to watch her sisters, construction on the highway, seven hours.
Seven hours. She’d already lived more than seven hours without him.
Her mother hugged her, touched her, kissed her hair, her cheeks, her forehead. When one of those kisses came near her lips, August turned away. Those weren’t for her mother. Those weren’t for anyone else.
Minty rewound the non-stop commentary and played it again, chronicling what the police thought they knew, repeating what they’d already told her parents on the phone. She couldn’t bear to listen to it all over again. She shut it out, only the words that filled her with overwhelming sorrow seeping through. Train. Reese. Jump. Dead.... Suicide.
“Who is Reese?” her father asked Minty.
Minty didn’t know. Nobody knew. She wouldn’t tell them. She wouldn’t say anything.
Chapter 39
August lay in her bed with her patchwork quilt drawn up to her nose. She stared at the ceiling, fixated on a section of the stucco that over the last several days had morphed into Reese’s profile.
A week back at home. A week without him. A week without speaking one word. A week in bed, exhausted by grief, paralyzed by guilt. Seven interminable days.
Jack’s exuberant morning bark came in through the open window. ‘Eff you, rooster. Eff you, hens. Eff you, world.’ A smile surprised her. She wiped it right off her face.
Was she allowed to smile? Would any form of happiness ever be okay again?
June’s tomboy footsteps stomped up the stairs and announced one of her many daily visits to August’s bedside. June and April gushed in every morning, bringing sweet, milky tea and cinnamon toast cut into four equal fingers. It went cold and untouched the first two days, but the only thing more unbearable than crushing heartache was persistent hunger. So she gave in on day three and ate a few bites.
On the third day, Sara came. August’s mother poked her head into the room and asked if her friend could come upstairs and visit. August just turned away, faced the wall, and pulled the quilt over her head.
That was the day she found the letters – four letters tucked beneath her pillow. She read them under the blanket. Read them several times. When her mother came into the room after that, she looked different. Not like her mother at all, but just Caraleen. A rebellious girl. A woman in love. An imperfect person. Like her.
By day four August allowed herself a bite of lunch and a taste of dinner. Chicken and biscuits were familiar bliss, home sweet home in a bowl. She ate every bite and sopped up her mother’s perfect gravy with the last bit of fluffy dough.
That was the day the reporter from the city called to ask about Reese. She refused to speak to him too. She’d found her appetite, but there were still no words.
For the two days that followed she wanted to speak, to reconnect with her family, with her world. Would speaking undermine her grief? Belittle the crushing reality of Reese’s death? She had so much to tell, but could find nothing to say.
On this morning, this seventh day, April and June threw open the bedroom door and rattled her breakfast dishes onto the nightstand. June jumped up and landed, butt heavy, onto the mattress beside her.
With most of her face hidden under the blanket, she smiled again. This time she let it stick around.
June stared at her. “Why did you go away? Where did you go? Are you ever going to talk to me again?” June asked her the same questions every day.
“June, leave her alone.” April played mother hen to her little sister like yesterday and the day before. “She’ll talk when she wants to. Let her eat breakfast in peace.”
But June was undeterred. “Mom says you’re sad. We have to give you time to get happy again.” She stared at August and sighed a dramatic June sigh. “I thought you were mad at me,” she whined.
April rolled her eyes. “She’s not mad at you. It’s not about you at all.”
When did April get so grown up?
“Well then, why are you sad? Don’t you love us anymore?”
“Of course I do,” August mumbled from under the blanket. She started at the sound of her own voice, then peered from June to April and back again. She was still grieving. Still not ready to face her life. But speaking hadn’t changed that. She inched the quilt away from her face and allowed them to see a little closed-mouth smile.
June sprang on top of her and hugged her, planting a sloppy kiss on her cheek. “I knew you did!”
April clapped, her face beaming, then ran to the top of the stairs. “Mom! Come quick! August is back!”
Her mother’s footsteps echoed up the stairwell along with her nearing voice. “Of course she’s back, silly. She got here a week ago!” She came into the room, a laundry basket balanced on one hip.
June clamored off August. She pushed herself up and sat with her back against
the headboard. “Hey, Mom.”
“Oh.” Caraleen’s eyes filled with tears. “You’re back.” The basket dropped to the floor, clean laundry spilled out. She sat on the edge of the bed.
