Cry Your Way Home

by Damien Angelica Walters

  Silence hovered in the air, thick as molasses, bitter as bile. As Leanne opened her mouth to say I’m sorry, a spoon balanced on the edge of the counter fell to the floor. Before the echo of the clink faded, Hannah’s words rushed out, too fast for Leanne to follow, drowning her apology in chaos. She heard everyone hates me and I hate it here and I want to go home, the pitch escalating with each declaration.

  Leanne stood immobile, her weight on her heels, desperately wishing David were home and hating herself a bit for it. But he’d be able to turn things around. With Hannah, he was always been able to. When she was small and afraid of monsters hiding in her closet, he’d open the closet with one hand while brandishing a toy lightsaber in the other. He’d stab and swing the lightsaber at the shoes and hanging clothes—while making a reasonable facsimile of the distinctive lightsaber sound—until the hangers were dancing on the bar and Hannah’s fear gave way to laughter.

  At a lull in Hannah’s tirade, Leanne said, “Please stop being so dramatic. Whatever happened will all blow over and they’ll stop. Act like it doesn’t matter and it will stop even faster. In a few years, you’ll barely remember it. It isn’t the end of the world.”

  Hannah burst into tears and ran from the kitchen, stomping her feet up the staircase and slamming her bedroom door. Leanne sagged against the counter and counted to ten. A few times.

  Now, she pours a glass of wine but leaves it untasted on the coffee table. She regrets what she said to Hannah, regretted it as soon as the words were in the air, but everything will be okay once they’ve both calmed down. Everything will be fine.

  * * *

  Hannah climbs onto the back porch roof, closes her bedroom window behind her, and shimmies down a support column until her feet touch the top of the railing. From there, it’s a quick crouch-and-drop to the porch. Luckily, the light isn’t on—it burned out a few nights ago and no one’s replaced it yet—and the side of the porch she used isn’t visible from the kitchen window, not unless you open it and stick your head out. Plus, it’s late enough that none of the neighbors, all old people, are outside. With light steps, she moves around the side of the house, dipping low beneath the windows. Once across the lawn, she doesn’t look back.

  Invisible hands in her chest squeeze tight as she reaches the end of the street, and she wipes tears from her cheeks with the cuff of a sleeve. Bawling like a baby is pointless. All the tears in the world won’t change things, and anyway, the monsters like it when she cries. They feed off the salt and the sorrow.

  She shoves her hands in her pockets and hunches her shoulders. It’s early March and still chilly, colder than she thought it would be.

  The neighborhood is a series of culs-de-sac jutting off a main road like tumors. When she passes the cul-de-sac where Larissa lives, she pulls up her hood and turtles into the fabric. Even though Larissa lives at the top of the circle and the chance of her looking or coming outside at the exact same time Hannah passes is small, she doesn’t want to risk it. Her phone vibrates and she walks faster, a bitter taste in the back of her throat.

  She follows the road to another and makes a left, pausing to glance over her shoulder. From here, she can’t see her house, only the curve in the road right before the turn off. Larissa’s house, with the big flagpole in the middle of the front yard, is clear as day. Larissa, the first person she met when they moved here right before Thanksgiving five months ago. Larissa, who she thought was her friend. Larissa, one of the monsters, never mind that the human mask she wears isn’t nearly tight enough to hold in the darkness it tries to conceal.

  But it fooled Hannah.

  “I didn’t know,” she says, the thump of her soles on the pavement swallowing the sound.

  Her phone vibrates yet again.

  “Fuck you,” she says, but the words are deflated balloons.

  She isn’t sure how far away the interstate is. A mile? Two? It never seems that far in the car, but it’s still walking distance, and even if it really isn’t, it will be tonight.

  An SUV drives by, going too fast, the way everyone seems to drive around here. Too many cars, too many people, and all of them rude, nasty, or dismissive. The air always reeks of exhaust, cat piss, and charred meat, the latter from a nearby diner open twenty-four-seven.

