September Rain Bk 2, Savor The Days Series

by A. R. Rivera

  “You don’t have to answer that.” My lawyer waves his hand through the air, obstructing my view of Tara, across the table. “If it’s too stressful—”

  “I didn’t know the signs.” If he thinks he can shut me down, he’s got another thing coming. “I didn’t do anything—but I am at fault. For Jake.” My heart wrenches on his name.

  They have to know how the two are connected: Avery’s words and the night Jake died.

  I’m shaking, as if the fault line of my mind has shifted, forcing my whole body into tremors. “I can see now. N-none of it was—”

  “Miss Patel, would you like to stop?”

  I turn to glare at Mister Brandon and keep talking. “None of it should have happened. It was all wrong. He was . . . It wasn’t peaceful. It wasn’t real.”

  “What makes you think that it wasn’t real?” Tara’s voice is velvet soft, though she’s glaring at my lawyer.

  Avery is the fucking devil! “How else—how could she take my soul? It’s gone! But I’m still here. Still breathing.”

  “She’s wrecked. Let’s leave this for tomorrow.” Quiet Darren insists and Mister Brandon jumps up in agreement.

  “No!” I sob, throwing up my free hand that had been kindly uncuffed earlier to allow me to wipe my own nose.

  The two men look at each other for a long moment before Quiet Darren asks, “What do you think? Should we wrap it up?”

  My lawyer waves his hand, “If she’s determined to continue—”

  “I am. I want to finish this.” My clenched fist bounces off the table. Quiet Darren looks back to me, his relaxed posture now unyielding. I nod frantically. “Please. I’ll calm down, I promise. Just, let me finish.”

  The two men settle back in their chairs as Tight Bun Tara looks on with expectation. Looking at the three faces, the room suddenly feels much smaller, the air too quiet. Frantic silence floats all around and I am drowning in it.

  “It was not real.” I repeat, taking a deep breath. “It wasn’t. It wasn’t.” Air like soup, suffocates me. “Until . . . it was.

  “When Avery said that . . . about the broken jar, it was like this door inside my head opened up, connecting two rooms that I didn’t know were even there. And I was sure the knowledge that flooded in like a contaminated light had to be a lie.”

  I can see myself back inside that bloody motel room as clear as if I’m standing in it. “I didn’t know that I was the only person who set foot inside that room. That there was no one else. That I—that she was me.”

  Something inside me breaks. It’s as if I’ve been kicked and all the air shoved from my body. It takes a minute to draw breath. I’m fighting to stay in this moment, fighting to get the words out. But all that comes are the sounds of giant, irrepressible sobs heaving up my tight throat, folding me in half. I sound like a wild animal and it’s fitting that I’m caged like one.

  I can’t let myself stop now. More than my next breath, I need them to know what happened. I want them to believe me. And if I can’t give them my truth now, I won’t get another chance. It’s a miracle that they’ve let me get this far into the aftermath, that my lawyer has let me go on. If I give in, they’ll stop listening and all of this will have been for nothing.

  All I have is breath, so I take it, use it to hold my cries inside and shove the words past them. “Doctor Bender said Doctor Williams was wrong. That I was just traumatized, had PTSD, or something. And that I suffered from a severe mood disorder and the night with Jake . . . was because I was coming down from a ‘prolonged state of manic euphoria,’ which, would be controlled with new medication.”

  “But I swear—I swear to you on whatever I have left inside me, that everything I am was asleep on that bathroom floor when Jake walked into that room.”

  Breathe.

  Say it.

  “And I swear to you, that I did not kill Jake. I loved him. Love him. I would never hurt him.”

  My lawyers’ eyes are burning with an emotion I don’t care to identify as he stares at one side of my face.

  “Doctor Bender lied. He saw what happened, he talked to Avery. He knew that I always forgot everything and that Avery was the reason. She put me to sleep! She took control!”

  “Dissociative amnesia and delusions.” Mister Brandon mumbles and Tight Bun and Quiet Man both nod their heads, making notes on their respective notepads.

