If

by Nina G. Jones

  “Oh, and I do, too. Love you, that is. I kind of have for a while,” I confessed.

  “Ditto.”

  That night we fell asleep under the open sky.

  ASH

  “Where’s Sarah?” I asked as I woke up.

  Mom was wrapped in dad’s arms, sobbing. Miller was standing at the foot of my bed, his eyes swollen and red.

  “Dad?” I asked. I just needed someone to tell me how Sarah was doing.

  His bottom lip quivered. My stomach sank. I had never seen my dad cry. He was the strong soldier. He always kept a poker face.

  “Ash . . . Sarah’s gone,” dad said. “She didn’t make it.” My mother’s legs went out from under her and Miller dove to help dad catch her.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  The windows began to trickle with water. Then they shattered. The room filled up at a record rate.

  I watched my mother, father, and brother battle the current as the water overtook them. I watched their bodies jerk as they inhaled water instead of air. Eventually, they all became still.

  I was the last to drown.

  Then I opened my eyes again. I was dry. The hug of fabric restricted me.

  I was in a small padded room. Everything was black and white. In the corner, there was a girl, face down.

  “Sarah?” I asked. “Sarah?” I ran over to her and dropped to my knees, unable to turn her over because of the straightjacket.

  I dropped low, pushing against Sarah with my shoulder until she turned over.

  But it wasn’t Sarah. This girl was colorful despite the dullness of everything else. It was a beautiful girl with hazel eyes and fiery red hair. And she was dead.

  “Can’t sleep?” Bird asked me as I lay with my eyes open. The dreams were infrequent, but they rose to the surface occasionally, like subconscious reminders. They wouldn’t allow me to forget everything. The guilt was desperately trying to cling to me.

  “Don’t let me disturb your sleep.”

  “No, I’m awake.” She rested her chin on my chest.

  “I’ve been sleeping well,” I said, almost defensively.

  “I know. Sometimes you jerk in your sleep though. Dreams?”

  I didn’t want to tell her that ever since our relationship started, I had dreams about her dying, like a warning to stay away from her. “I don’t remember much.”

  “Hmmm . . .” Bird said, like she wasn’t sure if she believed me.

  She ran her fingers up my shirt. Her playful touch tasted like cotton candy. My sense of flavors had been enhanced since stopping the meds.

  “Your fingers are cold.” I grabbed her hand and wrapped mine around it.

  We laid in silence for a bit. I saw her words before I absorbed their meaning. The beauty of the sparkling transparent blue and teal undulating waves sometimes distracted me from the sound of her voice.

  “ . . . I was five. And my mom left me in this little playground that was part of our church. She was literally gone for a couple of minutes, just dropping off a box of donations. When she came out, I was gone.”

  I looked down at her to make eye contact, but she was looking down at my chest, drawing imaginary swirls with her fingertips against it.

  “The pastor and my mom started looking for me, and she found me not too long after wandering on a quiet sidewalk. Covered in blood. I wasn’t even crying apparently. My face was hacked up. I don’t remember any of it.”

  She was telling me the story of her scars.

  My sympathy quickly turned to anger. Just like the night those pieces of shit tried to rape her in the alley, I saw sharp shapes like broken glass. I tasted something sour. I wanted to go back in time and hurt the piece of scum that hurt Bird.

  “Did they find who did it?”

  “Nope.”

  I shook my head in dismay. I knew she didn’t remember it, but she was forced every day to look in the mirror and be reminded of what happened. Her life was forever altered by a random act of cruelty. I wanted to tell her she was beautiful, but it almost seemed like saying that to her would be diminishing it. You don’t reassure a rainbow it’s colorful, or a star that it shines. Sometimes, not saying something says more than anything else.

  We made a deal, and I knew that eventually this time would come. If I was going to be the old Ash, I would have to remember him and the pain he experienced.