August leaned into her mother and accepted a comforting embrace. Uncontrollable sobs shook August’s body.
Her mother rocked her and cooed sympathetic nothings in her ear while June leaned against her back and patted her shoulder. They let her cry until she stopped.
*****
Like a heart transplant patient, her recovery started with baby steps. Those first days were filled with unbearable pain that she was certain would never cease. Then one small improvement led to big strides. And then leaps and bounds. She would never be the same again. The scars were permanent. But each day the pain lessened, each night brought more peace. Each morning was brighter than the last.
She resumed her old life bit by bit, egg by egg, pig by pig, slop pail by slop pail. The chores kept her body occupied and her mind focused, if only for a few hours, on something other than Reese. She smelled him on every breeze, saw him in every face, heard him say he loved her every moment of every day.
After a couple of weeks she enjoyed her chores, looked forward to them. Even the pig stink. This was her reality and she had missed it.
Every day spent at home allowed one more emotional bandage to be ripped off. Another wound healed.
Her parents hadn’t pushed her for details, hadn’t asked any tough questions. The final healing salve that remained was honesty. It was time they knew.
She sat with her mother and father at the kitchen table after her sisters were tucked into bed, and started to tell her tale.
Her parents sat right next to each other. From their movements she knew that under the table they were holding hands. One squeeze meant one thing, two meant something else, tickling fingers inside the other’s palm meant another thing entirely. She’d never cracked their code but they did it all the time, holding entire silent conversations, everyone else in the room ignorant of their private communications.
She kept to simple facts of her first day and night away from home. When she mentioned gunfire, they both stiffened.
“Why didn’t you call us?” Her mother’s voice had raised an octave above normal. “Why did you stay there?”
“I was scared, for sure. But I was too mad at you, mad enough not to call.”Tears welled up in her mother’s eyes. “I’m sorry I hit you, you know that, right?”
“I know, Mom. But it’s more than that. You never let me do anything the girls my age get to do. That, and I was so sick of chores and pigs and eggs and shit and mud. That first night, I wanted to prove I could handle it, that I wasn’t a child. Prove it to you. And to myself.”
Her father pushed his chair back, the metal legs screeching against the linoleum. He retrieved two bottles from the cupboard over the fridge and poured Caraleen a glass of wine, then himself three fingers of his favorite – neat bourbon. He leaned back in his chair, swallowed a generous swig and breathed a heavy sigh.
“Sweetheart, we want to know everything, all the details. We do. But let’s cut to the chase.” He took another sip from his glass and then took Caraleen’s hand. “We need to know who Reese is. Why did he kill himself? And what did that have to do with you?”
The air between them was thick with Jim Beam. Memories of Reese with his arm cut and bloody and bourbon on his breath rushed at her. Her heart beat a heavy, unnatural rhythm in her ears and she couldn’t keep the tears in her eyes.
“Daddy, I can’t.” She pushed her chair away and stood, holding the edge of the table to steady herself. “Not tonight. Not yet.”
She bolted from the kitchen, ran up the stairs two at a time and threw herself onto her bed. Talking about Reese was more than her fragile emotions could handle that first night. She’d get there. They would have to be patient. She would reveal one truth at a time. An emotional strip tease.
Chapter 40
Caraleen watched August flee the kitchen. She should run after her daughter, try to comfort her. Coax out more information. Instead she picked up her wine glass and drank the remaining merlot in two long gulps, then poured another drink.
“Well, what do you think?” Don swirled the bourbon in his glass and stared at it before downing the rest.
“I think we’re in trouble. I think there’s going to be more to Reese than we want to know.”
“So let’s make her tell us. Everything.” He strummed the side of his glass with his fingertips. “Now.”
“Is that a good idea? I mean, I want to know. But I don’t at the same time. I need to know. But it scares the shit out of me.” She took another large swig of wine and turned to Don. “We have to let her tell it at her pace. I don’t want to rush her, don’t want to push her. What if I push her to leave again?” She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “I’d rather not know anything if there was a chance we’d lose her.”
The wine went down fast and Don refilled her glass, then poured more bourbon into his. She didn’t drink often and when she did it wasn’t very much. Her head spun, her legs heavy and warm with alcohol.
