“Don’t do this to me! Don’t you dare do this to me. Please come back. Please, please, please…”
“Ma’am, please step aside.”
“I can’t do this without you!” I screamed. Numbness overcame me. Shocked, I watched the paramedics load Carter onto the stretcher. They’d arrived in decent time, pounding at the door before coming in. It was probably my hysterical cries that alerted them to where we were. They’d pushed me aside—shoved, really—yelling something that I couldn’t comprehend. The first medic, a woman, felt for a pulse. I saw her shake her head at her partner, but she started compressions anyway. The second medic strapped an oxygen mask to Carter’s face, and together the two of them loaded his limp body onto a gurney. Compressions continued, but I knew from the depths of my soul that nothing could be done.
“You can’t take him. You can’t take him away from me. What are you doing? Why are you taking him?” I reached for the gurney, my hands groping the air for Carter like a mother reaching for a falling child. The male paramedic pulled me back, gently at first until I started shrieking again. I fought him for a moment, sobbing, screaming, and pleading. He was saying something in my ear, his arms around my midsection, holding me back, but I had no idea what was being said. I didn’t care. And just like that—in a blink of an eye—Carter was gone.
“Where are you taking him?” I whispered. I stood in the middle of the room, tears streaming down my cheeks, soaking the front of my shirt. In my hands was his jacket, the one the paramedics had removed on arrival. I buried my face into it, falling to my knees onto the floor, shaking, sobbing.
“Is there someone the police can call for you?” the male medic asked. His hand was still on my shoulder—warm and comforting. “What’s your name? I’m Ty. Can you talk to me?”
“Don’t leave me,” I whispered to the empty bedroom. I stood, clutching Carter’s jacket to my chest, trying not to fall. “What am I going to do without you?”
The funeral was three days later. Three days. He had been gone from my life for three days and never had I been so lost. Numb. Lifeless.
It shouldn’t have mattered that it was raining that day. After all, it was Washington. But for some reason, I couldn’t get over that fact. I sat in the front row staring aimlessly ahead as Carter’s mom, Melanie, clutched my hand in her lap. Tears streamed down her pale, chalky cheeks, leaving a streak of moisture on her makeup-frosted face. She was squeezing so hard I had the obscure thought she might break my bones. But even then, the pain didn’t register. Nothing did. Not anymore.
My eyes flickered up from the floor to Carter’s shiny, oak casket hovering feet above the ground. It was an open casket, considering there had been no dismemberment, blood, or broken bones—just Carter. It was my best friend lying in that stupid box, dressed in a suit. Had he been alive, he would have shunned this in moments. The flowers were tacky—roses. Carter hated roses. And now, the red roses seemed to clash with his pale skin. Skin so pale, so cold, that even after the mortician had tried to make his complexion look normal, it didn’t help much. I’d often heard people say that in death the person looked just as beautiful as they did alive. That was bullshit. They looked dead. He was dead. He was lifeless. He was gone.
Nothing was normal, not anymore.
Somewhere behind me, away from the crowd, probably hiding behind a tree and its branches, I knew my friend Ava was standing. I had yet to lay eyes on her, but I could already see her in my head. She’d be leaning up against a tree, her arms folded, her features set in stone as she surveyed the surrounding people. Despite the rain coming from the sky, she would be dressed in a white tank top and a thin leather jacket. Her hair would be unkempt and ratty, eyeliner too dark and lipstick too faded, an aftereffect from a wild night before. Although Ava and Carter hadn’t been friends—in fact, they had loathed each other—I knew she would be here, anyway. She would be here for me.
“Khloe Daniels?” I looked up, startled from my thoughts. The preacher was staring at me, a sad smile on his face as he shut the bible on the lectern and nodded in my direction. “It has come to my attention that you might like to say a few words for our beloved Carter?”
My body went rigid as every set of eyes turned to me. I looked around, wondering who had set this up. Surely David Drake, Carter’s father, hadn’t intended to let me speak at his son’s service. It was not a secret that David could hardly stand me. Me, the trouble-making, ignorant, anti-religion, free-thinking best friend of his perfect son.
