Velvet

by Temple West

  “What’s wrong?” she said, reaching for my hand, which I yanked away. She looked hurt and I didn’t care. “Why are you doing this? Why are you punishing us?”

  I just stared at her, amazed that she still didn’t understand. “My mom’s dead,” I said slowly. “You know that, right? She died. She’s gone. So please, Rachel, please sit there with your very-alive husband and your very-alive daughter and explain to me, since I clearly don’t understand—explain why I should care about something as trivial as school.”

  Before she could answer, I stood up, slung my backpack over my shoulder, and shuffled upstairs.

  Just as I reached my room, Norah came in behind me and slammed the door.

  “What is wrong with you?”

  I looked at her blankly.

  “You don’t have to be an asshole; you choose to be an asshole.”

  I could hear the emotion in her voice, I could see she was on the verge of crying in that angry sort of way you cry when you don’t want to cry but you can’t stop yourself, but I couldn’t really register it all in that moment.

  “Yeah,” I admitted. She wasn’t wrong.

  But Norah was looking for a fight. “Stop making everyone miserable. Your mom died. It sucks. I’m sorry. But there are other people in the world besides you, and shit happens to them too, and they move on.”

  “Norah,” I said, very quietly. “Get out.”

  She might’ve said more, but I took a quick half step toward her and she flinched.

  Would I have slapped her? Maybe. I don’t know. If she kept talking, I might have. But she didn’t, just threw me a disgusted look, turned around, and walked out, slamming the door behind her. In the resounding silence, I sat on my bed and stared at the wall. Gravity won and I sagged back against the covers and stared at the ceiling instead.

  A few hours later, Joe knocked on my door. I must have fallen asleep, because the sound startled me.

  “Yeah?” I called, not really awake.

  Joe poked his head in the door. “Can I come in?”

  I shrugged.

  He left the door open as he took a seat at my desk. I could feel the anger seeping back in, the adrenaline pooling in my stomach, preparing for another fight. If he was there to make me apologize to Rachel, it wasn’t going to happen.

  “I didn’t know your mother all that well,” he began. I rolled my eyes. Great. You didn’t know her, but you’re going to talk about her as if you did. “But I do know why your mom and your aunt stopped speaking.”

  Despite myself, I looked up—this was a story I had never heard before. He shifted uncomfortably, a large and intimidating man in a too-small chair.

  “Something happened,” he continued, “a long time ago, before I even knew your aunt. Your mother had a hard time forgiving Rachel for it. Matter of fact, she never forgave Rachel. Your aunt is a very different person than she used to be. I know you don’t want to be here, and I know you miss your mother—but as hard as it may be to believe, your aunt misses her, too. It wasn’t Rachel who didn’t want to visit you, or call you, or come to the hospital or the funeral. Your mother refused to let us come see you. We could have come—we wanted to come—but it would have been against her wishes. Rachel didn’t want to do that, not when your mother was in so much pain already. It was a hard choice, and I know there are days she wishes she had just barged in there and tried to make things right.” He paused, searching for the right words. “You are allowed to be angry. You are allowed to feel whatever you want to feel. But if you can, maybe try and cut Rachel a little slack. She lost her sister just as much as you lost your mother. And it may not look like she’s in pain, but she is. Maybe even more than you, in some ways, because she never got to say good-bye.”

  There was a moment of silence, then Joe stood, looked around my room, and let himself out.

  I locked the door behind him, then piled the chair in front of it, and a stack of books, and my hamper. It wouldn’t keep people out if they were determined, but it made me feel better, to put things between me and them. I crawled into bed in the dark and spent the rest of the night shaking, unwilling to cry when I knew the sound would carry beyond my door. If I started crying now, or yelling, or screaming, I wouldn’t stop. So I clenched my jaw, ground my teeth until they hurt, until my throat ached. Eventually, I fell asleep.

  * * *

  I woke up on the seventeenth of November to snow. Big, fat, fluffy flakes of snow that had begun falling well before dawn. When I went downstairs for breakfast, there were no presents or decorations; no one even said “happy birthday,” which was exactly how I’d wanted it.

