LOST3 - Layla Hagen

by LaylaHagen3

  There’s a pause, and I squirm in my spot, feeling his disapproval radiating through the phone. “So listen,” he says after a while, “some people in my class are going to play billiards. We can—

  “I can’t come,” I cut him off, choking on my words. “I still want to do some stuff for the challenge.”

  “But it’s Friday night,” Michael protests.

  “I know, I know. But I really have to work.”

  “Fine, talk to you tomorrow,” Michael says, defeated.

  My stomach flips with a mix of relief and anxiety. Relief because, for once, I didn’t have to lie to Michael about why I don’t want to go out, and anxiety because I fear one day he’ll get tired of me turning down all of his invitations and bolt. The pathetic excuses I sometimes use to avoid going out . . .

  I can’t tell him the truth. If I did, I’m one thousand percent sure he would bolt. Who wouldn’t? Ms. Johnson, the school counselor, says I should tell him everything; that he would understand. But I rarely do what she tells me. Besides, I know Michael wouldn’t understand. I knew that from the moment he joined the others, mocking me at school.

  As I change my clothes, I remember that dreadful day. I was at the nurse’s office at school for a vaccination, chatting with Jess about our English homework. When my turn came, I rolled my sleeve, still thinking I should pick another Shakespeare play for my essay. And then I saw the needle. Next thing I knew, my palms were suddenly sweating and I had serious trouble breathing. I’d experienced something like that a few times before, but always thought it was just my crippling anxiety rearing its ugly head. This time was different. I was convinced I was dying. It was terrifying. The whole thing didn’t last more than a few minutes, but my desperate attempts of avoiding the needle had everyone laughing.

  Everyone except the nurse, who took me to the school counselor right away. That’s how I met Ms. Johnson. She claimed it was a panic attack. She knew from Jess’s mum about Kate and concluded it must be related to that.

  I vehemently denied it. She asked if I had experienced anything like that before Kate’s death.

  No.

  Then she asked me to write down all the times I experienced anything remotely similar to what happened today. I easily remembered the incidents.

  A house party I went to with Jess—the moment we entered the house and I saw the crowd smoking and drinking alcohol someone managed to smuggle in, my heart started to race at a nauseating speed, and cold sweat covered my body. I stammered some excuse, struggling to breathe and then ran home. It was the only party I ever went to.

  Then there was the time someone turned up at school with a black eye, holding an ice pack on it. The second I saw the ice pack it was like someone had punched me in the chest, knocking the air out of it. My chest hurt so much I actually thought I was having a heart attack. It lasted far longer than ten minutes, almost a half hour.

  I wrote down at least twenty incidents before Ms. Johnson asked me to stop and think whether any of those incidents were related to Kate in any way.

  I didn’t try to deny the connection again. I’d thought all those things were coincidental, but looking at the list made it painfully clear they weren’t. The incident with the syringe in the nurse’s office was possibly the most obvious of all, because the last time I’d seen a syringe was when I went to bring Kate home. It was full of heroin, pointed at my neck while someone pinned me against the wall. The image was still fresh in my mind, haunting me almost every night. My reaction to the party was most likely because it reminded me of all the times I went searching for Kate, and the dumps where I found her. Even the ice pack incident seemed clearly connected to Kate under the knowing eye of Ms. Johnson. Mum and I used to put ice packs on Jess’s abused veins, hoping against hope they would regain their normal appearance.

  Ms. Johnson kindly indicated there was medication to help with my condition, but she wouldn’t recommend it. She said I had to find it in myself to overcome this.

  I didn’t. I chose to hide instead. From the world and myself. And most of the time, hiding from the world is easier than hiding from myself.

  Because what Ms. Johnson doesn’t know, what no one knows, because I never told anyone, is that it’s not just the sorrow that constantly haunts me. It’s the guilt, too. It eats away, day by day. Kate’s revenge. No, not Kate’s, because she wasn’t revengeful. She was sweet and loving.

