The Inevitable Collision of Birdie & Bash

by Candace Ganger

  “Nope. Just know I, you know, feel things for you.”

  “Gross.”

  She pulls her laptop back to her lap, but not before stopping me once more. “Birdie?”

  “Yeah?” I ask, rising from her bed.

  “If you tell anyone how much I actually want to be like you, I’ll murder you in your sleep.” She moves a finger slow across her throat. “No one will hear you scream.”

  A grin forms, stretching toward my ears, because now things are totally normal (for us) again. “Mom—time to call Dr. Judy!” I yell.

  * * *

  I’m half awake, sleep still crusted in the corner of my eye, when Mom dangles the Benz hood ornament in front of me.

  “Where’d this come from?” she asks.

  I yawn, shrug. “Found it outside.”

  She clutches it in her palm. “You didn’t think it was important to tell me or Dad?”

  “I didn’t know what it was.”

  “Birdie,” she says with tight lips, “you found it out where? In our yard?”

  I nod. Slowly. “By the SOLD sign.”

  “This came off a car, a Benz—maybe the car that hit Benny.”

  Cold washes over me. “I … I didn’t think it was anything to worry about.”

  She sighs. “What’s going on with you lately? It’s not like you to not think about something. The old Birdie would’ve given this to me or Dad right away, analyzed the type of metal used to make it, and drawn a lengthy conclusion as to the make and model of the car it was sitting on top of.”

  My voice wavers. “I’m sorry.”

  “Listen, I know it’s been a lot, with Benny, and school, and work, and I haven’t been here, and Dad’s working, and Brynn’s being, well, Brynn, but you’ve never been the girl who stops using her head. This could solve Benny’s case. Or someone else’s. You’ve seen all those crosses out there.”

  I’m silent, afraid to speak. She can see my reluctance. “I called the investigator from the accident and told him about it. They’re going to track down all Benz owners in a hundred-mile radius to see what comes up. If there’s anything else you want to tell me, now’s the time.”

  Her eyes almost hurt, the way they’re stabbing into me. I shake my head. “Nothing else.”

  She lingers in my stare long enough to make me uncomfortable. “Okay, then. Get ready for school.”

  I jump from bed and zip over to my camera where I’ve taken about a dozen pictures of the ornament from different angles. I press Delete.

  Click click click click.

  What am I doing? What reason do I have to not tell the police I found it? Honestly, I’d kind of forgotten I had the thing until just now. It’s probably nothing. Probably. As in, my chances of it being nothing and being something are split fifty-fifty. Not great odds to bank on.

  I flip my laptop open and do a quick search of different styles of Mercedes-Benzes, unsure as to what I’m looking for. My eyes scan the pages, scrolling with each picture. News flash—there are a lot, and I can’t really tell the difference between them. Until I see something familiar; something I think I saw before:

  S65 AMG IN RUBY/BLACK METALLIC

  “This could be it,” I tell Chomperz. Doesn’t even open his eyes. Now I know I’m onto something, I’m just not exactly sure what that is.

  A while later, I pull into the school parking lot sort of dazed. I’m going over the night of the accident, bit by bit, trying to see the car in my head. I remember the rain, the smell of my puke, and the sound of Mom’s screams. But the car, even from my view up on the hill, is absent from my memory completely. So if I don’t remember, why am I stuck on that image and hood ornament?

  On my way to class, I hear the sound of Violet’s clogs quickly approaching, akin to a fighter pilot’s helicopter picking up speed. I spin around before she can tackle me. She does, anyway.

  “Ohmygoshohmygoshohmygosh!” She’s frantic.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, extracting myself from her.

  She drops her backpack. Pain etches across her face.

  “Vi—what happened?”

  “It’s Zoe,” she says, referring to her acupuncturist. “She said my energy channels are all blocked and then, after a few of the needles wouldn’t go in, she looks at me and says, ‘Maybe it’s not your channels that need the help,’ and it hit me, like, here I am looking for all these ways to find answers for you when really maybe all you need is me to be there.”

  I cock my head to the side and make a pouty face. “Aww—you are here for me. No one else makes a wish at eleven eleven every night on my behalf.”

