by Meg Leder
He immediately notices and steps forward, his face getting serious. “Parker, about last night. The stuff I said . . . you know I was just drunk, right?”
“Charlie!” Dad yells again from downstairs, and Charlie winces, looking over to me, confused.
“Why is he so mad . . . ?” He freezes, understanding dawning on his face. “You told them.”
“It’s for your own good,” I insist.
“So you just went straight to Mom and Dad? You didn’t even try to talk to me first?”
“Like you’d listen,” I say, but my resolve fades further as his expression sharpens, turning dangerous.
“God, you are unbelievable. Remember this moment, little sister. Because someday you’re going to mess up too, and let me tell you: I’m going to enjoy every single fucking second of it.”
I try not to flinch, but his words are so horrible that I immediately have to head into my room and slam the door behind me before Charlie can see the way my hands are shaking.
• • •
The sound of Taylor Swift singing her heart out in my earphones is covering up most of the yelling currently happening downstairs.
In fact, I could almost pretend it’s not happening, if it weren’t for Mustard sitting next to me, perched at the edge of the bed, wary, his ears pushed back at attention.
I’m petting his soft orange head, trying to calm both of us down, when my phone buzzes.
Em.
On our way to airport but wanted to say hello. Missed you last night! How are things now?
I don’t want Em to worry, so I weigh my words carefully before I reply.
C’s hungover, but everything else is OK. Miss you already. oxo
Her response is immediate.
Serves him right.
Then she texts me our favorite emoji, the one of two girls with rabbit ears dancing together.
I respond with the cat with heart eyes, and then put my phone on the table and scoop my arm around my cat, humming along softly with the music.
I must fall asleep somewhere in the middle of that, because when I wake up, it’s five fifteen, which means I’ve just slept for the past six-plus hours.
I could sleep for another six, another sixteen.
I take out my earbuds.
From the open window, I hear the sounds of Dad clanging around on the back deck, the smell of the grill wafting through the room.
I wonder what happened with Charlie and our parents but not enough to venture out of my room yet, that’s for sure.
Mustard has relocated to the windowsill, watching me with interest. He meows, and I lean over and offer him a head rub, then press my palm against my sternum, breathe in deep, then stand, heading to my laptop.
When I log in, I have two new e-mails, both from “collier5.”
Ruby.
I click on the first one, dated only a few hours after I sent my message to her.
Dear Parker,
It was so good meeting you yesterday too! Thanks for writing me! If I didn’t make it clear already, your kind of who I want to be when I “grow up” (haha). Did you apply to Harvard early acceptance? What were your SATs? (You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want!) Did you have good recommendation letters? When did you decide you wanted to be a doctor?
I would write more now, but I’m on my phone at work and Finn Casper is being a total garbage monster and so I need to go.
Thank you in advance for all your help!
Your (hopefully) friend,
Ruby
For a second, I think about the logistics of trying to talk to her about Harvard, of pretending I’m as excited as I should be, about how things are so messed up right now, I don’t know if I can be a role model, let alone a friend, to anyone.
And then I click to the next one, dated today.
Dear Parker,
Not to be all stalkery, but I wasn’t sure if you got my last e-mail? If you did and are just too busy, I totally get it. I know I can be a lot sometimes! But if you didn’t, maybe you’re not getting this one either? Hmmm.
Also, I was rereading the note I sent you and realized I had a you’re/your error in there. SORRY! If Finn hadn’t been bugging the crap out of me when I wrote it, I would have caught it. So embarrassed. It’s Finn’s fault.
And again, sorry if I’m too much.
Sincerely yours,
Ruby Collie
My eyes hone in again on “a lot” and “too much,” and something in my heart hurts.
I immediately feel awful that Ruby was waiting for a response from me, that she would think it has anything to do with her, that under all her bright light, she worries.
That part of Ruby doesn’t remind me of Em.
It reminds me of me.
I start a response.
Ruby, hi!
I’m so sorry I didn’t get back to you until now. My life has been kind of intense the past few days and my head isn’t in the best place, so I haven’t been on e-mail a ton. I’d still like to hang out sometime, though. I’ll write you when things calm down, okay? And please don’t worry—it’s not you at all. I was really happy to meet you.
xox, Parker
I put aside my laptop and lie down. Mustard pads across the bed to my side, purring immediately and intensely.
He nestles his head against me and gives my hand small rough licks, like he’s grooming me, and I let myself relax for a second.
But before he gets too settled, my e-mail chimes. He gives me a crabby nip as I pick up my laptop again.
It’s a response from Ruby.
Hi, Parker.
Thanks for your note! I’m sorry to hear things are intense lately. I get it. Sometimes being in my own head is a lot for me—maybe that’s what it’s like for you too? I know I don’t know you that well, but if you ever need a friend, I’m here. I look forward to hearing from you soon.
Your hopefully future friend Ruby
I lie back, in awe of her kindness. What would it be like to be that open with people you didn’t know?
Happy I’m paying attention to him again, Mustard gives my hand another lick, then butts his head against my palm, reminding me he’s there, and for a brief, lovely second, I don’t feel so alone.
