Confessed

by Nicola Rendell

  “Mom, no, don’t do that. Leave the Xanax where they are.” Her eyes are welling up with tears. I sit next to her on the old couch. I hear a soft voice on the other end of her burner line and put my hand to her back, rubbing up and down. The story is still airing, the pictures streaming across the screen, and I hit mute. But still, I watch them pass.

  That is not a world I can be a part of. That is not a life that I will ever belong inside. Her world and my world… They cannot exist together.

  Through the phone, I hear that same soft voice much clearer now. Her mom, saying, “Lucy, please come home. Please.”

  On the screen, some house in what looks like Cape Cod. Lucy and her parents riding camels in front of the Pyramids. Lucy and her parents on the Great Wall of China. Wealth, fucking staggering, alienating wealth. The world I can never understand. A life that makes no sense.

  A life that will always belong to her, no matter what. But will never be for me.

  Lucy hangs up the phone and turns to me, but I’m still glued to the pictures on the screen. Her, standing with her parents, in front of a horse. Fuck, I recognize that horse. That’s Friday Night Lights. That horse, their horse, is the whole fucking reason I got in the shit with Gregorovich in the first place.

  Holy shit.

  And that’s just it, isn’t it? People like her, they own the horses. People like me, they bet on them. Or against them. And fuck their lives right up.

  Next to me, she’s talking. To me now, not on the phone. She wipes tears from her cheeks.

  It’s like I’m coming out of a dream. That is her world. Her fucking world of everything, of racehorses and yachts and money. Mine is a world of nothing, of hustles and gambles and loss. Of scrounging and scheming and doing all the shit I’ve always done since my mom died and I left home. Stuff that comes naturally to me that will always be wrong for her. Our worlds cannot be one. My world isn’t hers. It really hits me then. We are a million miles apart. No matter how hard I love her, we will always be that way.

  “Vince, I have to go back. She’s in a really bad place. She has nobody.”

  Now on the screen, Lucy stepping out of a private jet behind her dad.

  “Come with me,” she says, grasping my hand. “Please.”

  I look down and see her sweet, soft fingers over my angry tattooed arm. I look at that innocent young face, with those big honey eyes. What she’s seeing in me, I have no fucking idea. A brute, an animal. I have no idea. Those pools are so deep, I’ll never find my reflection.

  Lucy in a graduation gown, between her mom and dad. At Yale.

  She has so much ahead of her. She has so much she could do. But not with me by her side, she can’t. I can’t go back to reality with her. Her life is just coming back together, and I’d do nothing but blow it right the fuck up.

  “I can’t go with you, Lucy,” I say. My voice sounds cold.

  That’s how it needs to be. That’s how this has to go.

  Her eyes flicker. “Yes, you can. I need you. I want you with me.” She runs her finger back and forth over my forearm, over one of Escher’s fish at my wrist

  Part of some old movie I saw when I was a kid floods back to me. A guy with a wolf in the wilderness. The guy, he had to go back to civilization, and the wolf, he just wouldn’t be able to live there. To save the wolf, he had to push him away. Make him run. That last big push that feels mean but is nothing but pure love. The purest love of all is letting go.

  I harden my stare. It’s the best thing for her. It’s the best thing I can do for this one, the one I love. She needs a lot of things, but the one thing she doesn’t is a guy like me dragging her down to the fucking dregs.

  “Your world needs you, Lucy.” She squeezes my hand. “But you are part of my world now.” She smiles. A sweet, honest smile. “I want you with me.”

  I don’t smile back.

  Her pretty little eyebrows come together, and a wave of worry lines cross her forehead.

  “This was fun while it lasted,” I say.

  She inhales hard. Her lips start to quiver.

  I have to force myself to get up off the sofa and pull myself away from her. It’s the hardest fucking thing I’ve ever done. Except for saying what I have to say now: “But it’s time to move on.”

  32

  “You can’t get rid of me,” I say. I’m trembling, and I realize I’m freezing. I’m naked but for an apron, in a storm shelter, and I’m getting hit by shock after shock. First Dad. Then Mom. Now this. This.