  We sat down at the table and everyone but me folded their hands as Joe said his daily breakfast prayer.

  “Dear Lord,” he began in his quiet, deep voice. “Thank you for Caitlin’s presence here in our family. Thank you that she turned seventeen today and has become a beautiful young woman. Thank you for the snow. And thank you for pancakes. Amen.”

  The bitterness surged up and I tried to keep it from showing on my face. I was a beautiful young woman? Thank you for pancakes?

  “There’s plenty, so I expect you to eat everything,” Rachel said cheerfully as she heaped my plate with food without asking me how much I actually wanted to eat. And just like that, I lost my appetite, anger curdling through my stomach. I forced half down my throat, not tasting any of it, because even though I didn’t want to care about what Joe said, I did, and some part of me was trying not to hate Rachel. As usual, just at the end of breakfast, I heard the grumble of the diesel engine as Adrian’s truck pulled into the driveway.

  “I’ll see you guys later,” I said, standing up.

  “Wait, you forgot to open your present!”

  Rachel ran into the laundry room, dashing back into the kitchen with a box in her hand.

  I could feel the anger rising up the back of my throat at the sight of the wrapping paper. Be nice, a voice in my head warned me.

  “You said you didn’t want anything, so we got you something we thought you could use.” She smiled hopefully. I tried to freeze the blank look on my face instead of letting it slip into a grimace.

  “I’ll open it when I get home,” I said finally. “I don’t want to keep him waiting.”

  Rachel nodded and I walked outside into the silently falling snow. It was warm in the truck since the heater was blasting, so I settled into my falling-asleep-in-the-passenger-seat routine. Adrian drove, used to the silence by now, and we arrived at school.

  In homeroom, Trish leaned over and whispered “happy birthday” to me. I smiled. It was hard to be mean to Trish, because she was Trish. She was basically the most genuine, kind, bizarre person I had ever met. She was supportive, didn’t pry or expect anything from me, and sensed when I needed my space. If she were a guy, I’d probably date her. Or, if I were a lesbian. And if she were a lesbian. I guess we’d both have to be lesbians for that to work. Regardless, she made a pretty great friend.

  The day passed quickly, although I got a few more happy birthdays, and a tiny chocolate from Mrs. Goode. After school, Adrian drove me home as usual.

  “Hey!” Rachel called from the living room sofa when I came through the front door. It amazed me that she could keep pretending like we were totally fine when I’d already told her, to her face, what I thought about her. “How was your day?”

  “Good,” I replied. I was getting better at lying.

  “Don’t forget your present on the table!”

  With Joe’s plea pounding the back of my conscience, I pulled the present toward me, untied the big purple ribbon, and popped the lid off. There, pristine and expensive, were a pair of leather boots. Not the most fashionable things I’d ever seen, but they looked sturdy; water-proofed and thick-soled. I could probably wear these for twenty years. They’d certainly be warmer than my Converse.

  Rachel came back into the kitchen and poured herself a cup of coffee. “Do you like them?” she asked, trying to keep the hope out of her voice, and faili
ng miserably.

  “They’re great.” And then an idea began to form in my mind. I smiled at her. “I’m going to test them out.” I tugged the Converse off my feet and shoved the boots on.

  “What, now?” Rachel asked as I laced them up.

  “Perfect weather to test boots in.” I stood up and headed out the front door without waiting for her permission. As soon as I was clear of all the windows, I headed to the back of the house where the trail led into the woods. It had been snowing all day and even the thickly wooded sections of the path were covered in snow.

  Eventually, I reached the giant boulder I’d fallen from nearly a month ago. That night was still muddled. The place looked familiar, but almost like I’d seen it in a movie, or a photograph, and was only now visiting it in person for the first time. I started climbing, careful to test my footing before I advanced. Everything was white, pristine, and the snow somehow made the silence feel complete.

