by Schow, Ryan
“I don’t think so, but maybe the party incident…maybe it messed me up. Got things twisted in me, you know?”
“You were just scared.”
She’s fully crying now and I’m holding her hand tight. “I was,” she says with so much pain in her voice it’s actually causing me agony of my own. “I’m still scared.”
“It’s okay, Netty. It’s okay.”
She wipes her eyes and says, “This isn’t the kind of conversation I bet you were expecting we’d have.”
“No, it’s not,” I say. “But I’m glad we did.”
“I never looked at being with Chloe as a girlfriend/girlfriend kind of thing. I guess I just felt safe with her. You know? She’s gentle and fun, and the way she likes me feels different from what I’m used to. My parents love me, but it’s an obligatory kind of love parents have for their children. And if boys only love me for what I can give them, or for this bony body and these sorry tits, it’s not real love, is it?”
“No.”
“That’s why I guess I like Chloe. She really seems to love me.”
“So it’s not that you’re a lesbian as much as you’re responding to the way she feels about you and it feels good.”
“Yes.”
“Have you seen her down there?” She nods. “And?”
“I haven’t…you know…I’m not sure—”
“You’ve at least touched her down there, right?” Netty nods her head fast. I can’t stop from grinning. This whole conversation is just f*cking weird, but it’s necessary never-the-less. “I have to say, Nettles, you’re not gay. You just need and want things you’re not getting.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re totally normal, but the events of that party pitched you into an abnormal state and now you’re reaching for something to hang on to, to anchor you.”
“You think?”
“Mmhmm. Pretty sure. Lesbians like the vaginas. This is going to sound bad, I know, but if you can’t touch one, or eat one, then you aren’t a lesbian. Simple as that.”
“I can’t. Do either, I mean.”
The relief in me is palpable. It’s not that I’m afraid of my friend being gay—that I could totally handle—it’s that I was terrified of losing Netty to another girl. Being friends with her has always been the best thing in my life.
“You need to come clean with Chloe, tell her what you told me.”
“She’s going to be hurt.”
“I know.”
“How can I work with her now?” Netty asks. “She’s jealous of you. Now I go to lunch with you and come back and break up with her? How will that look?”
“I don’t know, Netty.”
The minute we fall silent between each other is the minute I hear all the white noise clarify. People next to us are talking about their jobs, their dogs, how their parents are ill and that their sister won’t call them.
I take a bite of my pasta and it’s incredible. No, it’s orgasmic. “Oh my God, Netty, you have to try some of this before I wolf the whole thing down and start licking the plate.”
Before long, me and Netty are besties again, and with all this tension safely behind us, it’s like nothing ever changed.
There are more people in my life than ever now, but truly not a single one of them can fill the space in my heart Netty occupies. On some level I think she knows this, on another level, I wonder if she ever doubts this. That would be understandable considering everything that’s happened to me this last year. With her moving to the city and me at Astor Academy, the distance between us is exacting a toll. I hate that. Yet it softens my heart.
“I love you, Netty. You’re my best friend, no matter what.”
“Better be,” she says. Then: “I love you, too.”
4
When we’re done with lunch, Netty heads back to work and I head back to the plastic surgeon’s office. I can’t stop thinking of my conversation with Netty. Thank God we’re still BFFs! So why do I feel so sad? This sickness in my stomach feels like my sub-conscious playing out Netty’s tragedy. Her almost-rape. Chloe coming to her rescue where I couldn’t. That Netty was so starved for love she thought she had to go lesbian to find safety, sincerity, generosity…it touches this raw thing inside me and I want to cry for her. And Chloe.
Poor Chloe.
She’s about to lose Netty and it’s my fault for being a bad friend. It’s those asshole boys’ faults for being pervs. It’s Netty’s father’s fault for being a thieving Russian bull and not really being a good male role-model. Or not. I don’t know. Maybe this is all of our fates. Or God’s will. Or some rotten twist of circumstance. Or maybe this is all just about stupid boys.
Those evil, lovely creatures!
