by Mia Kerick
Renzy & Morning—your mutual point is well-taken. I apologize. Now how about that road trip?
Chapter Thirteen: Renzy
MY FOLKS are fighting again. Would this qualify as the motif of my life? Or is it just a cliché? I should have paid better attention in English class. Either way, I pretty much expect the fights now. Just not necessarily when I have a guest.
Morning lies on my bed, smoking my weed, and staring up at the ceiling. Her hair is like silvery moonbeams spread out on my pillow. My folks are oblivious to us. I don’t even think they noticed when she walked through the door. Morning’s a ghost in this house, just like me, and this attic might as well be another plane of existence to them.
“Do they scream like this often?” she asks, exhaling. “Rhonda and Egger—Edgar—mon Dieu, now you’ve got me doing it.”
I told her about my newly rekindled plans to move to a monastery with my egg, and she obsessed over the name and its similarity to her father’s. Except… of course she doesn’t call him “father.” Edgar.
“Rhonda and Edgar never fight. Ever. Not out loud. Sometimes you sit at the table with them and you get frost burn, you know? But there’s no screaming, no broken plates.”
She continues to stare upward, unblinking, and I see tears shimmering at the corners of her eyes. Some of those tears might swell enough to fall, but it won’t be crying. Morning doesn’t cry. “Sometimes I wish they would go at each other with butcher knives, you know?”
I shrug. All I can hear is the shrill cry of my mother, shrieking—shrieking—at Dad.
“I know that’s messed up, but I have this really vivid fantasy where Rhonda grabs a butcher knife and runs at Edgar and stabs him in the neck. Then he falls down dead, and she trips on his body and impales herself on the knife. I’d be an orphan for real if that happened.”
Very slowly, she turns her pale face to look at me. The tears that threatened to fall, crest and break.
“Fucked-up, right?”
Honestly? It’s nothing compared to what I’ve heard in the Rageaholics group. Maybe Morning really wants it to happen, maybe she doesn’t—either way, I know she’s hurting. I wish I could give her my wings.
But I guess I’d have to have wings of my own to loan them out.
“Renzy?” she says, her voice sad and distant. “I’m sorry about Seven. He wants to fix everything. All the time. He doesn’t realize his ‘fixing’ is often just as bad as the original pain.”
I’m sorry about Seven too.
She reaches out to me with her free hand and strokes her knuckles down my cheek.
“I wish my first time had been with you, Renzy.”
I smile at her, giving her my best, “yeah, but I’m pretty gay” eyebrows. The eyebrows that mean, I get what you’re saying and what you’re not saying, and the, you would have been a treasured first time, Morning, in a different life.
She smiles back, just a little. I think she gets it.
“Do you want to know? What happened to me?” Morning starts to bite her lip, and I motion for her to pass the weed. Inhaling gives me a minute to process the question. Does she want me to want to know? Or does she want me to be disinterested? And is what she needs different from what she wants?
I’ll tell ya, in some ways it was so much easier when I didn’t have a friend.
But this is worth it. Even if we’re ghosts, we’re ghosts together.
After forever I point at her lips and then point at her heart, and then nod.
“If I tell you from the heart?” she guesses at my words.
Her guess is close enough to what I mean. If she wants to tell me, in her heart.
She rolls onto her back and sighs.
“Not now, then. My heart’s confused. When I’m sober, maybe.”
I squeeze her arm.
THE SOUND of shattering glass startles me awake, and I groan at the tingling pain in my arm. I fell asleep against the bed, with my arm smashed between my body and the mattress, and now I’m paying the price. My palm is burning with the prickling sensation of a thousand fire ants.
Was that really glass? Or was I dreaming?
You know when you’re walking that line between sleep and wakefulness and you step off a curb in some dreamland but your leg kicks in real life?
Maybe that’s what it was.
I could also still be high, I guess. What time is it?
Shit! There it is again! Some heavy thuds and then I hear glass. A lot of it.
