Now Is Everything

by Amy Giles

  He doesn’t speak. He just watches me with his fucking clinical eyes, like medical instruments trying to probe their way inside me to cut out what’s damaged.

  “You knew and never said anything! You just let me talk like an asshole waiting for me to tell you!”

  He doesn’t break eye contact, but he doesn’t speak. Just waits it out. His clock counts the seconds.

  I’m drowning in silence. If I don’t break the surface, I’ll suffocate.

  “I hate him, okay?” I admit, wiping my cheeks, then correct myself. “Hated.”

  Dr. Bruce finally speaks. “You were right the first time. The feelings are still present. Right? They don’t just go away.” He hands me the box of tissues. I nod and swipe at my face.

  Dr. Bruce waits while I cry. When I can speak again, I confess.

  “I wanted him to die.”

  Dr. Bruce doesn’t flinch. “Many victims of abuse want their perpetrators to die.”

  “But then he did. I wanted it to happen, and it did.”

  “We all have thoughts that are inappropriate . . . cruel, even. It’s a common human experience. But those thoughts don’t incriminate you.” He reaches down and scratches his ankle, which is such an oddly human thing to do at the moment, reminding me that even Dr. Bruce has itches that need to be scratched.

  My insides feel ready to explode from the pressure. Franklin was right. I’m a hoarder. The words come out because they have to. Because I’m choking on them.

  “I was going to do it. In the plane. And then I didn’t. But it happened anyway.”

  This time, the silence feels like my judge and jury, my moment to hear from Dr. Bruce what a horrible person I am, why I’m not fit to be allowed back into the world.

  He inhales through his nose then leans forward. “But you didn’t. And you had nothing to do with his death.” He watches me, as if to see if I accept his absolution.

  “Hadley, it is my hope that someday you will realize that you’re not guilty. Having thoughts of anger, of vengeance, is not a crime.”

  I stare down at my fingers.

  “Hadley.”

  I glance up.

  “I want you to try something. Close your eyes.” I close them. “Now, picture the people you love with all your heart. Reverse roles. Imagine they suffered the same abuse you have. And they are coming to you with these same feelings of guilt . . . of shame . . . Would you forgive them? Would you want them to forgive themselves?”

  First, I picture Lila. Then Charlie. Then Noah and Meaghan and Grandma. My fists clench imagining any one of them going through what I did.

  Lila looks up at me, her blue eyes wide with worry, her chin dimpling. I want to take the worry off her. I want to tell her it’s okay. She’s going to be okay. We’re going to be okay.

  With my eyes closed, I can’t see Dr. Bruce. But I hear him scribbling on his pad like mad.

  A few days later in group, surrounded by new faces, I open up about the night of the poker. This time, Linda reaches over and squeezes my shoulder. “Great job, Hadley.” The weight on my chest lessens, little by little.

  A week later, they discharge me into my grandmother’s care. Dr. Bruce, in his silent, analytical way, determined I was no longer a harm to myself and that I had things I wanted to live for. He’s right. At our last session, Dr. Bruce told me, “You still have more work to do, Hadley. But our work here is done.” He recommended a therapist for me close to home.

  Grandma and I pass the rec room on the way out. I hardly recognize anyone in there. Everyone I knew left already.

  On the long drive home, Grandma shoots me nervous looks from the corner of her eye, maybe to make sure I’m not planning on throwing myself out of the moving car on the highway.

  I watch the familiar scenery of my hometown welcome me back. My fingers press against the window as if I can touch the trees lining the road.

  “Is Lila home?” I ask, glancing at my blurred reflection in the window, a stranger, a girl I no longer recognize.

  Grandma glances over. “No. She’s over at Casey’s. They’ll bring her back tonight.”

  I smile. Lila. I can’t wait to see her.

  She clears her throat. “Your young man has called quite a bit. He’s been very worried about you.”

  My head whips back over at Grandma.

