Cigarette Helicopters

The cigarette ash peppers my tongue with a bitter tinge of menthol and guilt. I cough as I watch the tiny black cylinder spin through the air like a mini helicopter, until it disappears within the mass of people below. I wait for an angry reply from the crowd; a man shaking a leather-gloved hand, a woman screeching in smoldering agony. Yet, the heads never shift from their forward motion. Kind of like those robots from Asimov’s books. A legion of robots, are we trapped in our mechanical world?

“Rebecca, what are you doing? Wait, do I smell smoke in here?”

“Yeah, Mr. Dithers is out smoking his cigars again.” I saunter off the balcony, slamming the glass door back into place. Stopping in front of the double bed where Abby lay sprawled out like a tiger stretching its limbs, I slip my drab gray slippers off and climb in next to her. The cool cotton sheets nip my bare legs, causing goose bumps to cascade up and down my body.

“Come here, let me warm you up.” Abby reaches her soft caramel arm out towards me and I sink between the thinly veiled cushions of her breasts. The hard protrusion of one of her nipples grazes my face and a vile feeling of disgust washes over me. I reach up and let my fingers dance across the dimples in her cheeks.

“I love you, I murmur as I swallow the guilt and ash left over from this statement. I press my face deeper into her chest, hoping to make it feel real. Hoping to make the disgust permeate through my skin and float away on the warm breeze of the heat beating down one us. Though I still feel cold, numb, head spin.

Spin.

Spinning.

“What was that?” mumbles Abby. I tear my face away from her body and sitting up, fixating on her face, watching her eyelids twitch as they watch the Halle Berry running through her half asleep dream. I try to look through her skin, her, skull, just watching the neurons buzzing with thoughts that I can never understand. That will never understand me, no matter how much they dig through Freud.

“Nothing.” I roll over and curl up tighter in the sheets, separating myself from the profanity of Abby’s body.

Don’t touch me...don’t....

“Come on, Becca, what did you ask me? Abby rolls over, cracking open her eyes open, revealing tiny slices of her deep brown irises. I try to pretend to be asleep. I can’t answer. She doesn’t get it. She will never get it.

She doesn’t hurt.

Ache, she’s tough as nails.

Nails...nails...

The Hendersons don’t cry, she said.

But he’s gone, Mother.

The Hendersons are strong.

Mother, cry. Why don’t you cry?

Tough. Tough. Tough as nails. That’s what we have to be.

But why can’t we cry?

You are an adult.

I am only nine.

You are plenty old enough.

No, I am not.

Grow up, Rebecca.

No.

No.

Grow up.

Spinning.

I’m not as tough as nails.

I wanted to tell her.

I’m soft like him.

I loved like him.

I loved him.

Didn’t you?

Didn’t you?

Did you ever love me?

Love me?

Love me.

Love me

She could never love me.

She just told me.

Told me everything about living.

Everything that I ever needed to know.

***

“You shouldn’t touch yourself there ” Screeched my mother as she helped me slip on my Cinderella underwear before my first day of preschool.

“What is it, Momma? Bailey’s got one, too. Do you and Daddy have ‘em, too?” I touch the glossy picture of Cinderella and I feel a tingle go up my stomach flowing through my body. I was convinced that I had just found some magical power.

“I told you to keep your hands away from there, Rebecca That is your special garden. Only girls get to have them. Boys have a different thing down there,” said my mother as she slipped on my blue jeans. “And the only way to keep your garden growing is for you and everyone else to leave it alone. Never let anyone else touch your garden. It is girls’ special secret. If you or anyone else touches it, it will get icky.”

“Ewww.” I scrunched my face up in a ‘Rebecca Sandwich,’ as my father liked to call it. That was before he decided that he no longer loved us and left us with the gift of his limp body, hanging from the second floor balcony, strung with the electrical cord that Baily and I had bought him for Father’s Day. He spun round and round like a spinning top, until Uncle Curtis and the paramedics cut him down and sent him away to be poked and prodded by a couple of medical examiners strung out on coke and Red Bulls. Mom never said anything about it. Did she even know? I think she did. I think she always knew, but could never tell us. All she told me was not to touch vaginas. They are dirty, dirty things.

***

“Rebecca, Becca, are you awake, hon?” My eyelids flutter as the memory fades away into my jumbled subconscious.

The bed rumbles as Abby slides out. A faint scent of baby powder trickles through the air and in my mind I watch her sprinkle the white dust all of the carpet and I watch her rub her Tootsie Roll toes through it, coating them in a shower of white. I always tell her that they look so tasty, like little pieces of milk chocolate sprinkled with white chocolate. Sometimes, when I nibble her ear...her shoulder...her feet....I imagine they taste like chocolate. Yet, no matter how hard I imagine, she always just tastes like dull human skin.

Skin, burning, ripping...round and round...

“Abby, what time is it?” I pull myself up and lean against the backboard of the bed.

“It’s seven. Wait, why didn’t you answer me?” Abby slowly links a bright pink bra across her chest, sliding the latch to her back and then eases the straps up over her dark, muscular shoulders. When we were in college, she never wore bras and let her breasts flap freely in the wind, like two bouncing advocates for female liberation. She had to change her ways once she was hired at Harvey, Harvey, and Wellington. Wrap them up them said. Put them away. Be respectful to the customers. The clients. We don’t want to look like a whore house, they said. Though, I think they would’ve enjoyed that more than the law they practice. They always seem to supply the adult industry with ample funds.

Yes, ample.

Ample is such a good word for her breasts.

Ashes in my mouth.

Why can’t I spit them out?

“I dunno.” I turn my head away from the curves of her body and look outside, just in time to watch a couple of pigeons fight over a piece of moldy bread.

“I feel like there is something between us lately, and frankly, I don’t know what it is.” She never knows what it is. Has she ever been in my head?

Abby never did understand. Those days I sat curled up in a ball.

Make it go away, I would say.

Make what go away? She would reply.

The dullness.

The dullness? I don’t get it, Becca.

Dullness. Numbness. Meaningless.

I don’t get it, Becca.

Make it stop.

What?

Abby, make it stop.

I don’t get it. Should I call someone?

No

No?

Ahhh.

What is it, Becca?

Leave me alone.

No.

Yes.

Fine I will be studying history in the library.

She never got it.

She never gets it.

Why did you cut yourself? Why didn’t you make me stay?

You never asked.

Yes, I did.

Not the right questions.

It hurt.

It hurt?

Abby...

My head.

Don’t float away.

Away.

Away.


The pigeons are still fighting, the bread diminishing with every peck, sending a fury of crumbs falling through the air. “Becca, are you listening to me? This is exactly what I am talking about Stop watching those goddamn birds and look at me ”

I tear my eyes away from the birds and focus in on Abby’s half-dressed figure. She looks absurd, black knee socks, pink thong, a white button-up only half-buttoned. I begin to giggle as Abby’s face contorts into a cross between anger and laughter. It kind of looks like the face my mother had when we found Dad. No sadness. Just anger. It was funny since she knew all along.

Why didn’t you tell us? I ask her.

Tell you what?

About his life?

There is nothing to tell.

I saw them.

Saw who?

Them.

I don’t know what you are talking about.

Yeah, whatever.

“You look ridiculous right now. I’m sorry...” I can’t stop laughing, the regret sloshing around within me with every bellow. Abby looks down at her own feet and chuckles a bit.

“This is a lot different than the college days of flowy skirts, huh?” she says as she sits down on the edge of the bed.

“Yeah.” I finally get control of my body and shove the laughter to the bottom of my throat. I feel like I am not here. Who is this woman? So many women.

Why women? Mother asks.

They know how to love me.

Not like men. Men are so much better. Protectors.

Did Dad protect us? Is that what his suicide was, a protective measure?

Silence.

Well?

I don’t need protection.

Yes, you do.

No, I need love.

***

The first one was Gabriella. For some reason, when she came to my school in seventh grade, chose me from among the other primped up J.Crew clad princesses, in my worn out Mary Janes and hand-me-down school uniform from my cousin, Mindy. We were always partners in our science class and shared all of our secrets. She had long curly red hair and twinkling blue eyes. Her family was loaded and she always dressed in the trendiest of clothes. I couldn’t get
her out of my head. While all the other girls lusted over Jimmy Handle or Rob Goldstein, I was fixed on Gabby. Gabby lived my princess dream and I wanted so bad to be her prince.

One day, when I was in the school bathroom trying to manage my out of control blond hair, I heard a voice from one of the stalls.

“Becca, is that you? It’s Gabby.” A warm feeling, just like that time with the Cinderella underwear, spread within my body. My organs began to feel like they were on fire. Burning, like someone had just dipped me in molten lava.

“Yeah,” I stammer.

“Come here, I want to show you something...” I shook from head to toe and froze in place as I watched the dull orange stall door open in front of me. “Come in here, Becca. You don’t want the whole school to know ‘bout this, do you?”

“Wait...what is it?” My mind spun round and round.

Don’t let anyone touch your secret garden, she told me.

Don’t touch me.

Spinning round.

“Just get in here and I will show you.” I inched my way toward the stall and Gabriella slammed the door behind us.

“What did you want to show me?”

“Well, I thought we could show each other something.” Gabriella stuck her hand up her short plaid skirt and my stomach leapt as I watch ed her bright purple underwear fall on top of her chunky black boots. I kept on swallowing, trying to get my emotions under control. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

“Huh?”

“Come on.” I reached my shaky hand under my skirt and slowly eased my plain white underwear down my quivering thighs. They looked so dull against Gabriella’s vibrant ones.
“Gabby, I don’t understand this.”

“You’ll see. Don’t worry, it won’t hurt.” Her skirt dropped to the ground, revealing a small puff of red hair atop two peach-colored poles. I wanted to throw-up and squeal with joy all at t he same time. Yet, I turned my head away in shock.

“My mom said that we aren’t supposed to do this. It’s wrong. Mrs. Knoll told us that God frowns upon this. No...no...” I tried to open the door, but my hands were shaking so much that I couldn’t grasp the lock.

