Who We Are Instead, page 3
I take a shower, comb the tangles out of my long, almost waist-length hair, and put on my makeup. Eden turns up the latest Miley Cyrus hit and we dance to the beat. The music pulses through me, pounding away the bad thoughts, blasting them to dust.
We dig through Eden’s closet for something to wear. We pull on thick knitted socks and drape ourselves in sparkly scarves. I fishtail-braid Eden’s hair and Simone puts on her trademark crimson lipstick. I dot concealer over the pimples on my chin, adjust my nose ring, and circle my eyes with thick black liner.
I grab my phone off Eden’s dresser and scroll through the messages. A couple from Felix. I tell him I’ll see him tonight, same time, same place. I’ve got a ton from Lena, the perfect sister I haven’t seen in over two years. Who’s so perfect, she can’t even bother to come home. Until now. Ignore. Ignore. Ignore. I don’t even read them. Who cares? Not me. Not one little bit.
I step back from the mirror and admire my dark red hair, my eyes green as forest moss, my curves, my everything.
Now I’m ready.
I’m back.
After stuffing ourselves with deep-fried chicken and fries dipped in honey mustard sauce, we go back to Eden’s because, school night. Eden’s great at English and writing and history. And science, pretty much everything, actually. I used to love science, but school sucked all the joy out of it.
After we say goodnight to her parents and Eden goes to bed, I grab Eden’s house key from her dresser. “Where are you going?” she asks groggily.
“Shhh,” I whisper. “I’ll be back soon.”
“But it’s a school night.”
“So?” I hate school so much. I’ve had senioritis since freshman year, but now it’s for real. I haven’t been to classes in over a week. The thought of all the work I’ve missed is overwhelming. So I push it right out of my head. “I’m not going tomorrow. Sweet dreams.”
She groans and rolls over. Tomorrow she’ll give me a big fat lecture, but it’s not tomorrow yet. I blow her a kiss and slip quietly out of the house.
Twenty minutes later, I’m at the park, driving the old single-lane gravel road to the massive clearing Mom always took us to on her midnight picnics. It’s the best spot for stargazing for miles, far enough from the small towns to keep the light pollution minimal. Stark, leafless trees hunch like black shadows around the perimeter of the clearing. It’s so quiet out here. There’s the occasional rustle of tiny feet in the snow, the crack of something breaking and falling, a twig, a frozen acorn.
I’m grabbing my stash of blankets from the backseat when Felix Avery pulls up in his battered Ford F-150. We pile our blankets and pillows in the bed of the truck and climb in.
“Hey, hot stuff.” I pat the space beside me.
Felix grins, his large hazel eyes bright in the moonlight. “I can’t stay too long. I’ve gotta study for that Physics exam.” He hands me one of the cappuccinos he picked up at the gas station and runs his fingers through his mop of muddy brown curls. I’d rather have some peach schnapps, but really, it’s too cold for that and Felix doesn’t drink. He’s a nerd through and through. His current life goal is to be valedictorian. But it’s like he thinks he’s going to earn it by sheer will and sweat alone. And unicorn tears, because that honor is going straight to Jayda Washington-Clark, who can recite the periodic table in her sleep. He’s always worried about tests and essay deadlines, even though he already got into Notre Dame on early admission. Felix never drinks, and he always leaves parties by eleven to get his beauty sleep. Until me, that is.
Since we first got together six months ago, we’ve explored a dizzying array of make-out session locations: on his bed, on my floor, in the front seat of my car, on the bean bag in his friend Raj’s basement, and here, out in the big wide open beneath a sky full of stars. I’ve kept him up way, way past his bedtime.
“You okay?” he asks me, concern lining his voice. “You haven’t been at school. I’ve been texting and calling all week.”
I lean in and kiss him. I don’t want to talk about that anymore. It’s over and done. There’s only now, only the sharp air and the brilliant blue-black sky sprinkled with stars like crushed ice. I sink down and he hovers over me, kissing me harder, deeper. Stars and planets and whole galaxies explode in my stomach. Even after all this time together, it feels amazing. Like swallowing lightning.
