This Sky

by Autumn Doughton

  I don’t look back. With an ache of tenderness, I run my thumb over her bottom lip and press a quick kiss to her mouth. “They don’t know me. They only think they do.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Landon

  On Tuesday morning, Abby answers the door in ripped jeans and a pink baby doll t-shirt that looks like it should be part of the wardrobe of a seven-year-old girl. Her blond hair is pulled away from her face into a sagging ponytail, exposing the dark circles under her eyes and the yellow pallor of her skin. She’s got a cigarette stub between her lips.

  “Finally,” she says, taking a drag.

  “I had to stop,” I say. I hold the items I picked up at the hardware store in the air like a flag of truce.

  “Whatever.” She won’t make eye contact with me, but she nods and pulls the door wider.

  The apartment is filthy. It reeks of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume. Tepid air circles from a creaky fan. A faded beige couch that’s probably on its fifth or sixth owner fills most of the small living room. A TV blaring sitcom voices and a laugh track sits on a plastic cart. No happy family photos adorn the walls. No throw pillows or floral arrangements or other “homey” touches color the space.

  A coldness seeps inside of me as I make my way to the kitchen. The counter is messy. Dirty dishes fill the sink. There’s an empty bottle of vodka next to a stove caked with brown residue.

  This is exactly how Claudia and I grew up. Different place. Exact same scene.

  The faucet is broken. I test the knob a couple of times then I slide to the floor and haul myself under the sink. It’s not hard to figure out what the problem is and after about ten minutes, the water is hissing from the nozzle in a steady stream.

  “Anything else?” I ask her, wiping my hands on my jeans.

  She leans back against the refrigerator and looks at me with sunken eyes. “So, how’s your sister?”

  “Fine,” I answer stiffly. I don’t want to talk to her about Claudia. It never goes well.

  “Hmmm… You haven’t been checking in as much lately,” she observes. “Has the jailer finally gotten himself a life again?”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.

  “You know what it means,” she snorts and shakes her head as she grabs a fresh pack of cigarettes so she can chain-smoke them.

  I watch her hit the pack against the flat of her palm and pull out a new cigarette. Her cheeks hollow when she flicks a black lighter against the tip and sucks the first draw of tar all the way to the back of her throat.

  I’m not sure if I should tell Abby about Gemma. I’m not sure if she cares one way or the other, but even as I think this, the words come waltzing off the tip of my tongue. “I met someone.”

  If she’s surprised, or if she cares about my news one way or the other, she doesn’t let on. She just looks over my shoulder to where the TV is still squawking in the living room and takes another long draw from her cigarette. Grey smoke seeps out of the side of her mouth. “I got a new job,” she says.

  This is a surprise. She hasn’t had a real job in almost three months and even that job was a joke. “Really?”

  “Yeah, really,” she says haughtily.

  “What are you doing?”

  She shrugs. Her jaw twitches and just like that, I know. That’s the truth of it. I know exactly what she’s doing and I wouldn’t call it a job. I’d call it a death sentence.

  “You’re dealing again?”

  She reaches her arm across her body to tap out the cigarette ash into the kitchen sink. Her eyelids flutter but she remains quiet.

  “You promised,” I say grabbing the cigarette from her hand and tossing it into the sink. My fingers circle her bicep. I don’t bother looking for the pinpricks on her skin. There are thousands of places to hide the bite of a needle. “You promised.”

  Abby drops her chin to her chest and sloppily pulls out of my grasp. “What’s your problem?” she hisses, swiping at my hand.

  “My problem?” I ask, my voice sharp as broken glass. The edges of my vision are going blurry. My pulse is tapping fast and solid against the underside of my skin. “My problem is that you’ve been borrowing money from me for months under the condition that you stay away from this.”

  “You’ve got to chill,” she says, not even trying to look sorry, just going for a new cigarette.

  Chill? My stomach is folding in on itself. My thoughts are gaining furious momentum. My heart is a hard drumbeat inside of me.

