by Lindy Zart
When I get back downstairs, it's after one o'clock in the afternoon and my stomach is growling for food. On my way to the kitchen, I realize I forgot to check his head injury. How could I have let that slip my mind? I blame his belligerent behavior for my brain malfunction and yet, that doesn't relieve the guilt I feel. I'm supposed to be looking out for him and he's already injured himself within hours of my presence. Maybe Monica will fire me.
Shoulders slumping, I backtrack to his bedroom. The door is closed and low music sounds from within. I knock on the door and the volume of the music escalates. Glaring at the door, I contemplate whether or not I recall ever meeting such a childish person. I don't think so. I check the doorknob and when it turns I shove the door open. Rivers is lying on the top of his made bed—the bed I made—with his hands behind his head and his eyes on the ceiling.
Without looking at me, he mutes the music with a remote control long enough to say, “Go away.”
I note the closed curtains and stomp over to them, grabbing an end in each hand and throwing my arms open wide. Sunlight filters into the room and lands directly on him—light and darkness colliding to form a beautiful monster.
“Close the curtains.”
His tone is extremely arrogant and I want to punch him. Instead I put a hand to my ear and look at him with my eyebrows raised. “What? Can't hear you above the music. Too loud.” I shrug.
His jaw bunches as he sits up. He turns the music off. “Close the curtains.”
“Get up and close them yourself.”
"Isn't that part of your job?"
"To be your slave? No. I don't think so." Although, technically, has it ever really been discussed? Either way, he doesn't need to know.
“I didn't realize you were such a pain in the ass in school.”
The fact that he even knows we went to school together stumps me for a second. I figured I was one in a mass of insignificant people not noteworthy enough to matter to him. “That's the difference between you and me—I did realize you were.”
He clamps his lips together.
“Silent treatment time again? I'm cool with that. It'll make checking your head easier without you being a loudmouthed brat the whole time.” I walk toward the bed, watching him stiffen as I get closer. “Did you take a bath then?” I don't wait for him to not answer me, continuing with, “You must have. You don't stink anymore.” Not that he ever did. I can tell he bathed, though, because his hair isn't sticking up everywhere like it was this morning and the vanilla sunshine scent is intensified.
Surprisingly enough, he doesn't pull away or complain when I hover over him. I pause, staring down at his lowered head. Maybe he is finally resigned to me. Good. It'll make life easier for the next few days if he just accepts the situation. Once again, I am aware of the closeness of my body to his face, and my pulse picks up because of it. I gently touch the gash on the top of his head, his hair thick and soft against my fingers. The wound is scabbed over with freshly dried blood evident only in a small area of it.
Without thinking about what I am doing, I brush my fingers across the silken locks of short black hair, an unconscious part of me wanting to comfort him like I would anyone hurting. He is torn into a million different parts; none of them resembling who he used to be, and I do understand that, even if he is a pretty unlikable person. I've been lost before. I've lost myself, I've lost those I love. I think we all have. Tingles start at my fingertips and move up my arm as time freezes and spins by at the same time. I glance down and notice how still he is—only his chest moves in time to his breathing.
Snatching my hand away, I hurry to put space between us. I refuse to look in his direction because I don't want to know the expression on his face. “It, uh, it looks fine. Are you hungry? I'm going to make food. I'll be...in the kitchen.”
I turn my mind toward filling my stomach with something, because that is something I do understand, and grab random things out of the fridge. I take in my stash—an onion, deli sliced turkey, garlic and herb-flavored wraps, spinach, and cranberries. One thing is missing. I open the freezer and search in vain.
I am about to give up hope when a voice says from behind, “She puts it behind a wall of frozen vegetables. She figures if she doesn't see it all the time, she'll be less likely to eat it.”
Without glancing over my shoulder, I ask, “Does it work?”
“Not really.”