“They just don’t want you to know how good it feels. Come on. We are thirteen. We are practically adults. We don’t need anyone to tell us what to do. I know what I’m doing. Don’t worry.” I slowly unzipped my own skirt, tears running down my face as it falls to the ground. I felt like I had lost part of myself. Yet, instead of emptiness, I felt freer, like a tremendous weight had been lifted off my slight shoulders.

“Gabriella, I’m scared.” She leaned awkwardly toward me, jutting her tiny bare butt out toward the gaping toilet bowl, her lips puckered like a goldfish gulping for air. I puckered my own lips and we smashed them together.

I felt so good.

So bad.

Spin. Spinning.

Don’t touch me.

I pushed Gabby away for a moment.

“Don’t...I don’t...” She places her finger on my lips.

“Shush.”

***

“Fuck, Rebecca, what is up with you? I feel like I am talking to half of a person. Did something happen to your mom or to Baily?” Abby stands up and grabs her black pants off of her dresser. She slides them on and then slips a bright red sweater over her button-up.

“No, they are fine.”

Fine.

You are fine.

“Then what is it?” Abby continues to get ready for work. She pulls her black hair into a tight, neat bun and secures it with a stretchy black hair tie.

“Is there anything that I can do?” Do you need to see Dr. Wilcox again?” The bed sinks as Abby sits down next to me again. I find my head on her shoulder and she starts stroking my long blonde locks.

“No....” Tears begin to run down my face.

I can’t feel.

Where am I?

Fuck, I need another cigarette.

Cigarette helicopters.

Spin.

Spinning.

Why do they smell funny, I ask her.

To keep the snakes out.

Snakes?

Yes, someday you will understand.

What about two gardens?

Gardens can never meet.

“Just leave me alone.” I pull my head away from Abby.

“I can’t take this It’s been a month since I’ve felt like I could talk to you. You have been entirely emotionally unavailable. I feel like I am talking to a zombie and I can’t do it anymore. I can’t prance around here pretending like we are a picture perfect couple. I’m tired of putting on a show. I’m not cut out for a career in acting. I think we should start being honest with each other or this...this relationship is over. I can’t take all of this crying every time we argue. It’s like I am dealing with a child. We have grown up, Becca. Face me, dammit ”

What were you thinking, Rebecca?

It wasn’t my fault.

In the girls’ bathroom?

What were you little tramps doing?

She was showing me how to use a tampon...

Yeah, right...

Why do you never believe me?

Because you are two-faced.

Huh?

Yeah, just like your damn father.

Abbey stands up and begins pacing back and forth while she nervously rips the hair tie out of her hair, sending a cascade of black curls down her back like the angry black waters of the Styx, flowing through the red flames of hell.

Hell.

Go to hell.

Why won’t they go to hell and stop spinning.

Spinning.

Don’t touch me...just leave me be.

Alone.

“I dunno.”

“What? You don’t know? I don’t get it, Becca. Do you know how much I love you?” The words bury themselves in the back of my neck, creating a dull ache that no amount of rubbing could ever erase. I curl up into a tighter ball, wishing that I had a shell to crawl into, to hide all of my transgressions, instead of wearing them in the tears dripping down my face. I feel fingers stroke my hair, pulling each curly tendril out of the knotted mass and sliding down its length to the frayed ends.

“Honestly, I want to believe that something is wrong with you, but I think you are just suffering from chronic self-pity.” Abby stops stroking my hair and lifts my face up from between my knees.

Don’t touch me.

Don’t touch me.

He touched me .

She touches me.

Don’t touch me.

Snakes.

Gardens.

Cigarette helicopters spinning in my head.

Where will the wind take them?

“Abby, I....I can’t. I need a cigarette.” Abby removes her fingers from my chin and turns away disgusted. She gets up and begins pacing around the room again.

***

“Why don’t we just do it already?” he asked as he rested his trembling hands on my shoulders. His fingers dug into my flesh and my heart was beat faster and faster with every passing second. I could only see it shaking into of me...don’t do it.

“I told you, I’m not ready, okay?” I saw my mother’ face buzzing around in my head smiling with utter elation.

He’s such a nice boy, she would say.

Yes, a boy. Little “snake” and all.

“How long is it gonna be, Becca? We’ve been going out for five months now. I mean, I don’t want to pressure you, but guys are saying stuff and I really...”

“Don’t pull that crap on me, Kyle. Not putting me under pressure? Isn’t that what this whole situation is about?” I pried his hands off my shoulders, allowing them to fall down my wiry arms. I look up into his eyes, full of the pain that I inflicted with my denial deep within his baggy cargo shorts. Suddenly, a deep feeling of dread began to form deep within my stomach as a million little penises danced with my mother in my head.

Go away, I told him.

Get off of him.

Don’t do it, Papa. Don’t do it.

Baily. Mom.

BailyMomBailyMom.

“Becca, I...I don’t know if...” Kyle’s arms were shaking as he released his grip from my arms and I climbed off the couch. “I mean, you don’t want to do it? I always hear all of those girls talking about it. Gigglin’ in the halls every time the guys walk by. Come on, Becca, I have needs, too.”

Don’t you understand what I need, Mother?

What you need? You are just a kid

So what? Who is to say I can’t think for myself.

You aren’t allowed to. Do you make the money in this household?

The only one who did is ten feet under.

How could you say that?

You haven’t worked a day in your life

I keep this house up.

No, Bailey and I keep this house up. You just lay around and throw parties.

Well, someone has to keep our name honorable.

Honorable, ha, that is far from describing us.

God, why do you have to be such a pain?

It’s in my blood.

Why can’t you get a boyfriend?

It always comes down to that doesn’t it?

It would make things better.

Face it, Mother, Abby is my girlfriend.

Get the hell out of my house and go back to that demon school of yours.

Demon.

We are demons.

“Shit, there you did it. Pulled out the cliche crap on me. Fuck. I’m not touching you now. Don’t you think that girls have needs, too? I don’t take guys who can only think with their goddamn dicks.” I kicked him in the crotch, he tumbled to the ground like an avalanche of hurt and anger, his hands placed perfectly over his only prized possession. If only men prided their brains as much as their penises, this world would be legions ahead, I thought to myself. I turned around and chuckled at his crumpled body, he looked just like the fetus that he could have formed inside my freshly shaped uterus. Kyle slowly lifted a middle finger on the air. I blew a gentle kiss and then replied with a rebuttal middle finger.

“You know what they say about you, Becca...” I looked into Kyle’s half-dazed eyes that seemed to have melded into shade of demonic red.

“What do they say about me, Kyle? That I’m a dyke? That you are dating a pussy lover?” I clasped my hand over my mouth as soon as the words had left my tongue. Kyle’s face looked like he had just seen someone brutally die in front of him and I realized that I had committed the greatest fault in that a girl could in the bedroom community of Greenville, A.K.A. “Conservativeville.”

“No...nooo...no...” stammered Kyle. “They say...” I began to walk away and he reached out and grabbed my ankle. His body was just spinning around.

Her hair was everywhere.

All of me and him.

Spin.

You must love boys, she tells me.

Don’t touch that, it’s icky.

Icky.

He touched boys.

She touched boys.

Icky.

Burn me.

Hair everywhere.

***

“Becca, I...” sniffles Abby as she sits back down next to me.

I want to pull my face out from between my knees, again, but I feel a weight settle on my shoulders. The weight of his entire being, forcing me to stay. Stay right where I am. A head rests on mine. Oh so warm, the kiss planted on the mini bald spot , right behind my left ear where I burned myself when I lit my hair on fire when I was thirteen. I was trying to chase the demons out that I thought lives in my head.

Do you like my garden?

It’s so beautiful. Oh, so fresh.

I think I love you.

How could you love me? It’s only been a month.

Abby, I have never felt this way before.

Come on, everyone has felt love once in their life.

Not me.

Not me.

The helicopters spinning round and round as we mound the mud higher and higher.

He wasn’t supposed to go like this, they said.

We will be okay.

Okay.

Okay.

Don’t touch vaginas.

“What is this, Becca?” Pain shoots down my spine, radiating through every nerve to the ends of my fingers, making them twitch in response. “What happened last night, Becca?” I’ve been trying to avoid it, but now I know for sure something happened. This is massively huge and so purple. Are you okay? No matter what, I will hear you out. I will be here for you for that.” Are you really here, Abby? I can’t see you anymore.

Were you there when they did it?

When they put in?

When she took everything away?

When he spun?

When you spun round and round in my head, while the world shook.

Fingernails, digging deeper.

Do you know how it feels to have it shoved in you like a knife.

The soft flesh of its victim pouring forth the blood...

Blood...there was so much blood.

No one ever told me it would bleed.

She never told me, Trojans on the night stand.

Marching in my head....march...duty...it was his duty.

It was my duty.

I push Abby off me and slide out of the bed, pausing before I lower my feet to the floor. I reach back and finger my neck, feeling the protrusion, like another head trying to fight its way out. Twinges of pain radiate through me, triggering a thousand memories that I always wanted to forget.

It never happened.

They never happened, but why are they there? Said my psychologist

You can’t ignore them.

I’m not.

Yes, you are.

I’M NOT

Yes.

No.

You will get there.

I don’t want to get there. They don’t matter anyways.

Then why are you here?

I need a cigarette, save me...

“Save me ” I scream out loud and topple on the floor, finding my face level with the legs of our double bed.

***

I never knew what freedom was until I had set my foot in Kalamazoo College. No one, no where knew who I was. Finally, the burden I had been carrying around, been hiding beneath my prep school uniform could be unleashed all over the flyer-ridden sidewalks. There was no one telling me that girls were dirty. No one telling me to keep condoms in the plenty. No one telling me that I’m going to end up on the end of a spinning rope. I was looking for a savior and this was it.

“Where are you off to?” Asked a girl with bright pink hair, frizzed like tasty buds of cotton candy. Our eyes caught and I was taken aback by the depth of their black almond gaze. I felt as if I could look into the leagues of her mind, feeling every angst driven moment bombard the melancholy bliss of my own empty gaze.

“Umm...oh...sociology...with Professor Steinem,” I stuttered. My body felt strange, like it had become distant from my mind in some psychology text book’s description of an out of body experience.

