Lullabies for Suffering

by Caroline Kepnes et al.

  The buzzer rings again and again you ignore it. No one’s coming over. No one ever comes over. The mind fuck of death is that people who die don’t die in your brain. She’s been gone a year now, and you still think, Is that you, Mom? You wonder if that will ever stop, the desire to bring her back to life, pull her out of the grave and give her another chance. And then you think about that Slip ‘N Slide. She never did get to slip or slide. You tore it off the lawn and threw it away after the cops showed up at your house.

  Someone’s knocking on the door now. But this isn’t a horror movie. You’re logical. It’s not your mother and it can’t be the police. You did not lay a hand on Ariel that night. You would never lay a hand on Ariel. The cops only visited you that one time and nobody pressed charges. But look at you. You live like a criminal who got away with something. It’s probably just your neighbor wanting to know if your rent went up. But still you run around fixing things, hiding things. You close your computer. You throw Devil Dog wrappers into the trash. You do think it’s the police. You think that they know you better than you know yourself, that they have access to your mind, that they know how impotent you were that night at Ariel’s house. You didn’t call the non-emergency police. You were a monster in the worst way, the silent kind who talks to the wrong person—the mother—at the wrong time, at night, while her child sleeps in front of the TV, not in her bed, no panties. No underwear.

  You don’t look in the peephole before you open the door. If they’ve come to take you to prison, you won’t put up a fight. You don’t know how long you can go on like this anyway. You don’t believe your eyes when you open the door and maybe you shouldn’t believe them. You think you see Ariel all the time. You’ve never Googled her. That would make you a pervert, wouldn’t it? And you think every girl is her and it never is but now is now and it’s her. It is. She opens her mouth.

  “Vince,” she says. “Hi.”

  You don’t say a word. She could be wired. She could be here to get your confession. She is beautiful, like you knew she would be. She isn’t the girl in front of the TV in the threadbare nightgown and she is a woman. She has a purse, like an adult. She throws her arms around you and you are older too. You aren’t the college kid whose mom just went back to rehab. You hold her in your arms. You feel her heart thumping in her chest, pressed against yours. You invite her to come in and she doesn’t move. She looks around your apartment.

  “Or we could go somewhere. I can drive.”

  She doesn’t want to come into your apartment and you want to give her what she wants. You grab your house keys and your jacket. “Okay,” you say. “Let’s do that.”

  She is talking a lot and she is nervous, jumping from the big stuff (she’s thought about you, she has) to the small stuff. Hollywood is uglier than she expected. You let her do all the talking. You let her push the door and you follow her into the haze. It isn’t all sunny today and she parked illegally and she laughs about the absurdity of all the cars in this city and nowhere to put them.

  “Makes me miss home, you know?”

  She looks at you with eyes that don’t scare you, eyes that tell you that none of this is real. You know those eyes, those cocaine eyes. They belong to your mother, to the countless others who slipped and slid around your house over the years when you were a kid. Yes, Ariel is on something. The amateur college psychologist in you tells you that this is not a surprise. Her father abused her and her mother squashed it and she’s not talking about any of that. She’s just telling you about her boss, her finals coming up. She trusts you. She doesn’t think you hurt her. She doesn’t come right out and say it, but she won’t break eye contact and she won’t stop talking and she’s here, on her own volition.

  “Oof,” she says. “I’m such a jerk.”

  “No you’re not.”

  “No,” she says, squinting. “I mean, I didn’t even say I’m sorry about your mom. And I am sorry.”

  “That’s okay,” you say. “It’s been a while.”

  Her phone rings in her purse and she grunts. “It’s my mom. Do you mind if I take it?”

  She steps away. She doesn’t want to talk to her mother in front of you and you bet she won’t tell her mother she’s there. You go through the things you know about Ariel Pyle. Tiny things. You go back to the night your mom called to tell you that the Pyles got divorced. It was your sophomore year and your mom was mad as usual because she never did stop seething over those perfect Pyles. She was mad at you for not being angrier. She said you should want to stand up for yourself, defend your good name and you said you just wanted to move on.

