“Luke, I shouldn’t be here. Really. It’s wrong.”
But he pulls me into his room and gives me a long, steadying hug and it feels, for a moment, like everything will be all right. Then he pulls back slightly and looks at my face, the whole of it – not just parts.
“You are so beautiful,” he says.
With a gentle finger, he softly traces my scar from my eye to my lip. Then he kisses it – a line of the softest touches along the length of it – and I feel completely beautiful. Luke sees me, not just my scar, and I know with a certainty born of this moment that from now on it will be just another part of me, like a tooth, or an ear. I try to put my gratitude and love into the kiss I give him. It is a long time before we break apart.
Luke’s room is smaller than his brother’s. The unmade bed and a narrow desk take up most of the space. On the hook behind the door hang a fistful of medals on tangled ribbons, and two pairs of goggles. A clutter of trophies congests the top of a rack of shelves mounted on the wall over the desk. The rest are strewn with piles of books, a pair of big black headphones, a collection of science-fiction DVD’s and some excellent fossils – a piece of petrified wood, a fossilized fish in a square of sandstone, a delicate sand dollar, and three small ammonites.
“Snap,” I say, picking up one of these and tracing its rough, ridged curves.
“I like fossils,” he says. “They’re proof of what happens if you stop living and adapting to change. They remind me to keep moving forward.”
“So, are you ready for your present yet?” I ask eagerly.
I finger the envelope in my bag. I made a donation, on Luke’s behalf, to the animal shelter – paying for the sterilization of all the animals currently in the cages, plus enough food for a month – and put the certificate they gave me in an envelope wrapped up with a wide red ribbon.
“Save it for later, I need something to look forward to if I’m going to get through lunch.”
It’s going to be bad, all right.
“Your mom looks like she’s still really battling.”
He pushes Banjo off the bed, where she has curled up on his pillow and is gnawing on what may be a pair of underpants, and flops onto the bed. I curl up next to him, my head on his shoulder. His heart thuds under my ear as he talks about his brother’s life and his own grief.
“We don’t have much money – you can probably see that for yourself – so that’s why it was such a big thing for him to get the Harvard deal. My parents could never have afforded to send him to college otherwise.”
“Are you going to be able to go?”
“I’ll need to get a swimming scholarship, and I probably will – though I’m sure it won’t be to some Ivy League college. It’s why I’m pushing myself so hard. Well, it’s part of the reason – I also like swimming.”
“And you like winning.”
“And I like winning,” he agrees, kissing the top of my head. “Anyway, that’s assuming I can get away from them.” He tilts his head in direction of his parents on the other side of the house. “My mother battles, she doesn’t cope so well sometimes and needs someone to help take care of her. Dad’s useless at helping her, so …”
“That leaves you?”
“That leaves me.”
Then he talks about his parents, how his father has buried himself in work and his mother has “gone missing”. My heart swells painfully when he says, “They’ve never come out and said it out loud, but I know they wish it had been me who died, not Andrew.”
“Luke, how can you say that? It can’t be true!”
He shrugs. “He was their favorite.” There is no self-pity in his voice, just the acknowledgement of a sad truth. “Hell, he was my favorite.”
And the acid of my secret eats a hole into me.
32
Choice
Lunch is an ordeal. Mr. Naughton has returned from the office, bringing take-out sandwiches with him – Mrs. Naughton doesn’t look like she’s up to cooking anything. We sit at the dining room table, eating the sandwiches off paper plates and drinking soda; Mrs. Naughton’s “water” is nowhere to be seen. There is no cake or any reference to it being Luke’s birthday. Mr. Naughton is shorter than Luke, his eyes are a more faded blue. He covers his wife’s absent manner with a forced heartiness, talking non-stop about his work at a software company, and about golf and Andrew.
Interminably about Andrew.