How can they hold such sway over us, and destroy us at the same time? Is this what I have to look forward to? Being taken advantage of? Being used? Or will I find a good one? Then it occurs to me: maybe girls are the same as boys and maybe me being the way I am and acting the way I’ve been acting, maybe I’m inadvertently starting to become one of the bad ones.
The thought troubles me.
I should be a better person, not lead people like Brayden and Jacob on the way I’ve been doing. It’s not fair to them. It’s not fair to Damien. Hell, it’s not fair to me either! I mean, my brain can’t decide on a boy, and my heart is desperate and clamoring for love, but my inability to pick one and stay the course feels like so many moments of weakness all laced together in a series of never-ending screw ups.
Fortunately, the closer I get to the plastic surgeon’s office, the more my thoughts shift from Chloe, Netty and my countless shortcomings and insecurities to Brayden. My friend. I start to worry for him. I’m wondering if I should’ve stayed, if his surgeries went well, if he’s even awake. Then I wonder if he’s done yet, and if he’s in pain.
I hope it’s not bad.
Back at the plastic surgery center, the nurse tells me Brayden is almost done. Three hours from the first cut, the nurse helps him into the waiting room. He’s walking on shaky legs, and not smiling. I can see he’s drugged, and still numb. His expression is so flat and dead his face could be a corpse. The nurse leaves him in my care, and I can’t help but react.
My whole body hurts looking at him.
He’s got a splint taped to his nose, and lots of white tape on his chin to hold his new implant in place. With those puffy eyes and that swollen nose, you’d think he was the victim of a hate crime. Or gang violence. He could be the poster child for spousal abuse if he was married to a gosh damn lunatic with daddy issues and blackout rage. Once he gets to me, he clings to me for life. He can barely lift his eyelids. Closed, those same eyelids look like half-plums the way they suffered all the slicing, tucking and stitching.
I ask how he’s doing and all he can do is breathe loudly out of his mouth. It’s like a rabid dog. Or a monster. Something from a budget-conscious creature-feature.
The surgeon says he has packing stuffed in both sides of his nose. That can’t feel good! Still, however bad it looks right now, the doctor says it’s going to look worse.
“In two days, he’s going to look like he’s been kicked in the face by a pack of mules,” is what the doctor says. “Keep a cold compress near, and also, have a couple of bags of peas in the freezer.”
We head to the nearest pharmacy. I help Brayden get his pain pills, because regular Ibuprofen will thin his blood and cause bleeding in his nose, and we can’t have that. When I get back into my S5, I’m expecting him to be asleep, but he’s not.
All the way home Brayden’s eyes stay shut against the sunlight. He’s trying hard not to moan, but the sounds coming out of his mouth, it’s like a baby calf dying in my front seat.
“Are you in pain?” I ask him. His answer sounds like “no,” but, I can’t be sure. The doctor said some people have bad reactions to the anesthesia post surgery. When we pull up to the house, he tries to get out of the car on his own, but ends up dropping to his knees and throwing up a
ll over the lawn. It’s not chunks of food that come out. No, this is nasty yellowish bile. The kind of smoking hot lemon juice that could burn a hole through forged steel. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt as bad for someone as I’m feeling for Brayden right now. I try to make light of the situation.
“I give you a new face and you puke all over my lawn? That’s the thanks I get?”
His groan sounds a lot like, “Fug ew.”
I laugh, knowing exactly what he means. I snake my arms under his armpits and lift him to his feet. It’s a tremendous effort. “C’mon, Sunshine, help me out here.”
When he’s finally standing, I see he’s crying, but quietly. Like he’s trying to keep it a secret. Or like he doesn’t even know.
“Go on and let those tears out, you big vagina.”
He tries not to laugh.
Inside, we head straight to the family room couch where I get him situated, his upper body properly elevated. Rebecca and my father are in the kitchen starring wordlessly. I want to tell them to help, but I wouldn’t know how they could help so I just say hello and get Brayden a cold compress. I drape it across his head; his body sags with relief. That horrible moaning finally stops.