“No,” I squeaked, and the preacher turned his ear to me as if he hadn’t heard. I felt multiple gazes turn in my direction, scrutinizing me like an ant under a microscope. Next to me, Melanie shifted in her seat, and then she squeezed my hand.
“Please,” she whispered. Her warm breath fanned across my cheek as her eyes pleaded. “You were our boy’s best friend. He’d have loved for you to say something in his memory.”
His memory. I couldn’t say anything to Carter, not anymore—not ever again—but I could say something in his memory. Funny how that worked.
I swallowed my fear and stood up, knowing that if I didn’t say anything today, I might regret it for the rest of my life. As I looked around, I caught sight of Gracie, Carter’s kid sister, huddled under her father’s arm. Her blue eyes were wide, terrified, but when she saw me, she forced a minuscule of a smile. I smiled back, ignoring the pinched expression on David’s face. Making my way to the stand, I took extra special care not to let my gaze fall on the casket. I couldn’t bring myself to look at it—him. As I stood staring out at the crowd, my chest tight with fear, I spotted Ava in the back, just as I had predicted, leaning against a tree. She was watching me, her eyes narrowed as if expecting me to fall in front of everyone and cry. She wasn’t far off. A few rows from the back sat a guy I almost didn’t recognize—the paramedic from Carter’s apartment. I think his name was Ty. I wondered why he was here—out of respect, probably. I cleared my throat.
“Carter Drake was… well, he was my best friend.” I looked down at my hands. They were shaking. They hadn’t stopped since I’d found Carter in his bedroom. “He was so much more than that, though. He was my brother, my partner in crime.” In the crowd, Melanie smiled encouragingly, wiping at her mascara-stained face. I tried to envision Carter there next to me, teasing and egging me on. It only made me want to cry harder. “I don’t know why Carter did what he did.” A single tear slid down my cheek, and I wiped it away. My words stuttered, and I struggled to string them together. “I wish I knew, because maybe if I had, I would have been able to stop it. But—”
“Get out.”
I hardly heard it at first—the calm, steady voice that came at me from somewhere in the front row of chairs didn’t register. I paused for a second, wondering if I’d misheard. When only silence greeted me, I opened my mouth to go on, when I heard it again.
“I said, get out.” Next to Melanie, David Drake got to his feet, handing little Gracie to his wife. His face was contorted into an expression of rage, eyes bugging out of his head. His neck and ears were red. There was a thick, blue vein in his neck that bulged out at me, seemingly ready to pop. I took an automatic step back, startled, wondering what I’d said to upset him.
“David!” hissed Melanie. “Sit down.” She looked panicked. Embarrassed, even, as though the very worst thing that could happen on the day of her son’s funeral was a falling out. But David didn’t sit down. Instead, he headed in my direction, fists clenched at his sides, looking ready to take a swing at whatever human being was unfortunate enough to be in his way. I took another step back, and then another until I was only feet away from the casket. David kept coming. I was certain he wouldn’t hit me, but it made no difference. David Drake was a mean man, and he had no problems showing it.
“This is your fault!” he screamed. “This is your fault, Khloe! You’re probably the one who gave him the pills he used to kill himself. This is all on you!” It wasn’t until he was nearly spitting in
my face that someone decided to act. The priest and one of the men in the crowd—the paramedic named Ty—grabbed him and pulled him back, keeping a tight hold on him. I took one more step back, bumped into the casket, and found myself turning around automatically to scope out my roadblock.
Carter.
My best friend.
My brother.
Lying on some stupid red satin pillow, his eyes closed, his face white, his hands folded over his chest like some porcelain doll.
Dead.
Dead, dead, dead.
I fell to my knees, covered my mouth in revulsion, and started to sob.
“Don’t worry about it, Khloe. It’s not a big deal.”
“It is a big deal,” I snapped, taking a long drag of my cigarette. “You don’t get it, Ava. Carter is my best friend, and his dad just kicked me out of his service!”
“Was,” Ava corrected me. “Was your mejor amigo.”
