by A. K. Smith
SHE, getting a red plate out of one of the upper cabinets, glanced at the Bible in my hand with the pictures lying on top. Her face contorted and she dropped the plate. Just like that. It hit the granite countertop with a crack and shattered into little red pieces. Transfixed, not bothering to pick up the broken shards, her eyes lingered on the photographs.
Silence.
My mother stepped on the sharp broken fragments of the ceramic red plate to rip the Bible and the pictures from my little hands. She walked out to the screened-in porch. Blood oozed from the cut in her foot, leaving little smudges on the white tile floor. Gripping the black book and photos, frozen, in her hand, she stood locked in place. Minutes passed.
Finally, she moved, opening the Bible and placing the photos back inside. The click of the lighter was deafening. Smoke filled the air. I crept back to my room.
Her hideout, her screened-in smoking porch, was another place off-limits. I had been warned not to bother her when she was out there. SHE was out there a lot. I knew the consequences. No, SHE wasn’t one to rip the cabinets off the door or scream nasty insults like HE, but SHE used THE DARK.
I obeyed.
I waited forever for her to come inside. She smoked cigarette after cigarette, staring at the trees. As the sun sank lower behind the trees, and the long-tailed shadows engulfed the porch, SHE left her hideaway. I kept my distance for the next few hours and then I cautiously approached her. Like a fly, landing close then backing off, I would work up my nerve and move a little closer, waiting for her to look my way. Always invisible to her, this time I was certain if I stepped in her angry circle, she would throw me across the room.
THE DARK was my punishment for years. It seemed like every few months, I did something to make her mad, something where she could no longer look at me. Sitting alone, in silence, lights off. I hated THE DARK. SHE put in special blackout shades and curtains on the only glass block window in the empty spare bedroom. When they were closed (and they were always drawn), I wished my eyes would adjust, but it was lightproof. Tense and anxious, I loathed not knowing or seeing, and it smelled like cleaner fluid. After five hours, anything could be sitting beside me. I hated THE DARK.
So, I played my fly game, getting close, then scurrying away. I tiptoed, as if walking over hot red coals, worried about my words. After hours of circling, I snuck up. didn’t touch her. I knew better. I waited in silence beside her, afraid to form a word, and finally, in her hoarse smoker’s voice, she answered the question she knew I wanted to ask.
“That is your brother, Clark. He died.”
I held my breath, trying to process what she was saying.
The pattern of her voice was off beat, like a video when the words didn’t match the mouths. “We never talk about Clark in this house. Never. It was a very long time ago. He is gone.”
She wasn’t looking at me just staring out at the shadows on the porch. Her voice returned to her normal monotone. “Sunday, we will not discuss this again.” She paused. “Never, ever mention it to your father. Do you hear me?”
Frozen in place, I went mute.
“Sunday, do you understand me?”
I nodded my little head, and as soon as I did, her eyes glazed over and she walked out of the room. I’m sure she put one of those little white pills in her mouth that turn her even more into a zoned-out zombie. I shivered.
The words “your brother” vibrated in my mind. Maybe there was someone else like me; maybe they’d killed him. My young mind created murderous scenarios.
The word brother penetrated my heart and has become a warm blanket I put on when I need companionship. In THE DARK, I pictured his smiling face and sea-green eyes and whisper to Clark, asking him questions he never answered. The mere idea that I wasn’t alone in this world gave me courage.
I heeded the warning SHE uttered that day. I have never brought up Clark’s name again. Never. But at no time do I stop thinking about my brother. My brother Clark.
I knew I would have to figure out exactly what had happened to Clark. It took me five years to find him.
The Sea Watch Library became my second home, a quiet place where I could investigate in the computer lab and discover the truth. And eventually, I did.
HE and SHE used to live in Fenwick Island, Delaware, where my father had a small law practice and my mother was his paralegal. SHE was an only child, twelve years younger than my father. From the marriage certificate, I learned that my mother was pregnant when they married, just like Marcia and Ed. Actually, nothing like Marcia and Ed. Later, when I heard HE yell, “I should have never married you, you scheming bitch!” I knew what he was referring to. It finally made sense—he never wanted any children.
