Over You

by Amy Reed

  And then, white. Not the light, but a hospital. Not warm, but sterile. Not now, but later. I am in the room, in the corner. Still floating. Still air. Still nothing except to dogs and babies. Mother, you are awake. You are in the bed and you are almost smiling. Dad, your hand is soft and strong around hers. I can feel how you’re holding it, with just the right amount of pressure. Mom, you are tired. You have never felt so tired. I swim inside you and know how hard you had to fight to come back. But you did. You were at the bottom of the lake and made a decision. You got to the end of the tunnel and decided to turn around. Dad kisses you on the temple. There is only one thing missing. But I am already here! I can feel your heart breaking. The voice in your head—I’m sorry I’m sorry. Everyone is always so sorry. What if we all just stopped being sorry?

  I know this is the tunnel. I know there are two ways to go. I know where the light is brighter. It calls me like a magnet, so warm, the warmest thing I have ever felt. It says stop fighting. It says let go. It says come here. Rest. Stop being sorry.

  But there is another light at the other end. This one is smaller, covered up by so much mud. It’s the light at the bottom of the box. It’s the light that stayed when Pandora opened it, the one everyone forgets. We keep chasing the other one, the bright and flashy, the one that is so certain. But look at this beautiful thing hiding, this rare and precious thing, so small it’s so often overlooked. There is hope shining in all these places I thought were dark, light hiding where I forgot to look, light like an afterthought, discarded by time, and I am its gleaner.

  Ἅιδης

  HADES, REVISITED

  Here again, facing this lonely god.

  You are as empty as we are, as yearning and lost. How can someone so sad be scary? Is loneliness what made you cruel, what makes you hoard these souls you have no real use for?

  Your servant, Death—he is not cruel. He takes and takes, but like so many others who inflict pain, he is just doing his job—ruthless in his apathy, too broken to care. It is not hard to outsmart him. His heart is not in it. Some say he wants to be tricked.

  I sneak out of your gloomy procession. That is not my blood on your altar. That is not my breath in your mouth. You have sent your servant too soon. You must wonder why my body’s so light. I will tell you—it is only a shell.

  Everyone must cross the water. They must put the coins on their eyes. They must sacrifice a lock of hair. These things can be measured. Grams and ounces.

  But what is the weight of the soul? How many grams is defiance? How many ounces is light? Tell me, how do you measure hope?

  Vague memories of choking, of breathing and not breathing, someone else breathing for me, someone else’s breath in my lungs, pushing the lake out. Waking up, Doff hovering above me, concerned faces in the sky. Dogs barking, at war with the wind. Snapshots, then black. Life, then death, and then life again.

  The lake took me, but then she spit me out. What I know is I’m alive. Doff pulled me out from the bottom of the lake and gave me his breath. His knuckles are bruised from giving Dylan a black eye to match his other. Sadie has been tucked into bed back at the trailer to sleep the night off. I am on a couch in the living room, naked and wrapped in quilts. Dylan and the green truck are long gone, escaped into the violent night.

  It is morning. The sun shines bright through the window like it’s in denial about what happened last night. It’s a summer day like any other, despite the fallen tree limbs, upended chairs, and various loose items strewn about the farm. The funnel itself missed us by a couple miles, but the surrounding storm did some damage. Doff says we got lucky. Almost all of the structures stayed perfectly intact. Except my yurt. It was sucked into the night, leaving only the bare cracked skeleton of its frame. No one has found the rest of it yet, not to mention my stuff. Farmers for miles around will find my underwear hanging from ears of corn.

  So now I am homeless. I have nothing. Luckily, I left my wallet in the main house, so at least I have identification, a flimsy piece of plastic that says I’m me. But I don’t even have any clothes; I was naked when Doff found me, and the storm took everything I owned, sparing the rest of the farm for the most part, as if I was its target, as if God sent it just for me.

  So now what? All I have is my name and a headache. All I have is a prepaid ticket back to Seattle, scheduled for a month and a half from now.

  “How are you, sweetheart?” Lark coos, entering the living room with a pot of tea and some folded clothes I recognize as Sadie’s. She pours me a cup and sets it on the coffee table along with the clothes. She sits on the edge of the couch and brushes the hair from my forehead. “How are you feeling?”

