by Traci Finlay
“Why did you do that?”
“Because Ian was making me go home, and I didn’t want to go home.”
She makes like she’s going to say something, but she scratches her chin instead, and it’s time for a manicure, Amy Adams. “So your intention, when you grabbed the wheel, was not … to kill your brother. Right? It was to … escape?”
My hands start shaking, and I have to set my pudding cup on the table before I jiggle it right out onto the onion blanket. “Oh god, is he dead? Did I kill him? Did I kill him!”
Then the nurses yell at Amy Adams and tell her to leave, and someone mentions how he really did a number on me, and what does that mean?
Captor. Hostage. Kidnapped. I’m hearing these words a lot, and it’s upsetting. No one listens when I tell them I wasn’t anyone’s hostage, and all this is happening because I turned the wheel, and I’ll be damned if they just look at me and nod like patronizing little bobbleheads. I can imagine them all going home to their spouses and asking for a glass of wine because The Case of the Turning Wheel is so disturbing.
The first sense of normalcy comes when I wake up and Jack is sitting there, watching me sleep. I jump when I see him, and he overreacts like everyone else by holding his hands up and promising he’s not here to hurt me.
“Why would I ever think you were going to hurt me?” I ask, and he drops his hands in relief.
“They told me you were kind of out of it.”
I reach a finger inside the cast on my wrist and scratch. “Yeah, they tell me that, too. If I’m going crazy, it’s because they’re making me crazy. They want me to answer so many questions, but no one wants to answer any of mine. And this blanket smells like onions.”
Jack grins. “I’ll get you a new blanket.”
Suddenly I remember the last time I saw Jack—his hateful words. My face falls. “What happened to, ‘Fuck you, Charlotte. Congratulations, you got what you wanted’?”
Jack drops his head into his hands. “Charlotte, I—I don’t even know how to apologize for that. I wasn’t angry at you. I was angry at myself for not realizing earlier that he was your brother. I let you down. Then I couldn’t even save you. I had a gun, Charlotte! I had a fucking gun. And Ian still won. I was mad at myself and at him. You were the only person I wasn’t mad at. I took it out on you because at that point, you were the only person in the world I cared about. And you know my mouth can do some pretty severe damage.”
I giggle. “I know exactly what your mouth can do.”
Jack laughs. “Yeah, I heard it as I was saying it, but it was too late. Glad I can make you laugh, among other things. But I’m so, so sorry. About all that. I’m so sorry I failed you.”
“Jack, I never wanted you to save me. It was something I had to handle myself with Ian. I don’t want to talk about that day anymore. We all did some horrible things, and I just want a hug.” I reach for him, one arm casted and the other dripping with IVs, and I look at him expectantly with my one eye. “I know I look like a mummy.” And I drop my arms into my lap.
Jack stands uncomfortably and leans over my bed. “I’ll hug you all day. I just don’t want to hurt you.” He pulls me into an awkward hug, and he’s right. It hurts. But I really need it, and I think I’ll always love his arms around me.
He sits next to me on the bed. “Jack? I have to tell you something. I killed Ian.” Jack starts, then he chuckles. “What? No you didn’t. Ian’s alive. Barely, but he’s alive.”
My heart speeds up. “What? Where is he?”
“He’s in ICU. Comatose, intubated, and on life support.”
I feel myself hyperventilating. Why couldn’t he just say HIPAA?
“Hey, relax!” Jack glances at the door, like he’s looking for a nurse. “He’s under twenty-four-hour security. He’s handcuffed to the bed. He’s not going to hurt you. If he ever wakes up, he’s going straight to prison.”
But Jack doesn’t understand—I can’t breathe because I did this to him. I nearly murdered my brother.
Jack continues. “He killed those three runners. Two of the bodies were found in their homes. They were a CrossFit couple who trained for these races all the time. The other one was a guy who did Parkour and he’s straight-up missing. Presumed dead. You’re so lucky to be alive.” He takes my casted hand to his mouth and kisses my exposed fingers, but my mind is stuck.
I start crying, and Jack asks what’s wrong.
