Rage: A Love Story

by Julie Anne Peters

  It’s been five months. People stopped coming by after the first month. Now the only person who visits regularly is the mother.

  She complains about everything. Carrie’s room, her bed, the linens, the room temperature, the level of attention Carrie gets. Nothing the hospice workers do is enough. I think at the end of life, enough is enough.

  Jeannette’s on the phone and I don’t want to stand around being useless. There’s harp music streaming out of one of the private rooms and it pulls me down the hallway.

  Carrie’s door is cracked, so I stick my head in and see she’s covered to her chin, her sheets tucked in so tight she couldn’t budge an inch if she did regain consciousness. Which she won’t.

  I slip in and sit in the chair beside her bed. Her face is like molded wax. Her hair has been curled and makeup applied. Her mother can’t even let her die in a natural state.

  Carrie’s head is bent at a stiff angle and I relax her chin. Better. Her lips look dry. I open her bedside table to find her lip gloss. She has one kind, a favorite flavor, I’m guessing. Strawberry mango. I squirt a dab on my index finger and smooth it across her lips.

  She doesn’t move, doesn’t react, doesn’t alter her breathing. “I’m here,” I say softly, pressing on her shoulder. “You’re not alone.”

  Mom always said I was such a comfort to her—when she was still verbal. It’s how I know what I’m doing here matters.

  Carrie has her own bed linens and down comforter. I remove her hand from under it, loosen the sheets, and crook her elbow so her arm will rest comfortably while I hold her hand. Her fingers are cool. I rub them. She wears a class ring, engraved gold with a garnet. I run a thumb over the loose ring. Carrie is shrinking.

  Her cheeks are caving in. She’s beautiful, though. Even now.

  She eases open my bedroom door and slices through the darkness. Opaline edges outline the contours of her body. I can’t see her face, but I know it’s her.

  “Johanna,” she whispers in the night.

  “Reeve,” I whisper back.

  “Do you want me?” she asks.

  “You have to ask?” A finger of electricity tickles the back of my neck. She doesn’t move, but her eyes fix on me, weld my soul to hers. She says, “How much?”

  I can’t express in real numbers the depth of my desire for her. “Reeve,” I say. “The universe and beyond.”

  She laughs a little. There’s a hint of nasty in that laugh. In a sexy, smoldering way.

  “Come here,” I say. She notices that I’m naked on the bed. “Please?”

  “Show me the money.”

  “It’s all here.”

  She rushes in and flings herself across me, making me squeal and clasp my arms around her back. She starts kissing me on the cheek and eyes and nose. Her face is poised inches from mine. “Made you beg.” She grins.

  Made you mine, I think.

  • • •

  Mrs. Goins stops me in the hall on my way to class. “How’s Robbie’s essay coming?” she asks.

  “He’s working on the second part. About the worst thing.” I know it’s not cool to rat him out, but my motives are ulterior. “He didn’t show up yesterday.”

  Mrs. Goins’ eyes narrow. “I’ll make sure he gets there today. If you’ve gotten him to write anything, you’re a miracle worker. Thanks again, Johanna.” She smiles. Something in that smile reminds me of Mom. Then it’s gone.

  She pats my arm. “It’ll all be over soon.”

  I don’t need it all to be over; I need it all to begin.

  An impulsive, instinctive need to know compels me to follow Mrs. Goins into the staff room. “Can I ask you something, Mrs. Goins?”

  Her head swivels.

  “About Robbie.”

  She surveys the area and her eyes light on an empty table. “Over here.” She motions me to follow.

  There’s a teacher at the Xerox machine. He says, “Morning, Paige. Counting down.”

  “Fourteen days,” she says.

  A knot of panic clenches my chest. Fourteen days. I’m running out of time.

  Mrs. Goins says to me, “I’m retiring.”

  “You are?” I sound shocked. I guess I am. I thought teachers kept going and going until they died at their desks grading papers.

  “What is it you want to know, Johanna?”

  I wait for the other teacher to collect his copies and leave. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Wrong?” Mrs. Goins pours herself a cup of coffee. “He has a slight deficiency, if that’s what you mean.”