  Fate. . . karma . . . whatever.

  It makes sense; since I was to blame for a life lost, I shouldn’t be able to live mine normally either.

  Serves me right.

  I never told Michael about any of this or about Kate. If he knew what a coward I am—and the price Kate had to pay because of it—how could he love me? How could anyone? No, I know exactly what he’d do if he knew: realize I’m not worthy of his love and bolt.

  That’s what any sane person would do.

  I shudder when I finish getting dressed. From the looks of the soaked clothes I peeled off, I wonder if I should take a shower, to make sure I won’t get a cold. With the challenge coming up, the last thing I need is to get sick. Just then Jess bursts into my room, a wide grin splashed on her face. She holds her hands behind her back, as if hiding something between her palms.

  “Do you promise to give me your honest opinion?” she asks.

  “Umm . . . on what?”

  She frowns. “My nail polish, of course. It’s not neon pink after all.”

  “Oh, right, I forgot. Sure. I always give you my honest opinion; you just don’t value it too much.”

  She sticks out her tongue and then holds out her hands for me to see her nails.

  And then it starts. As always, with the heavy, almost painful, sensation that I’m suffocating. I gasp for air as I wipe the sudden sheet of cold sweat from my forehead. I slump on the bed, holding both hands over my chest, choking and choking . . .

  “Serena?” Jess asks, unsure. She’s seen this happen too often not to know what it is. Jess is one of the people I never quite managed to hide from. She quickly hides her hands behind her back. But it’s too late. The bright turquoise polish is carved in my memory.

  It’s just nail polish. Just freaking nail polish.

  I repeat this to myself over and over again, but it doesn’t help. My entire body starts trembling. Kate was wearing that same color when we buried her.

  I swallow hard a few times, fighting the violent urge to throw up.

  “This has to stop,” Jess says, kneeling in front of me and taking my trembling hands in hers, carefully bending her fingers so I don’t see her nails. “What if it happens when you are swimming or something, for God’s sake? You could drown. Or during an exam?”

  I straighten up, still shaking. She’s right. What if it would happen during an exam? Like an SAT or the math challenge? That would royally screw up everything. Stanford. My future job. My parents’ future.

  Funny how Jess’s drowning comment worries me much less.

  It’s the image of my parents, old and alone, that snaps me back. One child dead and the remaining one incapable of taking care of them.

  Because she’s a coward.

  No, Jess is right. This has to stop.

  I stand up so brusquely that Jess falls back. She cocks an eyebrow as I announce, “I need to take a shower.”

  Still choking on my breath, I head to the bathroom and open Jess’s drawer, revealing her entire makeup arsenal and about a dozen bottles of nail polish. I find the turquoise one with ease.

  Cold sweat breaks out on my entire body, and any wisp of air seems to evade me again. But I don’t stop. I walk inside the shower and turn the water on full blast, so it will cover any sounds.

  I don’t even bother taking off my clothes. Any second of hesitation and my resolve might weaken, or break altogether, and then the only moment of bravery I’ve had in years will be gone, cowardice taking its place again.

  The pungent smell of the polish brings me to my knees, and now inhaling is agony. Pure and slas
hing. Tears as hot as the water flowing over my T-shirt start swelling behind my eyelids. Slowly, very slowly, I apply the polish on the nail of my left forefinger. A sob racks my body. And then another one. I grit my teeth, wiping away the tears. Fresh ones replace them immediately, and I wipe them away with my wet sleeve because I need my eyes clear to see what I’m doing. Sob after sob, I force myself to polish all my nails. It burns like acid. With every stroke, it’s like someone pricks my heart, carving ridge after ridge in it, until it completely falls apart, then puts it back only to dismantle it again.

  Every time I blink, I see the image of Kate’s white, cold hands limp on her sides, the bright turquoise on her nails the only splash of color on her lifeless body. I try not to blink too often.

  Nail polish, that’s all this is.

  There’s no reason to avoid it.

