by Carian Cole
“I can’t,” I reply. “Why are you being so difficult?”
“Why are you?”
“I look awful.”
He scoffs into the phone. “I don’t give a shit what you look like. I care that you’re okay.”
“Don’t I sound okay?”
“No, you sound like someone who’s trying to get rid of me.”
“You obviously can’t take a hint.”
“You can’t bullshit a bullshitter, Sparkles. I’m gonna knock on the door in two seconds—”
“Don’t!” I say quickly. “Please don’t. Come to the window on the right side of the house.”
“You mean the one I’ve seen you climbing through?”
I gulp. “Yes.”
“Okay, I’m hanging up. I’ll see you at the window, Rapunzel.”
I throw on a white hoodie, pulling the hood over my rumpled hair. I straighten my wrinkled comforter. On the way to the window, I grab the can of air freshener and give the room a few quick sprays, then make sure my closet doors are shut.
“Be cool!” I whisper to Gus.
Before Jude has a chance to tap on the window, I shove it open and peer outside to find him standing beneath it. He’s almost tall enough to see inside.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi again.” He reaches up and hands me my book bag, hat, and a small, brown stuffed teddy bear. “I got you a get-well bear.”
“Oh.” Further words escape me. I put my things on the floor beside me, but clutch the little bear against my chest. “Thank you.”
“Can I come in?” he asks.
My stomach sinks like a bag of bricks. “In here?”
His gray eyes pin me with the impatience of a frustrated parent dealing with an unruly toddler. I can’t blame him, I know I’m acting like an idiot.
“Fine,” I answer with a sigh, backing away from the window so he can climb through it. I’m surprised he’s able to maneuver his wide shoulders through. For a moment, I was afraid he’d get stuck.
I close the window behind him. He slowly circles the room as if he’s expecting a serial killer to jump out from under the bed or from the closet.
“You look better,” he says when his gaze lands on me.
“Thanks.”
He slowly moves to my bedroom door and nods at the three deadbolts.
“What’s this all about?”
“It’s not as bad as you’re probably thinking, Jude.”
Crossing his arms, he leans back against the door, his frame almost completely covering it. He seems much bigger here in my small room. “Nothing good would require that many locks.”
“Why do you care?” I reply defensively, not wanting to tell him the truth.
His eyes soften for a beat, but harden again when he takes a breath. “I’m not sure, to be honest. But now that I’m here and I see this,” he cocks his head toward the locks, “I’m not just gonna ignore it.”
Jude’s obviously like a dog with a bone. He’s not going to forget this and leave, and I’m too tired to think up a believable, creative lie. Jude’s too smart to buy a lame explanation, anyway.
“You can trust me,” he says. “Haven’t I proven that to you already?”
Still holding the stuffed bear like a security blanket, I nod and lower myself down to sit on the edge of my bed.
“Yes.”
“I’m not into begging people to talk to me, Sparkles. I worked my ass off in the heat today. I’m tired. You look tired, too. Make this easy on both of us, okay?”
He slowly crosses the room and I stare at the tips of his scuffed boots when he stops in front of me.
“Can I sit next to you?”
“Yes.”
He sits about a foot away from me, and Gus immediately starts rubbing her cheek down the length of his arm. I always thought she’d be leery around a guy since she’s never been around one before.
“Cute cat,” he says.
“It’s kind of a long story,” I begin. “I guess there’s a few things going on. There’s what’s out there.” I swing my gaze to the locked door. “And what’s going on with me.”
His large hand gently strokes the cat’s back as he waits for me to continue. Gus purrs like a tiny furry locomotive in response.
“I’m not sure when it started, but my mom is a hoarder. I think she probably always was, but it wasn’t this bad when I was younger. She’s got stuff piled almost to the ceiling in every room of the house. You can’t get from room to room without climbing over things or squeezing between. She stopped cleaning years ago. The kitchen and bathroom are filthy, and there’s bugs and rotting food.” I swallow hard. Jude’s chin rises a little and a muscle in his stubbled jaw twitches. “I can’t use the bathroom anymore, so I use cat litter in a big bucket and just throw it away every day. I know it’s gross, but I didn’t know what else to do.”
He shoves his hand roughly through his hair, the corners of his eyes narrowing as he scans the room, finally noticing the small fridge in the corner.
“I keep some food and water in here, and I shower at school every day, after gym class, or at a truck stop. I haven’t heard from my father since he left a few years ago. And my mom… she just sits out there. She does customer service phone calls from home for work. But it’s like she’s forgotten I’m here. She doesn’t talk to me. I don’t go out there anymore, so I never see her. I just send her text messages. Sometimes she replies. I have to keep the door locked so she can’t get in and pile stuff in here. I use the window because I can’t get to the door.”
“What the ever-lovin’ fuck,” he growls when I finish.
Wincing, I say, “I’ve learned to live with it until I can hopefully move out.”
He stands up abruptly and points to the door. “Open it,” he says. “Open that door right now and let me see.”
My heart pounds. This is my worst nightmare. I don’t want him to see—or smell—the rest of the house. “Jude, I—”
“Open it. Now,” he says, his chest heaving up and down.