  I hadn’t really come here with a plan—I hadn’t even really planned to come here. But now that I was, I found myself pulling my gloves off, and my hat. I unwound the scarf from around my neck and felt the frigid air snake down the back of my jacket. I took that off, too, tossing it to the ground. I sat in the snow, ignoring how it soaked my jeans, and peeled my sweater over my head, inhaling sharply as the cold air stung my skin. There was a pain to the coldness, but it was disconnected, somehow. I knew I should put the sweater back on, and the jacket, and go somewhere warm—but I didn’t do that. Instead, I lay down on the boulder and noticed, looking straight up at the sky, that it had begun to snow again. The flakes got caught in my eyelashes, tickling me. I laughed, and I couldn’t stop laughing, even when tears started pouring down my cheeks.

  I’d been sad before—many, many times over the years. On the anniversary of my dad’s death, on his birthday, on my parents’ wedding anniversary watching my mom drink herself to sleep. And I was always sad on my own birthday because my dad wasn’t there, and because I remembered him less and less. But this year—today—there was no one left to be sad with.

  At least there were no more hospitals or fluorescent lights, no more rapidly mutating cells, no more IVs and blood draws and people poking at what was left of my mother. I wondered if I would ever get back up from this rock. There was nothing I really wanted to get up for. I started to shiver—snowflakes melting and running down my arms and stomach, but more took their place because it was still coming down, white flakes from a white sky on a white, silent afternoon.

  Just as I was sliding into a nice little nap, someone grabbed my arm and pulled me off the boulder. I fell roughly to the ground, knees crunching in the snow.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Adrian demanded, glaring at me as he shrugged out of his jacket.

  “What am I doing?” I asked, blinking rapidly. “What are you doing?”

  How the hell was he here at the same time as me—again?

  He put his coat over my shoulders but I knocked it off, turning to climb back up.

  “Caitlin, you’re freezing!” He grabbed me around the waist and his hands felt like fire on my numb skin.

  “No shit,” I tossed back. “Let go of me!”

  “No.”

  I clawed at his hands, struggled and fought; trying to kick him, get him off balance so I could climb back up again, but he wouldn’t let go and he wouldn’t fall over.

  “Why do you have to ruin everything?” I screamed, tearing my nails into his arms through his sweater sleeves, hating him more than I’d ever hated anyone in my life.

  He just held me tighter, grabbing my wrists and crossing them over my chest so I couldn’t scratch him. “Caitlin, stop.”

  “Just leave me alone!”

  Using his superior weight, he forced me to my knees and followed me down; we bent forward, breathing heavily, unable to move.

  “No,” he repeated in my ear.

  “Why not?” I sobbed, angry that he was stronger than me and bigger; angry that I couldn’t break free no matter how angry I was.

  He let me go and stood up. But before I had time to feel relieved, to feel happy, to feel blank, he grabbed my arm again and dragged me to my feet, glaring. “I saved you once, I can do it again.”

  “Save me?” I stared at him blankly. “What did you think I came out here to do?”

  He shifted, looking suddenly unsure. “You’re—you’re standing half naked in the snow.”

  We blinked at each other before I wrenched my arm free. “I came out here to be alone, asshole, not to kill myself. It’s literally my birthday, and I can literally cry if I literally want to.” I huffed a stray piece of hair out of my eyes. “I can’t cry in the house because everyone would hear, so I came out here to do it.”

  “Oh,” he said, blushing. “Well … go ahead, then.”

  “I’m not going to cry now.”

  “Right.” He had the decency to look embarrassed. He turned and walked off a few steps, then pivoted and turned back to me. “Except, why is your shirt off?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I was hot. Sue me.”

  He frowned at me, eyes narrowed. “Yeah, that’s not it. You were lying in the snow. Your fingers are blue. That’s not normal.”

  I deflected with a question of my own. “What the hell are you even doing out here?”

  He ignored me and scooped up my sweater. “Put your shirt back on.”

  I smiled at him. “Never seen a half-naked girl before?”

