“Good. Then you won’t think I’m crazy,” I say.
Telling Tristan my story doesn’t feel like a betrayal; it feels like a weight is being lifted off my shoulders, as cliché as that sounds. I begin at the very beginning, with David’s story.
* * *
The summer I turned ten years old was one of frightening close-calls. I was almost caught kissing Freddie Johnson in the closet during recess, almost caught climbing the tree in the backyard (which I had been repeatedly told not to climb,) and almost caught with the guilt of the not saving my brother’s life.
David was sixteen at the time, in his second year at public high school. He was wild and unpredictable, but I cared about him. Even though my parents had their hands full keeping him in line, he was always there to play ball with me. One day, as I got off the bus from school, I noticed he wasn’t there waiting for me on our porch, like he usually was. Our parents worked seventeen hours a day, five days a week, so he spent an awful lot of time alone while I was at dance practice.
I ran into the house, backpack banging against my body, waving my math test in the air and screaming “I got an A!” through the house. Immature for a fifteen year old? Yes, but I’ve always been so bad at math, I needed to celebrate, even if no one cared.
With each silent moment that passed, my smile faded and I started calling David’s name. I heard a massive thud from above my head, and I raced up the stairs, dropping my math test in the process.
I looked in his bedroom first, finding nothing. Then my room, also nothing. Finally, I opened the door to my parents’ massive master bedroom, finding nothing. I called David’s name again as I walked towards their bathroom in tears. I opened the door to see his body on the floor, in the fetal position, an empty pill bottle in one hand, a picture of me in the other.
Screaming, I shook him as hard as I could, yelling his name repeatedly, beating his back with my fists. Nothing happened, and my sobs turned into uncontrollable screeches as I watched my vivacious brother turn into a cold, lifeless statue of what could have been. I ran downstairs, falling down the last few and landing on my hands and knees, tears blurring my vision.
In the kitchen, I grabbed the phone off the receiver and dialed 9-1-1 as I ran back up the stairs. The operator tried calming me down, telling me to go back downstairs and unlock the front door for the paramedics, and then to start CPR. Don’t worry, help is on the way, she had said.
Five minutes later, I was slamming my palm into David’s chest, trying to follow the operators’ instructions. Being fifteen with the body of a ballerina, I hadn’t had the proper strength to do compressions correctly, so I improvised. David was breathing, but barely. The paramedics ran up the stairs and into the bathroom, one carrying me away while the others did all sorts of things to David’s unresponsive body. Then I blacked out.
A year later I transferred from public school to private school. My brother was sent to “The John Adams Developmental Facility for Traumatized/Disturbed Adolescents” in Canada, and I hadn’t seen him since. Other than a letter once every other week, we had no contact at all. The letters were sneaked; David’s friend would give them to me when he saw me walking home from school every day, and I would stuff it in my backpack.
You’d think the near-death of a child would make parents motivated to change, but my “parents” seemed completely indifferent to their son attempting suicide. The notebook that was sitting open on the counter was filled with two pages of his reasons for killing himself, and one page was an apology letter to me, but it was illegible.
No one, especially not me, knew what David was going through; at sixteen, he had been drunk at a party and gotten an eighteen year old pregnant. Because the girl was eighteen, she was afraid of getting charged with rape, so she had the child aborted. David found out about his would-have-been child during a fight at school, in which a fellow student of his screamed out that he was a “punk-ass baby-making killer,” which made David slam the boys head into the gym floor, giving him a concussion and broken teeth. My brother has always had anger issues, but that was the day everyone found out.
Not only was he coping with this drama, but he was now being incessantly bullied and teased in school for various reasons. Some rumors about him were true, others completely false, but even he couldn’t tell the difference anymore. David began using drugs, sneaking our parents’ Valium one tablet at a time. Then the time came when he was pushed over the edge, by no one other than our father himself.