  He can’t mean what he just said. He can’t be this cold. This isn’t the Vince I know.

  “I can’t get on a plane, not with that ID and passport,” I say. My heart feels like it’s bleeding inside me, dripping droplets everywhere.

  He goes over to his duffel. His shoulders are squared and high, defensive. He’s got his back to me, and he’s going through his stuff. He takes something from his bag and then without looking at me, comes over and puts it on the arm of the scratchy couch.

  It’s my Connecticut ID. And Peanut’s picture.

  “We buried these. How did you…?” I don’t even want to touch it. “I don’t want that back. We agreed, Vince. We’re in this together.”

  He gives me this nasty scoff. I feel it in my stomach and the back of my eyes. The way he’s looking at me is so awful, like I’m nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  “I’m a thief, remember? A criminal. Don’t forget that, Peaches.”

  I don’t pick up either one. “But you… This isn’t…” I feel sick to my stomach. Did he mean any of it? Was any of it real?

  “You’re a spoiled little brat who had a fantasy to run away with a bad boy.” He crosses his arms and backs away. “You think I thought it would last?”

  “It’s real, we both know it’s real.” I stand up to go to him. If I can just put my hands on him, he’ll feel it too. He’ll remember. He’ll know. But he keeps backing away and holds up a menacing finger. He makes me feel like I’m about two inches tall. “Don’t you fucking dare, Lucy. You may think you’re all high and mighty, but I’m your worst fucking nightmare. So get the fuck out of here.”

  My chin is trembling. My whole body shakes. “You’re lying.”

  “Get on a plane, go back to your life,” he says. He dumps the onions and the peppers in the garbage.

  “Please.” I grasp his arm. “Vince. This is insane.”

  “No shit, little girl,” he snarls. He goes over to the bed and tosses my clothes at me. He takes his cigarettes from his pocket and heads for the storm door. “I’m gonna take a walk, and when I get back, I want you fucking gone.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.” I drop my clothes and reach out for him.

  “Grow up, Lucy Burchett,” he says, opening for the door. “Get your shit together and go home.”

  I wait and wait. I sit on the edge of the bed, in my clothes now, and the hours pass. It takes a little while for the shock of what he said to sink in. But it does, like a slap. Tears well up in my eyes and spill down onto my denim skirt. I look at my phone and see a flight leaving El Paso for LaGuardia, connecting through O’Hare, in three hours. It ticks down to two-and-a-half hours. Still no Vince.

  I call my mom again, and I can tell she’s been drinking. A lot. “Honey, are you coming home?” Her words are sloppy and thick.

  Putting one hand to my forehead, I slump down to my knees on the shag carpet. I hate being here alone. It’s someone else’s home, and me, so far from everything that makes sense. I blow out a slow, unsure breath.

  “Honey? Lucy?”

  Her voice is unsteady, all ginny and slurred. As long as my dad is around, Mom is okay. He keeps an eye on her, makes sure she takes her medicines, makes sure she sleeps, makes sure she eats—it’s the one part of life for which my dad’s love of micromanagement is okay. Without my dad, my mom is totally adrift.

  Am I coming home?

  “Because I miss you,” Mom says slowly. “I miss you, honey.”

  I open up the sketchb
ook. There are dozens of drawings of me now. I don’t know when he did them all, but they’re lined up one after another. Me sleeping, me driving, me staring straight at him. I can’t stand it and slap the book shut. I take one of his old T-shirts and press it to my nose. The tears start streaming from my eyes, and I give a long sniffle into the phone.

  “I don’t know,” I answer.

  “Oh, don’t cry, honey,” my mom says. “I’ll be fine. Juuuuuust fine.”

  She will not. It’s terrifying to think of her on her own in that great big house, with my dad having blown up her beloved reputation. I know that what is getting to her isn’t the meat scandal. It’s the prostitute. News like that could actually kill her. I hear a prescription bottle rattle in the background.

  “Where are you?” I ask. “In bed, honey,” Mom says, her voice is getting quieter and quieter. “Just here, in…” She sounds hollow and distant.

  “Mom?”

  No answer.

  “Mom, what have you taken?”

  “Remember when we were in Paris?”