I stand and move to the door. My hand shakes as I reach for the locks. “You can’t say anything to my mom, Jude. She’s sick. Please don’t—”
“I’m not going to say anything. Just let me see what’s on the other side of this door.”
My mom is most likely too engrossed in the television to realize anyone is in the house.
The pain in my chest spreads up to my throat and collarbone as I slide the deadbolts and swing the door open. Jude recoils, his nose crinkling from the foul smell. I’m sure whatever friendship I’ve forged with him will be over by the time he leaves tonight. Nobody wants to be friends with someone living in such filth.
He lets out a low whistle as he ventures just a foot outside my door—as far as he can get unless he attempts to squeeze his body through the narrow path of piles that are taller than him. I grab his arm and pull him back inside my room, shutting the door quickly and relocking it.
“Happy now? You’ve seen the house of horrors.”
“Do you know what kind of fire hazard that is? Not to mention, endangering a child—”
“I’m eighteen,” I interject.
“You weren’t a few months ago. This is fucked up.” He paces the length of my room, glancing every few seconds at the bedroom door.
“Do you want to sit in the backyard and talk?” I offer after watching him for a few seconds. I’m sure he’s probably really wanting a cigarette right now.
He nods rapidly. “Yeah, I need some air.”
Even though I’ve climbed out the window myself hundreds of times, he holds his hands out to help me once he’s on the ground. Chivalry isn’t dead with this guy. Silently, we walk in the dark to the back of the house and sit on an old, rusty bistro set that's been here for years. Actually, I sit. Jude lights up a cigarette and stares up at the sky.
His concern for me is sweet, but unexpected. I’m not sure what to do with this kind of care from someone. Should I be grateful, or suspicious?
How do we ever know if we can truly trust someone?
“You really shouldn’t be living like this, Skylar. It’s unhealthy in about twenty fucking ways.”
“I know that. But this is all I’ve got. My options are limited. I’m doing my best to save money so I can get the hell out of here. That’s why I was so excited about doing more for Rebecca. I’m hoping I can work for her full time after I graduate.”
“Where’s your father?” He asks this facing the tree with the broken swing, which somehow seems very fitting.
“He lived in that camper out front until he couldn’t deal with it anymore.”
He spins around to stare at me. “He left you here to live like this?”
My non-answer is answer enough.
He drops his cigarette on the ground, smashes it with his boot, then sits in the chair on the other side of the lopsided table.
“Tell me what happened in the hospital. Did you have more tests? You okay?
I finger a leaf stem that’s stuck in the filigree edge of the table.
“Yes. I’ve had some health issues since I was young, but I’ve never been able to take the meds or see the doctor for follow-ups. I guess it’s all gotten worse.”
“Why haven’t you been taking your meds?”
“We don’t have health insurance and my mother never believed it was serious. I was held back because I was out of school so much when I was younger. If I didn’t feel well, she just sent me to bed. She stopped taking me to the doctor.”
“Un-fucking-real,” he says, shaking his head.
“My mom’s just…” I grapple for a nice word. “Not right in the head. I’ve learned not to rock the boat. I take care of myself.”
“You shouldn’t have to.”
I yank the leaf out from its trap and fling it onto the ground. “I don’t have a choice.”
“You’re right.” He rubs his hand across the stubble on his chin. “Are you okay? You have meds now? You’ll feel better?”
I wish.
“Not exactly. I can’t afford the prescriptions or the weekly appointments they want me to go to.”
“Weekly?”
All these questions have me on edge. I’ve never had to explain myself to anyone before. I’m used to being brushed off and ignored. Able to fade into the shadows and disappear.
I bring my knees up to my chest and rest my sneakers on the chair, wrapping my arms around my legs.
“I think I told you when we were at the hospital, I have an eating disorder,” I say, letting my gaze finally meet his. Tiny lines etch the outer corners of his eyes. “It’s called ARFID. It stands for Avoidant Restrictive Food Intake Disorder. Apparently, I’ve had it for a long time, but I was officially diagnosed with it last year. I saved up some money and took myself to a doctor. I couldn’t afford to keep going.”
“What is that? Like bulimia?”
“No, I don’t make myself throw up. I just can’t eat certain foods. I mean, I can eat them. I just… Mentally, I can’t get myself to. If I try to, I gag. Or feel nauseous and get sick. They told me it’s like a mental illness. I’ve connected certain foods to traumatic things that happened to me when I was young, so its like my brain is trying to protect me by not letting me eat those foods.”
I’m glad it’s dark out, with only the streetlight and the moon casting a glow over us. I don’t want him to see my face. I don’t want to see his face while I’m telling him—this guy I barely know, but want to know—every embarrassing detail about my personal life.
“I think it started when I was little because my mom kept expired food in the house. Like milk. Eggs. Chicken. Fruit. Pudding. I didn’t know any better, so I ate it. Then I’d get sick. I guess my mind related certain foods with getting sick. Sometimes it’s not even the exact food, but the same color of that food, or the texture.” I exhale and try to gauge his silence. Is he just listening? Pitying me? Judging me? “I have digestion issues, too. Acid reflux. I get really bad heartburn. And sore throats and sinus pain. Sometimes I don’t eat or drink enough because it makes me feel sick. But then not eating or drinking makes me feel sick, too. I guess I’m just a hot mess.”