A stern man with no conscience, our father was a firm believer in “spanking” sense into his children. After getting expelled from school for fighting, Father brought David home and pushed him into the kitchen wall, hard. I was upstairs, but I heard the door close so I ran to see what the commotion was.
I saw our Father hit David repeatedly with a spatula; a weapon of convenience. David was crying and I had never seen him cry. Not like that. The man we called father was beating David into unconsciousness, and I became terrified for my brother. I charged into the kitchen, grabbed my father’s arm and yanked as hard as I could. He whirled around, smacking me across the cheek with the spatula, leaving a sharp sting that spread over my entire face.
“If you EVER screw up as much as this your brother, I will kill you before you have a chance to blink an eye. Do you understand?” the man screamed, following his decree with obscenities.
David wrote an apology letter addressed to me, which I still keep inside my lock-box. I don’t know why I keep it; it’s too strong a reminder of my brother at his worst. He’s growing now, changing into a better person and accepting his past. I admire his strength, his courage to fight his demons head on.
* * *
A half an hour into my story, Tristan reaches towards me and pulls me to him. Together, we lean against Dino on the grass, my head on Tristan’s chest, his head on Dino’s side. The trust he has in this animal is frightening…
“Katie, I didn’t mean to make you cry,” Tristan whispers, voice wavering.
I don’t want him to be upset; I need him to be strong. My angel deserves to know my story, and I am telling it to him in all its gory truth.
“You didn’t, Tristan,” I say, sniffling. I snuggle my face into his neck, breathing in the smell of… home. He tightens his arms around me, giving me an anchor to hold onto, urging me to continue, but not wanting to push me too far. I figure I may as well push as far as I can.
* * *
I turned seventeen on July 4th, 2012. That night was supposed to be the best night of my life, but it was the worst I could have ever experienced. The day went as expected; calls came from friends, cards clogged the mailbox, and my cell phone and Facebook wall buzzed with empty birthday wishes from people I haven’t talked to in a long time.
The night, however, was anything but expected. I had been driving to the bowling alley with my kind-of-boyfriend, Chris, when he suddenly pulled off the side of the road and parked. Confused, I looked over at him, just as his mouth met mine. The wheels turned in my head as I attempted to process what he was doing, but then I felt his hand glide up the front of my shirt, and I pulled back.
We had a heated argument, which escalated into a full blown screaming match. I wasn’t willing to give him anything, and he expected me to because I was a year older than I was when we started “dating.” I slapped him, he yelled in my face that I was a teasing whore and a prude, and then I got out of the car and stomped home, but only after slinging vicious words his way, efficiently ending our pathetic “relationship.”
It took me almost two hours to walk home, and it had begun to rain substantially hard. By the time I walked through the door, I was soaked to the core and my teeth were chattering. No one was home, so I took an hour long shower before crawling into bed, wrapped in a bathrobe, crying. I stayed awake for hours that night, simply staring at the ceiling.
The next morning, my parents were sitting at the kitchen table, which was a first because they’re usually gone by the time I wake up every
day. My mother looked upset, my father looking impassive. In less than three minutes, they proceeded to tell me that Chris had died in a car accident the previous night, on his way home from my birthday party, which I didn’t even go to. He had a blood alcohol level of .2 and wrapped his SUV around a massive tree near the creek we stopped at. His car was found smoldering at two o’clock in the morning, his body ejected and lying fifteen feet from the crash, slicing in half.
That school year went by in a blur, nothing eventful happening. My life was completely boring, but had been on a gradual slope downward since the night of my birthday. My grades dropped, (not drastically, but enough,) and one by one my friends began to disappear. Not literally, but they became angry with me for becoming such an unfeeling amoeba, and they left me alone to deal with my demons. Every day I was told how worthless I was, how I would never amount to anything, and how I was turning out to be just like my brother.
The final nail in my casket, after being empty for so long was the night I watched my father strike my mother with a bat. He hadn’t seen me in the hallway, creeping from my bedroom to get a glass of water from the kitchen, but I saw him. It was a mutual understanding in our family to pretend like everything was normal; like we didn’t have fights about my well-being or watch each other get pushed down by my father, mentally and physically.