I demolish the barricade made out of bags of frozen vegetables, uncovering a tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream. I swear I hear the heavens rejoicing. Mint chocolate chip wouldn't be my first choice, but I'll take what I can get. I pull it out, the container cold and covered in a layer of frost, and set it on the counter. Finally looking up, I meet Rivers' gaze. It isn't exactly unfriendly, but it isn't open either—it's more of a guarded, wary look. He's lingering by the doorway like he isn't sure if he's welcome in his own kitchen.
I look down, finding it hard to swallow. “Want some?”
I make a sound of exasperation when he doesn't say anything and go about making us each a wrap.
His gait is methodical as he makes his way over, getting bowls, spoons, and an ice cream scoop out. The time it takes him to do this is drawn out to the point of being difficult to watch. I have two wraps made and two glasses of lemon iced tea ready by the time he procures the ice cream necessities. When that is done, he leans against the counter with his hands clenching it, his shoulders hunched and his head lowered.
I turn away, it is paining my heart to witness him struggling to make the broken pieces of his body work as a whole. “Why don't you sit down and eat?” I suggest, focusing on keeping my voice even.
“I'm...fine,” he answers slowly.
“You look it,” I say with a nod.
A scowl is his response, but it's better than nothing.
I don't really want to torture him further, but the thought of the two of us sitting on bar stools side by side is a little too farfetched, so I take the plates and glasses over to the table near the sliding glass doors. I scoop ice cream into the melon-colored bowls as I wait for him to make his way to the table, careful to keep my eyes down so he doesn't think I'm staring if he happens to look my way. When he is seated, I head over, sitting across from him.
The silence is awkward as we eat, neither of us looking at each other for long. I search my mind for conversation topics, deciding on the future. It's either that or the weather and that seems a little too overused. Everyone talks about the weather when there is nothing else easily thought of to talk about. I do it all the time when I'm at the shop and customers approach me. It's safe, non-invasive.
“Are you going to college in the fall?” It hits me that this was a poorly chosen question at the same time his shoulders tense. Should have went with the weather.
“No.”
It's my turn to not reply for once, swirling my melting ice cream around with my spoon. I know why he isn't going, though his reasons are illogical to me. Just because he can't go to college on a football scholarship doesn't mean he shouldn't go at all. He could use his brain or something to get through it. He's smart. Even if the plaques in his room weren't evidence of that, I remember from school.
“I didn't graduate, not that I would have been able to use my football scholarship even if I had. I suppose I'll have to use my good looks to get by in life now,” he says, sarcasm lacing his words.
“You didn't get your diploma?”
“I was in the hospital or at the doctor most of the last month and a half of school.”
I frown. “Why aren't you in summer school then or working on getting your GED?”
He drops his spoon, it clattering against the side of the bowl. “What's the point?”
Anger builds inside my core. “Meaning?”
Leaning back in his chair, he replies, “Meaning I'm deformed. I can barely walk. I'm ugly to look at. What am I supposed to do with the rest of my life? Sit at some desk job and talk to people over a phone?”
I
jump to my feet and begin to clean off the table.
“I'm not done,” he tells me.
“I think you need to go practice up for your future career as a nobody. Go sit in your room and hold a phone in your hand or something.”
I take his bowl and plate away, dumping the food and tossing the dishes into the sink hard enough to cause a burst of noise, but not break anything. I put the stopper in the sink and begin to fill it with hot, soapy water that smells like synthetic lemons. I count to thirty before I turn around, not surprised to see his back as he makes his way out of the room. Probably going back to his bedroom so he can mope some more and feel bad about his poor, pathetic, worthless life.
I grab a dishrag and take my frustration out on the dishes. “Deformed,” I scoff. “Ugly. Stupid. He acts like his whole life is over just because he has a few scars and a limp.” I toss the rag into the water and suds fly up to coat my face. I absently wipe them away with my arm, staring out the window at the fence and yellow house beyond it. It seems far away, a different world from where I stand. “Fine. Whatever. That's his prerogative, I guess. It's none of my business.” I talk myself into a better mood and finish the dishes with less animosity.