  “I’m only gonna ask you this once, Vince. Did you touch that girl?”

  “No,” you said.

  “I knew that,” she said. “I know that you can’t believe I asked.”

  You were like a guy in a movie who gets shot and doesn’t know it until someone else points to the blood. You didn’t feel anything. You were on automatic. You did what you always do. You told her that she had to ask, that it wasn’t her fault, that nothing is her fault. She started to cry. “I should have sent you to my cousin Gina’s.”

  You said it again. “It’s not your fault, Mom.”

  “Yes it is,” she said. “Unlike Mrs. Pyle, or should I say Ms. Pyle, I take responsibility. I know I messed up your life, I know it every day. And that’s the hardest part about this. If I’d been home, you wouldn’t have ever been in that house. I put you there, me. And do you know what it’s like to live with that?”

  You were cold. Like blood was pouring out of your chest. You couldn’t talk. You didn’t tell her to stop crying. You didn’t tell her it was your fault, too, that you were the one who started it by trusting Mrs. Pyle, by not calling the police. You would never want to win a fight with your mom because she could never win the fight of her life. It was your job to let her win, even if winning meant taking all the blame. Eventually, she blew her nose and she was calmer. “Don’t you worry,” she said, as if you were the one who was worried. “Their perfect little family breaking down is the best revenge. Those monsters will get what’s coming to them. It’s only a matter of time.”

  You knew she was wrong. Mr. Pyle still had his big job and now it’s obvious that Mrs. Pyle still gets to be close with Ariel. Ariel, who is leaning against her brand new car, telling her mom she loves her.

  She ends the call and sighs. “Ugh, that’s like the fifth time today.”

  Her pupils are tiny and you are back to being you, the good boy, the one who wants to help. You don’t care that her mother lied about you and you know what Ariel wants. She wants a bump. She won’t say it. She won’t do that in front of you. She came here to fall in love with you because she wants to get back at her mother, but also because she likes you. She always liked you and you always liked her. You know the love won’t stick. You know that it can’t. Not when she’s like this. Slippery. But this is what you do, what you’ve always done.

  She sits on the curb and you sit next to her.

  She breaks the silence. She says she’s wanted to come see you every day for the past six years. Her words are like rain and you miss rain. She says she’s always felt horrible about what happened. You wanted this, for her to come to you. She is the only person on the planet who can prove that you are pure of heart and she balks at you when you tell her what a relief it is to see her, to know that she doesn’t think you hurt her.

  “Jesus, Vince. Of course I know you didn’t hurt me. I was there. You didn’t do anything wrong. And I know what I did….”

  You blush. You remember her on the sofa. You don’t want to say the wrong thing so you don’t say anything.

  “It’s like I thought if I acted strange, you would tell someone.”

  “I tried.”

  “I know,” she says. “You tried to help me. And then my mother went and ruined your life and I clammed up. I didn’t stand up for you.”

  You don’t want this to be the story. You tell her that she was just a kid, that she d
id nothing wrong. She huffs. “Oh God,” she says, as if she didn’t hear you. “Don’t do that. You should be mad. It’s simple. You get this mom who’s in and out of rehab and messes up your life and then my mom smells blood in the water and ruins your life.”

  “No,” you say. “No one ruined my life. It’s not that simple.”

  You mean it, you do. She heard you this time. She shifts. You shift. You are in this together now and this will be the gum that sticks to the counter, the bargaining that never ends. If you tell her that her mother is a monster, she will say it’s complicated, that her mother was only defending you from the real monster, her father. If you defend your mother, if you remind Ariel that your mother wasn’t cruel, just sick, she’ll fight back because of her father. She’ll say there’s no difference. Sick, cruel. They’re both selfish, your mother and her Monster. She wants things to be simple and you want them to be complicated and of course she wants them to be simple. What her father did is simple. Monstrous. And of course you want them to be complicated. The drug was the Monster. Not your mother. And deep down she knows that, but she wants you to be in the same boat, and you want to be in the boat with her. You will never strike a deal that makes you both happy. You could spend the rest of your life on this curb with her and she stands up. “Should we drive on Sunset or something?”