“Oh, no way Me too. I’m Abigail, well, Abby really. Abigail is way too sing-songy for me. My mother should have known better than to name me that. She knew I was a firecracker the moment I popped out of the womb. Wouldn’t stop crying ‘til she fed me. Been fighting for whatever I want ever since. So what do you call yourself?” Abby was like a ball of energy exploding all over me. I had never met anyone so free with herself, from the crazy hair, the flowy brown skirt, and the bright green t-shirt proclaiming, “Club Sandwiches, Not Seals.” I was overwhelmed with some combination of fear and obsession.

“Ummm...Rebecca...actually I go by Becca.”

“Aight, nice, you deal in nicknames, too. I like it. Nice to meet you, Becca. God, you have gorgeous hair.” Abby grabbed a strand and let each separate strand slip through her fingers.
“Nice to meet you, too”I stammered as she continued to violate my personal space. My heart pounded against my chest like it wanted to burst out. I was certain that Abby could hear the obnoxious percussion, but she let go of my hair and fixed her eyes forward, humming some Nirvana song while dragging her worn out Vans against the ground. Abby stopped and turned toward me and I stopped and turned in reply. Our eyes locked once again and all I could see were a thousand penises dancing in my head, cutting away to a flowery field. The field across from my house where I lived before Dad died.

She is so beautiful.

I thought I loved her.

Did she love me, too.

Love, what, what...too.

***

“What do you mean, Rebecca? How can I save you? I don’t understand...will...I...ever... Shit, I never used to get into this stuff. We never were like this. Hell, we have more substance than this. We are not a bunch of whiney phonies.” I can hear Abby begin to sob as she collapses on the bed. I let my eyes travel along the curves of each item stored beneath our bed. The scale from the days when Abby thought maybe she should lose weight...that lasted about three days time and has been collecting dust ever since. Some board games left over from our college days, Clue, Monopoly, Life. We used to play drinking games with them, take a shot on every payday, rent is in sips of beer, kiss the person on your left every time you go in the library, etc. They seem so infantile now, like undergrad was a million years ago. Everything feels like a million years ago. Except for some things.

They seem like yesterday.

An hour ago.

Two seconds ago.

No amount of cigarettes will ever take that taste away.

Away.

All go away.

It won’t hurt, he told me.

But I don’t want it.

How do you know?

I have seen it before.

But have you felt it?

I don’t want to. It will hurt.

No, it won’t. I will just be like...

NO

` Shush.

That’s what he told me.

What she told me.

As the darkness fell over us.

Sinking.

Spinning.

Is this love?

Love? Non one ever experiences that, she said.

Did you love, Dad?

Haha.

Why?

Haha.

Haha.

Haha.

It burns.

It won’t hurt, she told me.

You won’t be dirty anymore.

I fumble for the lighter jammed between the mattress and the bed springs. My hand closes around the plastic cylinder and pull it. I pull a cigarette out from between my barely visible breasts. Fingers graze the slightly raised scar traveling from the natural crevice of cleavage to the edge of my tender left nipple and I wonder if the memory will ever come back to me. I roll over on my back and light the cigarette, blowing tiny rings just like Stan, my ninth grade boyfriend, taught me during those long nights of drinking his parents’ vodka in his kid brother’s tree house.

Stan and I hardly ever did anything together. Not like what he did to me. What he did. It was struggle enough to try to kiss a boy and one that doesn’t reciprocate is ten times worse. Turns out he is living in Philadelphia with his boyfriend working on a law degree at Villanova. He never talks to anyone back home either, which makes me feel good. At least, I’m not the only gay demon cast out from the village. Demons.

Demons.

That’s what she called it.

When I told her that I liked girls.

You are a dirty slut.

Slut.

She never even says poop.

Slut.

What about him, I said.

Silence.

I know about it, I say.

I know everything about him.

I guess that it runs in the family.

Shut up, you don’t know anything.

I saw them.

I saw them.

I saw them.

“Are you smoking?” mumbles a voice from above.

“Yes.” I puff an ominous gray cloud into the air, watching it spread and disperse like a puddle of spilled milk.

“I had a feeling you were lying to me. How often do you do this?”

“Lie? More than you should know.”

“Argh. You are so...so...obtuse. I can’t get myself to understand you, and frankly, the emotional toll has been too much. I can’t take it anymore. Tell me what it is Tell me now and save me the pain of hearing it from someone else. I have been there for you, Becca, through it all. Through the medications and the long nights in the hospitals. The stories. Oh, the stories of your life. Yeah, it sucks that your father was a douche bag for leaving your family behind and I’m sorry that your mother has never accepted the fact that her daughter is gay and that your sister doesn’t even acknowledge your presence.” Abby takes a long deep breath. “I’m sorry for all of it, Rebecca, but I can only be sorry for so long. I can only take so much. I’m not in this relationship to take care of you, to pull you along on a leash of security. I love you and I want to be loved back. Can you ever love, Becca, because this is absolutely fucking ridiculous. I never thought I would find myself in some cliched, fucked up relationship. Where is Becca? Where is she in you?”

I continue to watch the smoke drift up towards the ceiling, wondering if the smoke detector will go off.

It never did when he kissed me.

When he grabbed me.

When fingernails dug.

Deeper and deeper.

Into my flesh.

His flesh.

Becca, they say you are stuck up.

What?

That you are too good for everyone.

But...but...I...

Don’t say anything.

Let me hold you.

Okay.

Okay.

Will it be okay?

You can trust me.

You can trust boys, she said.

But can you trust dicks?

Rebecca, don’t you dare use that vulgar language.

Oh come on and get off your high horse, Mother.

What ever happened to Kyle?

What ever happened to?

What ever happened?

What ever?

What?

Helicopters spinning round and round.

***

He stroked my hair daintily, like he was handling fine china. I never knew that people, men, could be so delicate.

“What is this, Tyler?” I...I don’t think I understand,” I whispered as I tried to desperately focus on my textbook, ignoring the heart pounding within my chest. I always wished it could learn to be more discreet.

“I don’t want t use any cheesy lines on you because I know they will be lost in your feminist witticisms.”

“What are you getting at?” I felt a shiver resonate down my spine and I began to finger the hemp bracelet that Abby had braided me, it felt like a handcuff, holding my hand back from anything it might desire to do.

“Stop being dense, Becca. You know why I study with you all of the time.” I turned and looked at Tyler, his closely cropped black hair, striped Oxford, and half-crooked smile, some combination of lust and fear. My heart continued thumping like a time bomb within my chest, waiting to explode. Every part of my body felt like a criminal and a witness in case of child’s play gone horribly wrong.

Guilt.

Guilty.

The taste won’t leave my mouth.

Burning.

Slut, she told me.

Slut? Doesn’t that imply I am sleeping around?

What you are doing is close enough.

Honestly, Mother. I have never had sex.

Excuse me?

Never.

I do not want you to say that in the presence of your twelve year old sister.

Mother, she is old enough to hear it.

I will decide that, not you.

What do you think she thinks of the men?

What men?

Come on...our front door barely closes before another one comes strolling in.

They are just friends.

Yeah, friends with benefits.

You are grounded

Yeah, whatever. Guess I can’t sneak out and screw my boyfriend.

No wonder you father killed himself. With a daughter like you

Is that what he thought?

Did he think of me?

Tighter and tighter.

Cut me free.

Free.

Burning.

Tyler grabbed my wrist, wrapping his fingers gently around my bracelet, making it his own handcuff to me. My hand slid out of his grasp and I glued my eyes to my textbook, frantically trying to look calm. I glanced up at all of the other students in the library, hoping to catch eyes with someone, anyone that could come to my rescue. Yet, every head was averted to a book or computer, the telltale wires leading to hidden Ipods protruding from their music-infused ears. Fixed in place in their mechanical world. Robots. Why couldn’t they detect my precarious state?
“Becca, are you okay? Wait, sorry, shit what did I say? Fuck, I am such a prick. I just figured that since we studied together all of the time it meant that you like me.” Tyler looked down at his book forlorn.

“Tyler, it’s not what...”

“You have a boyfriend, don’t you?”

“Sort of.”

“Why don’t you ever talk about him? The only person I ever hear about it that friend of yours, Abhy, right?”

“Yeah, but...”

“Is he amazing? I mean, better than me? Honestly, I seem to mess it up with girls. I’m twenty-five, in grad school, working on a BS in social psychology, have a nice apartment, a good car. Hell, I know where to eat. I’m a runner...”

“Jesus, Tyler, chill the fuck out. In the last few months I have studied with you, I have never seen such hostility...”

“Yeah, sorry, I think I’m a little stressed out with my thesis and I don’t know.” Tyler slammed his book closed, the sound reverberating ff every bookshelf. “I feel like a fifteen year old by saying this, but I like you.” Goosebumps ran up and down my arms, like an army of ants scurrying under my skin.

Suddenly, I saw my mother again, taunting me to like little boys, setting me up on dates with her church ladies’ sons, sneaking me condoms and even trying to ask if I wanted to go birth control. She would’ve rather had a promiscuous daughter than a lesbian. Yet, did she ever understand why boys scared me so much?

How did you know you were a lesbian?

I always knew. How ‘bout you, Becca?

I dunno.

Come on, you know.

Okay, it was when I saw it.

Saw what...oh...

Yeah...

Oh my God, who, what, where?

Spin.

Spinning.

I can’t tell you.

Why not?

Why not?

Why not?

It never happened.

“Tyler, there’s something I have got to tell you.”

“Okay...”

“Don’t sound so grave. You see, you and me would never work.”

“Why not? How could it not?

“I don’t like your type.”

“Wait, what?” Rich, a little preppy. What? I’m a good person.”

“I’m a lesbian.” The goosebumps began to subside.

“Oh...”

“Yeah, it makes it complicated.”

“Yeah, why didn’t you tell me before? I assume that this Abby character is your...partner?”

“Sort of. Yeah.”

“Sort of?”

“I meant, yes.”

“Then why didn’t you say that?” Heads all around us began to tear themselves away from their academic pages like a thousand sea anemones rising from their coral caves.