  “Doctor Williams spoke to Avery without me there. She knew I wasn’t faking.”

  The words are coming easier now, flowing together with my tears instead of one blocking out the other. “I didn’t know. I couldn’t see that I—my eyes were the last ones that he saw. I didn’t know that the nightmares I had of—of him dying were m-memories.”

  I take a deep breath and release it, letting the room fall silent. All the fight gone, along with the words.

  “We’re done for the day.” My lawyer shoots from his chair, ordering the guards and everyone else in the room to come back first thing in the morning.

  I don’t get a say in what happens to me, but I’m begging anyway. Yes, I’ve said the hardest thing, but it’s not enough. And in the chaos that follows—my insistence at remaining until the end of the scheduled session and arguing with my lawyer about it—it feels as if the room takes a collective breath.

  The two judges on the other side of the table seem dumbstruck, trying to absorb my confession: information I never gave to the police, information treated as fodder. My condition was never taken seriously.

  And how could I tell my whole story when even I didn’t know all of it? I was trying to come to terms with the fact that my very best friend murdered the love of my life. I had no clue that she wasn’t—for all their intents and purposes—real. I saw her and touched her. I hear her still

  But she’s a by-product of my fractured psyche.

  A projection.

  A delusion.

  Things that would require years and years of therapy to come to terms with.

  I didn’t know that no one saw her but me. I never noticed the way people skipped over her in conversations, or only spoke to one of us at a time, never included her in activities. I never saw how we only communicated when we were alone.

  I didn’t know how hard my mind had to work to save me from my exceptionally shitty life. Avery’s emptiness, her anger and memories, the cutting, and sleeping around—all of that was me.

  It feels like a question, not an answer. How is it that Avery’s eating disorder and need to coddle me was just another fractured part of me trying to find a way to cope? To coexist within myself? What type of life did I lead before that accident that I had to make up an entirely different person to handle it?

  I couldn’t even accept what Doctor Williams was explaining to Doctor Bender until I saw the taped interrogation videos. I looked strange, elegantly folded into a chair, and giving attitude that wasn’t mine. I insulted everybody, moving smoother than I ever knew I could. I saw my own lips say, “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know, so long as Angel walks.” And then I smiled and stabbed myself with a pencil.

  A brown-haired, brown-eyed girl, acting like a green-eyed terror.

  The times I argued with Jake over what I thought were misunderstandings, were wasted. Avery must have made sure he never found out there were two souls living in my body. I didn’t even know it. It seems the only ones who did, weren’t sure enough to say anything. Until that day in the jail, when Avery talked about being broken, nothing made sense. And after, it made even less sense.

  “I promise to stay calm,” I beg my lawyer. “Please. Just let me go a little longer.”

  Once he gives a reluctant nod, a guard re-cuffs my free hand to the arm of the chair and I am allowed to keep talking, telling all of them what I now know to be true: “Jake was completely innocent. He dealt with everything and understood so little. He truly loved me. And she—” my voice gives. I clamp my lips in my teeth, holding the urge to cry inside. I can’t finish the sentence.

  A hand sets a D
iet Coke on the table in front of me. Bendy straw and everything. The sight calms my bawling. I thank the quiet man with, what I hope is, a smile and take a long, cool sip.

  Darren asks, “Can you tell us what happened that night?”

  My lawyer cuts in. “She has no first-hand knowledge—”

  “I’ll tell them.” My lips tremble around the straw as I take another drink.

  “Miss Patel, I understand your desire to share, but you are distressed and I am charged with looking out for your best interest.” He’s closer now, in my line of sight. One hand is extended towards the microphone. “As you recall, that night was never the purpose of this interview. Any commentary on an event you cannot fully recall is reckless. Pointless.”

  Darren leans towards the microphone and flips the switch. The constant red light on the base goes black. “Mister Brandon, Miss Patel, I ask for simple, professional curiosity. It’s not often we have the opportunity to observe dissociative behavior firsthand. We have all the hard evidence in the case file; the forensics, and statements from the band members. Transcripts from your hearing, but as you insist, no one was there except your alter, Avery, and the victim.”