And then I think about Charlie, about what he said to me at the river, about how I told my parents, about the anger in his eyes when he found out.
I scrunch my eyes shut and wait for the forgetfulness of sleep, hoping when I wake up I won’t be a mess anymore.
Sixteen
EVEN THOUGH I’M SITTING directly across from him as he drives down I-71, Charlie hasn’t said more than five words to me since I passed him in the hallway on Sunday morning.
That evening, after my so-long-it-wasn’t-right nap, I emerged from my room briefly for dinner. But Charlie didn’t join us, and based on Dad’s irritable mood and the circles under Mom’s eyes, I didn’t question his absence.
The next day, when we were getting ready to leave for the Schneider and Hall annual Memorial Day picnic, Charlie announced to our parents that he was going to skip it this year.
“No way,” Dad said.
“Come on,” Charlie said. “It’s my last night without tutoring homework on my plate.”
“You think you’ve earned my trust back after twenty-four hours? At this point, I don’t know if you want to stay home so you can try your hand at arson or do multiple lines of cocaine!”
“For God’s sake,” Charlie muttered.
“Phil,” Mom started, but Dad held up his hand.
“I don’t want to go to this picnic either, but we’re all going if it’s the last thing this family does!”
The picnic itself wasn’t much better.
When Dad’s colleagues weren’t asking me about Harvard, they were talking about the humidity. And when they weren’t talking about the humidity, they were talking about how great it was to hear Charlie was in remission.
“It’s been a big relief for all of us,” I said to Dad’s
boss when he asked. “I feel like we can all breathe again. Don’t you agree, Charlie?” I asked, smiling, willing him to stop sitting at the edge of the picnic table, sullen, and to join me in the conversation.
He met my eyes evenly. “Actually, I don’t,” he said. “Not at all.”
Six words.
I flinched, giving Dad’s boss an embarrassed smile, while Charlie walked away, leaving me there.
We drive under Finn’s message on I-71.
I shift uncomfortably, feeling a little guilty that Charlie’s in so much trouble, but then I stop. This is all on Charlie, not me.
I turn to him as we pull off the highway onto the exit for the hospital and stop at the light.
“So, is this how it’s going to go? You’re never going to talk to me again?”
I wait, but he doesn’t say anything. It’s like I don’t even exist.
The light turns green, and he guns forward. With the sudden movement, the textbooks stacked on the backseat slide onto the floor.
“Nice,” I mutter, looking over at him, but his eyes are fixed on the road. I should let it go, but I can’t help myself. “You know it was for your own good. That’s why I told them, okay? It’s because I care about you.”
Charlie lets out a low whistle, shaking his head, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing, but he still doesn’t say anything.
I look out the window right as we’re passing the colorful mural on Calhoun. I must have missed it on Friday.
We passed that mural every time we went to Children’s for his treatment the first time he was sick. It was the one thing I looked forward to: seeing the rainbow colors blur by from the backseat of the car.
Seeing it now doesn’t help. I close my eyes, but I can’t stop the bad feelings creeping into me again, my body bracing itself as we turn into the hospital drive. I’ve been so consumed by the drama with Charlie, I forgot I was actually going back to the hospital. And this time I can’t blame it on HealthWheat.
Charlie jerks the car over to the curb so suddenly, my seat belt yanks me back. I open my eyes.
“Geez, Charlie! Watch it!”
He sits there, not moving, the car idling, waiting for me to get out.
“Okay, fine. Don’t talk to me. I don’t care. If that’s what it takes to keep you alive, I’m fine with that.” As I unbuckle the seat belt, I spill my purse, and lean down, trying to grab all the contents.
Charlie scoffs. “Yeah, okay, whatever lets you sleep at night.”
I straighten, shoving my cell phone and sparkly lip balm back in my bag. “What do you mean?”
“What do you think I mean? You sold me out, Parker.”
“You were putting yourself in danger! You’ll thank me someday.”
“Thank you for what? The fact that my crap-ass summer has now gotten five billion times worse? That I’m grounded from here until God knows when, or that if Mom and Dad catch the faintest amount of alcohol in my system, they’ll take away my driving privileges and probably send me to rehab? Or maybe I should thank you for the fact that now, in addition to support group, I get to go see a therapist two times a week?”
“No. You should thank me for the fact that you’ll be alive!” I yell.
He tightens his hands on the wheel, sucking in his breath, and when he turns to me, his eyes are so furious, I involuntarily shrink back against the seat.
“You know, the other night, the stuff I said . . .”
Sometimes I wish you were dead too.
“I figured it was probably just because I was drunk, you know? But it’s times like this when I wonder if part of me really meant it.”
As that sinks in, I push the car door open, but my legs aren’t working. I lean over, like I’m going to be sick.
My vision is tunneling in, and I want to fold my body over and over until I’m so small, I don’t exist anymore.
My heart’s in my mouth.
It’s happening again.
But even though my body is clumsy and confused like I have extra limbs, I finally manage to stand, slamming the door behind me.
