Me Since You

by Laura Wiess

  Damn.

  And of course there’s no way to sneak into her house, not without banging on the door and waking everybody up. There isn’t even anywhere to sit outside because her pool furniture doesn’t come out until Memorial Day and she doesn’t have any porch steps, just this flat, ground-level cement entrance that really sucks to sit on.

  “So what the hell am I supposed to do?” I yell in frustration, and cringe at the broken silence. Well, if that guy is lurking anywhere out there, he definitely knows where I am now. Idiot.

  Somewhere off in the distance a dog barks, and that spurs me on past the bakery, the hair salon and the Dunkin’ Donuts, all closed up tight.

  My phone rings, making me jump.

  It’s Nadia. “Rowan, where the hell are you?”

  “Where the hell are you?” I shoot back, bristling.

  “Oh, for . . . Leaving the party so we can come find you,” she snaps. “Why didn’t you wait for us? What happened?”

  “Nothing, I just wanted to go and I couldn’t find you,” I say, putting a hand to my pounding forehead. “I’m at the bank down on Main Street. By Dunkin’ Donuts.”

  “Christ, she’s down by Dunkin’ Donuts already,” she says off to the side, and then to me, “Stay there, okay? Don’t go anywhere. Just wait. We’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  “Why is that dog still barking?” I say, distracted, and suddenly realize the shadows are shifting and I’m standing in a growing pool of light. I turn to see a patrol car pulling up alongside me.

  “Rowan, don’t—”

  “Cops. I have to go.” I hang up, hoping it’s Vinnie and I can somehow talk him into dropping me at Nadia’s house and not telling my father about any of this.

  But the officer who steps out of the car isn’t Vinnie.

  It’s Lieutenant Walters.

  I panic, whirl and take off running.

  Chapter 12

  I tear down the alley alongside the bank. Hear him shouting, hear dispatch on his radio and the thunder of pounding feet growing louder and louder behind me.

  “No, no, no,” I pant, frantic, and without warning something slams into me from the back, knocking me straight into the wall, shoving my cheek up against the rough, cold bricks and yanking my arms behind my back. My chin scrapes the wall and my teeth clack together. The taste of blood makes me cry.

  “Don’t fight. Hold still,” he says from behind me, breathing hard. “Why did you run?” He snaps the cuffs around my wrists and, taking me firmly by the upper arm, leads me stumbling out of the shadows and back out to the streetlights on Main Street. “Stand here and don’t move.” He puts me up against the side of the police car and radios for a female officer to pat me down. “What’re you doing out here alone at three thirty in the morning? Have you been drinking?”

  “I’m sorry,” I blubber, lifting my head and peering at him through my hair. “Please let me go, Lieutenant Walters. Please. You don’t understand, my father’s going to kill me.”

  “Jesus, not again,” he says, falling back a step in dismay. “Nick’s daughter?”

  “I’m sorry,” I wail, still drunk, totally humiliated and unable to stop crying. “That guy said b-bad things about my father and I had to g-go. I swear I d-didn’t d-do anything wrong, I just want to g-go home. Please take me home . . . puh—puh—please?”

  He takes a deep breath and slowly releases it. “You’ve got really bad timing, Ms. Areno.” He gazes at me with the most awful look on his face and then, as if he doesn’t know any better, says, “Do your parents know you’re out here like this?”

  “No,” I say, knees shaking so hard I can barely stand. “I was j-just t-trying to g-get h-home.” And then the tears flow harder because my nose is running, there’s blood in my mouth and I’m nauseous, gross and stupid, I can see it all in his eyes just like last time, and I can’t take it. “Do you have a t-tissue?”

  “In a minute.” He sighs again and radios in to cancel the female officer. Opens the back door to the patrol car and, turning me around, says sternly, “If I take these off, are you going to behave?”

  I nod, snuffling, and suddenly my hands are free again. “Thank you.” I wipe my nose on my arm and it leaves a long, slimy smear of blood. “B-b-be c-c-careful,” I say in a hitched voice. “I have b-body fluids everywhere.”