Holy shit.
Time to play hero?
“Seven?” Morning groans from the bed.
I touch her arm, and she slowly manages to crack open one bleary eye. I put a finger to my lips and motion for her to stay in bed. Then I’m off to investigate whatever break-in bullshit is happening downstairs. It would probably help if I had a bat or, you know, anything, wouldn’t it?
Jeez.
This was a bad idea.
I’m almost to the landing when I hear them shouting.
My father’s voice thunders from downstairs. “This is the last time, Cassi!”
“Don’t you dare walk out!” she shrieks.
The front door opens and then slams so hard it doesn’t latch. Instead it bounces open and hits the wall.
The entryway is cold. Our glass outer door is shattered and there’s what looks like a skillet on the front porch. What the ever-loving fuck? Chunks of safety glass are everywhere, spilled out across the tile like really ugly diamonds.
Is anyone here? My sisters? I should have checked on my sisters and Jackie first before I came charging down here. Or at least brought my cell phone. Mom and Dad have fought before but never like this. I listen and the house is quiet. I think the girls are out. Jackie is probably sleeping, or at Grandma’s.
I’m not usually scared of much but—
Fuck!
Double bad idea—oh, Jesus. My foot! I jump back from where I’ve stepped on broken glass and grab hold of my foot, inspecting my bleeding toe. Man, there’s glass everywhere and not just the safety glass from the front door. This is jagged, angry glass—it’s from Mom’s wedding photo.
I can hear crying coming from the living room, and I immediately think of the girls again. Fuck! Was I wrong? Are they actually home?
Adrenaline already made me stupid and reckless. Now it’s made me a moron. I try to jump the pile of glass, but land on the edge of it. Pain shoots up the soles of my feet, but I can’t stop, not with the sound of that awful crying so close.
Mom?
Mom is on the floor, her face streaked red with tears and anger.
Somehow, seeing her like this, I suddenly get it. I don’t know what it is about the way she’s holding the box, but I know this fight? This Mom and Dad gone wild? The picture frame and the front door? It’s over the box.
There’s something so familiar about my mother’s angry, crying face, even though I can’t remember ever having seen it before. That thought’s confusing. Why wouldn’t I have seen her angry before? Why does her anger only feel familiar?
I watch her for a long time, mesmerized by the violent tremor of her shoulders. I could watch her cry forever.
Leaning back, my hand hits the piano I completely forget is behind me. The discordant sound of the jumbled notes startles us both and Mom looks up, almost snarling. She flings a handful of envelopes and stationery at me from out of the box she clutches. Some of the paper flutters to the ground, doomed to dive by being so unaerodynamic. But other, heavier notes make it all the way over to me and beyond. A card hits me in the face and falls to the floor. I wince and put my fingertips to the paper cut.
“Renzy,” Mom hisses. “How long have you been standing there?”
I shake my head at her. Not long, Mom. Don’t worry, I didn’t see. You can pretend you guys didn’t break things this time.
“You’re always creeping around, Lorenzo.”
Her tears shimmer on her cheeks, and she looks old, nothing like the happy, smiling bride in the photo.
My feet are bleeding on the carpet, the cut on my cheek is bleeding too, and I don’t know whether to go back to my room or to help her.
I shove away thoughts that my mother should be the one helping me instead.
“Excuse me?” Someone calls down the hall. Mom and I both go stiff, and she leaps off the floor.
“Just a moment!” she nearly shrieks, scooping the letters up and shoving them into the box. Not all of them, of course. Some are dead things at my feet.
“The door was… open.”
I don’t know why I hadn’t immediately recognized his voice. It was sheer hell this last week and a half trying to stop thinking about it. All I could hear when I was alone was his demand that I speak.
Speak.
Speak.
Speak.
Even now I feel nauseous about it.
Mom flees with her box, as if she can outrun our guest, and I turn to look at Seven who is standing in the hallway, his swank boots crunching against all the glass and family shame splayed out on our floor.