  “Okay,” I croak. My throat feels like sandpaper.

  “You gave us quite a scare.”

  “Sorry,” I say.

  “Oh, Max, it’s not your fault. I know it’s not your fault.” She looks out the window, her face sad. She has the same beautiful neck as Sadie, the same sharp jaw when her teeth are clenched.

  “Whose fault is it?” I say, sitting up, suddenly full of energy, my hangover and near-drowning a distant memory. The residue of alcohol and lake has been replaced with fury. This is what it feels like to care. This is what it feels like to finally stop running. Sometimes it hurts. Sometimes it burns like breathing water. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know Lark is not the source, but it is she who is in front of me right now, she who my rage is painting red.

  She looks at me, a trace of fear or shame in her eyes. “He’s gone,” she says, already knowing it’s not the right answer. “He’s never coming back.”

  “Dylan?” I say. “It’s not his fault. He’s just an asshole who happened to be here.”

  We sit in silence for a while. Lark pours me a cup of tea, and I hold the mug in my hands, feeling its warmth, trying to draw it into the rest of my body to smooth out the tension. I don’t want to wear Sadie’s clothes, don’t want her hand-me-downs. Lark clears her throat, turns to me, and opens her mouth to speak. But she chickens out at the last minute, looking down at her hands and saying nothing. I look out the window at all the people cleaning things up, fishing their stuff out of the lake with brooms, hoisting the solar panels back onto their roofs, doing their work so efficiently, doing it because it needs to be done. If only life were that easy, with a simple set of tasks laid out in front of me, telling me exactly what to do, with none of this wondering, none of this ambiguity, none of this flailing around and drowning beneath the weight of it all.

  Finally, after what seems like forever, Lark speaks. “You’ve been a good friend to Sadie,” she says, still looking at her hands. “I don’t know what she would have done without you all these years.”

  I don’t know what to say. Thank you? Thank you for abandoning your crazy daughter when she was a baby and leaving me to take care of her?

  “I’ve noticed things have been tense between you two lately,” she continues. “I think Sadie really misses you. I think she’s really hurting.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” is what comes out of my mouth. Lark looks as surprised as I am for saying it. But I can’t stop. The storm unleashed something. I feel it raging through me. “You’re trying to tell me about how Sadie’s hurting? She’s been sitting around all summer doing nothing while I’ve been working my ass off. She’s been doing that her whole fucking life. Which, of course, you wouldn’t know, because where have you been? And now you’re trying to act all concerned like you actually give a shit? You say Sadie’s missing me? You come to me to fix it? You think I’m responsible for what’s going on between us?”

  I want to hurt her. I want to hurt anyone. “Well, what’s happening between you and Marshall?” I hiss. “I’ve seen you two together. I’ve seen you running off with him. I know what you’re doing to Doff.”

  I am shaking. I am not breathing. There is no room for breath with all this anger. Lark’s eyes fill with tears and shock, and I feel a cruel satisfaction in knowing I’ve hurt her. She buries her face in h
er hands and shakes her head back and forth slowly.

  “Say something!” I demand. I pound my fist on the couch and a cloud of dust is its sad punctuation.

  “Doff and I have an open relationship,” she says into her hands. “He knows about Marshall.”

  “What does that even mean? An ‘open relationship’? That’s just an excuse for being slutty.”

  Lark looks up at me. “I know I’ve been a terrible mother,” she says. “You think I don’t know that? I knew from the beginning I’d be a terrible mother. That’s why I left Sadie with her father. I knew it would be best for her.”

  “It didn’t work,” I snap. “She turned out just like you.”

  “I know,” she whispers. “I’m sorry, Max. I’m trying to be a good mom now. I’m trying to make up for all that lost time.”

  “What, by spoiling her? By letting her get away with anything?”

  “Maybe it looks like that to you,” Lark says, reaching out to take my hand in hers. I shake it away and turn my head so I can’t see the hurt in her face. “But I think what Sadie really needs right now is to know she’s loved,” she continues. “After all these years, I think that’s what’s really been lacking.”