Beauty is pain.
“It’s okay,” I say out loud, even though neither Rebecca nor my father have yet to say a single word. “The doctor said it will be like this.” I don’t know who I’m trying to reassure more, myself or them. “He said it’s almost always like this.”
Okay, he didn’t say that last part, but they visibly relax when I lay out the lie. If only I could feel the same relief.
“Do you want to swim?” Rebecca says. As exhausted as I am, a dip in the pool sounds like nine layers of heaven.
“Hell, yes.”
“Should I get Maggie?” she says.
“She’s home?”
“Came home early,” my father says. He’s got a half-finished beer in his hand. The way he’s standing, he reminds me of an overgrown teenager. But not in a terrible way. I’m starting to think of him as cool, unassuming, comfortable to be around.
“Is she okay?” I ask. Rebecca and my father both shrug their shoulders. “Rebecca, will you get Maggie while I change? It’ll be good for her to relax a bit.”
I’m getting into my cute two-piece swimsuit when I hear Rebecca scream.
5
All kinds of things pass through my brain. All kinds of awful scenarios. My mind is anticipating all the ways Rebecca might have gotten hurt. My body moves instantly, reactively, toward the sounds of the screaming. My father and I practically collide in the hallway.
His face is like mine: fused with panic.
The screaming is coming from deep inside Maggie’s room and now all my fears are for her. Me and my father both charge into the spare bedroom as Rebecca’s screaming turns to wailing.
At the back end of the large guest room, in the master-sized bathroom, Rebecca is standing over the bathtub, her hands paralyzed before her face, like she wants to cover her eyes if only the horror of what she’s seeing hadn’t frozen them in place.
“No,” I hear myself whisper, pleading mixed with dread. “No, no, no.” My body stops cold. My legs refuse to move me into the bathroom.
My father pushes past me, heading for Rebecca. That’s when he sees Maggie; he reacts right away. Turning Rebecca’s head toward him, he’s trying to stop her from seeing whatever she’s seeing. He draws her face into his chest, hugging her. Whatever he saw, it’s left a terrible mark on his face.
Rebecca is sobbing in his chest. She turns her face toward me, hitting me with a look that cuts right through me. Her eyes are tear-soaked and she’s shaking and bawling, the expression on her pale, beautiful face so wrought with pain and disbelief it’s easy to see she doesn’t know how to process it. These are no Hollywood tears. This is not the Hollywood version of pain or fear.
Which can only mean the worst thing…
Beside the bathtub, folded in a neat stack, are Maggie’s clothes. Blue jeans, shirt, underwear, socks. I don’t see her shoes. The stacked clothes by the bathtub, Maggie’s mother did the same thing. She left everything neatly folded by the bathtub right before she killed herself. It’s that memory that haunted Maggie most all these years.
My body moves from the bedroom into the bathroom, where I can see everything. The tile floor is cold on my feet, yet the air is warm with an organic, metallic smell. That’s when I see her. Face-up in a bathtub of water so red it’s almost black. The moaning that boils out of my throat is a raw, visceral sound.
A hand touches my shoulder. I shrug it off. Fall to my knees beside the tub. Waves of loss and shock and horror crash through me. Roll over me. Rearrange things inside me. Whole parts of me are instantly and permanently destroyed. Behind me a hard sniffle escapes my father’s mouth.
I reach into the syrupy water, circle an arm under Maggie’s narrow shoulders, pull her close. My mouth keeps saying no, over and over and over again, as if the admission of denial will somehow help me un-see what I’m seeing, un-feel what I’m feeling, un-shed the tears now pouring hot from my eyes. She’s in my arms, cold and lifeless. Her body emptied of its soul.
Naked, the bathwater so very, very red against her unnaturally white skin, her body is still mostly submerged in the water. She hangs limp in my arms, her head lolled backwards, bloody water dripping off her bleached-white chest, arms and shoulders. I pull her arm out of the water, lay it over her chest. That’s when I see her wrist. It’s razor-bladed open, the long, vertical slash parting the skin. The cut is so deep it looks trenched open. My eyes won’t stop seeing it.