After several long, spectacular minutes, we break apart. We lay back, and I snuggle into his chest for warmth. I listen to the steady beat of his heart. The thing about Felix is, we do way more than just make out. The other guys—they always pushed for more. I like a hot make-out session as much as any girl, but I’m not ready. Not yet. Felix gets that. He never pressures me. We’re so much more, go so much deeper. We cuddle. And laugh. And talk about everything, anything.
The white puffs of his breath mingle with my own. We gaze up at the stars. “Show me,” he says.
I trace the shapes in the velvet sky. “Canis Major, the one that looks like a dog. Taurus the bull is there, to the right of Orion. See his horns? And above and to the east, there’s Auriga.”
“I see them. This is seriously off the hook, Lux.”
“Look high in the sky, over that tall pine tree. That’s Gemini. It’s two figures, holding hands. See, legs, torso, arms outstretched? That bright star that’s the head of the figure on the left? That’s Pollox.”
“What’s their story?”
It’s so cold, my ears burn. My throat seared with every breath. A memory, fast and bright, flashes through me. Me and Lena, lying next to Mom, staring up at the same dazzling sky. Mom gripping my hand, whispering the myths in her husky voice. According to her, astrology was the language of the heavens. She always said, “If you listen closely, the sky speaks to you.”
“They were brothers, born to Leda, queen of Sparta,” I say to Felix. “The twin Castor’s father was the king of Sparta. Pollux’s father was Zeus, so Pollux was born immortal, while Castor was fully human. The twins grew up handsome and strong. They loved each other deeply and did everything together, fighting in the Trojan war, chasing the golden fleece with Jason and the Argonauts. One day, Castor was killed. Pollux was overcome with grief, distraught without his brother. He begged his father Zeus for help. He was willing to do anything to be reunited with his brother. Rather than killing Pollux so he could be with Castor in death, Zeus decided to make Castor immortal. He placed them both in the sky, so they could be together for the rest of time.”
Felix finds my hand beneath the blankets and squeezes it. “Anybody ever tell you that you tell the best stories?”
“All the time.” I used to love telling stories, spinning magical tales the way my mother could, back when it was me and Lena, Lena and me. Back during those long days and endless hours and minutes alone in the house, just the two of us. Back when our fears were too large to see, just hulking shadows at the edges of our vision. Now the only stories I can tell are the ones already in the sky.
“Superhero of the day. Go,” I say, to distract him. It’s a game we play. Felix loves comic books. He’s watched pretty much every superhero movie and TV show ever created.
He thinks for a second. “Squirrel Girl.”
“Huh?”
“Squirrel Girl, from the Marvel Universe. She’s got an awesome tail and has like, every squirrel in Central Park under her control. She’s tough, fun, and creative. She single-handedly defeated Iron Man's nemesis, Doctor Doom. She’s always underestimated because: squirrels. I mean, what’s better than an army of adorable, furry little critters that’ll swarm and kill you?”
“The attack of the kamikaze squirrels.”
“I know, right? You wanna know a secret? She might be my favorite of all of them.”
“Is she hot or something?”
“She’s totally hot. But not as hot as you.”
I mime gagging. “You’re such a nerd. You’re lucky you’re hot.”
“I know,” he says and kisses my forehead.
The winter night is still. Nothing moves. Nothing breathes. The meadow is bathed in moon light. Next to me, Felix’s eyes gleam like dark stars. Above our heads, the constellations wheel in the frozen bowl of the sky.
Right now, right this second, everything is perfect. Beyond perfect.
My heart is a galaxy of shooting stars.
5
Lena
In my dream, everything is dark and shifting. My mother, shimmering ahead of me, a barely discernible form in the shadows. I run toward her, tripping, scrambling, calling out for her. I can’t see anything but my two pale arms stretched out in front of me.
My wrists are crisscrossed with red, pulsing wounds. Blood bubbles out of the cuts and spills down my arms, spreading across my nightgown. The blood is on my hands, my forehead, my cheeks, seeping between my lips into my mouth. I’m choking on blood, my mother’s blood as it fills my mouth and throat, great globs and clots of blood drowning my lungs and I can’t breathe, can’t breathe—
I wake up slick with sweat, thrashing at my blankets and gasping for air. I suck in huge breaths, my heart thudding wildly against my ribcage. My fingers clutch at my sheets. I’m not dying. I can breathe. There’s no blood anywhere; not on my face, my arms, or the oversized Ansel Adams landscape print T-shirt that serves as my nightgown.