For a moment we just stare at each other, and then I turn away from him. I really don’t need him seeing this shit right now. Especially not if he’s going to make me “talk” about it.
I grab a few of the letters Mom left behind, gathering them up into a neat little stack.
“Are you, um, all right?” Seven sounds genuinely concerned, but honestly, I don’t know what he means at this precise moment.
Am I okay with him pushing me out of my comfort zone because he couldn’t accept me as I am?
Am I okay one of my folks threw a frying pan through the glass door?
Am I okay bleeding all over the carpet?
I start walking toward the hall, because I have nothing to say to him in any form.
Fuck this.
“You can’t be serious,” Seven says as I step on the cold tile. “I know you’re angry, but you’re going to walk across glass rather than ask for my help?”
I shoot him a look that’s meant to tell him exactly where he can shove his help, but I barely have time to set my features to full-scorn mode when he bends down and scoops me off the ground. Seriously! One minute I’m standing on bloody feet, the next I am in Seven’s arms, and he’s grunting his way across the hall.
If I weren’t so confused and angry, I might laugh.
I’m being princess-carried.
“Where’s your bathroom?”
I point upstairs and Seven sighs.
“All right, then I guess that’s where we’re going. Stop struggling unless you want me to drop you.”
I hate how nice and warm his arms feel. Don’t I have even a bit of self-preservation?
Chapter Fourteen: Seven
I LIKE to think of myself as the in-control type. But cut me some slack right now because I just witnessed a real-life adaptation of Mommie Dearest in a small-town family living room, and Renzy, the frenemy I’m carrying in my arms, is bleeding from his feet worse than Christ at the crucifixion. The fun doesn’t end there—I also had to sidestep my hostile-looking sister in the narrow hallway, while struggling to reach the tiny attic bathroom so I can prevent Renzy from bleeding out. The fact that I haven’t passed out in the corner from a combination of stress and overexertion is testimony to my relative composure.
“What the fuck? I mean, what the ever-loving fuck is going on, Seven? What did you do to him now?”
Morning’s bitter accusation, badly hidden in a series of questions, cuts my heart with the same brutality as the glass that carved up Renzy’s feet.
Yes, it seems I have a heart. Mostly frozen and quite shabby chic—battered and chipped badly around the edges—but functioning nonetheless.
“Don’t pin this on me, frangine—I walked into what I can only assume to be the War of the Roses in the Callen family living room, if the father’s peeling out of the driveway is any indication. And this is how I found Renzy.”
Just a few days ago my sister opened her heart to me, and now she’s standing brazenly in the bathroom doorway, hands on her hips, the look in her eyes betraying her belief that I intentionally scraped the sole of Renzy’s feet with jagged fragments of glass.
Renzy begins to struggle in my arms, which says “put me down, asshole” more effectively than words could. I place his ass on the counter beside the sink, and in my attempt to examine the inch-long slice on the side of his face, I can’t miss the look of revulsion in his eyes that nicely matches Morning’s.
“Did you break into Renzy’s house because we wouldn’t talk to you? Spill it, Seven. I heard the shattering glass.”
I’m shocked by the realization that she believes I’m capable of such maliciousness.
Doesn’t she realize that I’ve been trying to shelter her from pain since I was old enough to know if I didn’t do it, no one would? Or does she only remember the times I failed?
Thankfully, Renzy answers her question, and, in effect, defends me. He shakes his head and shows her a stack of cards and letters in his hand.
“I think he had some kind of a fight with his mother,” I explain.
The expression in Morning’s eyes softens.
“The papers he’s holding were scattered on the floor when I came into the living room, and he gathered them up… and no, I didn’t break in.” I add out of the corner of my mouth, “The frigging front door was wide open.”
A stain of pink rises up Morning’s ivory throat and covers her face. She knows she misjudged me, or at a minimum, she did in this case. “Well, what are you waiting for, Seven? Take care of his feet—they’re dripping blood.”