I have no aunts or uncles, as HE and SHE were both from a one-child family. However, on ancestry websites, I tracked down what no one could tell me. All four of my grandparents passed before I was four years old. I have no memory of ever meeting them, if in fact I ever did. What I desired above all else was information about my brother.
I celebrated the day I found him.
His name was Clark Charles Foster, and he had died in a drowning accident near Ocean City, Maryland, at the age of five. Three months before I was born. It made some sense. Possibly, I was conceived when HE and SHE were a happy, smiling couple wearing khaki and white on the beach, with a son named Clark. Otherwise, they would not have another child; but I was already there, created before they’d stopped smiling and went to the dark side. I assumed the reason my name was Sunday was not just because I was born on a Sunday, but because HE and SHE couldn’t think or care enough to give this new, unwanted baby a name. Who picks out a name for an unwanted child?
A child’s giggle brings me back to the present. A mother and her children are playing on a blanket by the water’s edge with their family dog. The boy is trying to build a sandcastle as the shaggy dog keeps running through it. The family’s laughter is true and good.
Yes, I know losing a child must be heartbreaking—but I’ll never forgive HE and SHE for never smiling with me. For never loving me.
Looking at the water makes me feel closer to Clark. I wish he was alive.
The last bus leaves in twenty minutes. I have to deal with what is happening right now. Even if that means more lies to Jack. The crowd below is picking up coolers, toys and blankets, and for a moment, I wonder what it must be like to have a family, a brother. I’m certainly not ready to have my own family.
Oh God, please don’t let it be true. I can’t be pregnant. I just can’t. I need a brother to talk to. I wish I could talk to Jack but I don’t know how.
I try to calm myself down. As the sun falls lower in the sky, the monstrous Bay Bridge is illuminated on the horizon, hundreds of cars are crossing the water.
Where are they all going? I’m transported to the summer I turned twelve, the last time I crossed the Bay Bridge.
Tara, Jack’s sister, drove Jack and me to the offices of The Dispatch in Ocean City, Maryland.
I marched into the newspaper office, ponytail on top of my head, shoulders back clutching my research folder, determined to find the answers. “Do you keep copies of old newspapers?”
The woman at the desk rolled her eyes, her chewing gum smacking against her lips. She studied me, peering over her glasses. “We keep one issue of every paper since 1984, but we are a little busy today. Can you come back tomorrow?”
I hesitated, trying to determine my best course of action. Thoughts of Clark overwhelmed me. So, instead of pasting on my fake smile, I decided to be real. “Is there any way I could look through the old issues? I will be very careful.” A lump formed in my throat. “We drove the whole way here from Owings Mills, just for this.”
“Is this a school project?”
I locked eyes were her, no longer watching her chew her gum. “No, I’m looking for my brother’s obituary.”
The word “brother” engulfed my voice and took ownership of my eyes. I could barely see her as they became full. I didn’t
plan it for effect; it just happened. One large wet tear rolled down my cheek. I didn’t wipe it away as it dripped off my chin.
Her tight expression softened. “What date are you looking for?”
“November 2000.”
She stood up and motioned for me to follow and took me to a back room, an overstuffed library of papers. “Here it is. You can look at it here.” She gestured toward the table.
I wanted to walk, but my feet stopped. Breathe. I attempted to swallow this unfamiliar tightness overtaking my body. I blinked my eyes, as my hand wiped my face and my feet moved forward.
She stayed with me and helped me locate both an article and the obituary. “Honey, I can copy it for you.”
Clark died November 8, 2000. The article was prominent on the fourth page of the paper, with two photographs. One picture was of HE and SHE. SHE had a crooked smile on her face, and HE was grinning like a puffed-up idiot with a head full of thick hair (crazy different than the spiky, thinning strands he sported now) in a form fitting suit, his arm tightly around SHE. A gesture of love I never witnessed. The other photo was a small picture of Clark, a smiling five-year-old, young, happy, and carefree. My heart stopped when I saw it. My beautiful brother.