I can’t believe this is happening.
But it is.
Memories crowd my brain: the way she was so quiet and detached from everything when we first met in the cafeteria, how she’d fallen silent for so long on the drive home, how she looked lying in bed the other day, that horrible, beautiful song playing about how we were born to die.
The world closed in on me when I first saw her in the tub, making me deaf, sucking everything but Maggie from my awareness. Now my awareness expands and I hear it playing softly, somewhere behind me: the song. It’s so sad and cutting. The music is spellbinding, like a drug, drawing me deeper and deeper into this abyss of agony.
For a long moment, I’m consumed by it.
I lower my head onto my friend’s chest, letting the words and the melody roll through me like tainted medication, leaving my brain fuzzy and my connection with the outside world impossibly thin.
I can’t stop crying. My body won’t stop shaking.
How can I still be human and know this kind of hurt? I pull Maggie even closer, my mouth making tortured sounds, my eyes blistering from the tears. Behind me, Rebecca is sobbing and my father is crying and on the tiny speakers coming from the other side of the bathroom, the singer, Lana Del Rey, is singing about once being lost and then found. Right now I feel so lost, so ruined, this agony so deep and caustic it has become its own destructive force.
Why couldn’t I stop this from happening? She didn’t have to die. She shouldn’t have done this to herself!
The song hits the second chorus, and I can’t take it anymore. I lift my head, then turn and level my eyes on the source of the music. Maggie’s iPod is on the vanity counter, the headphones unplugged, the speakers pumping out Maggie’s suicide song.
“Shut that fucking thing off!” I half scream, half sob.
My father obliges me.
The silence carries with it a dark, weighted permanence. Moments later, I hear fumbling and bumping and I know it’s Brayden in his prescription drug state coming in to see what’s happening. I snug Maggie tighter. Maybe it’s because I want to protect her, or perhaps I’m trying to protect Brayden from seeing her like this.
Maggie’s cold, clammy skin presses against mine, the mass of her wet hair laying damp and heavy on the back of my cradling arm. Her eyelids are open and her once gorgeous eyes look milky white, opaque.
Brayden reacts to
the scene with a gasp. The choking, blubbering sounds that push and pull from his throat plumb new depths within me. A new level of pain only heartbreak and the combined grief of others can elicit.
If I could die right now to stop this horrible aching, I would. I would die this instant. But I can’t, and so some part of me wants someone to turn the song back on. Some part of me wants to be haunted, to hear the hypnotic resignation in Lana Del Rey’s voice because it matches exactly how I feel. Brayden goes to his knees next to me and holds me tight and I let him.
He doesn’t even notice the blood running from his nostrils. It just doesn’t matter.
My mind starts wondering, what pushed her over the edge? Visions of the text messages and the video the music producer sent to her fill my head and I think, it has to be him.
He’s the one who pushed her to this.
Different parts of me now roar to life. These are the more vindictive parts of me, parts of me that sizzle with rage. The son of a bitch practically made this happen! If not for his threats, his bullying, she might not be lying in this tub, in my arms. She might be alive. But she’s not and that motherfucker is.
In my mind, this is a gross injustice I aim to remedy.
“Call 9-11,” I hear myself say.
6
The police and medics arrive and I don’t want to let go of Maggie. They make me. Arms circle me, lift me away from her, but by now my head is spinning. Someone sedates me, a medic, and I let him.
It works.
When I wake up, I’m in bed and it’s after midnight and Rebecca is sound asleep beside me. Her arms are curled around my waist. The chaos in the house is over, but when I get up, Maggie’s gone, her bed empty. Grief moves through me like an ice storm. Or a million tiny hands creating misery so deep they feel like they’re pulling my bones apart. In the bathroom, I sink to my knees and vomit for the first time in what feels like awhile. Somehow it comforts me. I puke and I bawl, and then I puke some more. And then I curl up on the bathroom floor and somehow manage to fall back to sleep.