  He held the sweater out to me. “I don’t care about your modesty, I care that it’s twenty-seven degrees outside. Put the damn sweater on.”

  I glared at him. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

  “God, you are trying to kill yourself!”

  “What moron tries to freeze themself to death?” I asked, truly incredulous, although my teeth were chattering so it made the question seem less than serious.

  “Morons who are in denial about the fact that they’re trying to kill themselves and choose a method that could look like an accident.”

  I stared at him. I shivered. He threw his arms wide, blue sweater already accumulating snow, and said, “Hit me.”

  “What?”

  “I said ‘hit me.’”

  I blinked at him. “Why on earth would I hit you?”

  He took six rapid steps until he was way up in my personal space. “If you don’t hit me, I am going to throw you over my shoulder, carry you back to your aunt and uncle’s, dump you in the shower, and tell them that you’re suicidal and need help.”

  I glared at him, then hobbled for freedom.

  “Stop, Caitlin,” Adrian called after me calmly. I figure I got about five feet before he was just, all of a sudden, right where I had planned on putting my next step.

  He stared down at me sternly. “I’m not kidding.”

  “Stay away from me,” I managed to say between gritted teeth. The adrenaline was wearing thin and the cold was beginning to break through my mental fog.

  “Why?” he demanded, backing me up against the boulder. “If you’re going to let the snow send you into a hypothermic coma, does it matter if I’m here or not? You think your mom fought all those months in the hospital just so you could give up after she was gone? You think she’d be proud if she could see you right now?”

  Something inside me snapped and I slapped him. And then I slapped him again. He didn’t even flinch.

  We stood there for a long time.

  I deflated slowly. “I shouldn’t have slapped you. You’re an ass, but I shouldn’t have slapped you.”

  “Why are you out here, really?” he asked finally.

  I shrugged miserably. “She looks like my mom. Every time Joe does something nice it reminds me of my dad. I hate it.”

  My voice seemed to get stuck somewhere between my lungs and my heart.

  “How did it happen? With your dad?”

  I flinched involuntarily. I hadn’t told anyone this story, except the police and my mom, and the words seemed e
ven now like they were coming from someone else’s mouth. I wasn’t sure why I was telling him any of this, but the words tumbled out.

  “We were out on his boat,” I said, wiping at my face. “It had always been fine, nothing bad had ever happened—and then one time, a perfectly ordinary day, he started talking, but he wasn’t making any sense. I couldn’t understand what he was saying. And then he fell into the water, and he knew how to swim, but he wasn’t swimming. The water wasn’t even that deep, he could have stood up, but he didn’t. After a while, I knew he was dead, but I didn’t want to touch him—if I touched him, it would be real. A fisherman found us the next morning and called the police. Just your run-of-the-mill brain aneurysm. There was nothing I could have done, I was five years old, but I still feel like if I had just jumped in, if I had dragged him to shore, maybe he would’ve made it. But I was too scared to touch him. So it was my fault.”

  My eyes felt heavy. Everything felt heavy. “My mom shut down after that. She was just finally starting to seem okay again when she was diagnosed with bone cancer.” I shrugged. “Now she’s dead, too.”

  My knees gave out and he caught me, but I didn’t care. Adrian could leave me here and eventually I would either get up or I wouldn’t. But he didn’t leave me. Instead, he wrapped his arms around my shoulders. He was warm.

  “Everyone dies, except for me,” I murmured. “I thought I’d come out here and cry about it for a little while.”

  We stood like that for a long moment: me leaning against Adrian, Adrian keeping me from falling over.

  “Caitlin,” he said slowly. “I need to tell you something. I think you need to know now. But you’re not going to believe me.”

  I should have been more interested, but to be completely honest, I was falling asleep. “All right,” I murmured into his collarbone.

  Keeping one arm around my waist, he leaned back to look me in the eyes, searching my face, waiting until he had my attention.

  “I won’t die,” he said slowly. “Ever.”

  I laughed tiredly. “Cool.”

  He frowned. “It’s true.”