Mrs. Naughton’s dead face shows a flicker of life when her eldest son’s name is mentioned and they both ramble on about his brilliance and his future and how they miss him. They don’t do it to be mean to me, or to wound Luke, they just can’t free themselves from their endless loop of memories and grief.
They’re entitled to their pain, and I deserve to have to suck up every detail of it, but I’m getting increasingly angry on Luke’s behalf. They don’t tell me funny stories about when Luke was young or brag about his achievements to me. Nor do they say what a consolation he has been to them in their time of grief – and surely he must have been? They don’t ask him about his life or friends or school or how his swimming is going. (They don’t ask me about my life, either, but that I can understand.) In fact, they never speak directly to him at all unless they’re reminding him about the time Andrew invented a solar heater (“at the age of eleven! How do you like that, Sloane?”), or reminiscing about when he was named class valedictorian (“they gave him a standing ovation – the whole school – everyone loved our boy”) or how his girlfriend wept at his funeral (“she said she’d never find another like him!”).
“And she never will,” says Mrs. Naughton, with something approaching firmness. “We never did.”
“No,” says Mr. Naughton, “he’s irreplaceable. But, at least we’ve still got –” I expect him to say “Luke” or “our other son”, but instead he sighs and says, “ – our memories.”
“That’s it,” I say, placing my sandwich back onto my plate and pushing back from the table.
“You’re leaving?” Mr. Naughton looks surprised.
“Yes, I’m leaving. You have a choice to make, and I’m pretty certain you don’t want me around while you discuss it.”
“A choice?” says Mrs. Naughton, looking at me in her vague, unfocused way.
Luke squeezes my leg in warning, but I shake my head at him – I can’t stop now.
“Yes. Your loss of Andrew has been considerable, painful beyond words – I see that, I understand it. But you stand to lose even more. The way I see it, you have to choose whether you’re forever going to wallow in grief and self-pity, or –”
Mrs. Naughton gasps as if I’ve slapped her. “How dare you?” she says shrilly. There is real conviction in her voice now.
“– or whether you’re going to love the son you still have. Luke is here, right in front of you. He’s alive! And he’s fabulous – strong and brave and admirable. I’m sure Andrew was a fine son, but he wasn’t the only one worth loving. You have a second chance here,” I stand up and grip Luke’s shoulder, giving him a little shake. He is staring down into his lap. His parents are gaping at me as if I’m mad. Perhaps I am. Who am I to be lecturing them?
“See him, celebrate him, love … him!” I end on a plea, then I place my crumpled napkin on the table and stalk to Luke’s room to grab my bag.
On my way back out, the family is still sitting in stunned silence, but Luke catches up with me halfway down the front path lined with tall lavender bushes. I reach into my bag for the envelope. I want to give him his present before I go.
“You shouldn’t have said that,” he says.
“It’s true.”
“I know, but I don’t think they want to hear the truth.”
“Well, they need to hear the truth.” I hear the words as I say them and my hypocrisy disgusts me.
“Perhaps. Anyway, I love you for standing up for me.”
“What?” The L word. Here? Now?
He nods and grins, like he has just heard what he said and wants to
confirm it.
“Yup, I lo-”
“Stop!” I yell the word. “Don’t say it. Not yet. You don’t know everything.”
“Sloane?” He asks, puzzled.
“I said your parents need to hear the truth, but so do you …” My voice is rising with panic.
“Are you going to lecture me too, now?”
He smiles sadly and I am pierced by the thought that this may well be the last time he ever smiles at me.
“No. I’m going to tell you the truth – the whole sad, sorry, awful truth. I should have told you ages ago.”
“The truth? What do you mean?”
The smile is gone. I wish there were some way I could brace him for what’s coming, but nothing I can say will change the facts.