“I think I had better go.” I shoved my books haphazardly into my backpack and turned to run, when I felt his hand around my wrist. The bracelet dug deeper and deeper into my soft flesh. I felt Abby squished between the hemp and my jittering flesh.

***
“Have you ever loved a man, Abby?” My cigarette is just a stub, a smoldering stub of withered tobacco and cotton shit. I smash it against the metal headboard of our bed, watching the ashes scatter all over the carpet.

Ashes.

Ashes in my mouth.

On my skin.

Don’t burn me.

“What the fuck, Becca, what the fuck? Holy shit, I don’t even know what to say to this shit. Give it to me straight, did you cheat on me?” She leans over the edge of the bed and peers accusingly down on my body, spread out for a mental examination. “You did, didn’t you? I hope he was good in bed. I hope it felt good feeling it go up in you.”

“Stop it ” I scream as I look up at Abby. There are little streaks of black mascara trickling down her face like two little rivers of hate and pain. “I don’t know what is going on. I can’t feel, Abby. I can’t feel anything.”

“I don’t buy it, Becca. Not anymore. I am tired of it. All your little illnesses. There’s nothing wrong with you and I know it. I can see guilt written all over your face.”

Can she see the ashes in my mouth.

Can she see the burning in my head.

Why did you do it?

Do what?

Light your hair on fire?

There are demons in me?

Rebecca, there are no demons in you. You have a clinical illness.

What? Devil illness.

Post-Traumatic Stress.

No. I like girls.

That’s not an illness, Rebecca.

Yes, it is.

You need to stop listening to your mother.

How about you live under a roof with her?

Live under a roof with him.

I will give you something to take.

To take.

To take the pain.

To take the pain away.

But I feel numb.

Don’t worry. They will help.

They will help.

No one ever helps.

Burn.

Don’t touch me.

Abby’s eyes dig into me, looking through my nightgown, my skin, my organs, right down to the core of my dark, tarnished soul. I feel naked, like all of my transgressions have been laid out before her in one long scroll. My body is just waiting, waiting to be resurrected by some god-fearing doctor of spirits.

“Abby, it’s not like that.”

“What do you mean? You have said nothing over the span of a half hour besides empty sentences that only reaffirm your falsity, or you just totally ignore me for no reason at all, like you have journeyed to some faraway land. You are smoking in our apartment like some OCD druggie. What the hell, Becca? Wake up We’re not in your effing fairyland.” Abby stops for a moment. “When I look in your eyes I don’t see anything...just emptiness...where I used to see. I don’t know, light...no, not that...hope...hope. Now there’s nothing left.”

I begin to chew the hangnails on the side of my pointer finger, pleasuring myself with the taste of my own flesh. Abby rolls back over n the bed, the bedsprings creaking as the invite the redistributed weight. “Aren’t you going to say something in your defense?”

Why can’t I defend myself?

Defend what?

What I stand for? Why can’t you accept it?

Accept what?

That I don’t give a shit about you or your kind?

You will.

It’s not just an on off button.

Oh, I have seen it happen. Get over your college rebellion.

That hurts. Let go of me.

Not yet. You don’t want to miss it.

I don’t care about missing it. I don’t want to see it.

Come on, be like Kinsey.

What? Are you pulling effing psychology into this?

Why not experiment?

What is that?

Don’t worry.

Don’t worry.

Abby.

Abby.

Abby.

“I haven’t been honest with you, Abby.”

“Thank the motherfukcing Lord The sinner speaks.”

I pull out another cigarette and light it up. I take a long drag, allowing the putrid air to poison my lungs, strangling each one of my oxygen seeking cells. My heart is beating against my chest, the rhythm reverberating off of every rib, filling me with life.

“Can I tell you something?”

“I have been waiting six fucking years, so shoot.” I take another drag and blow it out slowly. Calm down, I tell myself.

She’s not like you.

She’s not like him.

Her.

Him.

Them.

The spinning will stop.

Don’t touch me.


“Momma, what’s going on tonight?” I asked as I snuck a cracker off of the silver platter she was carrying.

“Rebecca, get your fingers off of this I won’t have any left for the party.” My mother set the platter down and carefully rearranged it to mask the hole I had made.

“Ooooh, there is going to be a party tonight?” I began jumping up and down, my blonde pigtails bouncing in the air like two cornflower springs. “Can I wear my ballerina skirt?”

“No, honey, this is not a party for you. This is a party for grown-ups.”

“But Moooooommmm, why do I never get to go to your parties? I’m seven. I’m old enough.”
“I know, honey, but you will be in bed and I don’t want your teachers complaining about me sending a tired daughter to class.” My mother tied her short blond hair into a little ponytail and wrapped a pristine white apron around her waist. “Besides, it will be no fun for you.”

“Fine, but when will I be able to go?” I whined, puckering my lower lip.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe high school. Now scoot. I’ve got work to do and I don’t need anymore fingers on my platters.” I looked up at my mother, searching for something in her eyes....hope maybe...love more likely, but they were fixed on a nut-crusted cheese ball, delicately accented with a sprig of parsley.

I laid in bed concentrating on my Care Bears nightlight that my Aunt Tiffany had bought me when I was four. Laughter and conversation buzzed beneath me and all I wanted, more than anything in the world, was to be down there, like some society lady, munching on appetizers and sipping champagne. There would be glittery diamonds around my neck and a bright pink bow n my hair all done up like Audrey Hepburn in My Fair Lady. I always wanted to be just like her, with her funny accent and beautiful gowns. I closed my eyes and began to imagine myself down there. Just as I was about to kiss some dashing gentleman, something banged against my wall and my eyes shot open in shock. I heard two voices mumbling on the other side of the wall. I pressed my ear against it and zeroed in on each voice.

“Hey, be careful, someone is in that room.”

“Oh, sorry, wait, who is up here?”

“My daughter. You know that.”

“Oh my God, I am so sorry. Do you think she can hear us?”

“No, she’s never heard us before. She’s a good, hard sleeper, like her mother.”

“Oh Maryann, jeez, will she come up here?”

“Whoa, when did you get so paranoid? We have done this a hundred times. You know as well as I do that she is drunk as a skunk and stumbling around flirting with Gordon Levinson.”

“Okay, sorry, I don’t know. I’m just starting to feel dirty about all of this.”

“Alright, this will be the last time here. We will stick to hotels after this. Come on, I can’t stand this talk anymore.”

“Yeah...” The mumbling dropped off and changed to heavy breathing. My heart was thumping again and my palms had grown sweaty. I started shaking from head to toe. Something moved me to jump out of bed and walk down the hall to that bedroom.

Everything was dark as I stumbled. Suddenly, my hand fell on a door knob. The coolness seemed to burn my shaking hand as I slowly turned it, the creaking reverberating within my head like a warning sign for what laid ahead.

“What’s that?” Screeched one of the voices from the dark.

“Don’t stop, please...” replied my father. I clicked on the light and froze as I took in the scene before me. Everything seemed to just stand still for, I can’t even say how long, but it felt like centuries worth of a life time. My father was laid out on the bed, his clothes scattered all across the floor of the guest bedroom...and Stan...Stan Fisher, my father’s business partner was crouched over him and the I saw it, this ugly protrusion hanging between Stan’s legs, solid and driving toward the back of my father.

“Becca, it’s not what you think...”

“Holy mother of God ” screamed Stan as he grabbed the blanket and ran into the guest bathroom. My stomach was churning and I had no idea why, but for some reason I knew that this was not okay.

“Becca, sweetie.” My father pulled the sheets of the bed up around himself. “Let me talk to you.”

I just stood there, unable to comprehend anything before me. All I could see was Stan’s, “snake,” as my mother called it, waving in my head. I ran back to my bedroom, tears streaming down my face. Then I vomited all over the floor.

***

“Did I ever tell you about my father?” The smoke trickled from my cigarette as I waved it between my fingers like plastic toy airplane.

Helicopters spinning.

Round and round.

Can they take me away.

Away from here.

Away from me.

Me.

Spinning.

“That he was a dick who chickened out on your family and killed himself?” retorts Abby in a snide voice. “What, did you not tell me the whole story?”

“Never mind, you’re right. He was a dick. Couldn’t take not having money. What a dick.”
Why won’t you talk about him.

About who?

Your father?

He died.

Yeah, Becca, but he had some part in your life, right?

Yeah, all the shitty parts, Ab.

Come, he died when you were so young. What could he have done...wait...
No, he didn’t molest me.

Okay, good. Lord, that would be horrifying. I knew someone...never mind...

He just messed it all up.

By dying?

By killing himself.

Bastard.

Bastard.

But why?

Why what?

Why did he do it?

Mother says money.

You don’t seem convinced?

Mother says it WAS MONEY.

Whoa, okay, simmer down hot pot.

Sorry, I don’t know...

You don’t know what?

I don’t know...

Will I ever know?

Spinning.

Daddy, do you love him?

Do you love him?

Do you love, Mom?

Daddy, why aren’t you breathing.

Stop it.

Stop spinning.

Round and round.

Can’t a helicopter just take it away.

On the wind.

Blow, blowing.

Spinning the blades.

Round and round.

What did you say?

“Jeez, Becca. Don’t say you are going to tell me something and then just back out of it. I’m not here for more of your therapy sessions. I’m sick and tired of your problems. If you can’t be honest, I can’t be here. You know what? I don’t even want to hear about your dick of a father”
“Okay, fine...” I chew on my cigarette, the cotton filter squishing between my teeth, showering little bits of tobacco all over my mouth. The regret resurfaces, bitter and limey, trying to brand my mouth with its guilt ridden motives. The knot begins to ache more and more, the pain radiating down my spine, shaking every vertebrae. I pull myself up off the floor, slow and methodic, like an old man arising from a week’s worth of rest. My eyes center in on Abby, sprawled out on the bed, tears flowing freely down her cheeks.

Gabby, I’m scared.

Don’t worry so much.

What’s that noise?

Get your clothes back on

Gabriella, Rebecca, are you in here?

Climb up on the toilet.

What?

Get up here.

I know you girls are in here. Margaret told us.

Damn Margaret, what a kiss up.