  Slight?

  “Although it’s puzzling,” she says, dumping in about a pound of creamer. “He isn’t mentally challenged, according to his IQ test. He’s been termed a ‘highly functional autistic.’“

  Termed? Were we all “termed”?

  Mrs. Goins adds, “I’m not really at liberty to discuss his case.”

  Like you just did? The bell rings and I jump.

  “Do you need a hall pass?” Mrs. Goins asks.

  I shake my head no.

  As I race up the stairs to class, I think, Robbie’s a case. What does that make Reeve?

  Fourteen more days. No time to waste.

  Robbie’s head is down and he’s writing away, hunched over his paper. He brought his own paper and pen and finger string and the instrument case, of course. It’s perched precariously on the edge of the desk beside him. As I pass, I reach out to balance it. Robbie clenches my wrist.

  His hold is insistent but gentle. He lets me go.

  “What’s in it?” I ask.

  “M16,” he replies.

  “Is that a saxophone?”

  “Cruise missile,” he says. “Set to detonate on impact. The slightest movement and … KABOOM.”

  I flinch.

  He shoves the case under the desk beside him.

  It unnerves me, the way his eyes suddenly retract and die.

  He resumes scribbling. He’s not that bad-looking. From this angle, I mean, if he shaved or got a decent haircut. He has a round chin with a divot in it, same as Reeve. Her face is more chiseled, though. Her dimple is only noticeable to someone who notices her every amazing detail. Robbie has dark patches of stubble on his chin, down his neck. If you squint and blur his features, like Impressionist art or something, he’s kind of cute.

  His eyes, though. Empty holes. No emotion behind them. Is that the autism?

  I slide my pack on top of the teacher’s desk and sit in the chair. “What are you writing?” I ask.

  He doesn’t hear? Or the distance between us is so vast my words don’t reach him, or his brain, his highly functional autistic—

  She’s here. I feel her.

  I get up and glide in her direction. She’s close.

  Six, five, four feet away. There’s a moment when my curtain seems too heavy to lift, or part. What’s on the other side?

  Fear?

  Anticipation?

  No.

  Need. Desire. My arms extend, press against the curtain and …

  She’s sitting on the floor in the hall, huddling against the brick wall, her knees to her chest, head buried. She’s clutching her legs so tight her arms lock. She’s … shivering?

  “Reeve?”

  She jerks her head up and scrambles to her feet. We stand for a moment, face to face.

  Close enough to notice her dimple. A solid wall of fire combusts between us. Does she feel it?

  “Is Hell Boy ready?” It takes a moment to absorb her words, the fact that she’s talking to me. When she cranes her neck to peer into the room, her head is an inch away from my arm. “Come on, we’re going to miss the last bus!” she calls to him.

  Robbie’s pen lifts. His thought seems to suspend in midair, then evaporate.

  Reeve steps away from me.

  I step toward her.

  Her head shakes from side to side as she keeps moving back.

  Robbie barrels out the door, nearly knocking me over.

  They’re gone.r />
  I rock on my heels and grind my palms into my eye sockets. Time bleeds away behind my eyes. Fourteen days left. All the time wasted. As I trudge back into the room to grab my pack, an object snags my attention. His case.

  He forgot his case.

  But if it is a bomb …

  Stupid. It’s not a bomb.

  But if it’s motion-activated …

  I pull it out from under the desk and pray for the end to be quick.

  A city bus crunches to the curb and they get on. I note the bus number, then sprint to my car.

  The bus veers onto I-70 and exits at Vasquez, heading into Commerce City. Two stops to let people off, then Reeve and Robbie descend. I tail as inconspicuously as possible, ducking down every time I see Reeve look over her shoulder. Which she does a lot. She and Robbie turn up a gravel driveway and I swerve across the street to park.

  What if they’re just cutting through a yard? As I’m checking my side-view mirror to merge back into the street, I see Reeve through a picture window. This is her house. I twist off the ignition.