“I should be in handcuffs, too. I should be in jail. I’m just as bad as he is, because I tried killing him.” I can barely get the words out because of how hard I’m sobbing.
Jack’s frozen, staring at me, like he’s having an epiphany. “Oh, wow. They told me you were, but I didn’t believe them. I didn’t think there was any way. Not after what happened. Not after you finally won.”
“What are you talking about? They told you I was what?”
“Suffering from Stockholm syndrome.”
I burst out laughing, and Jack face-palms. He looks angry, and the speed at which I can morph from crying to laughing may be a good indication that I am, in fact, crazy. I sober up.
“Jack, I’m sorry. But people need to stop making excuses for me. I jerked on the steering wheel when Ian was driving a buck twenty. I knew very well that we could probably die, but I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed to get away from him.”
Jack looks at me thoughtfully, like he’s really trying to understand my point of view. “Folie à deux,” he finally says.
I roll my eyes. “A madness shared by two,” I mock. “I’m not crazy, Jack.”
Jack leans forward in his chair and rubs his hands together. “Remember when I told you that Nikka went to New York when we were teenagers?”
“Yes. You told me not to talk to her about it. That those weren’t the best years of her life.”
“Right. I want to tell you what happened.”
“I don’t know if I’ll be able to—”
“You will,” he snaps. “Just listen. After we left the Barretts, Nikka and I weren’t getting along. She was obsessed with Eli, and I was angry with her for it. She was going to therapy, and that’s where we learned that term. Folie à deux. Her therapist told her she shared psychosis with Eli, and recommended that she move away for a while. So she went to New York. She continued therapy while she was out there, and it seemed to be going well for her.
“But Eli got out of prison early. He manipulated his way into probation and an early release. He hunted Nikka down in New York and kidnapped her.”
My forehead stitches are pulsing, but I stay quiet. I’ve survived worse than this.
“He tricked her into thinking he was in love with her, that she’d be better off with him. He lured her into the truck at gunpoint. He set the gun right between them as an intimidation tactic, but he didn’t realize Nikka wasn’t the little twelve-year-old she was before. He also didn’t realize she’d been in therapy. He really thought they were going to pick up where they left off. Nikka grabbed the gun, shot him, and killed him.”
Jack lets me register that. I’m shocked, and the silence hovers between us like the gun between Nikka and Eli.
“Do you think Nikka should’ve gone to jail for killing him?” he asks.
“Of course not! I’m so proud of her! What a little badass.” I lean back on my pillow and recollect on the time she stabbed Spencer and didn’t even think twice.
Jack throws his arms up. “Why not? Doesn’t that make her a murderer? Not even Eli Barrett murdered people. He never killed one person.”
I look at him disgustedly. “Jack, he was a sick pervert! He’s responsible for destroying Nikka, and the things he did to both of you were just horrible. And who knows what he would’ve done to her if she hadn’t—”
Jack is looking at me. Waiting. Hoping.
I shake my head. “No. Ian was my brother. He—”
“Charlotte.” He pauses before repeating, “Charlotte.”
My eyes are searching Jack’s—there are those trut
hs again—and he’s just waiting for it. It’s only a matter of time, and then it happens and my head is nodding and I’ve never been so enlightened in my life.
“Listen to what the cops and nurses are saying, okay?” He’s speaking cautiously, like he’s talking to a five-year-old. “You have to understand—they questioned all of us. They know he used a fake alias of Dan Fisher, they know he killed three people to get to you—cold blood, Charlotte. He’d never met those people before. They know he nearly snapped your neck and stole my car, and … he kidnapped you. Yes. You were his hostage, and he was your captor. Forget that you’re brother and sister for a minute, and let that truth sink in.”
I do.
Jack puts his hand on my arm. “You’re not like him. No one’s accusing you of that. That’s why he’s handcuffed to the bed, and you’re being fed pudding cups.”
I cry now. I cry because Jack’s right, and I can’t believe the spell Ian had me under, even after I thought I wasn’t under it. I roll away from him to mourn yet another loss—the death of the lies I breathed to life.