A sudden pain grips me, my gut clenching against the grief that strikes me fresh and undiluted. I lay unmoving for several minutes, curled like a comma, eyes closed, breathing deeply, willing the pain to drain away, willing the memories, jagged as glass, to fade and lose their sharpness.
They do, slowly, gradually replaced by a jarring emptiness nearly as painful, like there’s a hole in my chest where my heart should be. It was taken, stolen away that day eight years ago, just like everything else. You get used to it, even learn to forget it for long moments, hours, even days. But it’s agonizing, devastating, every time the knowledge comes crashing down again, when for just a moment, for just a dream, it wasn’t there at all.
The nightmares I’ve managed to all but eradicate in the dorm have haunted me each of the six nights I’ve slept in my old bed. Eyes burning, I rub my face with the back of my arm and grab my phone off the nightstand. 8:33 a.m. I need to check on Dad.
He arrived home three days ago, accompanied by a bed attached with metal rails just like the one at the hospital, pills and medications and pages of instructions on when and how to take them. Even though Dad rejected regular hospice care, he’s been assigned a hospice nurse to check up on him once a week. Her name is Ellie Delmonte. She’s in her mid-40s, a large, pillowy woman with a booming laugh. She’s all movement, noise, and sparkle. Her burgundy hair is a glossy helmet, her long fingernails painted peacock blue.
She had bustled around the bedroom, setting things up, sorting, arranging, and humming to herself, her brightly patterned satin shirt billowing around her. “Don’t hesitate to contact me if you need anything, dear. We have volunteers who can assist with daily activities, spend time with your father, whatever your family needs.”
I shook my head. “I’ll ask him, but I think we’re fine.”
“Let me know if you change your mind, darling,” she said, her broad face crinkling, dimples forming in her peach-colored cheeks. “I’ll be here every Friday at 3:30 p.m. I’ll always stay for a couple of hours so you can take a break. Have coffee with friends, see a movie, or my personal favorite, shopping. Shopping is a great distraction when you need one.”
I just stood in the middle of my father’s room, nodding, my hands hanging helplessly at my sides. Right now, I can’t even imagine such inane things as shopping, movies, coffee with friends.
She paused, smiling kindly, her eyes full of empathy. Or pity. I couldn’t tell which. “I know this is a difficult time, but I’m here to help you, honey.”
She was trying to make me feel better, but I just felt more alone.
I sit up in bed, a headache building behind my skull. This is the new reality of my life. I’m not at school but home after a long absence, seeing my old room as it was when I was seven, eleven, fourteen, sleeping in my old bed that still smells faintly of the lilac shampoo and conditioner I used for years.
Each morning, I remember all over again that Dad is trapped in a bed with metal rails and blue sheets, waiting to die. It’s my job to prop him up, to feed him, bring him drinks and turn on the fan when he gets hot, to help him change positions so he doesn’t get bed sores. It’s my job to help him to the bathroom, to change his bedpan when he can’t make it, to go to him when I hear his voice rumbling down the hallway, to prepare his pills and medicines, and comfort him on his journey toward death.
My sister is still gone. But at least I know she’s safe now. The night before last, she finally replied to the dozens of texts, emails, and phone messages I sent her. Leave. Me. Alone. One text, then nothing. So, she’s alive and well. And exactly the same.
On the third day of Lux’s disappearance, I called the police to see if they could bring her home. They told me she’s already eighteen, an adult, and runaway adults are none of their concern. “What about runaway cars?” I asked. “She stole my father’s car.” Except Dad refused to report it, only mumbled, “Let her go. She’ll come back when she’s ready.”
I clenched my jaw until my head ached, but I didn’t fight him. The possibility that Lux could be lying in a gutter somewhere didn’t seem to enter my father’s mind. While I spent my life imagining the worst, Dad seemed to spend his not imagining much at all.