“You’re not. Don’t ever think that.”
The deep sincerity of his voice reaches way down into my soul and calms me like a warm blanket. I can’t help but revel in it for a few moments before I start to talk again.
“You’re the only person I’ve ever told all of this to. Megan doesn’t even know everything, and she’s been my best friend for years.”
“You were dealt a shitty hand.”
“Maybe so, but I’m not going to let it play out the rest of my life. I’ll find a way to get out of here and I’ll figure out how to eat a damn hamburger.”
He lets out a laugh and nods with admiration all over his face. “And that right there is why I call you Sparkles.”
I’m not sure how he does it. Somehow, he makes me feel like every molecule in my body has learned how to smile.
I like it.
I like him.
Chapter 10
Jude
The walls are pink. Not a light, nursery room pink, but a bold magenta kind of pink. I pulled the beige carpet up a few years ago and it damn near took me two weeks to finish. Not because it’s hard to rip carpet up—I can do that in my sleep. But because the brighter, cleaner, plushy areas of the rug were reminders of where the bed and furniture once were.
Memories can be a bitch.
The hardwood floor I’m standing on now is much better. Not harboring any ghosts. But even though I refurnished it with brand new furniture, this is the only room that continues to feel like a pit of emptiness.
I hate pink with a passion, but I could never bring myself to repaint it.
And yet, I still feel like it’s screaming at me. This fuckin’ room and its hideously girly walls. It’s saying Hey! Look at me! I’m a nice, clean, pink room without a person!
Like a bun without a burger.
Leaving the room, I close the door behind me. I’ve always kept the door closed, hoping that, maybe someday, I’d hear Erin in there. Blasting music, giggling on the phone with a friend, or yelling wise-cracks at me.
The mind tells us silly things to appease us.
A long time ago, this house was home to what I thought was a happy family. But laughter turned to yelling, which led to divorce. My dad moved out when I was seventeen and Erin was nine. I spent most of my time partying. I drank a lot, got high a lot, and got into trouble a lot. I moved out when I was eighteen. Five years later, my mom was battling cancer and I left my dingy apartment to move back in—with the promise of getting my shit together to take care of her and my sister.
My mom got better, but Erin turned into a bit of a wild child that our mother couldn’t handle. Wanting to be the cool older brother, I became more of a friend, and I let my sister’s antics slide.
Then she was gone.
My mother sank into grief, then met a man who swept her off her feet, as the saying goes. She wanted a new beginning. Away from this town, this house, and anything that reminded her of her past—including me. She signed the house over to me and left the next day, becoming the third person to disappear from my life.
If I’d been there for my sister like I should’ve been, maybe she wouldn’t have disappeared. Our mother wouldn’t have run away. I wouldn’t feel guilty, worthless, and abandoned. Who knows, maybe I wouldn’t have a fear of relationships and I’d be living in this three-bedroom, two-and-a-half bath house on two acres with a wife and kids, and my mom and sister would be coming over for Christmas dinner.
I jump on my motorcycle and ride to my favorite place in the mountains, trying to forget about the empty pink room, but the voice is still in my head, just like it has been for the past week. What started as a crazy idea has taken on a life of its own. The more it sits in my brain marinating, the less crazy it seems, and the more right it feels
I can make things better.
I have
n’t talked to Skylar since I saw her at her house a week ago. I’ve seen her walking to and from the school parking lot, and we’ve waved at each other. But that night, guilt stalked me all the way home from her house. It’s been hanging around ever since. Watching me. Staying out of sight, but making its presence known.
Even the hot shower I took when I got home that night couldn’t wash away the stench of rotting food—or whatever the hell that smell was—out of my nostrils. Sleep didn’t banish the images of the deadbolts, the piles of trash, and the sadness and anxiety in Skylar’s eyes.
It all felt so gross, hopeless, and wrong.
And ultimately, not in any way, shape, or form is any of it my problem or concern.
But just like when I discovered Cassie—a tiny, dirty puppy all alone at an empty job site—I can’t get myself to walk away. I tried with the puppy. For three days I watched her stumbling around in the leaves. I ignored her whimpers and her huge, sad brown eyes, assuming she could take care of herself, or someone else would step in and help her. That didn’t happen. Finally, I snatched her up to take her home for the night because it was chilly, and I was afraid she’d freeze.
One night, my ass.
That was four years ago.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and send Skylar a text.
Me: Hey, Sparkles.
Skylar: Hi Lucky.
Me: Are you at work today?
Skylar: Yes, I am. Are you the job police? ;-)
I laugh and type back:
Me: No. ;-) Can we go for a drive when you’re done with work?
Skylar: You want to drive my car again, don’t you?
Me: LOL yeah. But I also want to talk to you.
A few seconds pass before she replies.
Skylar: Is it something bad?
Me: No.
Skylar: Okay. If you want to come to the shop at 3:30, we can go for a drive.