BY THE TIME I HAVE all of my daily chores done, it is close to four in the afternoon. I haven't seen or heard anything from Rivers since the lunchtime fiasco, and that's okay. He messes up my good vibe. I purse my lips as I shake my head, not understanding his way of thinking.
Quickly changing out of my clothes, I slip on my two-piece, the neon green of it clashing with my dyed red hair as I study myself in the full-length mirror. The overhead light catches the silver stud in my nose, causing it to shine for an instant. My skin is ghastly pale, but there is nothing to be done about it. I touch the spattering of freckles on my nose and turn away, folding my clothes and putting them on top of my tote bag. Phone, sunglasses, sunscreen, and yellow beach towel in hand, I head to my form of liquid heaven.
The sun is relentless under the cloudless sky and I squint against it, thinking of an upside down ocean of calm waters. The humidity isn't bad today and a warm breeze rustles my hair. From my position, I can see the surrounding houses, trees, and parts of varying streets, and yet I feel separate from it all—untouchable. Summer makes me feel free, like there are endless possibilities and the future can hold anything I want it to. Tomorrow is a whole new chance to do something great. I feel the curve of my lips and know a smirk of contentment covers them.
Setting my stuff down on the bench at the far end of the deck, I walk to the edge of the pool and raise my hands above my head. I bend my knees, and push off into a dive, the water sluicing on either side of me in smooth lines. My arms stroke the lukewarm liquid as I balance my breathing with my movements. Time escapes me as I become part of the water, the laps melding into a dizzying line of back and forth.
An awareness tickles the back of my neck and I shoot to a standing position, my heart pounding as I work on steadying my breathing. I look to the chair normally occupied by Rivers, surprised to find it empty. Instead he sits on the bench with his hands clasped together and his arms resting on his knees. The intensity of his gaze singes me, but it only lasts a brief moment before it is replaced by nothingness. How can he so effectively wipe all emotion from his eyes within the span of an instant? Practice, a voice tells me.
I wonder if I should say something, but I am kind of tired of never being acknowledged, so I don't. I go back to swimming, feeling his eyes on me the whole time. It's strange that I find it comforting in a way and I wonder if he gathers comfort from watching me as well. Ludicrous, and yet the brand of his eyes is unwavering the entirety of my swim.
Hours later I am freshly showered and clad in a neon yellow with pink stars tank top and gray shorts, ready for some lounging. I like to be active, but I also like to do absolutely nothing and vegetate just as much. I designated the sun room as my bedroom for the duration of my stay. One, because the couch is comfy. Two, because Monica asked me to. And three, because this room is alive with the sun.
Odd that there are two of us in this house and we are both acting like there is only one—Rivers keeping to his room and me letting him. I wonder if that's how he usually spends his days, just listening to music and watching television, segregated from others by his choice. How boring. I mean, yeah, I keep to myself, but I'm not brooding as I do it.
I'm flipping through the channels on the television when my phone rings with 'Man On The Moon' by R.E.M. I pick it up, asking, “How's everything going?”
The sigh is heavy. “As well as expected. How are things there?”
“Perfect.”
“Don't exaggerate, Delilah. I know my son.”
I twirl a lock of hair around my finger. “I was trying to make you feel better. Not too bad, actually. Rivers has been in his room most of the day.”
“I'm not surprised.” Monica pauses. “He called a little bit ago.”
“Oh?” I can just imagine all the nice things he had to say about me.
“Yeah.” Her tone sounds perplexed as she continues, “He brought up the ice cream.”
I drop my hand. “Oh. Was that off limits?”
“No, no, of course not. It's just...did he eat some of it?”
“Yes,” I answer with furrowed brows. The amount of attention presently being placed on the ice cream consumption is definitely puzzling to me.
“That's so odd,” she mutters to herself.