  “Just get in,” he says tiredly, and when I do, he hands me a wad of tissues and shuts the door behind me.

  Chapter 13

  What the hell were you thinking?

  You could have been killed, Rowan. You could have been snatched up off the street and we never would have known what happened to you!

  Drunk, and walking the streets alone at almost four in the morning.

  Why didn’t you call us for a ride? My God, when I think of it . . .

  Why did you run from him? You must have known who he was; what the hell were you thinking?

  You’re grounded. Just go to bed.

  And on, and on.

  I flop over in bed and wipe the tears from my cheeks, my mother’s furious voice echoing through my pounding head, the bandaged scrape on my chin stinging, my heart sick at the expression on my father’s face when he opened the door and saw me and Lieutenant Walters standing there.

  He’d driven me home in silence, led me to the front door and knocked. Dying of nerves, I’d babbled that nobody ever knocks on our front door, they always go straight to the sunporch door but he just stood silent, waiting beside me until the lights inside came on and then the front light itself. When I heard the door open I peeked up from under my hair and saw my father standing there in his sweats, his expression dazed from sleep, slack with surprise and then, as he saw me and the lieutenant, tightening with a rush of embarrassment, anger and concern.

  “I think this one’s yours,” Lieutenant Walters said with a smile that tried for camaraderie but couldn’t get past awkward. “I found her down on Main Street.”

  “What?” my father said, eyebrows high. “Alone?”

  The lieutenant nodded. “She’s been drinking.”

  “Get in the house, Rowan,” my mother said from somewhere in the foyer, and then, leaning out the door past my father, forced a smile at the lieutenant and said, “Thank you, Arnold, for bringing her home. She was supposed to be sleeping at her friend’s tonight.” She glanced at me, fire in her eyes. “She has a lot of explaining to do.”

  “Sorry about her chin,” the lieutenant said, stepping back. “I didn’t recognize her and when she took off—”

  “She ran from you?” my father said in an ominous voice.

  I slipped inside then, sidling past my parents, hoping to make it up to my room, but my mother was right behind me, grabbing my arm and stopping me dead in the living room.

  “Sit down,” she said in a voice I’d never heard before, and so I sat while she got a wet washcloth and silently cleaned the scrape on my chin, applied antibiotic ointment and a bandage.

  “Mom,” I said weakly, but she only she stepped back, mouth tight, and glanced over at my father standing in the doorway. “I swear I didn’t mean to . . . I’m sorry, I . . .”

  And then the fireworks began, but from my mother, not my father like I’d expected. He just stood there, face drawn, his gaze weary and filled with disappointment.

  Nothing like he normally was, no hard questions, no interrogation, no demanding the details of how this whole debacle had transpired, and his lack of reaction scared me.

  I yelled back once, trying to push him, maybe, into a response. My mother was ranting, incredulous over the fact that I’d done the dumbest thing possible, run from a policeman who we all not only knew but who was officially investigating my father, and looking at me like she didn’t even know me.

  “I hate him,” I shouted. “He hurt my chin and he didn’t even call EMS!”

  “Lower your voice,” my mother snapped.

  “You brought it on yourself. He could have taken you to the ground or brought you into headquarters for pro
cessing but he was doing me a favor,” my father said quietly, looking away. “He knows the last thing we need right now is an incident report on how my drunken underage daughter resisted arrest and ran from the man. Forget the internal investigation; you think the news wouldn’t have jumped on that?”

  I stared down at my hands, feeling even sicker at making my father beholden to someone who could hurt him. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re grounded,” my mother said, sighing and turning away. “Just go to bed. We’ll finish this in the morning.” She looked at my father expectantly but he just shook his head and, avoiding her gaze, said, “You go ahead. I’m gonna watch TV for a while.”

  She hesitated. “Are you all right?”

  He nodded. “I’m fine. Go ahead.” And to me, “You’d better go get some sleep, Rowan. You’re supposed to be at work at eight.” And then he turned away and went into the kitchen, and my mother gave me a look that said, Let’s go, and so we went.