  “I have dreams about it sometimes. My doctors at Canyon View say they’re repressed memories manifesting or something like that. They may not be exactly right.” In my heart, I pray they aren’t. How anyone could be so calculated and cruel . . .

  Quiet Darren’s forehead has had a constant crevice for the past several hours, but now he leans back in his chair and the crevice smoothes out. He looks years younger. “I can accept that. What about you?” He turns to Tight Bun Tara.

  Her eyes widen. “So long as you understand, Miss Patel, whatever you reveal to us will have no bearing on the results of this evaluation. Our decision will not be swayed—neither more nor less lenient. Is that clear?”

  “Yes,” I say, leaving out that I don’t give shit either way, what happens to me after this. Explaining this part was the whole point of my cooperating. So they can all see that I am not Avery. Though we share the same body, we are not the same people. We are polar fucking opposites. I need for that to be clear.

  I look at my lawyer. “You know my opinion.” Mister Brandon crosses his arms.

  I adjust myself in the chair. “The dream always starts with me, well Avery. She’s alone, standing in the middle of the motel room. The only light is coming from the television . . .”

  48

  —What Happened

  A knock sounded at the door. Avery hadn’t been in the room for more than a few seconds. She was still in her clingy clothes, wet from her night swim in the motel pool.

  She opened the door minutely and saw Band Chick—Angelica.

  “Hey,” Angelica said with her perfect lips, “it’s getting way too naked over there. You mind if I crash in here?”

  “Things not working out with Andrew? And don’t you have a room?”

  A smirk perked up one side of her mouth. “He’s playing hard to get, I guess. I have my own room, but not at this shithole and I drank too much to consider driving.”

  Avery shook her head, unsympathetically noting the guitarists wobble. “I got a headache. A real bad one.”

  Angelica’s shoulders dropped. “Fuck it. Guess I’ll just go pass out in my car.”

  “Well, I took some pain reliever. Probably come back in about an hour?”

  Angelica smiled, “Maybe I can hold out a little longer. Feel better.”

  Avery closed the door, aiming to change out of her wet clothes. She was just slipping into a dry set when another knock sounded. This time, it was louder and immediately irritated her. She wasn’t expecting anyone and she wanted to keep the noise to a minimum to avoid waking Angel.

  “Just a second,” she whisper-yelled at the door and ripped her dry shorts up the rest of the way.

  Jake was standing outside. His arms were crossed and he wasn’t smiling. Avery rolled her eyes. She could never take mild-mannered Jake seriously when he tried to look angry. It just didn’t work with mellow demeanor.

  “Keep your voice down.” She mouthed, setting a finger over her lips.

  “Why are you whispering?”

  “Because I have to, Jake.”

  He tilted his head to one side. “Headache?”

  Avery nodded.

  “Convenient.” Jake walked inside and sat on the bed, leaning up against the headboard. “You know,” he kept his voice low, “I’ve got a couple things I need to talk about.”

  “Like what?”

  “Heavy stuff. Like something Andrew said to me this morning.” His eyes met hers and something flashed in them. “We never talked about when you broke the news to Deanna, either. I know it’s not the best time . . .” His voice trailed off, but his gaze was sharp.

  “Perfect.” Avery snapped, the hair at the back of her neck straightening with the mention of the Foster. “Let’s have a deep conversation.” Her words gave off that perfect sarcasm she employed as she turned to face Jake with her legs folded. Face to face, both sitting on the bed.

  “First: Andrew said he saw you groping two guys from Anemic Psychos.”

  Avery put up a hand, stopping him. “They did it to me first. It was a revenge grope.”

  Jake sighed, nodding. “I heard the same from them. But . . .”

  “Spit it out, Jake.”

  “It pisses me off that you would do that. You’re my girlfriend. You should fucking act like it.” He met her gaze, a muscle in his clenched jaw twitched. “Andrew also told me he saw you in town a while back.”

  Avery knew when Jake said town it meant the larger of the two; Eager, not Carlisle.