“Aw, come on, wait. You’re blowing this all out of proportion,” Charlie says. “I’m sorry, okay?”
I turn back to him, trying hard not to cry. “You really hate me that much?”
He sighs. I see it then—how bone-weary my brother looks. It’s more than just circles under his eyes or that he hasn’t gained back his pre-chemo weight yet. It’s like something inside of him, the something that used to be bright and gleaming, the something that used to make everyone he met fall in love with him, is cracked in two, all jagged edges on the inside.
In those few seconds, his lack of a denial is all the answer I need.
“God, Charlie. What happened to us?” I ask.
His face breaks, and I see him there, the little boy who came back for me.
I want to say I miss you.
I want to say Charlie, stay.
But as if he’s deciding something, he frowns, then guns the engine so hard, the tires squeal as the car peels out of the lot.
He doesn’t come back.
I wipe my face on my arm and dig through my bag for a tissue, trying to calm what’s happening inside me right as Laurel with the designer flats passes me.
“Hey, Laurel,” I say, sniffling.
“Uh, hi?” she replies, and I realize she doesn’t remember me as she breezes past, leaving a stench of perfume in her wake.
I can’t do it.
I drop down on a bench outside—releasing my bag at my feet, resting my elbows against my knees, my head in my hands.
Behind me, the automatic doors slide open and closed, air-conditioning making its way weakly out between. I hear children and parents passing by and try to muster up the will to move because I can’t screw this up. I already missed a day.
But I can’t do it.
Charlie’s words—I feel them in my lungs, how sharp they are.
My breath begins to hitch, and I push the heel of my clammy palm against my chest, pressing it hard against my ribs.
My thoughts become frantic and electric, banging around the insides of me, brittle and hard, and my heart is beating two words: Not enough not enough not enough.
“Are you okay, miss?” the woman in front of me asks. She’s holding a little boy’s hand, and he’s hiding behind her leg because he’s scared, because I’m scaring him.
I’m scaring a sick child.
I grab my purse and walk away from them and the hospital as quickly as I can.
My heart doesn’t ease up.
I find a bus stop and crouch on the bench, leaning over and putting my head between my knees, trying to slow down my breathing.
I’m having a heart attack.
Everything in me is hot and frenzied and terrible, and I just need to get out of this place, out of my body, out of me.
But as I sit there on the bus stop bench, the sun beating down on me, I realize I don’t have anyone to call.
Em’s gone.
Matty’s gone.
Mom and Dad are at work
And Charlie’s not coming back.
I wish I had access to Mom’s Uber account.
A cab. I’ll call a cab.
I start digging through my bag for my wallet, but my hands shake more when I realize it’s not there, that I must have left it on the floor of the car when I spilled my purse.
“Oh God, oh God,” I mutter, resting my head in my sweaty hands.
I tell myself I can just wait, wait until Mom and Dad get off work, wait until someone can pick me up.
But even as I tell myself that, my breath speeds up even faster and my heart starts to move between my lips, and I choke, trying to keep it in.
I need help I need help I need help.
Ruby.
I hesitate for a second, but in her e-mail, she said being in her own head was a lot for her, too, and if I ever needed a friend, she was there. Maybe she could call me an Uber and I can pay her back later.
“Float. How can I help you?”
“Is Ruby Collie there?”
“She’s not in yet. We don’t open until eleven.”
Crap, I say inside my head. Crapshitcrap, my heart beats.
“Um, can you have her call me as soon as she can? 555-0165. This is Parker. Parker McCullough. Tell her . . .” My voice breaks. “Tell her I need help.”
The voice on the other end makes a noise of recognition. “Parker? It’s Finn Casper. What’s going on?”
I feel my heart finally leave me then, floating up out of my mouth, away from me into the blue, light as helium, and I start crying, and even though the phone is still up against my ear and Finn is saying something, all I can hear are Charlie’s words, the kind you can never take back.
Seventeen
“HEY, I HEARD SOMEONE needed a ride?”
I look up.
There’s a beat-up old red pickup truck idling in front of the bus stop, and Finn’s in the driver’s seat, leaning over toward the passenger side, pushing the door open.
When I stand up, my legs are wobbly.
As I climb in, he takes my bag, puts it on the floor, and turns off the loud thrashy music coming from the speakers. “Sorry I’m late. I had to find someone to cover my afternoon shift.”
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t know who to call. I thought Ruby might be working.”
He gives me a funny smile. “You know Ruby can’t even drive yet.”
I shake my head.
“It’s okay. Fred owes me a shift. Hey, listen. Are you all right? You were pretty upset on the phone.”
I shake my head—a brief no—but don’t look at him. Instead, I focus on holding my hands together so I don’t start crying again.
I wait for him to say something, but it is quiet and the quiet is terrible.
His hand lands lightly on my shoulder. “Where do you need to go?”
I can feel the tears gathering. “I don’t know,” I say, because I don’t know anything anymore, and that is so terrifying, I’m pretty sure the fear is going to swallow up every single bit of me.
Finn looks like he’s weighing options. “How about this: I’m hungry. Are you hungry?”