  “I’m really sorry,” I whisper again into my pillow, into the darkness, and wait, listening hard, but there is no response and I fall asleep still hoping to hear my father’s footsteps coming up the stairs.

  Chapter 14

  Saturdays at the cleaner’s are an all-day mob scene, preventing Eva from doing any more than give me the occasional curious glance between customers, wondering, I guess, at the dark circles under my eyes, why I’m moving so slowly and why, when Lieutenant Walters arrives to pick up his uniforms, my face gets hot and I wait on him without ever once actually looking at him.

  Eva doesn’t ask though, and for that I’m grateful, as there’s no way I can describe the grimness dragging me down. Part of it’s the hangover but the rest, the heaviness and the dread . . .

  I can’t seem to shake it.

  When the day’s over Eva simply hands me my paycheck and I’m out of there, head pounding, calling Nadia on the sunny walk home to tell her what happened and that I’m grounded, and finding out that of course she made it inside without getting caught.

  Great. Well, at least she won’t feel bad ditching me to be with Brett, as I’m not going to be around for a while, anyway. I say that and hurt her feelings, and then feel bad and apologize but she has to go anyway because Brett is texting her and they’re going out tonight.

  And that makes me feel like slapping Eva for pissing off Payton Well and blowing the one chance I had to talk to Eli again, and then I get mad at Eli for even bringing her to the cleaner’s anyway—what the hell was that about?—and my anger snakes all the way back to Corey for killing himself right in front of us and screwing up everybody’s lives, and then to stupid Justin for ditching me in McDonald’s that morning and kicking the whole thing off.

  I walk the rest of the way home feeling like the marrow in my bones has gone bad, trudging past the woods and up the front lawn, past my father’s car and into the house.

  And know, instantly, that something is wrong.

  Chapter 15

  My father is sitting alone at the kitchen table, staring out the nook window. His hair is disheveled, he’s still wearing his sleep sweats and Stripe is curled up on his lap. The house is a tomb, no radio, no TV echoing in from the living room, no food smell, nothing.

  I stand in the kitchen doorway, afraid to break the silence and afraid not to. “Dad?”

  He starts, blinking as if waking up from a deep sleep, and runs a hand over his hair. “Hey,” he says, and clears his throat. “Is it five o’clock already?”

  “Almost six,” I say, walking cautiously into the room and slinging my purse across the back of my chair. “Where’s Mom?”

  “Oh, she had to run into work this morning,” he says with a small, automatic smile at their long-standing “library emergency” joke. “It’s just me and Stripe today.” He settles a gentle hand on the cat and Stripe’s purr revs up. “She’s bringing home a couple of pizzas.”

  “Okay,” I say, uneasy. Why is he still in his sweats? Has he actually been sitting here like this all day? No, that’s impossible . . . unless he’s sick. “Are you okay?”

  “Sure,” he says after a second, glancing back out the window.

  “Okay, good,” I say, and wait, but he doesn’t add anything. “So uh, what’s going on? Did you work out in the wood shop today?”

  “No,” he says after a long moment, gazing down at Stripe as if ashamed that I’ve caught him being idle. “I’m sorry. The hardware for the hope chest was back-ordered and it just came in a couple of days ago. I know you’ve been waiting but—”

  “No, I wasn’t pushing,” I say quickly. “It’s fine whenever. I’ll be sixteen for a whole year and besides, I don’t even have anything to put in it, yet.” My lame joke passes unacknowledged. “I was just wondering, that’s all.” What is happening here? Why isn’t he yelling at me for last night? “Um, I’m going to make coffee. Do you want a cup?” I head over to the counter, expecting a swift yes—my father never turns down coffee—and almost drop the carafe when he says slowly, “I don’t think so. No. Maybe later.”

  “Oh,” I say, putting the carafe down again. “Um, okay.”

  “You can still have some though,” he says, sitting up and looking worried. “Don’t not have it just because I don’t want any.”

  “No, it’s okay,” I say.

  “Rowan, please make it anyway,” he says, leaning forward in his chair. “If you don’t have a cup I’m going to feel guilty for stopping you. Please.” The expression on his face is serious, upset even, as though he can’t bear being responsible for my not having a cup of coffee. “Make it.”