Leaving the office, with the copied article, I stood tall as I walked over to Jack and Tara.
Jack grabbed my hand. “Are you okay, Sunday? Did you find it?”
“They were having a picnic on the beach in Fenwick Island.”
“A picnic?” Jack asked.
“A picnic, and Clark went missing.” The article shook in my hands. Jack gently took the paper, his eyes scanning the article.
Whispering, I barely got the words out. “He drowned. The paper stated they didn’t call the police for five hours.”
“Five hours? How do you lose a kid on the beach for five hours? What were they doing that they weren’t watching a five-year-old as he goes into the ocean?” Jack tucked me into his arm, handing me back the article.
I shook my head back and forth, swallowing the anger inside me so I could find the words. “After an investigation, it was ruled an accidental drowning. They found him on the beach, dead.” I clenched the article to my heart like a prized possession. “They let my brother drown.”
My breath came out in quick bursts, intense pressure built as angry words fought to come out and I pushed them away. “I need to go to Fenwick Island Beach.”
Tara, who had just received her permanent driver’s license, hesitated.
“Please take me to where Clark drowned.”
My eyes locked on hers, Tara relented.
The air in the car was thick with emotion, heavy with silence. Finally, Tara let out a sputtering of muttered swear words and hand motions aimed at the crawling beach traffic.
I’m not sure how you’re supposed to feel when you lose a sibling you’ve never met, but nausea washed over me. Thinking about my older brother Clark and his fate caused a sharp pain in my stomach, as if the arteries of my heart were ripping open, inflicting a stabbing ache as I breathed. As a tear ran down my face, I wondered what would life be like if he’d lived. Would I have had a brother to shelter the disastrous storms of our parents?
Tara pulled in the empty parking lot, parking beside the weather-beaten wooden Fenwick Island sign.
When she shut the engine off, angry waves snarled as they hit the shore. I flung the car door open and ran towards the sea, alone. I fell to my knees on the warm sand, grabbing handfuls of grit and staring at the waves, it’s roar muffling my cry. The bright fiery ball in the sky reflected off the charm bracelet Jack had given me like a signal, casting diamonds on the water. Did Clark even have a grave? A tombstone? My eyes fixated on the prisms in the ferocious waves. Flip-flops off, toes dug into the sand, I searched for closure in the enormous sea.
I wondered how he drowned, not wanting to picture that sweet face gasping for air, yelling out, but I couldn’t erase the movie playing in my head. Did he know how to swim? How could this happen? Why did this happen?
I’m not sure how long I sat there, but the reflection of my bracelet no longer caught the sun. Jack and Tara stayed at the car, leaning up against the hood with the back door still flung open. In that moment, I knew I had the power to alter my life. THE PLAN was conceived, my escape route.
Chapter 6
Blue Sticks, Nicotine, and Cocaine
This is not my life. Not the life I belong in. My life is supposed to be better than this. Different. I don’t know how I know this, but I’ve never possessed such instinctive knowledge that I’m right. Sitting on the edge of the tub, I jiggle the flusher on the toilet, the constant noise of the tank refilling is my music. A running toilet. I want to run.
I will change this life. Whatever it takes.
I close the page of my journal as the timer goes off on my phone.
Two lines show up on the stick. I gasp. Two lines. One is really strong. One is faint, but if I squint, two lines. Everything that’s been pent up inside me comes out in a rush as I muffle my cries with a towel. Time passes. I have no idea how long I’ve been in the bathroom. I wash my face. I scream into the towel. Steady breaths to try and calm myself down.