“I’m alone, Jack. I’ve got nobody. No place to go. Nothing.”
I feel Jack scoot into the bed with me, and his warm arms wrap around my body. “Charlotte?” he breathes into my hair. “How many times do I have to say it? Whenever you’re left with no place to go, I’m always right behind you.”
The room is dark; just whispers of light from the overhead dimmers allow me to see the outline of the bed, the incongruous chains shackling flesh to metal. It doesn’t even look like Ian. His skin is gray, his mouth gaping open, spilling scores of tubes—his facial orifices are just plugs and outlets. His chest expands and deflates mechanically, and it’s the ventilator I hear artificially inhaling and exhaling. It sounds nothing like my brother when he takes the world into his lungs.
I’ve been released from the hospital—a free woman. And the first thing I do is go see my brother. I should be ashamed of myself, but it’s not for the reason people think it is, no. I’m not crawling back to my captor; I’m saying goodbye to him.
A noise from the corner of the room startles me, and I turn to see Fanny seated like a statue. I look at her, and she looks at me. Then I turn back to Ian like she was never there.
I hear her tiptoe across the room, feel her presence next to me.
“How long have you been here?” I ask quietly.
“A few days.”
“Why haven’t you come to see me?” I ask a little louder.
Fanny sighs and brushes Ian’s cheek. “My son is dying.” Her voice cracks.
“Don’t be such a drama queen. Ian’s been dead to you since you left a lifetime ago.” I’m back to whispering, because she’s not my mother so I have no business being upset with her.
She’s crying quietly. “I’m so sorry about all this, Charlotte. I can’t believe this happened.” She cries a little harder—you know, in case I didn’t hear her the first time. Finally she says, “I called you. Years ago, back when your dad killed Chrissy. I wanted to come home then. I tried. I spoke with Ian. He told me to stay away. That you wanted nothing to do with me. Apparently, he never told you this…”
I don’t care. I won’t even waste the energy wondering if that’s true or not. “I’m sorry that happened to you. Truly tragic.”
“I know you think this is my fault. But Ian would’ve been this way even if I’d stayed. It’s a mental disorder, you know. But regardless, I need to ask for your forgiveness, Charlotte. I know I don’t deserve it, and I don’t deserve the honor of being your mother again. But can you please find it in your heart to forgive me for walking out on you all those years ago?”
There it is, the million-dollar question. But she doesn’t want forgiveness; she wants a free pass. A pardon. Not the responsibility of being a mother, she just admitted to not wanting that, but forgiveness. What a noble concept.
I finally turn to her, acknowledge her with my presence and not just my passive-aggressive abhorrence. “I’m going to ask you a question, Fanny. And your answer will end all the bullshit. But if your answer is yes, please do Ian and me a favor and walk out this door, and don’t ever come back.”
Fanny widens her eyes and waits.
“If you could do it all over again, would you still leave?”
She looks from Ian to me, then again. Without a word, she leans down to kiss Ian. She turns and kisses me, and I let her because this is an honest goodbye. Then she grabs her purse and walks out the door.
I don’t walk out the door. I stand over Ian’s bed, probably looking just as comatose as he is. Except after a while, I actually smile. “Hey Ian,” I whisper, and I really hope he can hear me. “I won. I finally won a game of Burken, and that’s what you get for changing the rules.”
Nothing.
“Hey. The loser dies. That’s what you said.”
Just the calming beep of the heart monitor. A lullaby.
I thought it’d be harder to see him like this, that maybe old memories would come rushing back and I’d be overcome with emotion. And they do come back, only minus the shroud. “We had so much fun as kids, didn’t we? You were so great, weren’t you?” I snort. “Always helping me out, sticking up for me so I wouldn’t get in trouble over stupid shit. My selfless big brother, that’s what you were. You asshole. You took my best friend from me.”
I stop because I’m about to cry, and Jack is wrong. There are most certainly people in this world who are unfiltered, unadulterated evil. Ian couldn’t do goodwill if he tried; any sort of charity or human act of kindness he demonstrates is fraudulent, a stepping stone in a long-winded scheme he’s concocted to win something or other.