  “Okay,” I say faintly, wondering when okay became the only word in my vocabulary and setting up a small pot of coffee. “So uh, what’s new? Anything?” My father’s unnatural stillness unnerves me, makes me far too aware of my own movements, and that makes me clumsy; I spill coffee grinds on the counter and almost drop my mug as I pull it from the cabinet.

  “Not really,” he says, toying with Stripe’s ear. “I got a call this morning from Captain Schwarz up at headquarters. I’m officially out of work on medical leave, starting today.” He glances up, catches my stunned gaze and gives a self-conscious shrug. “It’s all right. I think it’ll help. I have an appointment with a shrink on Monday.” He looks back down at the cat. “I wasn’t going to say anything until your mother got home but—”

  “Mommy doesn’t know yet?” I blurt.

  “Mommy doesn’t know what?” she says from behind me, struggling in through the kitchen door with two pizza boxes, her purse, her tote bag and three books tucked under her arm. “Grab the books, Row. They’re slipping.”

  I do and glance at the titles: Surviving Critical Incident Stress and Beating the Blues.

  “So, what don’t I know?” she says, smiling at me and then glancing at my father. “Hey, sweetheart, you look nice and relaxed.” Her smile wavers as she drops a kiss in the middle of his rumpled hair. “Hungry? I got one with the works, your favorite.”

  My father has the same tortured expression on his face that he had during the coffee incident but he forces a smile and says, “I could probably eat a slice.”

  “Good,” she says, casting me a glance. “Let’s eat before they get cold. Rowan, will you set the table, please?”

  So I do, working around my father, who seems to have somehow deflated even more, and giving my mother a burning look behind his back, a look that says, What’s going on? What’s wrong with Daddy?

  But my mother doesn’t act like anything’s wrong through dinner and so I try not to, either, eating three slices of pizza to my father’s one (and he didn’t even eat the crust) and listening to her chatter about library doings and all the donations for the big book sale in June.

  Is my father listening? I glance over, see him toying with the uneaten pizza crust on his plate, and the sight is so off, so wrong, that I hear myself say, “Hey, Dad, guess who came into the cleaner’s the other day to pick up his suit?” This isn’t the first time we’ve played thi
s guess-who game, seeing as how he knows so many people in town, and so I hold my breath, hoping he starts with the twenty questions, trying to narrow it down.

  “I don’t know,” he says after a moment with a helpless shrug. “Who?”

  I sit back, disappointed. “You’re not even going to try?”

  “I . . .” He shakes his head, looking miserable. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

  And suddenly it’s as if the entire world narrows to a terrifying pinpoint with this sad, deflated stranger huddled at the center, and the simmering fear inside of me flares into anger. “Oh my God, Dad, what’re you doing?” I cry, pushing my chair back from the table. “Why are you being this way?”

  “Rowan, stop it,” my mother says, setting her slice of pizza back on her plate.

  “It was Eli, okay?” I say, hating the way he just stares down into his plate and doesn’t even stand up to me. “He came in with Payton. Did I ever tell you that Eli told me you talked to him after the whole Corey thing and it really helped him?” No response, and that only fuels my fire. “He thought you were really brave, he wanted to know how you were dealing with it and I said fine but I guess I was lying.”

  “Rowan!” My mother snaps, appalled. “Who do you think you’re talking to?”

  I turn to my father, silently daring him, begging him to get mad and yell, to ground me for last night or for now or even to smile his old warning smile and tell me I’m getting way out of line, something, anything normal, because the bleak sadness on his face is turning my bullying anger to a sick, stomach-twisting guilt and—

  “I’m sorry,” he says, planting an elbow on the table and dropping his head into his hand. “I know I’m not myself. Just try to be patient with me, all right?” He glances at my mother, gaze dull. “I’m out on a medical leave, Rachel. I requested it. I don’t know what else to do. I can’t eat or sleep . . . I can’t function. I have an appointment Monday with . . . I . . . I need help.” And then he covers his face and begins to weep. “I can’t help it.”