My mother is going to kill me.

There you two are What were you doing?

I was showing her how to use a tampon.

Then why were you two standing on the toilet.

Better insertion.

Gabriella That is inappropriate language.

How else do you describe it?

You two, office.

Explain.

Explain what.

Explain yourself.

I can’t explain you.

Rebecca.

I am Rebecca.

I am a lesbian.

I am a half.

A half.

A half of person.

Spinning.

Spinning on the end.

End of rope.

A wire.

Connected to my thoughts.

To my wrist.

Digging.

Burning.

“I just don’t get it, Becca, am I missing something? Did I miss some note on the refrigerator, some symbol floating around in your guarded speech? Goddamn.”

“Abby, I’m hurt.”

“Let me help you.

“You can’t.” I begin to pace around the room, the smoke enclosing me in a toxic embrace. Abby sits up, wiping the inky trails navigating the pores of her face.

“I have been here all of this time. Becca, as much as I hate you right now, I love you, in some fucked up Shakespeareanesque way. Six years. Six years. What happened today? It was a normal day. What happened?” Abby begins to pull off her pants and socks. She lays back down on the bed, arms spread like the wings of an eagle ready to take flight.

Do you feel that you have ever been in love?

Love? Are psychologists allowed to use that word?

Of course, love is an emotion.

Are you sure it is not a delusion?

Well, it can be.

Is there such thing as sane love?

It depends on what your definition of sane is.

Shouldn’t you be telling me that?

Just answer the question.

Abby.

You loved Abby?

With all of my heart.

Love.

Did she love me?

Burning

Did he love me?

Spinning.

Did she love me?


Stop it.

Did he love me?

Push

Did she love me?

Away.

Did he love me?

Digging.

Will the helicopters stop?

They spin round.

Every thought.

Mother.

Bailey.

Love?

Love?

Love?

Abby.

Love?

Love, Dad.

Leave me.

Spinning.

Burning.

Digging.

Push.

Away.

Stop it.

Did you ever tell her?

Only twice.

Only twice?

Only twice.

How did it make you feel?

Amazing.

Why don’t you tell her every day?

Why do you use the present?

Oh, is it the past.

I’m not sure.

I’m not sure.

“Abby, I never loved you.” I extinguish the chewed mass of tobacco on the bedpost and toss it on the carpet. Abby sits back up, her hair spread out in every direction like some old witch from a fairy tale. She wipes the blackened tears from her aching eyes.

“Get out of here,” she screams from the deepest depths of every emotional outlet within her. I stop pacing and stare at her mourning figure. A laugh gets caught in my throat and I can’t hold it back any longer, as the bellowing pours forth from my ashy lips. Abby lays back down , her sobs echo off the walls, blending with the reverberation of my maniacal giggling. The two meld into a unification of raw emotion.

I walk out on t he porch and light another cigarette. I climb up on the wobbly mental railing, fighting against the pressure of gravity. My vision falls upon the robots still focused on their singular destinations. No one will look up at the girl. The woman. Teetering on the edge. The edge of everything. The cigarette slips from my mouth, one more helicopter in the wind. Never knowing just where it might land.

Sometimes It's Better That Way

Sometimes It’s Better That Way

It’s one a.m.

And the phone is ringing.

My stomach begins to churn in rhythm with the thumping inside my chest. I slowly inch myself upright in my bed and press my ear against the wall, trying to interpret the hushed conversation taking place on the other side. That’s the only way I ever find out anything that is going on in this household. It’s not that we never talk, it’s just that there are so many of us to keep track of that Mom forgets who she has told something to and who she hasn’t. I can’t even count the number of times that I have found out about family gatherings, doctor’s appointments, weddings, etc. a couple of hours before they actually happen. Believe me, it keeps you on your toes. I always feel like I have to be prepared for something completely unexpected. Planning for life in our family never seems to work out.

“Homey cheese fry, what’s up?” whispers a voice wavering between high and low as my door slowly creaks open, revealing the lanky silhouette of my younger brother, Stevie.

“Shut up, Shnittle.”

“Cranky, cranky,” he whispers back as he climbs onto the other side of my bed, sending a menagerie of stuffed animals tumbling to the floor, joining the clutter of clothing that serves as my carpeting.

“I’m not cranky. It’s just that...you know...look at what time it is.” I glance over at the cheap, plastic clock sitting on my bed stand. The numbers blaze a fiery red like they are trying to brand their digits into my mind.

“Yeah. I don’t wanna think about that. Maybe it’s just Mandy. Isn’t she out wit’ some band tonight?” Stevie presses his ear against the wall. “I can’t believe you still have this thing. Isn’t it like a billion years old?” The shape of my stuffed penguin, Parcher, emerges in the faint glow of the moon seeping in through my open windows.

“No, Parcher is not a billion years old. He’s ten so be careful with him. Dammit, you are a failure at eavesdropping. I can’t hear a damn thing.”

“Oh, and this is coming from Miss I’m-so-amazing-at-eavesdropping-that-I-should-get-a-fucking-award. No, homey cheese fry, I think you are the failure.” I shoot Stevie one of my classic scowl faces. Mom says I inherited it from Dad. Dad says I inherited it from Mom. I’m pretty sure I have a combination of the two. Both of them are pretty stellar scowlers. Just as I begin to refocus, a fury of fluff smacks me right between the eyes.

“Thanks for trying to break my glasses and abusing poor little Parcher. I’m going to call PETA on you.”

“PETA? What the hell is that? Wait, isn’t that some sort of bread thing? So you’re gonna call the baker on me? What’s he gonna do, turn me into a cake?”

“Oh my god, you don’t know what PETA is? Oh, right, I forgot about you being a redneck. PETA isn’t even in your vocabulary.”

“You know it. Give me a rifle and tree and I will be happy all day.” I roll my eyes and slink down onto my back in defeat. Stevie slides down and lays next to me.

“What are you even doing here? Aren’t you getting a little old for climbing into my bed? I mean, you are fifteen. Doesn’t that make you too ‘manly’ to hang around with your big sis?” Stevie seems to ignore the question as he continues to play with Parcher. As I watch him, I feel like I am seven years old again, watching little five year old Stevie. We were so naive then. So focused on whether we had the hippest bikes and always devastated when Mom wouldn’t buy us the coolest toy in the store. We never worried about missing medicine bottles or trips to the hospital. We never thought twice about phone calls at one in the morning.


I remember the first time I learned that my brother, Garret, was sick. We were a foot of snow into the depths of a Michigan January and Stevie, Mandy, and I were home from school for yet another snow day. I had turned twelve the day before and was spending the afternoon glued to the family computer burning as many CDs as possible to play on my brand new portable CD player when Mom got the phone call. Right in the middle of burning a New Found Glory CD, I heard a resounding thud in the kitchen. Normally, I would just ignore these kinds of sounds. There always seemed to be bizarre noises swirling around our house, whether it was Stevie bouncing his basketball on the wood floors, Mandy clumsily dropping everything she gets her hands on or Dad beating on his drum set, preparing for another gig. But the sound of this thud was unnatural, like the two objects were never supposed to make contact. I quickly leapt off the computer chair, sending an array of CDs whizzing through the air like a hundred mini flying saucers. When I reached the kitchen, I couldn’t seem to find anything out of place. Then my eyes fixated on the curly white telephone cord winding its way across the green marble counter and down to the smooth oak floor leading to the shape of my mother. Her legs were splayed out in front of her like she had attempted one of Jesse’s running stretches and got stuck. The rest of her body was hunched over like a marionette puppet waiting for someone to pull its strings. The phone hung next to her head, the spinning round and round, the dial tone blaring its absent message.

“Mom...mom...” I screamed as I collapsed on the floor. She slowly lifted her head, revealing the eerie black trails that meandered from her eyes down to the edge of her flushed cheeks. Mandy ran into the room and crouched down beside me, laying a warm hand on my shoulder. My eyes met Mom’s and, even though I was young, I felt her sadness. My heart literally ached. To this day I can’t even describe it. Sometimes I think our bodies know more than we do. It’s true. How do babies know what they want? They don’t, but their bodies do. So they cry, even though they have no idea what it means. Sometimes I wonder if my body was trying to tell me something.

“Girls, I...I have to tell you both something.” I tore my eyes away from Mom and studied the chipped black nail polish on Mandy’s hand. She was still in her “goth” phase of high school.

“Is it, Garret?” asked Mandy. She took her hand off my shoulder and used her right thumb to wipe the inky rivers off of Mom’s face.

“Wait, I...how...I,” Mom stammered as she brushed her short blonde hair from her face.

“Mom, do you really think that I’m blind? I mean, I am fifteen. I’m practically an adult.” I looked over at Mandy and watched her soft brown eyes as she continued to wipe Mom’s face. They never wavered once, focusing completely on the event at hand.

“I don’t get it. What’s up with, Gar? Come on, you guys never tell me anything. I know there’s stuff going on. Mom, you don’t cry like this. Tell me I wanna know He’s my brother, too ” I felt the tears welling up, though I didn’t understand why. Mom reached out and began to stroke my face with tips of her fingers, causing the tears to pour out.

“Honies, Garret...he....uh...he...was in a car accident. He is okay, but, oh girls...” Mom started to cry again. Mandy and I wrapped our arms around her, making a Henderson girl sandwich.

“Momma, it’s going to be okay,” said Mandy.

“Okay, I can do this. Girls, your brother is sick. He isn’t going to be coming home for a long time.”


“Thank goodness I have Mandy and you. I would have never made it through,” I say as I look over to Stevie.

“Yeah, same.” Stevie and I look up at the plastic glow-in-the-dark stars randomly strewn across my ceiling. I close my eyes and hope that I might disappear for a moment. I feel the rough softness of Stevie’s hand wrap around my fingers.

“I’m scared, Steven.”

“Me too.”