  “Charlie?” I touch the empty spot at my clavicle. They gave me my necklace back. I put it away in my bag with my clothes and toothbrush.

  Her face folds with worry when mine crumbles. “I’m sorry, sweetie . . . I thought that would make you happy.”

  I nod. It should. But I’m not sure I can face Charlie yet.

  Lila and I have had a sleepover every night since I got home. She’s been like a koala bear, hanging on to me, never letting me out of her sight. Or maybe it’s the other way around.

  Now she lies next to me in bed, fingering the scar on my wrist.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “No,” I say, watching her gently trace the puckered lines on my wrists. The pain isn’t in my wrist, or my broken arm still in a cast. It’s everywhere.

  The quiet is a constant ringing in my ears, the emptiness of every room condemns me. But the house noises are worse. The garage door rumbling makes my fingers prickle and my breath quicken. The mudroom door shutting sends an electric bolt down my spine. The hulking shadow of my father looms around every corner, ready to pounce. Every time I walk into the kitchen, I expect to see my mother at the kitchen counter, a hand ready on her glass to silence her world.

  And then there’s Grandma. Watching her stare out the window, her eyes old and tired, reminds me of what the crash stole from her.

  I’m grateful I didn’t know about the vertical cuts. Rowan was right; somewhere deep inside of me, I didn’t really want to die. But living is hard. And then I remember sitting in front of Lila’s baby carrier when she first came home from the hospital, willing her little lungs to keep breathing. I just have to do the same for myself now.

  After a week of trying to get me to commit to a day to see them, Noah texts me an ultimatum.

  Either lower the drawbridge or we’re storming the castle.

  Half an hour later, Noah and Meaghan wave at me nervously from my porch.

  Meaghan rushes over the threshold first, nearly knocking me down with her hug. She immediately starts bawling. When I look over her shoulder at Noah for some assistance, he walks over and peels her off.

  “Okay, my turn,” he tells her. Noah’s hug is gentler, as if he’s afraid I might break. And then the one person in my life who can make a joke out of just about any miserable situation whispers in my ear, “I’m so sorry.”

  We sit in the den with the TV on, but no one watches. They both bite their lips, eyes darting everywhere and anywhere but my wrists.

  Meaghan rambles on, briefing me on what I missed since I was gone. She and Mike are dating again. “We had a long talk. We really like each other, but we’re going to take it slow. It’s only been about three weeks, but—”

  “It’s a world record for her.” Noah thumbs over to Meaghan.

  Meaghan grins in agreement. “Okay, what else? Faith had a party last Friday. The neighbors complained about the noise, and the cops came and broke it up, thank God! I couldn’t shake Claudia! She was chewing my ear off all night about how bad she felt because she had been so mean to you. She was so annoying, I was ready to kill myself just to—”

  Noah’s mouth falls open.

  “I did not just say that,” Meaghan gasps.

  I snort. “Yeah, you did.”

  She babbles, trying to explain. “You know how when you try really hard not to say something, but you say it anyway because you’re trying not to? I was so nervous I’d say the wrong thing and—”

  Noah squeezes his eyes shut and slaps his forehead. “Stop talking!”

  I can’t stop laughing. It’s the ice breaker we needed. We finally talk to each other again the way we used to.

  Eventually, Noah bri
ngs up the million-dollar question.

  “Why are you avoiding Charlie?”

  My fingers flutter to the hollow pit at my clavicle.

  “I’m not ready.”

  Meaghan looks at Noah, then me.

  “Ready for what?”

  They look genuinely confused. They have no idea how hard it is to see everyone I had decided I was willing to leave, especially Charlie. How do I face him and see the pain in his eyes, knowing that no matter how much he loved me, how much I loved him, it wasn’t enough?

  “The guy is really hurting, Hadley. He misses you,” Noah says.

  I glance away. “I miss him too.” My voice catches.

  That’s not a lie. I miss him so much it aches.

  That last day Brady came to the hospital, I was ready to tell him everything. I needed to confess. I couldn’t go on living without some kind of atonement.