“Luke …” I pause, pull a head of lavender off a stalk and crumple it between my fingers; the pungent smell rises up between us. “This is what you don’t know about the accident that killed Andrew. My mother was the one driving, and texting, and she did accidentally run a red light. But,” I close my eyes, take a deep breath, force myself to meet his eyes again, “I was the one who saw those school kids. I was the one who wrenched the steering wheel to the side to miss them and sent the car into Andrew instead. It was me, not her, me.”
The color drains from his face. He takes an involuntary step backwards as if reeling from a blow. His eyes go wide.
“Luke, please,” I step towards him, holding out my hand. “I am so, so, sor-”
“Don’t say it. Please do not say that you are sorry.” His voice is cold and flat. “Like a word can make any of this better.”
I nod.
“You lied. You lied to me!” he rages, his eyes now filled with contempt.
“I didn’t lie, Luke, I didn’t. I just assumed you knew the whole story, that the cops had told you or you’d found out at the inquest.”
“I didn’t go to the inquest. I didn’t want to run the risk of meeting you, the girl who lived.” All the old bitterness is back. “And when you discovered I didn’t know? Why didn’t you tell me then?”
“I tried.”
“Not very hard, though, did you? When exactly did you plan to tell me – never?”
“I was scared, okay? I loved you, already then, and I couldn’t face losing you.”
“Well you’re going to have to face it now!” He curses, curses again. “Just when I thought I could care again.”
He spins on his heel and starts walking towards the house, then comes back again, smashing his hand through a lavender bush, sending the mauve florets flying.
“I thought I knew you, Sloane. I thought I could trust you. But I can’t. You’re a liar and I never want to see you again! I’ve been such a fool – I knew I should have trusted my first instincts. You’ve ruined my life, ruined my parents’ lives, you took Andrew’s.”
His rage is like a hurricane coming at me full-blast, buffeting me with its force, blowing an icy chill right through the heart of me.
“Yes,” I say when he stops. “All that, yes.”
I look away from him at last, drop my head. It is suddenly dead-heavy, like it has picked up the weight of his pain.
I turn to go, then notice that I still have the envelope in my hands. The ribbon is half unraveled. I hand it to him.
“Here, this was for you – your birthday present. You might as well have it.”
He crumples it in his fist and flings it back at me; it lands on the stone path at my feet.
“Keep it,” he snarls, his face twisted into a grimace of fury. “I don’t want anything from you. I don’t need anything from you. Take it back – maybe you can change it, get something for yourself.”
I pick up the envelope.
“Some things can’t be changed, can’t be taken back,” I say.
Then I leave, walking all the way down the path and tossing the envelope into the trash can on the sidewalk outside Luke’s house.
33
Letting go
Hold it, hold it.
I stand on the sidewalk outside of Luke’s house for a long while, unsure of what to do. I know only that I must hold myself together because there’s something building inside of me. Something that wants out. A howl, or a scream. Perhaps it’s just a whimper, but I know I can’t let it out here, now. So I stand perfectly still, holding it in.
The afternoon is growing cold. A chilly, gusting breeze whips strands of hair into my face. I can’t stay here. I force myself to move my hands, to find my phone and call Ed. Then I wait some more, holding on, holding in. I stare at the russet leaves scuttling down the street. A few of them bank up against my feet. It is important to keep my mind blank. If I begin to think, then I will start to feel. So I will not think about this – not here, not yet.
I hear the door of the house open behind me and a voice calls, “Hey.”
I turn to see that Luke has stepped out, no further than the front step. His arms are folded across his chest.
Hold it hold it hold it.
“Do you need a lift home?” There is no softening in his face. This is mere duty and good manners.
I shake my head, wave my phone which I see is still clasped in my tight, white fingers. “Ed’s coming.” My voice is an unsteady croak.
He nods and goes back inside. I turn back to face the road.
I pull the threads of me in and clench them together, holding tight, standing still as a statue in the dead leaves, waiting for my lift. Not thinking.
When Ed pulls up, I wonder if I will be able to move my feet. I feel brittle, like if I move too suddenly, I might shatter.