  “Sure.”

  There is peace now. She needs to be the one behind the wheel and you needed her to choose you to ride shotgun. You are the virgin and the cokehead. What you need and what you want are two different things and having your needs met isn’t as good as getting what you want, but getting what you want can ruin you. It’s safer this way. You know how to slide into the passenger seat. You know how this ends. You see her rubbing her dripping nose and you look out the window. Maybe she has a cold. You’ve been alone for so long. It’s better this way, on the road with her, with the sun breaking through the clouds. Driving gives her something to do with her hands. She’s in control. You believe in her, you do. You start to believe that it’s only a matter of time before she doesn’t want to get high, doesn’t need to get high. It happens all the time. People find the right person, the person who sets up the Slip ‘N Slide right away. People heal each other and maybe Ariel’s not like your mother, same way you’re not like her father. Maybe, just maybe, this sticks.

  “Hang on,” she says, as she turns into the parking lot of a gas station. “I have to run in the bathroom. I’ll be quick, I promise.”

  About the Author

  Caroline Kepnes is the author of YOU, HIDDEN BODIES and PROVIDENCE. The hit Netflix series You is an adaptation of her debut novel. The upcoming second series is based on her sequel HIDDEN BODIES. Caroline was born and raised on Cape Cod, Massachusetts. When she was in high school, Sassy Magazine gave her short story an Honorable Mention in their Fabulous Fiction Contest. They also gave her a Smith Corona typewriter. After graduating from Brown University, Caroline continued writing short stories (on her computer, sorry typewriter) while embarking on a career in pop culture journalism first at Tiger Beat, then at Entertainment Weekly. She also worked as a TV writer on 7th Heaven and The Secret Life of the American Teenager. Caroline now lives in a quaint neighborhood in Los Angeles. She goes home to Cape Cod every chance she gets.

  Lizard

  by

  Mark Matthews

  Lizard

  Mark Matthews

  CHAPTER ONE:

  Lizabeth and Becca

  “You’re afraid to go, aren’t you?”

  I grabbed the car keys off the wall hook as if this was proof she was wrong, but she wasn’t. She read me faster with each passing month together.

  “Something tells me I shouldn’t go,” I answered. “We need to talk about it. It doesn’t feel right to leave after getting bad news.”

  Our petition to become adoptive parents had just been denied. After a home study, background check, hours of interviews, reference letters, and lots of painful waiting, we’d received the form letter in the mail. Becca was ripping it into pieces.

  “You latched on to someone with a past,” Becca said, sprinkling bits of the letter into the recycle bin. “I’ve done too much damage. I can’t repair it. The world doesn’t want me, I don’t want it, and that’s just how it is. Trying to shove myself into places I’m not supposed to fit just crushes me under the weight.”

  My fingers clenched into a fist and I held the car keys with one sticking out between my knuckles, the way I do when I’m scared, knowing that one carefully aimed punch in the face will turn an eye socket into a bloody keyhole. My fingers seemed to have a brain of their own, but there was no reason for them to be scared. This was no late night walk to my car or uneasy feeling of being followed by one of my parolees. This was Becca, but it was Becca’s fears, her stubborn words, her volleying with charges followed by retreats into hidden intentions, that I directed my anger towards. I tried to relax, but my fingers wouldn’t obey.

  “I’ve seen you with kids, I’ve seen what it’s like. It’s magical. We can’t just give up.”

  “It’s not giving up, it’s giving in. It’s acceptance. If one agency thinks we’re not fit to adopt—that I’m not fit to adopt—well then, they probably all will. The property in Canada can be a home, not just a vacation spot. Away from people and memories that trigger me everywhere. I know you want to be a mom, and I hate that I’m the reason you can’t have a child in your home.”