  She hates it here, hates everything about it. This place will never be home. It’s a bad dream and when she wakes up, it’s a nightmare. She misses her old house, misses her room and her friends, but most of all, she misses the water. Their house, on the South River in Edgewater, had a dock and a small beach. In the summer she liked to run the length of the dock and jump into the water, savoring that moment of weightlessness, hovering over the water and waiting to fall. That was always the best part. That moment that always felt longer than it truly was, that moment when you weren’t part of the world at all, but floating above it.

  Even when it was cold, she would sit on the sand and run her fingers through the coarse grains. Her dad always said you could never be sad or angry sitting by the water. If she were home by the water, maybe she’d feel better. Then again, if she were home, none of this would’ve happened. No Larissa, no Jeremy, no pictures.

  She traces the outline of the phone in her pocket, thinks for the hundredth time of calling Mira, her best friend back home, but she doesn’t want her to know. Besides, Mira is sort of pissed at her for making new friends so fast and spending time with them.

  She was so stupid. She should’ve known better.

  At the first major street, she waits for the light to change, scuffing the toe of one shoe against the pavement. Her phone vibrates again. She doesn’t need to look but she does.

  Dirty little whore.

  She doesn’t cry. Doesn’t delete the message.

  When Hannah told Larissa what Jeremy had asked for, Larissa said it was no big deal, said they all did it, said Hannah was special because Jeremy never asked anyone. A lie, but one Hannah couldn’t see at the time because she still thought they were friends.

  Hannah didn’t even want to take the picture, but Larissa kept talking about it and talking about it. A dog with a bone, she wouldn’t let it go. Funny how after Jeremy sent her picture to everyone, Larissa was the first person to send an email. Slut, it read. Hannah thought she was joking, until the other emails and text messages started coming in.

  She was such an idiot.

  And the absolute worst part? The part she doesn’t even like to think about? She liked taking the picture, liked the way it made her feel, liked the way she looked—older, different. It made her feel pretty and powerful. Did that make her a terrible person? Did it make her a slut? She almost didn’t hit send, wanting to keep that sense of awe to herself, and the moment she did, the power fizzled away, leaving an empty hollow in its place.

  All weekend long the messages came in, a barrage of ugliness and mockery and hate, and on Monday, she walked into school with a dry mouth and shaking hands. At first she thought everything would be okay. They had their fun, they made her weekend miserable, time to pick on someone else. Then she saw their faces, their true faces, with their masks off. Everyone had vampire smiles and glitter-dark eyes, fingers hooked into cruel talons. Hateful and predatory. Monstrous. So sharp and clear, she wondered how she didn’t see it before.

  Every time tears burned in her eyes, their faces brightened, drool ran from the corners of their mouths, and their cheeks plumped. They hid laughter and the names behind palms, smothering them in coughs that served only to amplify.

  Slut was scratched into the paint on her locker in uneven block letters; Hannah is a whore penned on a bathroom stall in rounded, girlish script with bright pink lipstick; Show us your tits scrawled in black marker on a torn piece of notebook paper left on her desk. When she found the note, Mrs. Langan asked if everything was okay, and Hannah’s cheeks grew warm, then hot, and the truth pressed against her lips, but she said instead that yes, everything was okay, even though a small voice was screaming. Long after Mrs. Langan nodded and walked a
way, that small voice continued to scream and she picked the rough edge of the paper until the words were gone and she had a shredded pile in her lap.

  If she could talk to her mom, she’d tell her that she’s tried to ignore it all, hoping they’d stop—she’s tried so hard—but inside she’s all broken glass and she can’t put her pieces back together. There’s no way anyone can. And real monsters don’t hide under the bed or in the closet; they aren’t afraid of sunlight. They stand out in the open and smile and smile and smile.

  If her parents knew, they’d hate her. They’d be ashamed and would never look at her the same way. She’d never be able to explain it. To explain why. Mostly, though, she doesn’t know how to try anymore. She’s tired, and all she wants is the water, the weightlessness before the cold.