  She sighs, giving a half smile. “But is there something else I can do? I feel like I’m not doing enough, and I just want to help make things better. Because you’re, like, the best person I know, and none of this should be happening, and—”

  I wrap my arms around her and squeeze. “You’re a nut, and I love you.”

  She’s crying a little. It’s this tiny, mouselike squeak-sniffle-squeak. “I love you so hard.”

  I grab her backpack and shove it into her arms. “No. More. Energy. Drinks.”

  She nods. “You know me too well.”

  Mrs. Rigsby stops me as I enter the room; Vi moves ahead to her seat. “How’s your family holding up?” she asks.

  For a split second, I wonder if something’s happened in the time since I left home. Things do that. They don’t give any warning. They just … go. From the way she’s looking at me, I’m not sure. “Better, thanks.”

  “Mmm-hmm. I’m sure it’s been hard.”

  She’s never asked like this. Not yesterday or the day before or the day before that, and I’m starting to panic. “Did my parents call the school? Is something wrong?”

  “Oh, no. I caught the news this morning. Just wanted to check in.”

  I lean into her. “What do you mean?”

  “Police have a suspect in custody.”

  My eyes widen. “They what?”

  “It’s great news, right?” She pats my shoulder and moves behind her desk as the bell rings. Vi sees my face. Her hand finds its way to my arm, and she keeps it there for the rest of class.

  After school, I weave through the crowds to my car and peel out of the lot. I drive to the hospital, where Mom and Dad are sitting at Benny’s side. When I reach the room, I’m out of breath.

  “The police arrested someone?” I ask, out of breath.

  Mom doesn’t turn toward me. “Oh, yeah. But they let him go.”

  “Why?”

  “We don’t know. They’re not telling us anything.”

  Dad pats my leg, looks to Benny, and smiles. “He’s doing good, though. That’s all that matters. Dr. Stein says it’s the fastest he’s seen anyone come out of a coma. Especially in Benny’s state.”

  I smile, too, but my stomach is still in knots. Something feels off. With Mom’s back still to me, I walk toward her. “I found out what kind of car the hood ornament belongs to. If I found it so easily, the police will, too.”

  “There’s the Birdie I know,” she says.

  I sit with my parents in the room for a while to watch Benny’s twitching hands and eyes. He’s moving more than he has this whole stay. Christmas music streams in from the hallway.

  “I’m not ready for Christmas,” Mom says, sighing. “Not without Benny.”

  “No one would blame you if you wanted to skip it,” Dad says. “Thanksgiving was weird enough.”

  “Brynn’s wish list is a mile long,” she says, rubbing her temples. “She doesn’t get that we’re going broke just to keep Benny alive.” She looks up at me again. “But you, Birdie, you never ask for anything.”

  My mind starts pinging in all different directions. “Mom, Dad,” I hesitate, “what if something happened to you guys? I don’t even know your wishes, what you’d want to happen.”

  Dad grins, looks to Mom. “What would we care at that point? Just make sure you feed Chomperz. And Sarge.”

  * * *

&
nbsp; After a while, I tell them I’m going to work. But instead, I drive to the nursing home to see if there’s been any sign of Bash. Checking my phone hasn’t magically made his texts appear, and if no one else can tell me where he’s at, maybe Camilla can. Life is in this strange transitional state. Unsure of which direction to move, I just go forward as fast as I can, hoping it will unstick the rest of life with me.

  I’m empty-handed, no flower or gift, when I stroll around the front desk and down the long hallway. Her door is open, her room is clear. My stomach lurches.

  “She died Saturday,” Nurse Kim says from behind.

  “What? No.”

  “Thought Bash would’ve told you by now.”

  I can’t take my eyes off the uninhabited bed, the place where his mother had lain just a few days ago, talking to me, and I can’t help but think about Benny and how quickly everything can change. Close your eyes and everything you know is gone. Just like that.

  “He won’t return my calls, texts. I haven’t heard from him since … Saturday. Oh my God.” It hits me. I know now, selfishly, it isn’t me. It’s her.

  “He’s devastated, probably doesn’t know how to reach out. Not his style. I stopped by yesterday, and even though I saw him through the window, he wouldn’t answer the door. He’s hurtin’ bad. She was his world.”