  “Claudia warned me not to trust you. She told me you were never going to change.” And she was right.

  I move quickly and quietly toward the bedroom. I don’t need Abby to guide me. My entire life, she’s never been particularly creative about hiding her stash so I know exactly where to look.

  And everything is there like I knew it would be. Powder and pills, small and white, separated into plastic bags of about twenty capsules each. In the back of the drawer, rolled into tight balls and secured with rubber bands just like in a mob movie. Jesus Christ.

  I pluck one of the bags of pills between my fingers. I fight back the bitter taste of disappointment and stand.

  What a joke. And I can’t believe I fell for it again. How many times do I have to learn the same lesson?

  In the kitchen, Abby is exactly where I left her. She’s almost to the end of the cigarette. Her shoulders are hunched forward. She doesn’t react when she sees the bag in my hand.

  “We had a deal,” I say and I hate the sound of my own voice. “You said that if I helped you with rent and food, you’d stop. You swore.”

  Even to my own ears, I sound pathetic.

  “Oh, get off your high horse, Landon. An opportunity came along and I took it,” Abby growls out. “What do you know anyway?”

  I know that I can’t do this with her anymore. I can’t keep trying and failing. I can’t keep walking myself in circles, always ending up in the exact same spot.

  I hold the bag over my head. “I know that you need help. And I know that you’re going to kill yourself if you keep this up.”

  “Shut the fuck up! You’re no Pollyanna,” she seethes and lunges for the pills.

  I step back, just out of her reach.

  “Stop!” I heave, my fingers curled tight around the plastic bag.

  “I need this,” she shouts at me. Spittle is pooling at the sides of her mouth. “And it’s none of your business what I do. It never was!”

  When I don’t give her the pills like she wants, she starts bashing at my chest with the side of her fists and scratching her nails sharply into my skin. She’s making angry grunting noises and kicking my shins with her bare feet. This goes on for almost a minute.

  Finally, when my back is flush with the counter and Abby looks like she’s about to start in on me with her teeth, I give in and launch the baggie across the room. It lands with a smack and the top of the bag opens. Some of the pills flip out, skidding across the floor and disappearing under the refrigerator. With an affronted wail, Abby dives for them.

  “Do you know how much this costs?” she screeches, raking up the drugs with her fingers.

  My throat tightens. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do here. I’m panting and sweaty. I might even be shaking. My body is a disordered mess of misfiring neurons and resentful impulses. I want to hit something. I want to lash out and smash through glass and break down the walls of this shitty apartment.

  I suddenly think of Gemma and her soft grey-blue eyes and how fucking good and sweet she is and I want out. I want this whole part of my life to be over and done with. I want to push it into a hole and lump six feet of sodden black earth over the top of it.

  “I need to get out of here,” I hear myself say out loud.

  From the floor, Abby shouts at me. “Good!”

  Running my hands through my hair and exhaling slowly, I straighten. I’m about to leave without another word, but as I cross the kitchen, something stops me. I turn around and I say, “You really
do need help.”

  Her response is a surly laugh. She’s still crouched on the floor. The bag of pills is in her hands. Her face is blotchy pink. Her mascara is running. Now I see that the skin around her mouth is carved with deep grooves. She looks tired. She looks old.

  “I’m serious.”

  She blinks at me and looks away. Her fingers slide over the seal of the bag twice.

  “Please?” This time, there is no anger in my voice. I’m a little kid again, begging for the world to be right. I want what I’ve always wanted. I want this woman to not be a drug addict. I want her to go out and get a real job. I don’t want to watch her gamble away everything on pills and sketchy guys and get-rich-quick schemes. “Please?” Again. It’s a shot in the dark.

  But she doesn’t look up. She pushes off the floor. “You have no right to come here and tell me what to do.”

  “You’re the one who asked me to come over,” I remind her.

  “And I’ve changed my mind. Now I want you out.” She tucks the pills under her arm and shakes out another cigarette from her pack.