“The roads are nice and empty. Sure you don’t want to take a shot at driving today?” he asks, as I allow myself to bend just enough to clamber into the back seat. It’s warm inside the car. It smells of pizza and a love song is playing on the radio. The iciness inside my stomach roils and begins to rise.
Hold it.
“No, just straight home, please.” My mouth is tight – my lips open just enough to let the words out. I keep the howl gated behind my teeth, locked up in my throat. I spend the journey staring out the window where trees shake themselves free of leaves.
“Nice to see you, stranger! Join us for supper?”
It’s a smiling aunt Beryl, coming into the apartment block just as I do. She follows me through the lobby towards the elevators, clutching half a dozen grocery bags in her hands. I would offer to help her, I would, but I’m afraid that if I unclench my fingers, the threads will slip loose and what is inside will escape.
Hold it. Keep holding.
“Can I take a rain check?” I force myself to say the words.
“Sure. You’ve got plans?”
Oh yeah.
I nod.
Inside the elevator, I stare at the brooch on her scarf. It’s a complicated art deco piece of onyx and marcasite. If I focus hard on each of the geometric facets of it, the tears dammed behind my eyes are forced to stay there.
“You okay, Sloane?” She looks at me worriedly.
“Fine. Really.” The doors begin to open on my floor.
Hold it, hold it, not long now.
“How about lunch tomorrow? The triplets have learned a new song at stay-and-play and they’re desperate to sing it for you. They’re such sweeties, they’ve even memorized the actions.” She starts humming the tune to “The wheels on the bus go round and round”.
“Sure. Bye.”
I have to force myself not to run for my apartment. My trembling fingers fumble with the keys. I can’t catch my breath, something is crushing my chest from the inside.
Hold it. Hold it. Just a few seconds more.
Eventually the door is open and I’m inside and it’s closed and I’m alone. I open my clenched hands, my bag falls to the floor and the threads holding me together spool loose. The shaking spreads from my hands. My legs can no longer hold me up. I hear paper tearing behind me as I slide down the hall wall and sit in a crumpled heap beneath the corkboard of pain.
/>
Now.
And I let go.
It comes out as a soft mewl at first. But it grows, rapidly, to a deep sobbing which chokes my throat and hijacks my breathing. I cry. I cry for Luke. For what I’ve done to him and what he’s done to me. For what we had and what we’ve lost and how we’re both alone again.
And the grief expands, blossoming inside of me and overflowing. There’s no holding on or holding back now. I cry for Andrew, for that half-eaten bar of chocolate in that frozen room in that desolate house which is Luke’s home. I cry for the absence that is where our mothers used to be. And still there is more pain inside pushing its way up and out. I cry for all the stories hanging above my head, for all the pain trapped in black ink on white paper. For the burned kid, and the alligator man and the missing girl.
And for the first time since the accident, I cry for me. For my torn face, and my struggling scrap of spleen and my stiff knee. I cry for the races I will never swim, and the dad I will never have, and the mother who will never rest her hand on my forehead. For all my scars. For all the pieces of me.
And, after an age, I’m cried out. I’m drained, hollow as an empty pool.
I pick myself up and make myself move as far as the sofa, where I can lie down and sink into blessed nothingness until tomorrow. But shimmering spots dot my sight and a jagged arc of light patterned like pieces of broken mirror begins to flicker at the side of my vision. A migraine is coming, as if to remind me that the pain is not over.
34
Luke
When I come back into the house, my parents are still sitting at the table. My mother’s face is a mask of shock and outrage but, surprisingly, she’s not crying. Dad’s face is beet-red.
“Luke,” he calls as I pass, “we need to talk to you.”
“Not now,” I say.
“We need –”
“NOT NOW!”
I storm to my room and slam the door behind me, then open it again and slam it again. Harder.
Sloane lied. She hid the truth from me and I was too stupid to sense that there was something off, something not quite right.
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