Most people would think that this situation is bizarre. I mean, come on. Stevie and I are essentially adults. Okay, maybe that’s going too far, but we are definitely far too old to be chatting in bed together. Yet, do you know how hard it is to be scared and alone? To be lying there wondering if you might have to go to another car crash, another overdose, another hospital? How can you deal with that alone? I don’t care how old you are. People need each other. Stevie and I need each because we are all we have when Garret gets sick. My other siblings have never seen what it’s really like to be here. Here, in this house, listening to Mom and Dad cry and argue through the bedroom wall as you press your ear harder and harder against it, hoping to decipher one bit of the muffled dialogue. Hoping, just hoping that the tears running down your face are only in vain. Hoping that maybe tomorrow will be a better day. So Stevie and I turn to each other, so we don’t have to feel so alone.

Since Garret got sick, I feel like everyone else has kind of faded away from me. Mom and Dad have always been too caught up in the situation to really deal with Stevie, and I. Mandy used to be there, but now that she’s in her third year in college, she only ventures home when she has run out of cash and needs a loan from “The Bank of Dad.” My oldest brother, Christian, tries to help, but he is so overwhelmed with his law firm, his nitwit of a wife, Jamie, and their wild kids, Amara and Jeffrey, that driving an hour to come home is an infrequent occurrence and has to be planned weeks in advance. Then there’s Jesse. I don’t even know what Jesse looks like anymore. I think the last time I saw him was at Grandpa Henderson’s funeral two years ago and even then he just popped up at the burial and took off right after the conclusion of “Taps.”.

Jesse stopped coming home once he got into graduate school. First, he said it was because of his demanding student assistant teaching job in Rutgers’ English department. Then he blamed his wife, Marcy, and her “fear of flying,” though she had no problem getting on a plane when they went to Hawaii for their honeymoon. Then it was their daughter, Lara, who is “too fussy” to travel. Yeah right, he always has excuses. If only we all believed that they were true.

Jesse has never agreed with the way that Mom and Dad have dealt with Garret. He always thought that they should leave him in—I don’t even like to say it, but I guess that it is the only word for it— an “institution.” He thinks that Mom and Dad are kidding themselves by trying to take care of him and watching over him all by themselves. Each time he would came home from college, he would look at Garret with disdain and tell Mom and Dad that he shouldn’t be here. Jesse, always a man of facts, would spew out some definition that he memorized for the two psychology classes he took in college. Then he would explain how my parents “didn’t have the capabilities to deal with all of Garret’s problems.” Mom and Dad always just shook off his comments. They were used to it. Jesse has always enjoyed contradicting people and we all have grown to ignore most of what he says, since usually he doesn’t mean it. Plus, Garret and him never got along. We just figured all of his opposition stemmed from his pent up anger from all of those years that Garret, who was a year older, always seemed to beat him academically in school and had loved rubbing it in his face. Mandy used to say that maybe Jesse thought that for once he had finally surpassed Garret in intelligence and was out to prove it. I don’t know. I can’t really believe that my brother is that malicious. I feel like there is something else that happened that caused Jesse to stop coming home. One time, I overheard Christian and Jesse arguing about some “concerning” run-in that Garret had with Marcy, but I didn’t pick up all of the details of the situation. When I asked Christian about it, he said that it was none of my concern, though I’m fairly confident that he blatantly lied to me. Christian forgets that I’m no longer ten years old.


We hear a crash in my parents’ room as the walls around us vibrate in reply. Mom is sobbing. Stevie and I focus on my floor-length mirror and watch the door of our parents’ bedroom fly open and see a streak of Mom tear down the hallway with her bathrobe flapping like a super hero cape behind her. I squeeze Stevie’s hand tighter as I try to resist the tears yearning to trickle down my trembling face.

“It’s okay, Alexandra. It’s okay,” whispers Stevie as he lays his head on my shoulder. His stiff blonde hair prickles my shoulder and my arm jerks in response.

“Schnittle, its not okay. Do you think he’s finally done it? Oh my god, do you think that he is dead this time. Fuck. Fuck. Oh my god. Fuck. Mom, is Mom okay? Oh my god. I fuckin’ hate him. Why does he have to be such a bastard?” I jolt out of the bed and begin pacing around the room like an impatient child as tears assault my face, drenching me in a cold shower of fear and anger. Stevie climbs out of my bed and tries to grab my shoulders, but I just collapse to the ground in a fit of emotion and bury my face in my favorite brown dress, lying rumpled in a heap on the floor. A faint scent of coffee trickles into my nostrils and I remember the latte that I spilt down the front of myself yesterday. Usually, this is a sweet scent to my nose, but tonight it just accentuates the nausea that has become a constant in my stomach. Stevie crouches down next to me. My blurry eyes fixate on the awkwardly shaped beak of Parcher shaking compulsively in front of me.

“Oh look at me, I’m a little penguin named Parcher. I’m not really sure why I have that name. It’s kind of a funny name. Whoever named me this must’ve been some messed up kid. Seriously, some parent definitely dropped that baby on the head. Parcher, hmm, what does it
even mean? Maybe it’s like partridge in a pear tree. Ahh yes, that’s it. Parcher in a pear tree. Yeah, one fucked up child,” rambles Stevie in a really high pitched voice, a combination of Spongebob and Mickey Mouse. I slowly lower the dress from my face and try to muster up some laughter from the void of my throat, but all I can find is something sounding like horse whinny.

“Damn penguin abuser,” I finally choke.

“Gonna call the baker?” Stevie smiles one of his traditional Stevie grins, where he somehow manages to make all of his teeth visible by spreading his lips in a lopsided oblong. I hate that grin. It’s so creepy looking.

“You...you look like a freakin’ creepster,” I stammer. I take a deep breath through my nose, trying to clear all the gooey remnants of my sob fest.

“I...” Stevie stops as my door is forcefully banged against the wall, sending all of my track and cross country awards crashing to the floor. Dad’s face is as red as Mom’s freshly clipped roses and almost appears to be glowing in the faint gray of the night. My eyes meet his and I feel the fierceness penetrate my soul.

“Kids, we need to go NOW ” he yells . “Put your coats on and get in the car.”

“Dad, what happened?” asks Stevie.

“I...I don’t want to talk about it now. We’ll talk in the car.” He storms out of the room, slamming the door closed behind him. I look at the clock. 1:11 a.m. I hope that’s lucky.


When Garret got released from his first stint in rehab after that first car crash, he came back home and moved into the bedroom he had shared with Jesse for most of his life. For days, I don’t think he ever left that room. Sometimes he would float down the stairs, like a lost soul searching for his body. It was so strange. I would ask him a question and he would stare through me with his empty blue eyes as I didn’t even exist. Dad said it was the medication that did it. He said that the doctors were always searching for good combination and that it might take weeks, even months for him to adjust. It made no sense to my twelve year-old-self and I was so mad that he just laid around the house sleeping and, basically, taking up space, while Mom tended to his every need. I would ask Mom why she wouldn’t just let him do things on his own. Why she wouldn’t make him do the housework or clean his bedroom or feed the dog? Usually, she stared at me with this shocked look, like I had just offended her in some way, and proceeded to tell me that I didn’t understand. One time, when she was feeling particularly stressed out, she turned away from me and started sobbing. I stopped asking her after that.

Every time I walked by his room and saw him passed out in the middle of the afternoon, I would get so upset. I wanted to smack him and tell him to wake up and to stop being so lazy. For some reason, I was convinced that the old Garret was there, pretending to be someone else. Sometimes, when I would look in his eyes, I swore I could see him trapped behind this zombie shell. Yet, I never could figure out a way to coax him out.


During this time, I started to feel like the rest of us didn’t even exist anymore. Mom and Dad were hardly available. Dad worked long hours at the accounting firm to pay for Garret’s hospital bills and prescriptions. He even gave up playing gigs with his band at the Pete’s Pub in town so that he could have time to sleep at least a couple of hours each night. Mom was completely wrapped up in taking Garret to doctor’s appointments and making sure that he was doing okay. Suddenly, everything in the family became centered around Garret. The rest of our lives had become secondary, and Mandy, Stevie, and I learned to tolerate it. What were we supposed to do? At fifteen, twelve, and ten we had no other options, but to deal with being forgotten at basketball practice, standing alone when we got initiated into National Honors Society, and sacrificing our Spring Breaks to stay home and watch reruns of Magnum PI. Mom said it was safer to be home in case Garret had one of his “episodes.” Jesse and Christian came home from college only when they were on break, since they knew that they would hardly be noticed anyways. Sometimes I wish that they would’ve been there for us. Maybe then I wouldn’t feel so distant from them.


The frigid leather seats nip my bare legs as Stevie and I pile into the van. Mom, Dad, and
Mandy are nowhere to be seen. I click my seatbelt in and stare at the stars out the car window, wishing that I could just touch one, even though I know this is a childish desire. Yet, why can’t I go on dreaming about reaching my hand through space and feeling the warmth of a star wrap around me and take me away from this world for just one minute, instead of worrying about what will happen tonight, tomorrow, next week, or next year?

“Argh, I wish I knew what was going on. Actually, maybe I don’t. Sometimes it’s better that way,” I say to Stevie.

“Yeah,” he says as he shrugs his shoulders.

“Know what? I was always really upset when I was younger and Mom and Dad never told us anything about Garret, but now I wish I didn’t know as much as I do. I wish I could just go back to then, ya know, when all we really worried about was which new Pokèmon toy to get or if we would get picked to play kick ball. None of this...this right here. This sitting in a car wondering if our brother’s sickness has finally gotten...” I notice Parcher’s head peeking out of Stevie’s front coat pocket.

“Hey, what are you doing with Parcher? You had better not be kidnaping him He’s a little small for rifle practice.”

“Uhh, nothin’. How did he get in there?” Stevie pulls Parcher out of his pocket and tosses it on the car seat between us. “That’s weird.”

“Oh, come on. That’s a bunch of bull if I’ve ever heard some.”

“Okay, fine, he makes me feel better, alright? Maybe I’m fucking freaking out right now and your little penguin helps me feel a little more comfortable. Okay, are you happy?” screams Stevie as he picks up the penguin and sticks it back in his pocket. I look up and see Dad shuffle
out of the house with his head hung low. He opens the driver side door and climbs inside.