  “Don’t do this,” I grind out slowly. “There are other ways to live.”

  Her lighter flickers twice before catching. Her hands are trembling. “I said, get out!”

  Gulping hard, I say, “When I’m gone, I’m gone.”

  “That’s the point of kicking you out. You’re useless anyway,” she spits.

  Her words should sting, but they don’t. I’m used to them. “Okay.”

  I’m almost gone when her voice stops me. “I didn’t want you for a son.”

  “Yeah,” I reply as the door opens under my hand and sharp blades of light pierce through the dinginess of the apartment. “And I didn’t want you for a mother.”

  Gemma

  You know how when things are going well—too well—you get that finicky feeling at the back of your mind? That totally paranoid, neurotic thought like maybe things are too smooth? Too right? Too perfect? And you morosely start to wonder about all of the ways your life is going to implode? You worry about asteroids nailing the planet and skin cancer and falling into a pot of boiling oil and brain aneurysms and body snatchers and that overdue super geyser out in Yellowstone?

  Do you know what I’m talking about?

  Well, on Tuesday, I do not have that feeling.

  I am oblivious. I am damn near zip-a-dee-doo-da-dandy.

  I’m walking to my car, humming, playing with an inane video game app on my phone. I’ve been at it for over an hour and am currently stuck on level 213. I’ve got no defense other than to point out that in this game there’s a lot of freaking candy and it’s up to me to crush it all.

  Some of my recently earned tip money is folded inside my wallet and I’m headed to the grocery store to buy actual food. No more ice cream. No more chocolate. No more salty noodle packs or frozen pizza squares.

  As far as I’m concerned, at this exact moment, life is good.

  “Gemma Sayers!”

  Bewildered, I snap my head around and try to make sense of the man coming toward me. He’s short and stocky. Royal blue tube socks climb up his thick tree-trunk calves. A faded red baseball hat is sitting cockeyed on his head. He has a dark mustache and heavy sideburns. I see a flash of black and silver in his hands as he speeds across the speckled asphalt. I crane my neck forward, squinting into the midday sun.

  “Look here!” he shouts.

  And even when I see him lift the camera over his head, I still can’t work out what the fuck this guy is doing or how he knows my name.

  It’s the snap of the shutter that gets me. That faint sifting sound feels like a swift kick to my ribs or a small planet exploding over my head.

  CLICK.

  I cry out and throw my hands up in a poor attempt to cover my face from the needling camera lens.

  The photographer doesn’t care that I’m on the verge of keeling over. He doesn’t care that I can’t get oxygen into my lungs or that my heart is squeezing tightly in my chest. He comes at me and asks in a conversational tone like we’re just two girls gabbing over a shared cupcake, “Do you have a comment about Ren Parkhurst’s apparent breakdown?”

  I’m standing there, unable to move with my hands on my hot face. My heart is racing. My brain is shrieking. Everything is moving in and out of focus.

  CLICK.

  “Have you spoken to him? Are reports of the two of you getting back together accurate?”

  This is when I finally force my legs to carry the rest of me.

  The photographer keeps pace. Even though I’m not looking at him, I can feel the heat from his body and hear the coarse sound of his strained breathing just beside my left ear.

  “Give me a good one! Smile!”

  CLICK.

  Through the slits of my fingers, I make out the dark, gleaming lens of the camera in front of me. Beside me. Everywhere.

  This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening.

  CLICK. He’s still chasing after me, acting like my best friend. “What do you have to say to the people wondering how your pregnancy is progressing?”

  CLICK.

  A sob forms in my throat.

  “What about the rumors of a threesome with Sierra Simms?” he wheezes. “Are they true?”

  CLICK.

  CLICK.

  Threesome? Beads of sweat are dripping down my neck, falling into the soft cottony cups of my bra. I want to scream. I want to gag on all the hot spittle pooling on the center my tongue. I want to fight. I want to wrench that camera from his stubby fingers, smash it into a thousand pieces and then scoop the craggy remains up, cram them into a blender, and grind them down to a gritty black pulp.