When Morning was ten years old, she loved to practice the spins she learned in ballet class on the hardwood floor of the townhouse in which we resided for several years, on the Scheldt River in Belgium. One twirl took on a life of its own, according to her tearful explanation, causing the mirror mounted on her bedroom door to fall to the floor and shatter. If I were a superstitious type, I might believe that this event started a seven-year streak of bad luck for Morning that culminated with her rape. But as a practical person, I use my memory of the experience to guide me as I examine Renzy’s feet.
His right foot is definitely in worse shape, as a shard of glass is protruding from his sole, just below his big toe. Without warning, I step back and lift his ankle gently in my hand so I can plan my strategy. Morning, who has been rummaging through the drawers, produces tweezers and then dashes to Renzy’s bedroom, returning with a lighter. Quickly, she sterilizes the tweezers, and I go to work, gently removing the glass with surprisingly steady hands. Renzy doesn’t so much as flinch as I dislodge the piece of glass, which is as big as a jagged nickel.
Upon closer examination, I find multiple splinters all over the soles of both feet, and as I remove them, Renzy seems to remove himself from the entire situation. He somehow places himself in a trance, relaxing even as I pull out sliver after sliver. Morning reveals her empathy through repetitive, breathy gasps, and I wonder if she’s remembering the bloody results of her uninhibited dance spin in Belgium. Yet the sounds don’t distract me as I’m focused on my task.
“I think I got them all,” I say, and Renzy’s eyes immediately widen, indicating that he’s back in the here and now. I can finally breathe again. And I can’t help but wonder why Mommie Dearest hasn’t checked on her injured son to see how he’s faring.
Very slowly Renzy looks up and studies the details of my face. It’s a strangely intense experience with Morning so near, but I don’t squirm. I owe him this moment of scrutiny. And Morning simply watches the powerful interaction, as if she’s allowing Renzy time to find a measure of peace with me, which is what I sincerely hope he’s doing.
Finally, Morning says, “I found antibiotic cream and bandages.”
Renzy is still totally caught up in my face.
I lean to wash my hands in the small sink. As I dry them on the towel on the rack, Renzy’s penetrating gaze softens, much like Morning’s did earlier. He lifts a flattened hand
to his lips and extends it down and out. I nod, understanding the gesture as American Sign Language for thank you. He does it again and then looks at Morning. I clean and bandage his feet with the same care I bandaged Morning’s knees many years ago.
RENZY LETS me carry him to his bedroom, even though I know he can walk now that the glass has been removed from his feet. Maybe I just want to carry him. Maybe I’m worried this is going to be the last time I ever get to wrap my arms around him because I screwed up royally with him last week. Or maybe I know how absolutely unforgivable what I did to him was.
After placing Renzy gently on the bed, I straighten and decide it’s the perfect time to make some small talk. My plan is to break the ice that has formed between us and prevent another moment of silence in which he’ll look away from me in disgust and point to the door. “So, do you know sign language?”
Renzy leans back on his pillows and studies me some more. His eyes look different than they did in the bathroom. The softness has turned into something else.
Fear.
Is that what I see?
I refuse to accept that I have done something so cruel to make this humble and unassuming soul afraid of me. I will erase it. I will erase my mistakes and make everything all right.
I will fix this.
“What? Cat got your tongue?” I ask with a smirk.
Shit—did I or did I not just make a tasteless joke? Why am I so fucking tactless?
“Not funny, asshole.” Morning is watching my disappointing performance from the doorway. “Christ, brother.”
Miraculously, though, Renzy seems to disagree with her. He laughs, and then pokes out his tongue, shapes a cat’s claw with his fingers, and starts to pantomime a cat “getting” his tongue. I can’t help but laugh too. Maybe it’s out of relief.
“Do you know sign language or not? Because if you know it, Renzy, I’ll learn it too, and we’ll be able to talk… and that’d be cool, right?” I think I might be pleading. Would it be more effective if I dropped to my knees?