I catch a reflection of my pink, wet, swollen face in the bathroom mirror as I head out into the living room. I’m still holding the blue plastic stick in my hand. SHE will never notice. I stand there, my eyes focused on her, daring her to look up. Look at me, I scream silently. SHE is staring at some crazy reality show on the flat screen located on the wall above the gas fireplace—a fireplace we have never turned on; not even once to warm the house on the occasional snowy night in a Maryland winter. No cozy family gatherings happen here, sitting around the orange flames, drinking eggnog, singing carols at holidays.
I dare her. LOOK AT ME!
You can tell a lot about a person on whether or not they will look directly in your eyes. Not a millisecond glance, but making contact with your eyes and sharing that pupil-to-pupil interaction.
SHE is wearing her daily uniform: black leggings and a tight black shirt with the mask of no emotion hanging on her face. Her features are blank and expressionless like a department store mannequin with a bad bleached-blonde dye job. I bet if I touch her skin, it will feel plastic, hard and cold. But I have nothing to fear. SHE will never touch me.
Holidays are definitely worse than a typical day. And it’s Easter weekend. HE’s at home today, downstairs in the basement office, drunk or high on cocaine. It must be coke, because he is obviously snorting something up his nose. When he speaks—which is rarely—his glassy eyes do not quite connect to my eyes. The protruding artery in his neck slightly jumps and little specks of white residue stick to his nose hairs. Sniffling, always sniffling.
HE lives in an imaginary coked-up world. A world without a child, or a wife. HE tells no one of the deep hole of debt he has dug for himself and his family, and he keeps wearing these stupidly expensive tailored suits. I’m waiting for him to fall into the hole, his pit of despair and debt.
SHE knows. I’m certain. SHE has to. Deep down inside that hollow heart, that lost façade of a human, she knows our family is a sick disaster. But she blocks it out, just like she blocks out a daughter desperately searching for a normal or responsible mother or father. She barricades my presence with antidepressants, little white pills that paralyze any sense of rationality she might have lurking in her empty mind. She blocks it out with every puff of nicotine she inhales into her body out in the screened-in porch. I dump the overflowing ashtrays on a daily basis, so I know she’s up to at least two packs now. Smoking her life away, and she doesn’t even care. No time for her daughter, but time to smoke forty cigarettes a day.
SHE won’t even glance in my direction. I’m screaming inside, look at me. Ask me what is wrong. Ask me what I’m holding in my hand. Nothing. NO response.
I’m only here surviving because I can succeed without them. I plunge forward and I live a life which looks somewhat normal on the outside. I wash my own
clothes, I cook my own food—that is, if we have any food in the house. And if I do have food, it’s because I went to the grocery store and bought it with the money I’ve earned from my job at the courthouse.
The courthouse. Tyler. Everything is ruined.
I’ve had it. It’s not supposed to be like this. Parents are supposed to take care of children. Children. I can’t believe after everything I’ve planned for, now this is happening.
I really believed with a little more time, a little more planning, I could make THE PLAN work. It’s only my junior year. I just needed to survive for the last few weeks of this semester, work like crazy at the courthouse all summer, spend as much time as possible with Jack and his family, and push forward through senior year with the prize ahead.
My PLAN was almost here. it would’ve worked, and now I’ve blown it. My actions did this.
I’m gripping the blue stick, holding it up like a surrender flag. I wipe the tears falling off my face. It’s not only about me anymore. In this moment, everything has changed. I would rather die than end up like SHE.
I would never want to trap Jack.
I say it to myself. Because for a second, I think maybe I should tell him I no longer care about saving my virginity until I graduate from high school. One night, maybe when Ed & Marcia are out, I would sleep with him. We could do that. It’s not like he doesn’t want to. It’s because of me that we don’t. Or at least the me before Tyler.
The me before Tyler is a me I can never get back. She’s gone.
Could this new me tell him I was pregnant? It can accidentally happen even if you use a condom, it tears, we make a mistake. I could lie, the biggest lie of my life. Jack would believe me.
Marcia, his mother, would help us figure out what to do—maybe we could give the baby up for adoption to a good loving family. THE PLAN could still happen. She would help us. I know she would be disappointed but she would help. She would help me. It could work.