  “As you know, my sister’s name was Sarah. She was about four years younger than me. She died in a car accident and uh . . .” I stopped speaking, because I didn’t want the fist-sized knot in my throat to escape. “I wasn’t the same after that.”

  The playful swirling of Bird’s fingertips stopped. She placed a flat hand on my chest, and gently stroked.

  “How?” she asked softly.

  “I was driving,” I uttered, barely holding the words together. “It should have been me.”

  “No. Don’t.” Bird’s tone was surprisingly firm. “What happened?”

  “A truck rear ended us, we lost control and flipped into a creek.” I drew in a deep breath, trying to cling to my composure. “She was only fifteen. Just a kid.”

  “It was an accident. You can’t blame yourself.”

  “But I do. I can’t make the guilt disappear. So instead I did. I left home because I couldn’t keep waking up every day being some sort of witness to the mess I made. And I just wanted to forget it all.”

  “Ash, from what I have heard, you have a great family and I am sure they miss you. I’m sure they don’t blame you.”

  “But I do.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  But Bird didn’t understand that I was to blame. Up until this point I hurt everyone I loved: my sister, Miller, my mom and dad. I couldn’t even look them in the eye anymore. All I could think about was somehow ruining Bird’s life because I was fucked up in ways she couldn’t yet understand. And yet I was so afraid of losing her, I didn’t know how to tell her. I wanted to, I was going to earlier that night, but when she looked at me, scared of whatever bad news could be coming, all I felt for her was love. I knew I would put her before me in anything. I would never let anyone hurt her, and that included me. I decided to tell her at that moment that I loved her instead. Because it had been true for a while, and because she was the reason I wanted to live again.

  So on this night, I told her some truths, but I held back one very big one.

  I nodded, but the tears sliding down my cheeks reflected the reality. I did blame myself. I would always blame myself.

  BIRD

  “NERVOUS?” JORDAN ASKED just as we were about to exit his car and enter the dance studio for our first day of choreography.

  “A little,” I admitted.

  “You’re gonna kick ass.”

  “It’s just, you know, first day jitters,” I said. “And Alana is going to be there.”

  “She handpicked you. She loves you.”

  I sighed and rolled my neck, trying to release the jittery energy building in my muscles.

  “I know. I know. I’ll be fine,” I said.

  I knew I had the talent, but this was my first huge production, and I was most worried about looking like an amateur in that regard. I just needed to get my feet wet, and then I would be fine.

  We were earlier than the other dancers, since Jordan had to set up. While he chatted with an assistant, I took to the bar to warm up. As I meditated silently on the movements, other dancers began to filter in. The jitters began to subside. But like some test of mental fortitude, after I had already chatted with and been introduced to several of my new cast mates, a vaguely familiar face walked through the door. I studied her features as I attempted to place her, and that’s when I remembered—she was part of the gaggle of dancers who were in the bathroom mocking me weeks ago. The nervous energy that had begun to settle reemerged as I tried to figure out how to deal with this painful social situation.

  As soon as I recognized her, we locked eyes and I watched as her jubilant
smile melt into a frown she desperately tried to fight. My thoughts raced for the proper way to handle this situation. Should I confront her and make her feel like shit? Should I tell Jordan and ask for the ultimate payback and get her fired? If I told Jordan what she had done, how she had hurt me, his protective instinct would have kicked in big-time. He would pull strings. But that wasn’t me. Vengeance always feels good in the abstract, but I didn’t want to spread the pain. It felt ugly.

  So I knew I wouldn’t seek revenge. But I needed a couple of moments to collect myself, so I went to the bathroom. Like history was repeating itself, the bathroom door opened as I finished up in a stall. This time, it wasn’t a group of giggling girls, just a single pair of footsteps. I didn’t even have to look to know who it was. I could feel it.

  This time I was triumphant. I was not small. I did not want to disappear. I exited the stall and there she was, pretending to check herself out in the mirror. I was tempted to make a mental catalogue of all of her faults, a petty attempt at evening the score, but I resisted the urge. She turned to me as I walked towards the sink to her left.