Or perhaps Jack is right, and Ian’s just an anomaly. But Fanny’s the same way. The most selfish, narcissistic bitch in the world. She only came back because she thought everyone would shower her with love and affection. Good riddance. And don’t even get me started on my father.
But I can’t sit here and judge; that’s wrong, too. Enough pointing out the flaws of the comatose, banished, and imprisoned. Now to fix me, and the first step is to stop judging.
There, I feel better already. But I frown as my eyes trail down the cords running from Ian’s face to their respective monitors. If people can be all bad, is the opposite true? Can they be all good?
My eyes catch sight of a cord that stands out—a thicker one leading into the wall—and I decide it’s silly to think there are perfect people in the world. For starters, I clearly remember all the catechism I learned in church, that all have sinned and come short of the glory of God. Besides, if someone was perfect, that would mean they were humble, and humble people don’t admit to being perfect, so it’s like a Catch 22.
That cord looks pretty perfect, though.
But yes, it’s a Catch 22; it’s like the whole, if a tree falls in the forest and no one’s there to hear it, does it make a sound? Or perhaps if this plug were to fall out of that wall, and no doctors were around to see…?
No, Charlotte, don’t think things like that. I’m nothing like Ian, and that’s totally something Ian would do. Besides, didn’t I just say I need to be a better person? Regardless, I already screwed up my record of being perfect in about 2.3 seconds for entertaining thoughts of pulling plugs, so I need to think about something else.
Let’s think about Ian and if he’s going to die or live. If he lives, I totally see him escaping prison and hunting me down. And if there’s anyone who can find me, it’s Ian. I can’t live my life wondering if my big brother’s gonna hunt me down, can I? And I take a step toward the outlet stuffed with that perfect cord, that humble cord.
Leave, Charlotte, don’t do this! That’s the voices in my head—they’re still there, reasoning with me. The consequences, they say. Think of the consequences! And yes, there will be consequences, and how far I’ve come since earlier today when the nurses pitied me with pudding cups, and Stockholm syndrome was a thing!
My knees are bending and I’m crouching down to th
e wall, and it’s strange making a decision without filtering it through anyone else, and for old time’s sake I think of Ian and how he would handle this and That Monster’s Gonna Get Me if I Don’t Run Now and dear lord, that’s ironically appropriate, but he also said Loser dies, and that’s what you said, Ian. Your words, not mine. Then I think of Jack and I know what he would say, he would say folie à deux in his deep, masculine voice, and then Nikka would be all like oui in her high-pitched feminine voice, and then I’d be like touché in my normal voice, so I guess this might just have to be the first decision I make as Charlotte Stahl without the influence of another human soul.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
To God – my Creator, Savior, and Sustainer. Thank you for using this broken vessel.
To Robert – for your unconditional love, for patronizing the terrifying depths of my insanity, and for moving heaven and earth to make me happy (usually with Uber Eats). You’re the love of my life.
To Robbie and Andrew – for showing me the endless magnitude of my soul. Every breath, every blink, every heartbeat is for you. Mom loves you more than you’ll ever know.
To Tarryn Fisher – for your fierce love, your unyielding loyalty, and for messaging me on Myspace a thousand years ago and telling me to write a book. Here’s one. I am so, so proud of you.
To Stephanie Drewry – for being the Brian to my Karen. Your support and friendship mean everything to me and always will. Thank you for getting 45 master’s degrees solely for my benefit. None of this would have been possible without you—I mean that. You’re my lucky charm.
To Claire Contreras – for loving dessert and hating Miami with me! Thank you for all your advice, love, and support, and for reassuring me that “no question is stupid.”
To Willow Aster and Erica Russikoff – for being wonderful editors and beautiful friends. I’m so blessed and honored to have the world’s two kindest-hearted women in my life. I’m keeping you both.
To Colleen Hoover – for your passive aggressive encouragement of threatening to steal my books and publish them yourself. Well, joke’s on you—yours are better. You have no idea what a wonderful person you are. I’m blessed to call you my friend.