“That he brought it up to you or that he ate it? It seems kind of strange that that was his reasoning for calling you, definitely. Is he worried about calories or something? Maybe he wanted you to tell him to build the ice fort back up so he stays out of it. It was totally his idea to eat it,” I hurriedly add.
“Rivers doesn't like ice cream.”
I search my brain to remember whether I did, in fact, actually see him raise a spoon of ice cream to his mouth and swallow it. Yes. I did. Why didn't he tell me he doesn't like ice cream? Why did he get himself a bowl and a spoon? Why did he eat it? It isn't like he's sensitive to my feelings or anything. What purpose did any of that have?
“He must have decided he does.”
Her response is slow and not completely confident. “Right. I'll call again tomorrow. And Delilah?”
“Yes?”
“Whatever you're doing, keep doing it.”
I don't want to take credit for something I haven't even done, but I say, “Yeah, okay.”
After getting off the phone with Monica, I give my mom a quick call to assure her I am still alive and unharmed, then find a movie on the television to watch. As the minutes turn into hours and night descends upon the sky outside like a dark blanket with specs of light in the form of stars, my brain continually tries to wrap around what Monica told me. It doesn't make any sense. Why would he eat something he doesn't even like, and why would he tell his mother about it too?
Obviously he didn't bring up his fall in the bathroom or what I am sure he considers bullying. Why would he do that? Bring up the ice cream and not the other stuff? I get him not bringing up his fall, because he probably views that as a sign of weakness, but me forcing the curtains open in his room, what about that? That's the first thing I would have thought he'd bring up to his mom as a reason to get rid of me. He has a growing list of ammunition to use against me and he hasn't used any of it.
Why?
MY EYELIDS FLY OPEN AND I stare at a ceiling blackened by night as I fight to remember where I am and what woke me up. I sit up and look out the windows, realizing I am in the Young house instead of my own. The moon is bathing the night with a faint glow. I hold still, waiting. Nothing moves outside other than bushes and tree leaves in the wind. The only sound in the room is the ticking of a clock, marking off the seconds of time, but I know that isn't what forced me from sleep. I'm about to lie back down when I hear the sound again.
I vault to my feet and from the room, thinking, What now?
Without hesitating, I fling open Rivers' bed
room door. He's writhing on the bed, his back raised as he cries out. The sound is harsh, broken. I flip the light switch up to see if he is in actual pain or in the grasp of a nightmare, my eyes stinging from the sudden light. His eyes are closed, his features twisted in a grimace, and a layer of sweat is covering his face and chest. I watch him struggle, feeling helpless. I don't know what to do. I don't want to make it worse by trying to drag him from a world only he can see, but I also can't leave him like this.
I step back from the bed and bite my lip. “Rivers? Rivers. Rivers, wake up.” I know it's probably not the best idea because he could unintentionally and unknowingly hit me in his sleep, but I can't stand to see him like this any longer, so I step closer. I scan his taut body and rest my eyes on his hands bunched around the blankets of his bed, minutely reassured that they aren't swinging in the air. I'm thinking a punch received from him would be painful, even while in the clutches of slumber.
Placing my cool palm against his hot forehead, I lean close to his ear and speak soothingly, “Rivers, you're okay. You're okay now. I'm here and you're okay. It's just a dream. It can't hurt you. Wake up, Rivers. It's okay to wake up.” For a moment I don't think it's doing any good, but as I continue to talk to him, my words slowly reach him through the blackness of his mind and he settles down.
I give nonsensical details about myself as I kneel beside the bed, taking in the loosening of his muscles, the way his fingers begin to unclench, his breathing evening out. “Have you ever noticed how many different colors of green are in a single strand of grass? There are all these lighter greens that meld into darker ones, even hints of yellow within them. It's amazing. The most beautiful things in the world are right in front of us in the beauty of the actual world. If I had any form of creativity with a paintbrush, I'd try to paint a field of grass and flowers. Sadly, I cannot even draw stick figures.” His fingers relax against the bed.