  I grab ahold of her arm, plead with big eyes. “Where does he live?”

  She backs away. “I can’t give that information out. It’s against HIPAA laws.”

  My lip quivers beyond all control. “I know what it feels like, what he’s going through. I just want to be there for him. Please.”

  With a quick glance down the hallway, she grits her teeth as if she’s trying to fight the urge to spill something she shouldn’t. “Like I said. I can’t tell you he lives in the trailer park off Ridge Avenue. It’s against HIPAA laws to suggest he might be at number seventeen, near the end. I’d lose my job if I gave that out.” She smirks and pats my back. “Take care of that boy, sugar. Lord knows he needs it.”

  I nod, backing away. My heart pounds with a heavy thud as I walk back to my car, where I’d left the door unlocked—a lesson still not learned. But this time the only thing missing is that little piece Bash took from me.

  My heart.

  LESSON OF THE DAY: There are reasons—many reasons—some particles shouldn’t combine, no matter how curious you are about the outcome. Sometimes things explode; sometimes they dissipate, evaporate, disintegrate. And sometimes they collide and become something so much more than you ever thought they could.

  Consider this my little experiment.

  BASH

  I crack open my eyes.

  Sunlight streams through the sheets hanging over the windows. I smack my lips together, pinch the skin between my brows, and roll onto my side with a deep groan. It feels like I’ve been sleeping for a year, a bear waking from hibernation. I glance at the time on my phone—4:01 P.M.—and see four new texts from Kyle.

  KYLE: TEXT ME BACK.

  KYLE: COPS QUESTIONED ME. DID WHAT U SAID. TOLD THEM IT WAS U WHO STOLE THE CAR.

  KYLE: TIMING SUX BUT DON’T HATE ME BRO.

  KYLE: I’M SURE THEY’LL LET U GO ONCE YOU EXPLAIN ABOUT YOUR MOM.

  There’s nothing left in me to feel any kind of rage. The feelings just settle and dissipate in my guts. Feels like a dream, a nightmare. One I won’t wake up from. I miss Ma. Her eyes are all I see when I close mine. She’s looking at me with that face, the one that sees past all my wrongs, all my mistakes. I’m not easy to love, but damn it, even after all the trouble I caused before she got sick, she never gave up on me.

  And now I’m alone.

  I reach over and grab a near-empty bottle of whiskey from beside my bed, next to the untouched box of Ma’s things. They still smell like her, and I get a huge waft as I lean over. That goddamned Christmas tree stares me in the eye. No blinking lights, but that ornament is latched around the top where a tiny angel should be. I wrap my fingers around the circle and read it again. If I could give you anything, it wouldn’t only be the world, but the hope to fill it with. I swallow. Ma, I don’t want the world if you’re not in it.

  I chug what’s left of the whiskey and launch the bottle at the wall. The glass explodes into a thousand pieces, like my heart. I slam my head back into my pillow and sink into the spinning room. My head throbs, but nothing hurts worse than missing Ma. Nothing. Doesn’t matter how long she groomed me for her death, the world is frozen, tipped on its axis. There’s a complete emptiness in the trailer, the city—the whole damn world. Her spirit is somewhere I can’t see or feel, and with it, she took mine, too.

  I close my eyes again and drift to a place that comforts me. Ma smiles as I’m about to blow out thirteen candles on the small cake she made from scratch. I remember how long she stood in the kitchen. With flour on her apron, she brought that cake out and sang to me. I still hear the way her voice cracked as she hit the high note at the end. I laughed, and she poked her finger in the icing and pressed it onto the tip of my nose. Kind of the way Birdie did. That’s all that’s left now. Memories. But the worst part is, wherever she is, if she’s looking down on me, she’ll know what I’ve done.

  And that kills me.

  I grab my phone and drag myself out of the twisted sheet to take a pee, my balance off kilter, and when I’m finished, I see something sticking through the door. It’s a bereavement card from Nurse Kim. She wants me to know she’s here for me, I’m not alone. I laugh out loud, because they’re just words. Words that don’t mean shit. I am alone. And when I’m not, it’ll be because I’m in jail. So basically, everywhere I look, it sucks.