  Just past a gas station and a half-constructed fast food restaurant, she drops her phone into the gutter. Rocks her foot back and forth until the screen cracks and then grinds her heel into the pulverized screen, exposing the metal guts. The light changes and she moves on.

  * * *

  Leanne tiptoes upstairs and perches on the top step, the way she did when Hannah was a baby asleep in her crib, resting her elbows on her knees and chin atop linked fingers.

  Girls can be cruel. It’s always been that way, even when she was in school. The surge of hormones brought something dark and primal to the surface, a savage sort of competition that, sadly, never went away for some. Even when the cruelties were relatively minor, the hormones also brought sensitivity that affected perception. Maybe it wasn’t the end of the world, but it felt that way to Hannah, and Leanne belittled her feelings.

  She wants to go in Hannah’s room, sit at the foot of her bed, and read her a story or sing a song. Would that such devices would work for a teenager. At best, she’ll get a roll of the eyes and an impassioned Mo-ther; at worst, she’ll make it two steps into the room before Hannah yells Leave me alone!

  Silly, maybe, sitting here, stressing about a fight that in a few days will fade into memory, and in a few years to nothing at all. She allows herself a smile. All the angst and chaos. All the drama. Her memories of her own early teen years are threaded with band names, pining for cute boys in the neighborhood, and yes, volatile fights with her own mother, for reasons now unremembered.

  Leanne heads downstairs, makes it to the bottom, and turns around, wincing when one of the steps creaks, the sound a snapping bone in the hush. If her mother were still alive, she’d call and ask for advice. God, how many times had she done that when Hannah was an infant? Far too many to count. Should she be sleeping so much? Should she be sleeping so little? How do I know she’s getting enough milk? Am I a terrible mother because she has diaper rash? But non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma took her when Hannah was three, and Leanne doesn’t have that sort of relationship with her mother-in-law.

  She passes Hannah’s room on the way into hers, making enough noise so it’s clear she’s there. Maybe Hannah will come out and decide she wants to talk. Humming one of Hannah’s favorite songs, a syrupy pop number about a girl who is unaware she’s beautiful, Leanne fetches the half-full hamper from the walk-in closet. In their old house, they’d moved the washer and dryer upstairs; here, though, she has to go down to the basement. As she walks by Hannah’s room again, she clears her throat and says, “I’m doing laundry if you have something you want me to run through.”

  There’s no answer, not that she truly expected one, but at least now Hannah knows Leanne isn’t angry with her. A subtle olive branch, of which she thinks her own mother would approve.

  She adjusts the laundry basket balancing on her hip. Once this blows over, she’ll explain that her reaction had nothing to do with Hannah and had everything to do with the move, with her dad’s job, and the hours he’s spending at the office.

  That’s partly true, but most of all, what she’s upset about and can’t mention to Hannah yet, is what David told her last night. He said he regretted taking the job, that he didn’t think the money was worth it, that his old boss had already indicated—and strongly so—that they’d love for him to come back, and that he’s seriously considering it.

  Leanne said nothing, too shocked to speak. They’d uprooted their entire lives to move here. A good career step, David said. Unlimited potential. No more worrying about their credit card debt or money for vacations or Hannah’s college fund. Over and over again, and now she wonders if he was trying to convince himself as much as he was trying to convince her.

  They spent weeks hashing out the options, the downsides, the changes, and, once they decided the benefits outweighed the risks, several more weeks setting everything in motion. And now he wants to undo everything and move them back? Without even considering how this will affect Hannah or Leanne? Not to mention the logistical hassle. They signed a year’s lease for this house and rented out their old—thankfully they hadn’t sold it, though it was a near thing. Breaking the lease will cost them money, and then they’ll have to find somewhere else to live in Edgewater until the tenants’ lease is up, unless they’re willing to move out before then.

  Leanne’s been doing remote paralegal work for the firm she worked for in Edgewater, so in theory that won’t present a problem, but once they move back her boss will expect her to come into the office and she likes working remotely, likes knowing she’s there when Hannah gets home from school.