I sigh and stand up, fighting a wave of vertigo. I move to my dresser, the shock of the cold floor knifing my bare feet. Shivering, I pull out a pair of ragged jeans, two mismatched socks, and a long-sleeved raglan T-shirt. The heater never worked well down here. I stumble from my room to the downstairs bathroom, turn on the tap, and splash water on my face.
The bathroom is cramped and dark. A sheet of black felt covers the window over the bathtub. The table Dad built out of two-by-fours stands across from the toilet. The bathroom is a makeshift darkroom, in which I spent much of my childhood. All my tools, the solutions, the timer, trays, and tongs are placed neatly on one side of the table with the enlarger on the other.
I barely look at myself in the mirror before I head upstairs. Morning light oozes between the curtains in the living room and kitchen. I spent the first two days at home sleeping, but I’m still so tired, weighed down, the air heavy and thick like syrup. It’s time to prepare the first cocktail of pills: two small yellow capsules, a round red one, one huge and white that looks like chalk.
They have strange, alien-sounding names. Enalapril, an ACE Inhibitor, the doctor said, which relaxes the blood vessels and lowers the pressure in Dad’s battered heart. Spironolactone, a diuretic to help the kidneys eliminate the excess fluid that’s building up in his bloodstream. Carvedilol, a beta blocker to slow his heart rate and allow his heart to fill more completely. I place the pills in little paper cups and balance them on a tray with a large glass of water.
After only two days, we’ve already fallen into a reassuring sort of schedule: first batch of pills before nine, breakfast at ten, bathroom check after breakfast, lunch at one, second batch of pills after lunch, bathroom break, snack at four, third batch of pills at five, supper at seven, television until ten.
“Good morning, Dad,” I say brightly, standing in the doorway. The bedroom is almost exactly the same as it was a decade ago, except my parents’ bed is dismantled and leaning against the far wall, replaced by Dad’s hospital bed and a tray with all of his supplies. There’s the faded rose curtains with the scalloped trim along the edges, the white wallpaper dotted with tiny cornflowers, the family photos, most of which I took on a timer, framed and hung over the dresser, and the outrageous salmon pink comforter Mom discovered on the discount shelves at K-Mart one Christmas.
Mom’s oak dresser, the nicest piece of furniture she ever owned, stands against the wall adjacent to a large floor-length mirror. Perfume bottles, a fake pearl necklace, and her fancy silver-handled brushes are all exactly where she last placed them. The ceramic, heart-shaped box she used to keep her earrings in is gone. An origami star sits in its place.
“Lena.” Dad blinks up at me. The light from the bedroom window slants directly into his eyes.
“Here, I’ll get that.” I set the tray down on the nightstand, shoving aside a box of tissues, a large book, and the remote control. I close the curtains, pausing for a moment to stare down at the yard, brown and patchy with dirty mounds of snow. The sun’s already bright above the bare maple tree, but a mass of clouds gathers on the eastern horizon, fat and foreboding. A storm is brewing. “How are you feeling?”
“Oh, you know, the same old.” A forced laugh gurgles in his throat, then dies.
Across the street, the cornfield still lays fallow, a flat expanse of taupe that bleeds into the darkening sky. The world is silent and lonely outside the window. “You hungry?”
“Negatory.”
“10-4,” I say, because I know he wants me to.
“Remember how much you used to love that?” Dad asks wistfully.
When Lux and I were little, we thought Dad’s CB radio, or squawk box as he called it, was the coolest thing ever. Once in a while, he let us climb into the cab of his big rig 18-wheeler and tune into Channel 19. Dad had been a long-haul trucker ever since I could remember. He was gone for five, seven, ten days at a time.
I remember a thousand bedtimes when he’d call to tell us good night. I always asked him where he was. “I’m on the big road, headed eastbound for Bean Town,” he’d say. Another night, I asked, “You made it to Cincinnati yet?” And he’d say, “Already in my back pocket, Gingersnap.”
He always said stuff like, “I gotta stop for some go-go juice, some motion lotion,” when the big rig needed diesel, or, “I got myself another driving award” when he got a ticket. Mom used to love the lingo as much as we did. She wore a T-shirt he bought her that said, “My heart belongs to a trucker.” But after a while, she stopped wearing it.