  I’ve hidden enough.

  I’ve been a coward long enough.

  No more.

  2008 – College Junior

  “What do you mean, the card was rejected?” I ask the proprietor. She stands behind the counter, holding my credit card between her fingers, her eyebrows raised. “Try again.”

  “I tried four times.” She scoffs, eying me from head to toe with a disdain that tells me she’d like nothing better than to call the cops to remove me from her store.

  If I had bothered to dress up, or at the very least changed my sweat-drenched T-shirt, she wouldn’t be treating me like this. Nothing turns jerks into polite, ass-kissing robots faster than the sight of expensive clothes. Actually, if she were younger, my I-don’t-give-a-fuck appearance could work in my favor, but women in their fifties seem to find it about as appealing as a dead rat.

  I can see why she doesn’t want me anywhere close to her precious jewels.

  Not that it pisses me off any less. Today is my sister’s eleventh birthday, and I promised to buy her a tiara as a gift. I also promised I would spend the entire day with her, but since it’s already noon, I fucked-up that promise already. I had one too many shots of tequila last night after I won my latest boxing match and passed out, only waking up half an hour ago. Changing clothes was the last thing on my mind.

  “Would you like to pay with a check?” she asks, laying my credit card on the counter, already putting the tiara back in its case. As if I’m going to steal the damn thing.

  “I left the checkbook at home,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “Then I suggest you go after your checkbook or call your bank to ask what the trouble is.” She gestures to the door, her meaning obvious: whatever I choose to do, I’d better do it outside her store.

  I stride out of the store, cursing out loud. In no mood to go get my checkbook, I do something I haven’t done in three years, since I got access to my trust fund: I call my adviser at the bank. I’m surprised I still have her number. She picks up after a few rings.

  “Mr. Cohen, what a surprise to hear from you again.” She doesn’t sound surprised at all. “And a pleasure, of course. What can I do for you?”

  “My credit card is not working,” I say, leaning on the wall next to the shop, lighting up a cigarette. “Whatever system failure you’re having, I need you to fix it right now.”

  “I am afraid this is not a system failure on our part. Your credit card has been blocked.”

  “What do you mean blocked? I’m in a freaking store; I need to pay for my stuff. Unblock it.”

  “I understand your distress, Mr. Cohen, but there is nothing I can do.” There is a pause. “The balance on your account is two dollars and seventy cents.”

  I burst out laughing, sucking in a deep drag and blowing it out before saying, “Look again, Ms. . .” I realize I’ve no idea what her name is. “There was three million dollars in it last time I checked.”

  “When did you last check it?” She sounds perfectly polite, but the mocking undertone in her voice makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

  “Three years ago,” I say, pulling myself from the wall, suddenly cold.

  “You didn’t receive the annual letters with the up-to-date balance?”

  I did, but I never bothered to look at them, because I didn’t see the point. Checking the balance is for those who are worried they’ll run out of money. A hard thing to do with three million. Who the hell can spend three million dollars in three years?

  Apparently, I can.

  I don’t say anything for a few minutes, and then she says, “I can send you last year’s report—”

  “That won’t be necessary,” I say, and shut the phone. I know what I burned the money on. Racing cars, regular cars, trips, and a whole lot of other shit I don’t want to remember.

  I just never realized I burned all of it.

  I slump down on the pavement, lighting up another cigarette, ignoring the glares of the passersby. By the time I finish all ten remaining cigarettes in my package, I taste blood. I chewed my lower lip raw.

  My phone starts vibrating; Dad’s name appears on the screen.

  Fuck.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “Where are you, James? Your sister has been waiting for you for hours. I hope you didn’t forget it’s her birthday today.”

  I grunt. I know my father. He’d never call me to remind me of my sister’s birthday. I’m surprised he remembers it’s her birthday at all.

  “I had a call from your bank this morning.” Ah, yes, the true reason for his call.

  “I talked to the bank myself just a few minutes ago.”