  Oh my God. “Mom, I need you to sit up. I need you to listen to me.”

  “I love you, Lucy. Just remember I love you. I’m going to go to sleep for a…”

  “Mom!”

  And the line goes dead.

  I stand up. Think, Lucy. Think. I call 911. I know full well it’ll be the El Paso Police Department. Even before they get through the phrase What’s your emergency? I’m saying, “I know I’m in the wrong place, but there is a woman in Connecticut who has taken an overdose. It’s my mom. I need to get to Greenwich, Connecticut’s 911. Can you do that?” I realize I’m screaming into the phone as I’m walking frantically around in circles. I find myself in the bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror. “Please. I need your help.”

  Above me, I hear the noise of Nancy moving around. I try to calm my breathing.

  The 911 operator, though, is well trained. “Yes ma’am, I can do that. Greenwich, you said. Connecticut?”

  “G-r-e-e-n-w-i-c-h,” I spell out. Because if my mom dies because someone spells it Grenwitch, I will never, ever fucking forgive myself.

  “Yeah, I got that part, honey. Transferring now. Please hold.”

  There are several clicks and then a new voice comes on the line, a woman this time. “Greenwich 911, what’s your emergency?”

  “My mom has taken an overdose, she’s at 3 Forest Lane. Winterbourne House. You can get in through the garage door. The code is 4-12-94.”

  “Hang on now. Hang on,” says the operator. “Take a breath. I got the address and an ambulance is en route.”

  In through my nose, out through my mouth. “Okay. Okay…”

  I hear clicking, keys typing. “Garage door code is…”

  I repeat it. April 12, ’94. My birthday.

  I hear beeps in the distance and the click of our call being recorded. “Do you know what she’s taken?” The operator’s voice is frighteningly calm. It helps, though. It also sounds like home, that clipped Connecticut accent.

  “Gin and I’m guessing Xanax,” I say, “But maybe Clonazepam. Maybe everything. I don’t know if it was intentional…”

  The clatter of her keyboard answers me. I hear soft voices of other dispatchers in the background. “Are you there with your mom now, ma’am?”

  I give myself one long look in the mirror.

  “Not yet,” I say, grabbing my bag and pinching the burner between my ear and shoulder. “But I’m on my way.”

  “Okay, ma’am,” the operator says. “Hold the line.”

  I open the scrapbook to the next blank page and write,

  V -

  * * *

  I waited as long as I could. Please, come back to me. This phone number is 423-567-9812. My parents’ phone number is 203-889-0367. My email is lucy@heartsandhorsesllc.com. I love you.

  * * *

  We are not a mistake.

  * * *

  Lucy

  33

  I get to Greenwich Hospital at two in the morning. The air is muggy and heavy with Connecticut August heat. I drag my bag through the sliding doors and am bowled over with a wave of air conditioning, clean and sharp. I tell the nurses who I am, and after ten minutes I meet a haggard-looking doctor. He introduces himself as “Dr. Singh, MD, Ph.D.,” and his nametag says he’s an Attending Psychiatrist. He’s talking to me about my mom, but I feel like I am in space. I hear the words “psychiatric hold” and “danger to herself.” He keeps tilting his head side to side. I feel like I’m in a dream.

  “I’m sorry. Can you tell me that again?” I rub my eyes.

  He does. Patiently and carefully. He says that they pumped her stomach, that it was gin, Xanax, Clonazepam and scariest of all? “Ambien, Miss Burchett, twelve Ambien.”

  He asks me if she’s ever done anything like this before.

  “No, never this,” I say. “But she’s had problems. She struggles. She drinks. She’s anxious.”

  Dr. Singh bows his head now, slightly, like in reverence of Mom’s struggle. Of all struggles.

  “But I don’t think she did it on purpose,” I tell him.

  Dr. Singh bows again. “This is what she told us as well.”

  I feel my lips start to tremble. He reaches out his hand and squeezes mine. I squeeze back as two tears fall from my eyes and plop on the linoleum floor.

  “She is safe now, Miss Burchett. She is sleeping and very safe.”

  I nod and blink back more tears.