  “Hi,” she said, somewhat cheerfully.

  “Hi,” I said stoically.

  We continued in silence for a few beats, but the tension of her internal battle filled the air between us.

  “I, uh . . . I don’t know if you remember, but we were in a rehearsal together a while back. Maybe a couple of months ago?”

  “Yup. I remember it very well.”

  Her shoulders sank and she turned to me, leaning against the counter. “I, uh . . . god . . . this has bothered me ever since. You were in the bathroom when everyone was talking?”

  “Yes,” I said, remaining emotionless. I wanted to make her feel every ounce of awkwardness.

  She looked down. Her facial muscles tensed into a strong frown, her eyes glossed. Her voice was shaky when she spoke again. “I feel really bad about that. I tried to make them stop, but . . . that’s not an excuse.” Her eyes wandered nervously.

  I nodded.

  “I didn’t agree with them, but I . . . I don’t know . . . I thought about it after and I thought I should have told her to go to hell. I was so concerned about being nice to a bunch of girls I had barely met. And you are ten times the dancer any of them are. It wasn’t fair.”

  I didn’t want to admit it, but I understood. There are times when we think that we would be the loudest voice to speak when injustice occurs, and yet, sometimes when the moment comes, we disappoint ourselves. It happened to me in that bathroom, too.

  “It’s bothered me a lot. And I told myself if I crossed paths with you again, I would apologize. No matter how awkward things got. Because that’s not me. I’m not that kind of person.”

  I could feel her discomfort. How it took every ounce of courage she could muster to follow me into the bathroom and face what she had done head-on instead of pretending to feign ignorance.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  She perked up slightly. “Marley.”

  “I’m Bird,” I said. “What’s your role?”

  “I’m rainbow parrot number three in act one and butterfly koi in act two,” she said in a self-deprecating manner.

  “I’m pretty sure I eat you in act two, so I guess we’re even,” I said, deadpan.

  She stared at me for a moment unsure how to react, then we both laughed at the same time.

  “Seriously though. Thank you for trying. I couldn’t see who was speaking, but I remember what was said. I remember what you said. It means a lot that you would apologize. I don’t want pity though. I’m good. And I just want us to move on and forget about it.”

  She smiled and nodded, letting out a great sigh of relief. “Sure.”

  “But if you could give me the name and address of the really bitchy one, I would like to send her a flaming bag of shit.”

  “Deal,” Marley said and we headed out of the bathroom to our first day of rehearsal.

  BIRD

  It happened before my eyes, but I didn’t see it until it was too late.

  My life had changed overnight. One day, I was teaching at the dance school and waiting tables and the next, I was rehearsing all day for a major production.

  Days blended. Sometimes I was so physically exhausted, I would fall asleep without eating as soon as I got home. Ash started to work on his pieces again and he started busing tables. We seemed to hit a positive stride. But I was so involved in the rigors of the show that I didn’t see the small changes. How Ash would sneak off to the roof at night while I sunk into a deep sleep or how he had stopped shaving or eating again.

  I was barely home, and Ash was different now . . . I thought for the better. He had a life with me. If he was tired, he would sleep. If he was hungry, he would eat. He knew he wasn’t a burden. If something was wrong, he didn’t have to disappear like he did that last time. He knew he could rely on me.

  Ash had finally opened up to me about why he left his old life behind, and I was helping him put the pieces together.

  The newly energized Ash was having a fit of inspiration. I saw his frenzied painting as passion. I heard his rambling sentences as excitement. I saw his ability to put long hours in the restaurant and then on the roof painting as ambition. And the truth was, I was too tired to see them as anything else.

  When I asked Ash how he was doing, he told me he felt amazing. He would give me a foot massage after a long day and talk and I would lay my head back and close my eyes and be grateful that he had the energy for the both of us.

  It was a Thursday night when I came home to find my front door wide open with no sign of him. Papers were strewn about the floor, all sketches I had never seen before.