  Until I saw Lila’s letter in Grandma’s purse. I avoided opening all of her letters because I didn’t want to know she missed me. I didn’t deserve Lila’s love. Or anyone’s. But this one changed everything: Lila didn’t just miss me, she needed me. I was willing to let the guilt burn inside me if that’s what it took to come home to her.

  And then Brady and Dr. Bruce absolved me of my sins.

  Even though I found my way back, the knowledge of what I almost became, what I was willing to do, what I saw through almost to the end, frightens me.

  I know it’s him ringing the doorbell even before Grandma calls me down.

  She disappears discreetly as I walk down the stairs.

  His eyes are dark and haunted. Shifting nervously, he shoves his hands deep into his hoodie pockets as I approach. The closer I get, the more the stress of this past month is apparent, in the dark circles under his eyes, the hollows of his cheeks.

  We stare at each other, neither one sure how to move forward. My fingers flutter to the empty space of my clavicle, like they always do, and always will, when I think of Charlie. His eyes follow my fingers, filling with horror as he sees the evidence on my wrist of what until now had just been unfathomable news about his girlfriend.

  I glance up at him hesitantly. “Hasn’t anyone been feeding you while I was gone?” My lips edge up in an attempt to crack a joke.

  He takes his arms out of his pockets and reaches for me, testing to see if I’ll allow it. When I don’t resist, he wraps them around me and pulls me tight, erasing every ounce of space between us.

  I rest my cheek against his chest, closing my eyes. His smell, even the cigarette smoke embedded in the soft cotton of his hoodie, is warm, comforting. Forgiving.

  He turns his lips to my ear. “I love you.”

  Careful of my cast, I wrap my arms tighter around him, soaking in his familiar warmth.

  He’s here now, and all I can ask for is now. And now is okay. Now is more than I thought I deserved up until a week ago. Our now may be nothing compared to the billions of years and stars that make up our universe, but maybe now is all we can ask for. Now is everything.

  Later that afternoon, he clasps the necklace around my neck. We sit in front of the TV, where I ease back into the crook of his arm. Lila’s dancing upstairs in her room rattles the ceiling over our heads. I touch the claddagh at my neck, focusing on the pulsing beat of my little sister’s feet and the warmth radiating off Charlie. My heart is full. Of love and grief, of pain and happiness. Of life. I take a breath, then another, and another.

  A NOTE FROM AMY GILES

  If Hadley seems familiar to you, please keep reading.

  Every year more than three million reports of child abuse are made in the United States.1

  Abuse doesn’t discriminate by race, gender, religion, or socioeconomic status. Abuse exists in rich families, poor families, devout families, and educated families. In 2013, just under 80 percent of reported child fatalities from abuse and neglect were caused by one or more of the child victim’s parents.2

  But what about the cases of abuse that aren’t reported?

  Victims of emotional, physical, and sexual abuse are often made to feel so tiny and insignificant they think no one will care, no one will believe them, or worse, their problems don’t matter. I want you to know, you matter. And people care.

  It’s common for people who are being abused to feel confused, upset, angry, guilty, embarrassed, and even blame themselves. It can be hard to report someone who hurts you. Abusers often try to make you think you did something to deserve it, to deflect attention away from their own actions. Sometimes the abuser threatens to harm you or someone you love (sometimes even a pet) if you tell anyone what they’ve done. This is how they convince you that there’s nothing you can do to stop what’s happening. They’re wrong.

  If you or someone you know is being abused, there’s help. Reporting abuse makes it possible for a family to receive the counseling they need. And it can also save a life. The sooner authorities know about an abusive situation, the sooner they can help.

  Help can be as close as a dean, teacher, or school nurse, even a friend’s parent. Hadley could have turned to Mr. Murray, Señora Moore, Dr. Sher, or Coach Kimmel. Any one of them would have made the call that Hadley feared to make for herself. Suspicion of abuse is all that’s needed to report. Some professionals are required by law to report suspected abuse. Mandated reporters include school personnel, doctors and their staff, emergency medical technicians, foster care workers, police officers, social workers, school athletic coaches, and many other individuals whose professional work puts them in contact with children.