  “Good. Then you know where you stand. I sent Peter to fetch you and bring you to the house. Where are you? He’s in front of your apartment and tells me you’re not there.”

  Interesting. I never realized my dad even knew where I lived. He never bothered to come see my place. Normally, the fact that he sent his driver to pick me up like I’m a fucking ten-year-old would irk the hell out of me, but it’s a three-hour drive to my parents’ house, and I have to get there to see my sister anyway. I no longer have a car, because one of the frustrated jackasses I knocked out in the boxing ring decided to knock out my car. The police found it at the bottom of the ocean, near the coast. They didn’t find out which jackass did it, but that’s fine by me. I don’t want them to find him.

  I want to find him myself.

  But the bottom line is, I have no car, and, as I just found out, no money to take a cab all the way to my parents’ house, let alone buy a new car. So I give Dad the store’s address.

  Peter, who’s been working for my dad forever, arrives half an hour later. He looks as good-natured as ever, and clearly has no idea I just became my family’s greatest fuck-up in the history of fuck-ups. I don’t do anything to correct that impression.

  On the road, I try to imagine how the conversation with my dad will go, but last time Dad and I had anything remotely resembling a conversation, I was ten and had just broken a window in our house playing football. Not much to go on. Then I think of my grandfather. Thank God he’s not alive anymore, because surely the news that I busted the trust fund he set up for me would’ve sent him straight to his cardiologist.

  When my parents’ house comes into view, I can’t help snorting. It was a twentieth-century mansion when I was a kid. But my mom’s favorite hobby is redecorating, and over the years the house has become a monstrosity of steel, wood, and above all, glass. I suspect her redecorating efforts involved some kind of bulldozer, because there’s not one brick left of the house I grew up in. I’m not exactly sure when the transformation happened, because I left for boarding school when I was eleven. I spent the summers here, but even that stopped once high school started.

  My dad works; my mom redecorates the house and throws parties.

  They have a good routine.

  My dad isn’t a bad person. Just a cold one. He’s been like that for as long as I can remember. My mom used to work as a model, back when she still lived in her native England, before moving here to be with my dad. But then Dad insisted that Mom stay home with me, a
nd then my sister. Because he loved her very much, Mom said. But I’d heard enough of their fights when I was little to know it was out of jealousy that Dad didn’t want Mom to work. He used the words I love you against Mom the same way I used them against Lara. As a means of control. I inherited the beast inside me from him. Only I’m worse.

  Mom is alive.

  Lara isn’t.

  And no matter what my therapist says, I know there’s a good chance that any woman I’ll love will end up the same way.

  Dead.

  Once I’m inside the house, I head straight to the library, and it dawns on me it’s very unlike Dad to be at home on a weekday when he usually spends his weekends at the office too. I might not live at home anymore, but I’m sure that hasn’t changed.

  I know why he’s home. He doesn’t want to risk his employees eavesdropping on our conversation.

  When I open the door to the library, my father is seated behind his desk, shuffling through some papers. He looks a lot like me, except his hair is gray and his eyes are black, not blue like mine. He shoves the papers aside when I close the door behind me.

  “Sit down, James.”

  I sit in the chair opposite him. His eyes fall on my filthy T-shirt and my left eye, and I think this is the first time my father has really seen me in years. At this moment, I wish I’d bothered to change, or at least cover the bruise around my left eye. But I wasn’t banking on seeing anyone except my sister Dani today. I avoid Mom and Dad every time I come to see her, and Dani is young enough to believe the bullshit stories I tell her about how I got my bruises. In a few years she won’t anymore, but that gives me enough time to perfect my bullshitting.

  No amount of bullshitting will work with Dad. He sits up straight, putting both hands on the desk.

  “I always intended for my children to have the best. Apparently, the best was not enough for you, was it, James?”

  “Dad . . .”

  “That’s over now,” he says simply.

  I gulp. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Starting today, you’re on your own. You’ll have to do with what you have.”