  I grab another bottle of whiskey and slink back over to the recliner. Flipping through my phone’s playlist, I find something dark—a Johnny Cash remake of that Nine Inch Nails song, “Hurt”—and let my eyes close. The pain washes over me, cleanses me. My eyes burn and crackle. The vessels feel red, swollen. The more I think, the more I drink. Ma’s face, drink. Ma’s last words to me, drink. Kyle’s stupid face, drink. Damn. I can’t remember the last time I was hungover and drunk at the same time. Probably before Ma got sick, when I fucked up on the regular.

  I join in, waving my arms in the air, bottle in hand, singing. As I’m deep in the middle of the first chorus, a knock on the door grabs my attention.

  “Go away!” I yell, continuing to wave my fingers to the beat.

  “It’s me, Bash,” Birdie shouts.

  I ignore her, lost in the song.

  “Let me in,” she says. “I see you. I know you hear me.”

  Still, I ignore her, take another swig.

  She pounds on the door’s pane, harder this time.

  I pretend she’s not there. Pretend I’m not here.

  She pushes through the door and, in a matter of seconds, is standing in front of me grabbing for my bottle. “Get your own,” I say, pulling back. “This one’s mine.”

  “I’m worried about you.”

  “Go home,” I say, bitterness on my tongue. The whiskey swishes like a cyclone.

  She kneels in front of me, her big, teary eyes looking up at me through those dopey thick-framed glasses. She grabs my hand. “I’m so, so sorry. There is nothing else I can say. I’m just sorry.”

  I rip my hand away, take another drink.

  “Talk to me,” she says. “Let me help.”

  My eyes still avoid her. “You can’t help me. You don’t even know me.”

  “I do know you. You’re just hurting.”

  “If you knew me, you wouldn’t be here.”

  Her eyes wander, scanning the place. “I’m not leaving unless you get out of that chair and physically throw me out.” Her feet are planted on the floor, so I get up from the chair and yank on the fabric of her jacket.

  “What are you doing?” she squeals.

  “Throwing you out.”

  She resists, cocks her arm, and shoves me back into the recliner, where it’s still warm. “Let me rephrase—I’m no
t leaving.”

  I look up at her, my vision wobbling side to side. Her face is stern. “Do whatever you want. I don’t care,” I say.

  She kneels at the side of the recliner again, her chin resting on the arm. The sun streaks her brown hair, highlighting the golden strands.

  I hold her stare, challenge her. “Stop. Go be with your family.”

  “Stop what?”

  “Pretending to care about me. Leave. Act like we never met. Trust me. It’s for the best.”

  My intended arrow finds its mark; her face falls. “Haven’t you heard of the Butterfly Effect—if I change one thing, it changes everything.”

  “Isn’t that what you want? Everything to change?”

  Her hurt turns to confusion. “Not if it means never knowing you.”

  I swallow that recurring lump that crawls to the top of my throat, choking me. It’s prickly and hurts like hell as it goes down. “When you know me, really know me, you’ll wish you’d never met me. That is a fact. You like facts.”

  “And maybe I won’t. You don’t know. It’s not a fact, it’s a possibility. They’re different concepts—what will happen versus what could.”

  We hold our gaze, I think I smile, but I can’t feel my mouth. I throw back another swig of whiskey. “She was six months pregnant with me when she left Brazil.”

  “Why’d she leave?”

  My stare goes blank. I feel my muscles tighten, the anger still very much right where I left it. “To get away from my dad.”

  I start to take another drink, but she pulls the bottle from my hands, wraps her hand around mine. “Did something happen?”

  “I asked about a hundred times, she never said,” I say, “but the way Ma always tensed up at the question, her body visibly shaken, I didn’t need to hear the answer. He wasn’t the nicest, and into some bad stuff, if you know what I mean.”

  There’s a long pause, but I see more questions brewing. Her brain never stops.

  Stupid fucking beautiful brain.

  “Then you moved in with your crappy friend?”

  “Ma’s first job here in the States was cleaning their house, picking up their shit, basically wiping their asses. But after Kyle’s mom threw us out, she met Joe, and I did everything possible to piss her off, make her see he was worse than anything she left in Brazil. Took years, but when he finally left, it wasn’t long before she was sick.”