I attempted to kill myself the next day, using my fathers’ pocket knife to slice my wrists open. If you asked me why I did it, I’d be completely honest and say that I was simply done living. I wasn’t living, so I guess you could say I was simply done being a zombie. I wanted out of this thing people called life, and I wanted it as fast as possible.
I wrote David an apology letter before I spilled my own blood, in the same type of notebook he wrote his goodbye letters in. Unlike him, I gave no explanation to my parents for my decision. I remember doubting that my parents would even give David the letter, mostly because they hadn’t talked to him in years. He was like a phantom; present in our lives for so long, but gone long enough to seem like a ghostly apparition; his face was removed from the house, photographs taken from every frame and hidden away from the world like a secret that must be kept private.
* * *
My throat is becoming hoarse from talking so much for so long, and I haven’t moved from my position in Tristan’s arms since I began speaking. I take a deep, shuddering breath and finish my speech with a lame “and, now I’m here.”
A heavy silence follows, shrouding the peace in a feeling of discomfort. I shift, wanting to see Tristan’s face, to see what he’s thinking; but his arms tighten around me and I cannot move an inch. This should frighten me, but the gesture feels caring instead of menacing.
“Are you going to say anything?” I say after a few minutes, unable to stand the silence any longer.
He takes a deep breath and sits up, moving both of us into a sitting position. I move away from him, turning my whole body to face him head-on. To my surprise, and pleasure, I find myself looking into awestruck eyes instead of pitying ones; there is nothing I hate more in this world than accepting pity and hand-outs from others. I want them to know I’m strong enough to get by on my own, and I have too much pride to take pity gracefully.
Tristan takes my hands in his, fingers brushing the scars on my wrists, sending an unnatural tingle up my spine that feels like hamsters are crawling their way up my back. Without speaking, he lifts my hand to his mouth and kisses the inside of my wrist, right on my scar.
I feel a tear slip down my cheek, cool and wet on my sun-warmed face. Seeing this, Tristan drops my hands and slides closer to me, taking my face in his hands. I again see the scar that travels up the side of his forearm, and I can’t help touching it, running my fingers along its slightly-raised surface.
“I knew it was you,” is all he says, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.
Confused, I tilt my head to the side and raise my eyebrows slightly.
“There is a reason I asked you those questions, Katie. I think there’s something you left out of your story,” he whispers, leaning closer.
I think he will kiss me. I wait, hopeful, as he leans closer, hands gently squeezing my face tighter. He lays his lips against my forehead, hovering there for a moment before pulling back and looking into my eyes.
“I told you everything you need to know,” I answer, breathless.
Tristan smiles sadly, nodding his head. I cannot imagine him knowing about my Encounter with God, and there is no way I would willingly give him that information. I don’t doubt he would believe me, but if he is my angel, then I want him to realize it on his own. Also, I feel like the meeting with the Lord was for my eyes only, and it will be a secret just between the two of us.
“It’s your turn,” I say, wanting to hear his voice.
“Katherine, it’s been-" he begins to say, but I cut him off.
“No excuses. If I can open up, then you owe me that much, Tristan,” I counter, sounding forceful and immoveable.
He purses his perfect lips, speculating. “Alright, but on one condition,” he raises his pointer finger to emphasize. I smile slightly and nod. “I will tell you my entire story if you swear you tell me the rest of yours.”
I look at him with an accusatory look. “That was not our deal!”
Tristan raises his eyebrows, “This isn’t a ‘deal,’ Katherine! These are our lives we’re talking about, here. What type of relationship do you think we can have with half-details? Not the kind I want,” he laughs the sound devoid of any humor.
I bite my lip at the word “relationship.” Certainly he means friendship, right? But he’s acting like he’s expecting more. That’s right; they always expect more, the tiny voice in my head sings as I think.