I wanted to hit her, to make a mark on that flawless complexion of hers. Ava was a looker. Being Latino only helped her appeal, I think, as she had long, black hair, thick eyelashes, and perfectly darkened skin. The compelling Spanish accent only helped accentuate her beauty. It was nothing if not short of irritating.
“Is,” I said. “Carter will always be my best friend.”
“Gee, thanks a lot.” Ava pulled a little tin flask from her jacket pocket and took a long swig, handing it to me. “You’re overreacting, you know,” she said, lighting up another cigarette. “We’re all aware David Drake is a pinchazo.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “He’s a prick.”
As we walked, I thought again of Mr. Drake’s face—so angry. No, furious. I wondered briefly if he would have hit me had he gotten past Ty and the priest. I had seen him angry a lot. I had grown up around Carter’s family, and David was known for being a little on the rough side. But never, never had I seen him as angry as he had been today.
“He’s always hated me,” I said. “I knew that, but it didn’t keep Carter and me apart.”
“He’s just afraid of you,” said Ava. “He feared you as soon as he met you and realized you would be a different kind of influence on his son. There’s nothing more terrifying to a Bible-thumper than someone who doesn’t need religion or God to run their lives.”
“I only wish he could have accepted how much his son shied away from religion,” I said. “Carter was so smart, you know? He was so open to the world around him. That’s why we became friends so quickly.”
“You guys were two of a kind, that’s for damn sure,” Ava said. She dropped the cigarette butt onto the ground and stubbed it out with the toe of her black biker boot. “People were jealous of your friendship.”
“You mean you?” I teased. Ava rolled her eyes.
“Celoso? Of Carter? In his dreams.” A silence settled over us. It was an uncomfortable, tense silence. Neither of us knew what to say. Joking about Carter would never be the same again. He was dead, gone forever, unable to defend himself against the kidding taunts of Ava and me. If he had been there walking with us, he and Ava would already be bickering back and forth like two siblings over candy. Carter would have his arm flung around my shoulder, bearing his weight on me, challenging my tolerance. I’d shove him away playfully while Ava rolled her eyes, and then we’d head to the theater downtown to see what new horror film was playing. It was always a stupid one—some old, phony show, but we enjoyed it anyway—even if it was mostly for the fried pickles and partially stale popcorn. But those days were gone, and they wouldn’t be back.
“You’re crying again,” said Ava. She rolled her eyes as I wiped at my face, just now noticing the warm, salty tears drying on my cheeks.
“Sorry,” I mumbled. Ava shrugged as if she didn’t care either way. I wondered how she could do that—be void of emotions. But then I’d always been enough of a basket case for the both of us—that’s why we were friends.
“How am I going to do this?” I asked her. “How can I do this without him?” I wrapped my arms around myself, shivering at the chill in the air. Ava dragged on her cigarette, leaving a scarlet red lipstick stain on the paper, then shrugged again, but this time she looked sympathetic. Well, as sympathetic as Ava could look.
“Take it one day at a time, cariño,” she said.
It was after seven in the morning a few days later when I received a phone call from Carter’s mom, Melanie. I’d been sleeping, though not soundly, huddled under the blankets in my bed, curtains drawn, tears drying on my pillowcase. In bed is where I’d been for the last few days, curled up in the fetal position under the comforter, blocking out the world. My clothes were dirty and stale, hair oily and unkempt. Even my face and skin were raw with salty tears. I was a mess, but I didn’t care. Facing the world was too intimidating a thought. The only person who’d ever been able to pull me out of a funk like this was Carter.
As soon as the phone started to ring on the nightstand near my bed, my eyes fluttered open. I reached for it, automatically expecting it to be Carter, probably calling to tease me about never getting out of bed. But, of course, it wasn’t Carter. It was Melanie. I considered ignoring it, but I couldn’t do that. Melanie was one of the few people I had left in this world, and I would do well not to push her away even if it did hurt. She’d always been like a second mother to me.
“Would you be able to stop by?” she asked. I hadn’t spoken to her or David since being kicked out of the service, so I was surprised she had called. David ruled his household with an iron fist, and in the aftermath of the service, I had wondered if I would ever see any of them again.