“Whatever did happen, it’s done.” She stared at the crimson liquid in her glass. A vision of a young boy, mangled and bloody under a subway car flashed through her mind. “Can’t change it. Can’t punish her for any of it, the very idea seems absurd. And it’s not like we haven’t made our own mistakes, didn’t do reckless things when we were young. Things that alienated my parents.”
Don slammed his glass down. Bourbon sloshed onto the table.
Caraleen jumped.
“Damn it, Caraleen. Not good enough. We need to know what the hell she’s done.”
“Don’t yell at me.” Her hands shook.
Don leaned back in his chair and ran both hands through his hair, exhaling loudly. “I’m sorry.” He shot-gunned the rest of his drink and filled his glass again.
She stared at him. “What the hell is the rush? She’s home. And I’ll do anything to keep her here.”
“All right, all right.” He covered her hand with his. “Let’s hear her out. When she’s ready.”
“And support her, try to understand. No lecturing, no yelling.”
“I said I’m sorry. I don’t yell very often.”
“I was talking to myself.”
Chapter 41
After a restless night’s sleep, August woke before the rooster even started crowing his sunrise alarm. All that day, through all of her chores, through three meals around the kitchen table, through June’s constant chatter, she girded herself for the evening discussion to come. She played it out in her head, practicing and editing so she wouldn’t spew too much information if they asked an unexpected question. She wanted to be able to tell them everything. But how could she?
That evening, while her parents put her sisters to bed, she put on the kettle and brewed a pot of tea. The smell of bourbon on her father’s breath would push her over the edge again. When they came into the kitchen, steaming mugs were waiting for them and her mother’s oatmeal raisin cookies were stacked on a small plate.
They sat around the cramped table. Her parents waited for her to speak. She took a minute to gather her thoughts and her courage, and then told them of meeting Reese. As she spoke, she focused on a spot on the kitchen table and smiled, lost in a vision of his unfolding frame and sparkling eyes.
She could smell him in the room, feel him right beside her holding her hand. No matter how hard she tried to control it, the damn blood rose in her cheeks. Would they know that she was in love with him? That they’d made love? She couldn’t tell them about any of the sex. Not about how she’d sold her own body to some stranger. They might never look at her the same again if they knew those truths.
There was no way to tell Reese’s story without sadness and pain. It wasn’t even her pain, but she felt it anyway. Every abusive blow that was heaped upon him had sliced and burned her skin, left her invisibly scarred.
&
nbsp; She told them how they met, finding Tanya, and some of his past. Her eyes were swollen from crying. Then words just started spilling out. “Mom, his mother gave him drugs. He got addicted because of her. She let men have sex with him. When he wasn’t even ten! Sold him for heroin just so she could get high. How could she do that to her own child?”
Caraleen’s eyes doubled in size, her cheeks drained of color.
“He was just a little kid and she was his mother. And she did those terrible things to him. She didn’t love him. Didn’t protect him. Didn’t care about him at all.”
“I’m so sorry, August. Sorry for him. I really am.” Caraleen rested a hand on her arm. “Did he offer you drugs? Did you take anything?”
She pulled her arm away and pushed back in her chair. “Of course not! You know I wouldn’t do something like that.”
“We didn’t think you’d run away either.”
She looked at her father. She couldn’t read what he was feeling, but he looked like he might cry. He hardly ever did that.
“He used to cut himself.”
“Cut himself? What do you mean?” Two vertical crevasses appeared between her father’s eyes. They deepened when he was confused or concerned or angry. She wasn’t sure which of those he was at that moment. Maybe all of them.
“With a knife. Or broken glass. Long shallow cuts on his arm like this.” She drew a fingernail along the underside of her arm above the wrist leaving a pale, temporary scar. “He said the pain calmed him down when he got upset or something. I didn’t really understand that. His life was all so unbelievable, like an awful movie. But it was real.”
“So.” Her father held his teacup with both hands and tap-tap-tapped it against the saucer. “Gunfire, no money, staying under a bridge with a strange boy who cuts himself and does drugs, finding a girl dead in an alley. And you still didn’t think it was a good idea to call us? To come home? August why?”
“Did drugs. I told you, he quit.”
“That’s not an answer.”