  “Well, isn’t Andrew full of useful information? I can see how that might bug you.” Jake scowled, but Avery didn’t care. “See, I have this little thing called free will and sometimes I use it to go into town.”

  “He said you were walking into that abortion clinic down on Cactus Street.” The hard look in Jakes’ eyes faltered. “I told him he was crazy, that you might do crazy stuff sometimes, but you wouldn’t do that. I didn’t tell him about how you can’t have kids. That’s not his business. Besides, if something like that ever happened you would tell me.”

  Avery kept her eyes down, wondering how to handle this. Could she sweep it under the rug? Keep it from Angel in the long run?

  “Right?” Jake asked, his voice rising. “You would tell me if I . . . if you were . . . Right? Normally, I wouldn’t even ask, but you’ve been acting really weird, lately. More weird than usual. But I told Andrew that he was wrong.” He paused again. And then carried on, “You would never do that to me. He’s wrong. Isn’t he?”

  Avery shrugged, deciding on the fly to roll with the punches. He’d already promised to marry Angel, there had to be some security in that. “I might have been there.”

  Suddenly, Jake shot up from the bed. His hazel eyes turned black as he stared down at her. “Getting a . . . ?”

  She crossed her arms.

  “But—but I thought . . . how? You were?”

  “Yes.” She didn’t even have the courtesy to look ashamed.

  “Damn it!” Jake raised his hands over his head, raking his fingers down his face. “I am so sick of defending you all the time. You fucking lied? What the hell?”

  “I didn’t think I could get pregnant. I was wrong and I took care of it.”

  “Without telling me!”

  “Why would I tell you?”

  “Why?” Jake scoffed. “Because I deserve more respect than a fucking dog. It was part of me, too.”

  His words were forceful. He was pissed and Avery eagerly fed on that rage like a cat lapping up cream.

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  The acid in her voice ate right through Jakes’ heart. She could tell by the way he jerked back as if he’d been sucker-punched. His whole body deflated.

  She felt a little guilty, but part of her was also interested. Angry Jake was a curious thing, an anomaly she was unfamilia
r with. Usually, when Jakes upset met her indifference, he dropped it, or caved into her demands. But here he was, looking for a fight and that got Avery curious. Of course, she knew she should apologize, but what if she didn’t?

  The room became deathly quiet as Avery wondered. What would Jake do then?

  Jakes’ mouth opened, but no sound came out. He ran his hands up and over his stubby, velvet hair and took a deep breath. “I know that sometimes you say things you don’t mean. So I need an explanation before I get righteously pissed.”

  Avery stood, stepping away from the side of the bed, but said nothing.

  Jakes patience withdrew, leaving only rising anger. His mouth cracked into a grimace. “Not my baby?”

  “Jake.” Avery walked backwards towards the dresser where Angels’ purse was set. She knew Angel kept a pocket knife in there. She did not know what Jake might do next, but she wanted to find out. She wanted to be ready for anything.

  “What the fuck did you mean?” Jake pressed, pointing a finger in her direction.

  Avery felt the smooth handle of the pocket knife against her palm and a ripple of anxiety as she answered. “It was not your baby. Not ours.”

  “Really?” Everything inside him seemed to break at once. His breath hitched and back bowed, his head fell into his hands. When he looked at Avery a moment later, the impossible happened; Jake was fuming. And it was not funny at all. He looked so disgusted, so disappointed, it made Avery’s self-hatred swell. She knew that Angel would hate her for it, too. But she didn’t want to back down. As a matter of fact, she shoved her chin out.

  Jake lunged at her, taking her by both shoulders and shaking. “Who was it?”

  Avery remained resolutely quiet.

  Jake repeated his question, “Who? Who?” Tightening his grasp on her arms, his face went red.

  It was always very simple for Avery to shift the hate she felt for herself onto others. It was as easy as changing the direction of a loaded cannon. The fuse was always lit and all she had to do was pivot the giant weapon, shift her hateful aim. She didn’t like the way he looked and touched her. His fingers were a vice around each arm. She’s was already on edge, thinking too, of the euphoric cloud that had engulfed after she let loose on Deanna.