  “Ash?” I called.

  But he wasn’t there. I got a feeling in my gut that something was wrong. I always had a feeling there was something Asher hadn’t told me, something more to his story. Our relationship had evolved so naturally, and we shared about ourselves without ever pushing the other. So I didn’t push. And I had my stuff going on and he promised he was fine and that was all the assurance I needed.

  I ran upstairs to the roof and pushed the door open.

  Ash was pacing in his underwear, covered in paint. I stood in silence, trying to process the scene in front of me. He didn’t even notice I was there.

  There was paint everywhere. Not in a messy, accidental way. He was in the process of painting the roof. I reached for the flashlight that rested on the ground and shined the light along the work.

  It was a spectacular rendition of the skyline, but through Ash’s eyes. Fuchsia, turquoise, orchid, teal, navy, silver and countless other colors swirled in his rendition of the sky. Like a frieze, there was a story embedded in the work: A man seated on the ground, a girl with hair like fire who carries him to the sky. Then they are in the stars, their bodies intertwined.

  It was the story of us, but only the magic of it, stripped away from the realities of the confines of the physical body.

  The painting was seamless, crafted all along the floor and up the along the vertical surfaces that surrounded it.

  “Ash?”

  He turned sharply.

  “Oh thank god, thank god, thank god,” he said frantically, charging over to me. “I ran out of paper. And I had so much I needed to get out. It’s all coming so fast and I’m thinking we could just say fuck galleries or shows and just get everyone up here. Because paper is just this construct. Who needs paper when I have brick and tar and my body? Who says paper or canvas needs to be the platform? Who needs a studio? That’s just capitalist bullshit.”

  “Ash?”

  “But fuck. I need to get paint. I’m out. Paint is not a construct. Paint, I need.” He ran his paint-covered hand through his hair and it left a huge orange streak.

  “Ash.” This time I spoke firmer, but it was like my words flew right by him.

  “I’m going to grab some paint. And then I’m going to call the mayor because he’s gonna want to see this.”
>
  I felt myself go numb, but at the same time, I was shaking. I didn’t know what to do, it was like Ash was on another planet unable to read my signal.

  “Ash, it’s late. The art store is closed. And you can’t paint the roof. We don’t own this building.”

  “No. But we will. We will. And I am going to get the paint because I am going to turn this whole city into an installation. And the best part is that eventually you’ll be able to see my entire show from the sky.”

  He started for the door to the building.

  “Ash!” I screamed. He stopped and whipped around. “You aren’t wearing any clothes!” I yelled.

  “Oh yeah. Of course.” He slid on his jeans and tennis shoes and went to the door again.

  “Your shirt.” I was trying to stall and find a way to get through to him. I felt so alone on that roof. Our little secret spot became a secret I didn’t want to keep any longer.

  “Ash, please don’t go. You’re not acting right. Something is wrong.”

  He walked over to me and scooped me in his arms. “Bird, everything is right. You wanted this. You make this happen. You are my muse. You set me on fire. If I could paint on the air and sky and clouds and show you what I see, I would. But this is the best I can do. I am doing this for you. This is my love for you and I am going to show my love for you to the world.”

  “Ash, I just want you to be okay.”

  He kissed me hard, sinking his fingers into my hair. I tried to push away, but his grip was solid. “You are so beautiful. You’re covered in light and shapes and tastes and sounds. And I am going to paint you a thousand times.” His eyes lacked focus, and it was like before I could respond, he was on the next thought.

  “God you make me horny,” he said. I felt him go hard against me.

  “Not now, Ash,” I said, firmly. He kissed my neck, gripping me harder, almost painfully. “Stop.” For the first time I was genuinely freaked out.

  “You taste so good,” he groaned into my neck.

  “Stop!” I yelled, pushing his face off of me. I was shaking and my voice quivered. “Ash, tell me what’s happening. I just need to know what is happening to you. You’re scaring me.”