  He pushes his glasses up on his nose with one finger. “Has she been under any extra stress lately?” he asks.

  Extra stress? I could just hug him for not knowing, for being so very in his own world, that he doesn’t care or know one little teensy bit about my family or our disastrous name. “Yes, a lot. More than you can imagine.”

  “Stress can be very difficult for sensitive people,” he says, smiling. “I will be seeing her tomorrow after she has her breakfast. But she is okay. I promise she is doing very well.”

  “Can I see her?”

  He bobs his head back and forth. “At this time, she’s not to have any visitors. This is a very critical period for her. I’m very sorry.”

  I wipe my nose and blot my eyes with my sleeve. I can’t stand the idea of her in a strange bed, in a strange place, yet just above my head. “I feel so helpless, Dr. Singh.”

  “But you saved her life, Miss Burchett,” he says, with a friendly smile. “You are the opposite of helpless. You are here,” he pats my hand. “This is what matters. Today she will start to get better.”

  My God. To think that of all that has happened in the last 24 hours. It seems a million years ago I was sitting in that weird little basement. With Vince. But he doesn’t seem a million years ago. Unconsciously I find myself glancing at the empty chair next to me and imagining him there. “How long will you keep her?”

  “It’s a 72-hour hold. You should go home,” Dr. Singh says, “She can see you at lunchtime tomorrow.”

  I’m not going anywhere. What I don’t say, what I can’t say, is that it’s all my fault. If I hadn’t left, it wouldn’t have happened. If I hadn’t been so stupid as to leave her alone, she never would have ended up here at all. I sink into the sad, once-pink now-stained chair behind me. It’s uncomfortable and rigid. “I’ll stay. I’ll be fine.”

  And Dr. Singh bows once more and leaves.

  I bring my knees to my chest and my chin to my knees. The vending machine in the corner rattles. Mom will be okay. She will be fine. I will take care of her. The two of us, together, we’ll make it through this. I’ll help her. I will. We don’t need my dad. We will figure it out.

  I will have to figure it out.

  I see my dark hair lying straight and sharp on my leggings, and it makes my heart expand painfully in my chest. I close my eyes and wonder where Vince is. Tears come up behind my closed lids and squeeze out onto my lashes, running in long, unending streams down my cheeks. I press my lips to my legs to keep from sobbing, b
ut I can’t help myself. I clutch my phone in my lap, wishing so very hard that it would ring so I could hear his voice—his calm, smooth, easy voice, telling me it’s all okay. That mom will be fine, and I will be fine. That everything, no matter what, will be fine. I need someone to tell me I can do this. Because in the bottom of my heart, I feel I can’t. Not all alone.

  Not now.

  With my chin on my knees, I dig for my phone. It’s him I want to call, but I can’t. Yet I’m not all alone. Luckily, I have Naomi’s number memorized. I remember it because it’s just a few digits off from my old cell.

  She sounds sleepy when she answers. I am almost sure I hear a grumble in the background. Professor Beck asking, “Who is it?”

  “Are you okay?” Naomi whispers.

  I sniffle. “Mom’s in the hospital.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  34

  Driving north through the dark, I throw Johnny Fucking Cash out the goddamned window. I take a long swig of tequila and let it burn my gums. I look at the seat next to me, at the sketchbook, at her handwriting, at her numbers and her email.

  Back in El Paso, I waited and waited for her to leave, watching that fucking storm door from the bushes and smoking every last cigarette I had on me. When she did finally leave, I was hit with a sadness so fucking profound it took my breath out of my lungs. I was this close, this close, to saying her name, to telling her, Yeah, I’ll go with you, because fuck me if I have any other purpose in the world but to protect you now. Fuck the charges I’ll have to face if I get within spitting distance of the Tri-State area, because fuck…she’s worth it. But I stopped myself from saying a word because sometimes you gotta let the ones you love go, and it hurts like shit.

  After she left, I went down into the storm cellar, lay down on the bed where we’d been earlier, and fucking cried. Cried so hard I couldn’t breathe. Like she unleashed this part of me that I never knew existed, and that when she was gone it was fucking loosed like a cannon with nowhere to point but backward.