  The yard is fenced with chain-link, sections of it sagging or bent to the ground. It’s really just dirt and weeds. The houses here are old, crumbling, with flat gravel roofs.

  Her yard is littered with trash. A garbage bag has burst open and spewed its contents across the yard and into the neighbor’s.

  I lock my door and sit for a while, psyched—I know where she lives.

  One corner of her porch is caved in, like someone took a sledgehammer to the concrete. Upstairs there’s black paper covering a window. Her room?

  A van rumbles up the narrow street and takes a wide arc, almost ramming me. It squeals around me into the driveway. A guy jumps out and screams, “You whore! Don’t you ever fucking run out on me again! I’ll kill you!”

  I cower down inside my car. He storms around the front of the van and wrenches open the passenger door. “Get out, cunt.”

  He reaches in and drags this lady out by the hair. As she flails her arms to detach the guy’s hands from her head, he throws her down face-first in the driveway.

  Oh God, oh God.

  “Get up.”

  She struggles to her knees.

  “Get the fuck up.” He kicks her.

  What should I do?

  The woman curls into a fetal position.

  The guy’s hair is slicked back and his piercing black eyes cut so deep they hurt. I know this because he’s looking right at me. When did I open my door and get out?

  The guy knees the woman right in the face. I gasp as her head flies back and blood spurts from her mouth or nose. Call 911! I don’t have a phone. The maniac is starting toward me!

  I launch back into my car. As I switch over the ignition, he stops, pivots, and saunters back.

  I turn the car off and slide down into the seat. I should … get out! Help that lady! Call the cops!

  I can’t. I’m paralyzed.

  Reeve comes out, yells, “What’d you do to her?”

  I sit up straight. The guy’s disappeared.

  Reeve bends to the woman and lifts her up. The front door of the house crashes open and the guy appears on the rickety porch. He’s guzzling a longneck beer, peering down the street at me. Salutes me with the bottle.

  I shrink in my skin.

  Reeve balances the woman on her hip. “Bastard!” she screeches at the man.

  The beer bottle corkscrews through the air, narrowly missing Reeve’s head, but hitting the lady square in the back. She lurches.

  “Stop!” Reeve yells.

  Now. My eyes graze the corner of Robbie’s case on the seat, and I reach for it, then catch a glimpse of Robbie near the van. He scans the lady and Reeve says something to him.

  Robbie smashes over a section of chain-link fence.

  Reeve screams, “Robbie, no!”

  He rushes the guy.

  “No!” Reeve cries. “Robbie, no!” She shoves the woman against the van and charges after Robbie, who slams the guy down on the cement and starts to strangle him. Reeve jumps on Robbie’s back, pounding and screeching.

  Now I’m bolting from the car and racing to the porch. Reeve is trying to pry one of Robbie’s hands off the guy’s neck. I take the other.

  Her eyes lock on mine.

  The guy chokes and coughs. Robbie’s so strong. I snake my arm around his neck and yank back. That loosens his grip enough for Reeve to lodge between them and push Robbie off.

  Up close the guy’s face is greasy, pockmarked. He clamps on to Reeve’s arm and she fists him in the face. “Don’t touch me,” she says. “Don’t you fucking touch me.”

  I have Robbie cuffed by his arms in back, but I know I’m not really holding him. He’s wheezing.

  The guy crawls to the edge of the porch and over the side. He says to Reeve, “Just ask your mother if she was using.”

  Reeve snarls, “If she is, I know who set her up.” She looks at me. Her eyes become veiled and she curses under her breath.

  Robbie twists out of my grasp and clomps toward the driveway.

  The guy retrieves his beer, throws back his shoulders, and grins at me. “Bull dyke to the rescue.”

  Reeve just fixes on me and this fleeting expression crosses her eyes. Pain? Anger? She flings open the front door and disappears.

  Leaving me outside alone. With him. His grin widens.

  My brain informs my feet to move! I back down the walk, then turn and run. A shudder shakes my whole entire body.

  He isn’t coming after me, thank God.

  That look on Reeve’s face haunts me all the way home. It went beyond horror and humiliation. I shouldn’t have interfered. But I had to.