  Is Ren a sex addict?

  CLICK.

  Were the two of you secretly engaged?

  Are you going to couple’s counseling?

  You’re probably wondering why I don’t just hop into my car and speed off in a blaze of go-fuck-yourself glory. What you probably don’t realize—because I didn’t until just now—is that it’s a lot harder than you might think to walk thirty feet when you’ve got an overweight, perspiring gremlin boring down on you.

  I try to ignore him. I do. I look at the crunchy pavement below my feet, the shafts of sunlight pushing through the low clouds, the slender acacias, and the enameled hoods of cars rising up in front of me.

  CLICK.

  CLICK.

  When he misses the curb and barely keeps himself from falling over, I don’t stop. I keep going.

  Pavement. Sunlight. Trees. My car.

  “Come on!” he hollers from behind me. “Give me something to work with, Gemma!”

  I do give him something. My middle finger.

  “Is that your response to Ren’s video apology?”

  Ren’s what?

  “What?” The word is reflexive. Hard. It grabs ahold of the backs of my heels and freezes me in place.

  “Is that your response to Ren’s video apology?” he repeats, moving closer, taking this opportunity to get some better shots of me.

  CLICK.

  I know I shouldn’t talk to this guy. I know the game—he’s paid to lie and see what he can drag out of me. I know all of this but the question is still there, yelping in the back of my skull, demanding to be heard. “What are you talking about?”

  He doesn’t move the camera from his face. “The video Ren posted last night? After his arrest?”

  “I don’t—what?” Ren was arrested? When did this happen?

  The photographer’s laugh is raspy with condescension. “You haven’t heard any of this yet, have you?”

  I don’t get a chance to answer. Suddenly, there is a strong arm wrapping securely around my middle and a muscular chest pressing between my shoulder blades. A familiar hoodie. Grey skate shoes—unlaced. And three small words in my ear—I’ve got you.

  When I don’t speak, Landon spins me so that our bodies are parallel, touching from stomach to thigh. “Gemma?” His jaw is flexed. His large hands ar
e making ellipses on my shoulders. He pulls me closer to his chest and drops one hand to the small of my back. “Are you okay?”

  “W-what are—” I break off, too overwhelmed to make a coherent sentence.

  “Are you okay?” he repeats, his voice knifelike this time. He tips my face up and his inky eyes search mine.

  “I’m—I’m…”

  CLICK.

  Landon jerks his head to the side and scowls at the photographer.

  “I’m f-fine,” I manage this time.

  His eyes come back to me, skeptical. “You don’t look fine.”

  “I am.” I shake my head. Blink.

  “I looked out my window and saw this guy harassing you,” he says, quickly tucking me along his side and pulling me forward. He lifts his elbow to block the photographer’s shot.

  I don’t even know what to say. It feels like everything is spiraling out of control. Like I’m outside myself and I am watching this all play out on a big screen.

  Do you see her? The girl with the shit hair and black yoga pants on? Do you see the boy in the hoodie with his arm around her waist, holding her upright? Do you see that photographer chasing them through a parking lot? I know it all seems like a reality show, but it’s real. It’s actually happening to me right this minute.

  Is this your new boyfriend?

  Does Ren know?

  CLICK.

  Landon presses closer. His warm breath is in my hair, keeping me focused. He says, “Keep moving. You’re doing great. My car is right there.”

  Gemma, is this guy the father of your baby? He looks familiar…

  CLICK.

  I glance up at Landon’s face and see his nostrils are flaring with each intake of air. Patches of red color his cheeks. He is furious.

  CLICK.

  Come on, Gemma. Did we get the story wrong? Are you the cheater?

  In one quick movement, Landon unlocks his car, pushes me forward and shoves his hand in the photographer’s face.

  “Back off.” He’s not yelling but I can hear the unrelenting steel in his voice. “Come one step closer to her and I’ll—”