“Katherine, I want you to trust me. I trust you! I need you, and you need me; I know you know what I mean, too!” he says loudly, disrupting my inner-battle.
Stunned, I look at him wide-eyed. I attempt to transform my shocked expression into one of innocence, but fail.
“I’ve waited two years to have this conversation with you, Katherine. There’s nothing I’m holding back,” he continues, eyes fierce.
Two years? I just met him! What does he mean, two years?
Seeing my confused expression, Tristan sighs. “Katie, come on,” he pleads, eyes suddenly dark with pleading. “Is this your way of you telling God you want another angel?” he asks accusingly, disbelieving. He shakes his head, a smile forming. “That’s not how it works, sweetheart.”
My face is frozen in shock, mind unable to comprehend what he’s saying. Without giving me time to process his words, he continues. “So, here’s my story,” he begins, pulling my frozen form down beside him on the grass.
Chapter 7
Tristan
Katherine is more than I could have ever hoped for. I wasn’t expecting her to open up as fast as she did; I was actually prepared to beg for months for her to get to trust me. Although, she hasn’t confided in me totally just yet, but that’s understandable. I pull her down to lay on the warm grass next to me, my arm resting around her shoulders, keeping her head from laying on the hard ground.
The moment I saw her on our first day of school, I recognized her face. Everyone else just knew her name, but I knew something no one else did; her story, on a very personal level. I asked her to tell it to me because I wanted her to know she can trust me, but I know as much as she does- if not more- about her past. We lay there, watching the lone puffy cloud pass over the afternoon sun, which was beginning its descent.
There is no need to ready any courage; when I told her I have been waiting two years to tell her my story, I wasn’t exaggerating. These years have been filled with anxiety, hope, and longing, all amplified into extreme magnification. I felt like an ant on the sidewalk, having the light slowly fry me to death as a boy held a magnifying glass over my body. But, the light wasn’t from the sun; it was from my past.
I was seven years old when my grandmother died in a freak acc
ident involving a lightning storm; she was struck while standing on her porch, calling me, telling me to get back into the house. I was terrified, so I stayed huddled under the sycamore tree in the front yard, unwilling to move. I watched her fall to the ground, head banging against the wooden floor of the porch, and I saw her not get back up. Staying under the tree, I wept until my grandfather got home.
I had just turned ten years old when my father died; he was a firefighter and killed in the line of duty, attempting to rescue a six-year-old girl who was hiding in her closet. He dangled her out the second-story window before dropping her, twenty feet to the ground, as the house caved in and he was buried in a pile of fire and ash. I watched him die through the footage that played live on the news. My mother became a zombie.
On my twelfth birthday, I watched as a man jumped to his death from the Brooklyn Bridge, landing in the water below us with bone-shattering force. My mother took me to New York as a present, but I left feeling haunted by the man’s dead eyes. I will never forget the icy feeling that laced through my body as I watched him jump, and I can feel it to this day, every morning I wake drenched in sweat from a nightmare that replays the event.
For three years, everything was good. Great, even. My mother had a steady job, my sister was over her pre-pubescent hormone fits, and my grandfather moved in with us. My sister, Skylar, is everything to me. Was everything to me… I cared for her like she was the most precious thing in the world, and for an eleven year old, she was pretty easygoing.
Every day, I would walk her to and from school, and then pick her up after football practice at four-thirty. She would never object; on the contrary, she would race down the steps of the school and jump into my open arms on most days. Others, she would simply grab my hand and swing our arms as we walked.
Skylar was my best friend, my baby sister, and my whole world. I would sit through hours of tea-parties, hair and makeup days where she would put a whole tube of gel in my long hair, making it stick up in all directions. I would walk her to the park where we would fly kites and chase each other with water balloons. I would take her to the pet store where we would play with the dogs and cats that weren’t being adopted, even though we could never take them home because our mother was very allergic.
Pieces of a Mending Heart Page 6