  She can’t even imagine how Hannah will react to the news. She took the move harder than any of them, and it was a huge relief when she made friends so quickly. Nice girls, all of them, especially Larissa. If they do decide to move back, will that only make things doubly hard for Hannah or will she be too happy to see Mira again to care?

  Leanne pinches the bridge of her nose between finger and thumb. Readjusts the laundry basket. Maybe she should mention the possibility to Hannah and feel her out. Then again, it might only upset her even more.

  * * *

  Beneath the overpass, through Hannah’s tears, trucks rush past in a blur. She wonders if her mom’s already figured out that she isn’t home. If so, she probably thinks she’s with one of the monsters. She touches a hand to her chest. In a way, she’d be right. If she peeled back the skin of her chest, she thinks there’d be claw marks in the chambers of her heart.

  It isn’t the end of the world, that’s what her mother said. Hannah lets out a sharp sound halfway between laugh and sob. Her mom has no idea.

  Her dad probably isn’t even home yet. He never worked so much at his old job. She told him that in the beginning, told him she missed him, and he said he missed her too and he wouldn’t have to work like that forever. She thinks maybe he lied and wishes he’d liked his old job a little more.

  At least they won’t ever find out what she did.

  She peeks over her shoulder, half-expecting to see the monsters, smiling and waiting. No one’s there, of course, but she feels their presence, their hot breath on the back of her neck, their claws tracing the length of her spine.

  For a brief moment, she wonders what it would’ve been like to talk to her mom. Then she shakes off the thought and checks over her shoulder again, this time to make sure no cars are driving past.

  She climbs over the railing and stares down at the trucks, listening to the rumble of their tires on the asphalt. Inside, she’s cold and still and unafraid, but she hopes it’s fast. She hopes it doesn’t hurt.

  * * *

  Leanne stands outside Hannah’s room, arms crossed and elbows cupped in her palms. She fidgets in place, lifts a hand to knock, lets it fall. It’s almost ten o’clock; Hannah might be getting ready for bed.

  At the low creak of Hannah’s window, she gives a wry smile. Hannah is so like her father that way, always wanting a window open at night, even when it’s chilly. Leanne prefers a downy pile of blankets, regardless of the weather.

  She reaches for the door again and again hesitates. Take a deep breath before making a decision—a bit of advice from her mom, one Leanne’s passed down to Hannah. Silly, perh
aps, to think a lungful of air caught then expelled could help so much, but it always does. Leanne knows it from years of practice.

  If she goes in now, will they be able to talk without it turning into another argument? Maybe it’s better to wait until the morning. Everything looks better after a good night’s sleep, and tomorrow is Saturday. No rushing in the morning, no watching the clock. She can make waffles with raspberries and powdered sugar—Hannah’s favorite—and help her work through whatever’s upset her. She’ll listen, no matter how silly everything seems. She’ll let Hannah cry or yell, whatever she needs.

  Leanne stares down at the shadows her feet have made on the floor and takes a deep breath. With a shake of her head, she heads back downstairs and texts David: Hannah and I had a big fight tonight. His reply, a few minutes later: On my way home. I’ll talk to her when I get there. Everything will be OK. Love you.

  She scrubs her face with her hands and takes to the stairs. Maybe letting David swoop in and take care of everything isn’t the best decision. Maybe this time it’s on her to fix things. Standing outside Hannah’s room, she says, “I’d like us to talk now, babygirl. Or I can talk and you can just listen, but if you tell me to go away, I will.”

  There’s no answer and Leanne sighs in relief, picturing Hannah lying in bed with one hand under her cheek, listening. She sits with her back against the wall next to Hannah’s door, pulls her knees to her chest, and rests her chin atop folded arms. “Okay, then, here goes.”

  She closes her eyes, scrunches her toes inside her socks.

  “When you were little, I told your dad I wanted to roll you in bubble wrap. He thought it was because you were clumsy, but it wasn’t. I just wanted to protect you from everything, from the world. Sounds so silly, doesn’t it?”