  If you take away anything from Hadley’s story, it’s the importance of talking to someone. To quote one survivor of abuse: “If you don’t talk about it, how in the name of hell are you supposed to deal with it? You can’t deal with what’s not there.”3

  If you are being abused or neglected, or suspect someone you know is, please make the call. Here are emergency numbers and websites:

  Call 911 if you believe you or someone you know is in immediate danger from child abuse or neglect.

  Childhelp National Child Abuse Hotline 24/7: 1-800-4-A-CHILD (1-800-422-4453). Serves the United States and Canada. Assistance is available in 170 languages.

  Cybertipline http://www.missingkids.com

  National Child Pornography Tipline: 1-800-843-5678. To report the sexual exploitation of children through the production and distribution of pornography.

  National Suicide Hotline 1-800-273-TALK

  The National Center for Missing and Exploited Children: 24/7 hotline 1-800-THE-LOST (1-800-843-5678). To report child-sexual exploitation, harassment or solicitation, a missing child, or a sighting of a missing child.

  Rape, Assault and Incest National Network: 24/7/hotline 1-800-656-HOPE.

  National sexual assault online hotline. Free, safe, confidential—does not capture IP address: www.rainn.org

  For a complete list of individual state child abuse hotlines, please visit capsli.org/reporting-abuse/individual-state-hotlines or amygiles.net.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Pulling words together into a story is easy compared to arranging words into thoughtful thank-yous to all the incredible people in my life. Words are inadequate compared to the depth of love, respect, and gratitude I have for all of you.

  This book would not be in your hands right now if not for my amazing agent, Alexandra Machinist. Your call that night is up there in my top five best moments of my life. Thank you to my superstar editors, Rosemary Brosnan and Jessica MacLeish, for their equal parts enthusiasm and editorial wizardry, and for loving Hadley as much as I do.

  Thanks to everyone at HarperTeen who worked on this book, from production to marketing and everyone in between.

  Thank you to my earliest readers and best cheerleaders a writer can have, my critique partners, Amanda Jasper and Nicole Sewell. I owe so much to my 2017 debut group for their friendship and support. A special shout-out to Melissa, Stephanie, Robin, and Jeff, for the laughs and impromptu therapy sessions.

/>   To quote Clarence in It’s a Wonderful Life: “No (wo)man is a failure who has friends.” Thank you to my crew: Jenssie, Debbie M, Leslie, Karen, Debbie S, Anna, KT, Lisa, Zina, Dawn, Debbie P, Lauren, my neighborhood “Ladies Who Wine,” and my extended family. I love you all. A special thank-you to Benjamin Baldwin for helping me shape Hadley’s therapy sessions. Many additional experts were consulted while writing this story, from pilots to medical professionals. A tremendous heartfelt thank-you for your time. If any errors remain, they’re all on me.

  To my home team: Mom, thank you for inspiring my love of reading and writing, and for taking me to the library when I was little to see how to go about publishing my short story about the man in the blue hat and his curious monkey (I was writing fan fiction and didn’t even know it). Thank you to my brother, Evans, for putting up with all my little sisterly stuff. To my husband, Pat, for the many “bacon” salads during edits and for believing this day would come long before I ever believed it myself. And to my girls, Maggie and Julia. It feels as if there was never a time before you.

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo by Danny Schrafel

  AMY GILES is a copywriter and has written everything from cereal commercials to animated webisodes to commercial fishing catalogs. Her true love is writing for and about teens. She lives on an Island that is Long with her husband, her two daughters, and their rescue dog. Visit her online at www.amygiles.net and follow her on Twitter @AmySGiles.

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  BOOKS BY AMY GILES

  Now Is Everything

  That Night