“Alright, Steven and Alexandra, I’m going to be honest with you two. Your brother Christian called us...and...” Dad’s fierce eyes begin to soften to a blue-red blur as water starts
to well around their edges. “Garret was supposed to meet him tonight, but he didn’t show. So...so...” Dad rubs his eyes. “I’m so sorry, kids. This is just really hard for a parent.
Just wait until you have kids someday. You don’t know how much you can love someone. Anyways, no one knows where he is or what has happened so we are going to drive to his apartment. I have no idea what to expect, but we all know what he is capable of.” Dad pauses and holds his breath for a moment. I feel my own heart crawl into my throat, blocking the words that I want to say. “You both are old enough now to make decisions for yourself. You can stay here with Mandy and Mom, or you can come with me. It’s up to you.”

Dad looks to me and then to Stevie. The silence defines the moment, establishing itself as the answer to the question posed. Dad climbs in the van and revs the engine. The digital clock blares 1:20 am, creating a soft blue nightlight in the darkness of the car. Stevie sticks his hand in his pocket and begins to stroke Parcher. I look out at the stars again, trying to imagine what their warmth would feel like. Eyes fixed straight ahead, Dad backs out of the driveway and immerses us in the enigma of the night.


As sit we in the van, I think of the first time I visited Garret in a hospital. The whole car ride, I was so nervous, though I tried to hide it by burying myself in A Farewell to Arms so Mom wouldn’t freak out. I had never been to a hospital before. Well, I had been in a hospital when Grandma Henderson was sick, but I had never been in a “mental” hospital before. I had no idea what to expect. Everything I knew about mental hospitals I had learned from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, which wasn’t very reassuring.

When we walked in the building, my eyes were overwhelmed with the surroundings. The inside of the building was a sickening was white, which made me feel like such a sore thumb in my bright pink cardigan and canary yellow skirt. It felt so different than a normal hospital. I don’t know why it felt different. It looked exactly the same as the other type of hospital, with the perky nurses donning floral scrubs and painted on smiles and the noxious scent of antiseptic. Maybe it was the patients that made it feel different? They were everywhere, in wheelchairs staring off into space, on couches in the “recreation” rooms watching re-runs of “Mary Tyler Moore” and sitting at rickety card tables playing solitaire and rummy. For some reason, I felt like they put off these weird vibes that I couldn’t quite comprehend.

I remember catching eyes with this elderly gentleman who was working on a puzzle. Usually, when I do this to people they quickly turn their heads away, as if I have offended them by my continuous eye contact. But this man just kept on gazing, never blinking once, like he had been frozen in time. As I focused his eyes, I felt nothing, like I was staring at an empty shell of a human. My eyes stayed fixed on him as Mom, Dad, Mandy, and I walked past. Mom told me to stop staring and I reluctantly tore my eyes away and began staring at my bright green Converse, wondering what he felt. Did he feel at all?

We reached Garret’s room, 66. Sixty-six, one digit short of the devil’s number. Numbers have always freaked me out. I always feel like they are a whole other language, trying
to tell us something about what is going on.

“Okay, Alex, I know that this is new to you,” said Mom as she laid her hand softly on my
shoulder. It felt kind of awkward, since I had surpassed her in height by four inches and she had to almost reach up to do it.

“Mom, I’m fifteen. I think I can handle it.”

“I know, sweetheart, but I just wanted to play mom and protect my little girl a little bit.”

“Mom, I know Garret. He’s my brother. It’s not a big deal.”

“Yes, honey, but that is what I wanted to tell you. The man in there may look like your brother, but it isn’t.”

“I know, Mom. It’s not like I’ve never seen a schizophrenic before. Plus, Garret has
been living with us for two years, I think I know what his personalities are like.”


A feeling of dread begins to press down on my shoulders and I begin to sink down in my car seat, submitting myself to its overwhelming power. Lights, red like the numbers on my alarm clock, begin to spin around the inside of van as we pull up to Garret’s apartment. I sink further in my seat, letting my sight fall below the dashboard focusing on the dent that Mandy made when she dropped her mini refrigerator on it when we were moving her back into college last year. Dad was so furious about this. He complained about it for months. Now it seems so insignificant.

“Kids, I love you,” says Dad as he turns off the car. The three of us sit there for a moment. I just keep on staring at that stupid dent, trying to think about puppies and kittens,
anything freaking happy. My counselor, in her droll, monotone voice, would be trying to tell me to breathe long deep breaths and to slowly clench and unclench my fists, but who can consciously think about doing all of that when they are so scared that they can’t even feel their body?

Dad’s door clicks open followed by the whoosh of Stevie’s door. I attempt to lift my hand to open my door, too, but I still can’t seem to control any part of my body. My door spookily snaps open and I feel relieved when I see Christian standing there. Something dark is smeared all over his body. I tell myself that it is just chocolate. Denial is so much easier sometimes.


“Are...are...you okay, Alex?” pants Christian. He sounds completely exhausted. His dark brown eyes are filled with Dad’s fierceness, accentuated by the dark circles that tell the story of his night.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m fine.” I’ll just keep on telling myself that. Christian grabs my hand and slowly helps me out of the car. The minute I hit the ground, he takes off running, leaving me alone in the parking lot. My eyes slowly focus on every piece of the scene in front of me, making sure to absorb the impact of each one. The ambulance, backed up to the doorway of Garret’s apartment, its pulsing red strobe light keeps streaking across my face, making me feel like I’m trapped at some satanic rave. There’s a crowd of about ten people, huddling in their pastel terry cloth bathrobes and stocking caps, standing off to the side of the apartment, hoping to get a glimpse of something juicy to brag to their friends about. I see Christian still running down the sidewalk toward Garret’s apartment, his form is no different than the days when he won the State Championship in the mile. Then I look to Garret’s bright yellow door, mirroring the open doors of the ambulance, just waiting for a body, my brother, to pass through.


“Garret is moving out today,” said Mom as she neatly folded a pink hand towel with tiny purple flowers embroidered around the edges.

“Really? Does that mean I get my old room back?” piped Stevie as he rummaged through the refrigerator.

“Well, maybe. I might just turn it into a guest bedroom for people who sleep over and
maybe I’ll put a crib in there for when Christian and Kathy bring little Amara. Maybe Jesse and Marcy will actually bring Lara visit her grandparents.”

“Do you think he can live on his own?” I asked as I twisted a strand of my long curly blonde hair around my pointer finger.

“His doctor says that he is doing well. He hasn’t had any incidents in well over a year and his psychiatrist is certain that he has found the combination of medication that works for him. In fact, he thinks it would be good if he did live on his own.”

“Where’s he gonna live?” asked Stevie as he pulled the milk jug out of the fridge and proceeded to guzzle the remainder of the frothy white liquid.

“Stevie Not out of the jug Do you want people thinking we are animals? Oh boys.” Stevie slammed the empty jug down on the counter. Mom shook her head and rolled her eyes. “I
think he’s going to live about twenty minutes outside of town. There’s this nice little apartment complex. He’s got a kitchen, a bedroom, a living room, and bathroom. I think he might even have his own porch.”

“Does he live on the first floor?” I asked.

“Yes, all the apartments are on the first floor. It’s a converted hotel.”

“Good, at least we know that won’t be a problem.”

“Alexandra ”

“I’m sorry, but you know you thought about it, too Come on, we all think about it. We might as well just put it out in the open. Why can’t we ever be honest about things?” Mom dropped the socks she was folding and slammed her hands against the counter.

“You’re right. I know. It’s hard for a mother to accept sometimes. I always want to
think that each time he calls will be the last time. I just want to have hope, Alex. I just want to think that he will be okay. Is that too much for a mother to ask?” Mom buried her face in the pile of rumpled laundry stacked on the counter in front of her. I walked over and wrapped my
arms around her and laid my head on her shoulder.

“Crap, that wasn’t fair.” I began to stroke her arms. Mom mumbled something incoherent into the towels. “Oh, I know you don’t like that word. Fudge, I’m so self-centered
sometimes. Mom, I’m sorry, but it is hard to not think about Garret like that. Maybe you’re right. I just know it Garret is going to make it this time.” I wished I had meant what I said.


The memory begins to fade away as the red lights keep spinning round and round, pulling me out of my head and back to the chaos ensuing before my eyes

“Excuse me, do you know what is going on here?” says a deep voice behind me. I don’t even turn around. It feels so distant, like we are in two different moments and he still hasn’t caught up to me. I look up to the stars, but the city lights have scared them away. I feel cold all over, like the time I fell through the ice of our neighbor’s pond when I was five. Garret pulled me out of the frigid waters that day, wrapped me in his puffy blue parka and sang Christmas carols to me as he carried me home. He told me that he would always love me and that everything would be okay. That was before he was sick. Some days, I wonder if underneath all of those personalities, he still he feels the same.

My feet are moving, but I cease to feel any contact with the ground below them. Suddenly, I find myself standing in front of Garret’s door. I can feel Stevie next to me, our labored breaths creating a medley of gray puffs in the frigid fall air. My body is shaking,
jumbling every thought within my head. Garret. Christian. Parcher. Ambulance. Dad. I feel something on my shoulder. I slowly turn and come face to face with a young EMT. His hand shivers as he grasps my shoulder harder. I gaze into his bright blue eyes, the same color as Garret’s. He was...I mean he is, the only one in our family with Dad’s blue eyes. Grandpa Henderson always called him “Ol’ Blue Eyes” like Frank Sinatra, his favorite singer. Grandpa Henderson and Garret always had some special connection that none of us ever understood. Sometimes I feel like Grandpa Henderson was the only one who could ever get through to Garret no matter what state he was in. When he passed away, it was like losing our one connection between Garret’s mind and reality.

“Kids, you...you ca-ca-can’t stand there. You...you...you’ve got to stand behind the yellow tape,” stammers the young EMT as he points to the gaggle of gawkers, clouds of faint gray air trickling from their mouths as they whisper back and forth.

“He’s our brother We have to see him ” yells Stevie as he pushes the man’s hand off my shoulder. He grabs my hand and attempts to drag me inside.

“Stop Get out of there ” The young man grabs on to my other hand and I find myself
being pulled in two directions.