“I can do that.” I sat up, shrugging the comforter from my shoulders. My head was fuzzy with exhaustion, stomach grumbling and cramping from lack of food. Along with everything else, my appetite was lost. “Is everything okay?”
“Everything is fine,” she assured me, and I felt dumb for asking such a question. Of course, it wasn’t fine—it would never be fine again. But she didn’t seem to mind. She did, however, sound exhausted. I knew we all were, but I had only lost a best friend. Melanie and David Drake had lost a child. “I just have some things for you,” she said. “And Gracie would love to see you as well.”
“Oh, okay.” I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, hesitant to go over there and see David again, but I knew I wouldn’t blow off Melanie. Not now, not after everything we had all been through. “Sure. I can be there in twenty minutes.” I hung up the phone and dragged myself out of bed to run a brush through my hair, trying not to dwell too long on my ripped and faded Levi’s, dirty tie-dye t-shirt, and a freckled face that the tears had left red and puffy. It would have been about now that Carter would have seen my attire, rolled his eyes, and said, “Take a shower, Ladybug. You look like a hobo.”
As I made my way to the car, swinging the lanyard with my keys around in the air, I thought back to the day I’d earned the nickname Ladybug. Carter and I had only been six, two rambunctious kids playing cowboys and Indians in the park behind the Drakes’ old house. I’d sat down on the edge of the sandbox, out of breath from playing tag, when a red, black-dotted insect landed in my hair. Carter, laughing his six-year-old ass off, had pointed and laughed until I couldn’t take it anymore and had panicked, wailing and dancing around as though caught on fire. When I’d finally settled down enough to let Carter near, he’d plucked the bug out of my hair and allowed it to rest in his palm, opening his hand so I could see.
“Just a ladybug,” he said. “A ladybug won’t hurt you, Khloe.” He transferred it to the tip of my finger, where I’d admired it until it opened its wings and flew away. Twelve years later, ‘Ladybug’ had stuck.
The memory faded, and I wiped the tears from the corner of my eyes as Missus Betty panted up the hill toward the Drakes’ house. Outside, the weather was matching my mood—depressed The sky was heavy with rain and fog. I flipped on my bright lights, which made it worse, so I dimmed them again and hoped for the best.
The Drake hous
e was dark when I pulled up, and I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw David’s car missing from the driveway. I wasn’t in the mood for his bullshit, especially now. Putting Missus Betty into park, I dropped the keys into my pocket and knocked on the front door. For a fleeting, uncertain moment, I was sure it would be Carter who would answer the door. He’d be in a pair of jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, his iPod in his hand and an earbud in one ear. He would smile and flip me the peace sign before socking me in the arm and saying, “What took you so long, Ladybug?”
It wasn’t Carter. It was Melanie.
“Thank you for coming, Khloe,” she said, stepping aside so I could walk in. She looked exhausted, of course, sporting extra-large sweatpants and a tattered shirt with a shawl draped over her shoulders. Melanie, generally so smiley and plump, looked as though she’d lost too much weight in the last few days. There was black under her eyes, and it wasn’t from makeup.
“Where’s David?” I asked. Although Carter had always referred to my parents as Mr. and Mrs. Daniels, I’d never been able to do that with his. The first name was more personal and, if we were getting down to the nitty-gritty of it, I didn’t think that David Drake deserved the title of ‘Mr.’
“He went…” There was a pause. “Out.” She looked away when she said it, and I automatically knew where he was—at the church—praying. Some people needed God to reassure them that life would be okay again.
“Can I ask why I’m here?” I said gently. Melanie took my hand and led me up the stairs. On the way, I tried to avoid looking at all the family portraits hanging on the walls. The house was so familiar—a home away from home. I had often run up and down these stairs with Carter, at one point splitting open my knee on the bottom step. You could see the wear and tear in the carpet brought on by years and years of heavy use. On top of the staircase, in the corner of the wall, was a colored nick in the paint marked with Carter’s name. My name was below his, and Gracie’s was below that.
If I Fall Page 2