  “There are other agencies…”

  “And there are other couples. Couples who aren’t same-sex, because people think kids need a dad, for sure not two moms if one has a criminal record and shot-up a shit load of heroin and then got clean and shacked up with her probation officer… We probably should have lied a little better about that part.”

  “There are other ways. A donor. A surrogate. Even the old-fashioned way.”

  “Ah, hell no. It’s the ultimate sin to add a child to this world the way it is. No way, not in my body, not in yours, I don’t want someone suffering with having a life because I’m selfish. If there’s a child who needs me, we can talk—otherwise, I’m listening to the call of the wild. I’m not saying you have to go with me. Maybe you should cut me free, lose your anchor.”

  Her words speared me through the chest, impaled me into silence. Becca retreated to the couch and pulled her long-sleeve shirt down over her palms. I could feel her mind’s eye swirling. I wouldn’t leave until she said something else. I needed her to give me that.

  “Go to your visit, Lizard, just don’t fall in love with this one.”

  She gave me what I needed. The inside joke was our glue, and we were still stuck together.

  The air outside surrounded me with a soft chill, enough to heighten my senses, but not clear my head. I’d forgotten something inside. I was missing something. What was it? Whispers in my head begged me to stay, said that it wasn’t safe to leave Becca alone. The whispers were the soundtrack of my life, background noise from the scared, angry child inside me I’d learned to live with.

  Maybe Becca was right, that I really was afraid to go. It was my first home visit with my new drug court caseload. I’d visited homes in the past working in probation for seven years—first misdemeanors, then youth diversion, then to felony probation. But after three rounds of interviews, I’d finally landed the position I wanted—a drug court caseload working primarily with mothers.

  Not a career, but a calling. My own call of the wild.

  As I drove away, I kept seeing Becca in the wilds of Canada on the property she’d inherited from her uncle that we’d visited so many times. It was a sanctuary without a trace of humans for miles, the only sound in the air dog whistles only her soul could hear.

  She’ll be different once we have a child in our life.

  Becca’s body was a sprinkler that shot out joy for kids to dash over and play, and it grew stronger with every year clean and sober.

  Her charges were serious, but not terrible. She was on my caseload many years back
for misdemeanor retail fraud to fund her heroin habit.

  From the moment I met her, I could feel something in her heart. She was shedding her addiction, slithering out of her old casing like a snake, or better yet, a caterpillar in a cocoon waiting to grow wings and fly off to a glorious garden. Somehow the world hadn’t destroyed her.

  When our last probation meeting ended, she reached out to touch me, and for a moment, I thought she would touch my cheek. Instead, she placed her finger on my scar and traced it, back and forth, as if sensually strumming a secret chord.

  “From the monkey bars,” I answered, when she asked how I got the scar, but she saw through my lie.

  Such a loss, a hidden hurt, when she discharged off probation, so I scheduled a ruse meeting and invited her for lunch, a “follow-up research study on successful probation experience.” But the ruse didn’t last long, we had a second date, and sooner than healthy, rented a U-Haul, and I started living with someone from my caseload, a recovering addict, seven years clean. Both of us lied when asked by friends how we met, only saying we had matching baggage. I’d be fired if work found out, and rightly so.

  The tiniest things, like the way she poured sugar in my coffee, held the mysteries of the universe. I love you forever, Becca, and that shine still glows. We were wrapped around each other like the tattoo of intertwining green lizards etched onto my right shoulder.

  I won’t fall in love with this one. It would be impossible to love another, but also impossible not to love this new position. I was made for this, a fiery passion roared through each nerve ending while I was on the job.

  I was on Amy Branagan’s street, the lucky recipient of my surprise home visit. Rows and rows of small bungalows, near identical, with rooftops still wet from last night’s rain. The squad car was already there, parked curbside. The officer rolled his window down as I approached.