  I’d do anything for her.

  Chapter 7

  Snow sifts through the branches of our wild juniper, catching on needles and frosting berries. It’s the middle of summer and the snow brings a welcome relief from the heat. We can have snow in our summer, anytime we want it. She’s lying next to me on a towel, catching snowflakes on her tongue. A fluffy crystal lands on the tip and she curls her tongue at me. With my lips, I accept the offering.

  A wind kicks up and blows so hard it yanks the branches. One breaks away and slams down on Reeve. I’m strong; I hike the branch and launch it. She’s unhurt, smiling up at me.

  Her eyes are blue-black, glittering diamonds of winter summer solstice. She snaps her fingers and casts a spell on me. We’re in a snow globe, glitter raining down on us and sticking to our silver skin. She looks at me and says, “You saved me.”

  I say, “I always will.”

  • • •

  Joyland dissolves and all that remains is flat terrain. I want to fall asleep so I can dream. But it’s late, time for school.

  The senior lot is full, so I park across the street. A van careers in front of me, backs up, and rams my bumper. Glass shatters.

  Robbie surges out the passenger side and checks the damage.

  “Your headlight’s broke,” he says as I leap out. To Reeve he goes, “You broke her headlight.”

  Reeve strolls off toward school.

  “It’s … okay. It was already broken,” I call to her.

  She crosses the street.

  “Reeve!” I shout. She doesn’t stop.

  Robbie says, “You should get that fixed.”

  “Yeah, thanks.” I reach in the car for my backpack. When I straighten, Robbie’s in my face.

  “She’s sorry.”

  I gaze after Reeve. “I can see that.”

  He turns and hustles after her.

  Damn. I should’ve given Robbie his case. He got me all rattled with his care and concern about my headlight.

  Reeve isn’t in the cafeteria with the LBDs. Where is she?

  I buy a croissant sandwich from the machine and head out to my car. The van is gone. Chunks of busted headlamp remain. Message received, Reeve. Thanks.

  I’d parked so the morning sun beat directly on my windshield and now the interior is stuffy and, oh, abo
ut two hundred degrees. I crank down both windows to catch a cross breeze, then lie with my head on the passenger door armrest, legs extended out the driver’s side window.

  Last spring Novak wanted me to fly to California with her to check out UCLA and UC Berkeley. At that time I’d been so consumed with Mom dying, I hadn’t had time or energy to even think about college. Novak and I always talked about going to the same college, rooming together—before Dante.

  When Tessa was in college, I wrote to her religiously once a week. She wrote back, but more sporadically. After Mom got sick, while she was on morphine and sleeping a lot, to pass the time I’d write this one letter to Tessa over and over. In my mind I’d see her read it and call me immediately. I got the letter, she’d say. I’m coming home. You don’t have to, I’d counter, but she’d already be on the plane. Eventually I finished it. Sent it. And nothing. Most of the drafts are still in my spiral under the bed, along with the love letters I’ve never given to Reeve.

  Letters from Joyland. Love, Johanna.

  On the way to class, I make a pit stop.

  She’s in the restroom, refreshing her makeup, drawing heavy black liner over and under her eye. My stomach jams up my throat.

  This is stupid. We’ve been through something. We need to talk about it.

  “Hey, do you have any gum or breath mints?” I ask.

  Her eyes fix on mine in the mirror, then away.

  I move toward the sink and she steps back, like I’m contaminated. “I didn’t brush my teeth this morning and the sandwich I ate for lunch was, like, pure onions.” Shut up, Johanna. I twist on the spigot and thrust my hands under freezing cold water. Did I just tell her I didn’t brush my teeth?

  She looks like she either wants to say something, or kill me. I turn off the water. The paper towels are behind her and my hands are dripping.

  She leans aside.

  “Thanks,” I say. I can’t believe how controlled my voice sounds. “God, I need some gum.”

  “I don’t have any gum,” she says. “What were you doing at my house?”

  I rip off a square of towel. “Robbie left his cruise missile and I came over to give it back to him.”