“You let go of her, we want to see our brother. We aren’t gonna mess with anything. Come on We aren’t hurtin’ anything ” Stevie begins to heave with all of his might. Even in the dark of the night, I could see the tears streaming down his cheeks from his angry red eyes.

“I can’t take this Let go of me ” I begin to writhe from head to toe, wishing that I could just rip in half. “I just...ahh...I just want this to all be over. Why won’t it ever be over Where is
Garret? Where is my brother....my brother....my brother.” I see the wiry shape of Christian begin to form within the entry of the apartment. For a moment, I feel relieved knowing a savior has come to rescue me.

“Oh my god, let go of my sister ” The EMT and Stevie release their grip and Christian
reaches out allowing me to gently sink into his arms. I curl up, snuggling close to him like an infant cuddles against its mother. As I lay here, Christian’s body heat melting the frigid shell of my body, I begin to miss my siblings. It’s been so long since we have all been together. There
is some secret closeness that you share with your siblings that you can never share with anyone else. I wish we could all be together again. The six of us, plus our parents, crowded around our long oak table, elbows knocking as hands clamor for food, while every voice battle to dominate
the four different conversations happening simultaneously. Why is it that now, whenever I see my older siblings it means that something bad has happened? There are days when I blame Garret for this. For turning our lives upside down and destroying every bit of semblance that was there, but at the same time, I think we are all at fault for never trying hard enough.

“I’m so sorry, sir, but they really shouldn’t be in there. I mean, they’re just kids and they shouldn’t see all of that blood. Oh, crap...” The EMT pauses. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Oh my god, what happened? Christian, what the hell happened?” I scream. I nervously
begin to run my fingers through my hair letting the loose wisps catch in the crevices between my fingers and their nails. Mandy hates when I do this. She says that I look like one of those ditzy sorority girls who always has to draw attention to her hair. I try to tell her that it’s a nervous habit that I just can’t seem to shake. Then she tells me that you can break a habit. That’s about the point where I give up the battle. That’s typical Mandy. Mandy has always been the sensible one of the family. I’m glad she’s the one at home with Mom. She’s always been able to handle these situations so well. Dad calls her the “rock” of the family and I can’t think of a better description. I have never met anyone as level-headed or loyal as she is.

“I’m so sorry. Dang it, I’m already screwing up on the first day.” The EMT begins to shake his head. I look over Christian’s shoulder just in time to watch Stevie sneak in the doorway of the apartment; Parcher is still peeking his fluffy penguin head out of his coat pocket. I smile for just a second, thinking about how I wish I could be as bold as him.


Sometimes I try to tell my friends about him, Garret, my brother. Yet, I never tell them he’s my brother. He’s “someone I know,” a friend of my parents, a crazy great uncle. Oh, no, I
never say he’s my brother. Believe me, nothing terrible ever happens in my family. The Henderson family is perfect. The Henderson kids’ were Watertown Community Schools’ dream students: all-star athletes, 4.0 students, and the leaders of everything. Christian, Garret, Jesse, and Mandy were all top of their classes and Stevie and I are on our way there, too. To Watertown, we are like the model family that everyone aspires to be. Everyone talks about how they wished their children were just like us. So many times I just wanted to scream at them and tell them that we are not perfect. That we have our problems, too. We have pain, too. Don’t they understand?

When I was in seventh grade, I used to run to the bathroom and cry all time. It’s funny how no one ever said anything. I mean, I was in the bathroom probably at least once a night for a good half hour. Maybe they didn’t even notice at all. Sometimes I wonder. I used lock the
door, lean my back against the door, allowing my long gangly legs to spread out upon the cool tile and sob. I always thought I was going to turn out like him. That someday I would be lying on the hospital bed with my wrists thickly bandaged and tethered down, a half crazed half sad smile painted across my faded gray face murmuring jibberish about some person who didn’t even exist. Yet, it wasn’t even that idea that made me want to cry. All I could think about was how much more it would hurt my family. As young as I may have been, I still couldn’t bear the thought of burdening my family anymore. I remember one time, picking up one of my cheap plastic shaving razors and twirling it around in my fingers, thinking about how I could just end
it all and save my family the grief of having to deal with me, too. I hated myself for thinking like him. I always used to ask my counselor why I did this if I’m not exactly like him? She always told me the difference was that I didn’t do it. It took her three years to convince me that I wasn’t going to end up like him and sometimes she still has to reassure me. Yet, I know deep in my heart I’m not like him. I could never fuck with this family like he has.

“Alex, let’s go sit on the curb.” Christian begins to carry me down from the porch.

“Clear out They’ve gotta get through ” Christian quickly carries me off the sidewalk and we scramble behind the yellow tape. He slowly lowers me down. I stomp feet against the ground, trying awaken the feeling that has gone dormant. Just as the wave of pins and needles begin to spread across the bottoms of my feet a stretcher, pushed by two EMTs, bursts out of Garret’s apartment in a whir of navy blue and white. Dad and Stevie are running behind it. Christian pulls me against him and I listen to the staccato rhythm of his heart, as I attempt to bury my face deep within his chest.

“It’s going to be okay, Alex.” I feel the warmth seeping through his sweatshirt. It makes me think of the days when he was sixteen and I was four. Christian used to come into my room every Wednesday night and read me a few pages from James and the Giant Peach. Even though he probably had better things to do on his Wednesday nights than read to his little sister, he never missed a night. He would crawl into bed with me and I would wedge my bony shoulders in the nook of his arm and elbow, letting my face disappear within the folds of his OP sweatshirt as he conjured up silly voices for each one of the characters. I was so crushed when his junior year of high school rolled around and he had to give up our Wednesday nights for SAT study prep.

“Do you really think it’s going to be okay, Christian?” I wipe my nose on my sleeve, but stop as I notice something smeared all over me. “Oh my god...this...it’s his blood, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it’s his.” Christian hangs his head, his unusually unruly dirty blonde hair falls over his face. A tear falls on my face, mixing with the river that has been constantly flowing from my eyes. Our sorrow is one.

“Christian...” He lifts his head up and we watch the stretcher stop behind the ambulance. The EMTs scurry around, stuffing down all of the brightly colored cords hanging off stretcher and yelling orders to the people already inside. Garret’s body is glowing white, like an angel, a fallen angel, speckled with the scarlet scars of its fall. His wrist tumbles off the stretcher, each turn of the red light reveals blotches of stained gauzes haphazardly taped all the way from his hand to his elbow. I look at my own wrists, the sleeves still covered with the blood from Christian’s sweatshirt and, suddenly, I feel connected to Garret’s pain for the first time in my life.

Dad gives Stevie a kiss on the head and hops into the ambulance. The doors slam close and the ambulance drives away, leaving Stevie standing at the edge of the sidewalk, motionless like the darkness of the night. I grasp Christian tighter. I struggle to turn on the indiglo on my watch. Bright green numbers burn 2:00 a.m. Who knew that so much of life could happen in one hour?

The crowd gradually dissipates around us, murmuring about the events of the night. ‘Who was he?’ ‘Did you see the blood?’ What were those kids doing there?’ ‘Do you think he is okay?’ Christian and I walk over to Stevie and wrap our arms around him.


After five minutes, Christian, Stevie and I are alone. I hear a strange smacking noise and notice that one end of the yellow ‘caution’ tape has unwrapped from the wooden stake and is now flapping in the wind, a constant reminder of the events that had happened here. Christian, Stevie, and I silently unwrap ourselves from our lengthy embrace.

“Come on, let’s sit down.” Christian motions to the curb and sits down. Stevie and I sit on either side of him.

“There was so much blood. I have never seen that much blood in my life. On the ceiling. On the floor. In the kitchen. The bathroom. The bedroom. Just blood.” Stevie is staring off into space like he has lost contact with the world at present.

“It’s okay, bud.” Christian wraps his arm around Stevie and pulls him close, giving him a kiss on the top of his head. Normally, Stevie would pull away in disgust, but he just sat there, his eyes focusing on something that didn’t exist.

“You know. It’s weird to see a person all cut up. Like when I went hunting with Uncle Jeff and got that deer and we sliced him open. I didn’t think once about them guts spilling all
over the place. I kept on thinking about how cool it was that we got a deer and that we were going to be having some venison.” Stevie pauses and wipes his nose, while taking a deep, resonating gasp of air. “But...but...it was different. When I saw Garret’s flesh oozing outta his arm, I just kept looking at myself thinking ‘bout how this wasn’t right. I kept on thinking of the stupid deer and seeing his guts pouring all over the place. Then I saw Garret in the woods, his
guts splattered all over, just like that stupid deer.”

“Stevie...” I drop off. I can’t seem to grasp onto any words.

“Humans shouldn’t bleed like that. At least, no one should know we bleed like that. Maybe doctors. What the heck am I saying? Guys, I’m sorry you had to see that. Actually, I’m sorry that I haven’t been there for you guys.” Christian reaches his other arm out and pulls me close, too. Stevie and I remain silent. I lay my head on Christian’s shoulder and close my eyes, imagining that I’m somewhere else. Home, maybe. Yeah, home at Christmas with all of my siblings, laughing our way through a game of dominoes. I open my eyes and let the dream sink back into my subconscious.

“I gave him Parcher,” says Stevie as he begins to pick at a tear in his coat sleeve.

“What did you do with Parcher?” I ask as I tap my feet against the ground. The feeling has finally come back.

“I gave him to Garret. I mean, I stuffed him under his arm before he was put on the ambulance.” Stevie rips off one of the loose threads on the tear. “I dunno. It just seemed like the thing to do.”

“Yeah, it makes absolutely no sense and perfect sense all at the same time.”

“Wow, way to contradict yourself, homey cheese fry.”

“Shnittle, if I wasn’t so tired, I would have a witty comeback for you.”

“Parcher...homey cheese fry...sh...sh...shickle? Wow, I’ve been out of the house for way too long,” says Christian.

“It’s Shnittle, old man,” says Stevie in his best jittery Clint Eastwood impression. Stevie,
Christian, and I look at each of our tear-streaked faces and begin to laugh uncontrollably, allowing every emotion buried deep within in us to pour out, blending all of our fear, pain, and
sadness into one continuous stream of hope.