  All the anger rushes out of me, pours out of my body and splashes on the floor. All that’s left is an empty, aching hole. All that’s left is the tiny yelp that comes out of my throat, the sound of all the air being shoved out of me.

  “She’s been loved,” I say, and then I am crying. I am pushing everything out. I am so small. I am so used up and deflated.

  “Oh, sweetie,” Lark says, and I let her put her arms around me, let her pull me toward her and hold me there. “You’ve done such a good job,” she says. “You’ve done such a good job loving her.”

  She holds me while I cry, rocks me softly like my mother used to for what now seem like such small hurts—a scraped knee, a playground bully. Now a new pain rips through me at the thought of my mother—not here, not holding me, but in a hospital room, naked like me in a strange place, lost and numb and almost dead.

  “I’m going to ask her to stay with me,” Lark says softly, letting me go. “Here,” she says, looking me in the eye. “Sadie can live here and go to the high school in town for senior year. I’ve thought about it all summer. But I wanted to ask you first.”

  “Ask me what?” I say. I don’t know what I am supposed to be feeling. Anger? Sadness? Loss? I feel none of those things. What I feel is light-headed. I feel hungry. I want to take a shower.

  “What do you think about it?” Lark asks. She grabs my hands in hers and I let her. “What do you think about Sadie staying here?”

  “I don’t know what I think.”

  “Max, I know you’d miss her. You’re like sisters. I understand that. I know you’d prefer to stay together. But try to think about Sadie for a minute. Try to think about what’s best for her.”

  The rage comes rushing back, stronger than ever. “What do you think I’ve been doing all these years?” The rage fills me like blood. “I’ve been thinking about what’s best for Sadie my whole fucking life. That’s all I’ve ever thought about. You think you can just decide to be her mother one day and automatically know what to do? Where have you been this whole time? Where were you all these years I’ve been taking care of her? You’re the fucking mother. Where the hell have you been?”

  But I am not talking to Lark anymore. I am not talking about Sadie. We hold each other and let our bodies speak apologies. The rage rushes out again, leaving only emptiness, only the place where love should be. We are surrogates for now, holding each other’s tears. I can close my eyes and pretend her body is my mother’s. I can practice how I really want to hold her, what I really want to say.

  Mom, where have you been? Why did you leave us? When are you coming back?

  I need you.

  I want to go home.

  “Close the door,” Sadie says, blinking at me through her hangover. “You’re letting the light in.”

  She is huddled into the shadows of the corner of her bed. I am wearing her clothes, standing in front of her, telling her I’m leaving.

  “I have to go home,” I say. “My mom’s sick.”

  “God, I feel like shit,” she says, like she didn’t even hear me. She pulls the blankets up to her chin. “What happened last night?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “Not really,” she says. “Something bad happened, didn’t it?”

  I say nothing. There is nothing to say. She has no idea she kissed me. She has no idea I drowned.

  “Wait a minute,” she says, as if she just registered what I said, as if the words took that long to travel to her brain. “You can’t leave! The summer’s not over yet. You can’t leave me here alone.” She is crying now. She is a child wrapped up in her blanket, as if it could protect her from the world, as if she could be soothed by it’s softness always. I sit down on the side of what had been my bed for only a short time.

  “Sadie, I have to go. My mom’s in the hospital.”

  She sniffles. Even she knows she can’t argue with that. “What happened? Her back again?”

  “Yes,” I lie. I am not ready to have that conversation with her. I’m not sure I want to, ever. I’m not sure Sadie’s the person I want to confide in anymore.

  “Oh no, Max. I’m so sorry,” she says, and hugs me. This close, I can smell the whiskey still on her breath, the faint scent of vomit. I hold my breath until she lets go.

  “I’m leaving tomorrow,” I tell her. “I changed my ticket. Doff’s giving me a ride to the airport in Omaha first thing in the morning.”

  “No!” she cries. “That’s too soon.”

  “Sadie, stop being such a drama queen,” I say, even though I know I shouldn’t. She hates it when I call her that, hates it when anyone discounts her feelings. But I’m so tired, I don’t care anymore.

  “I’m not a drama queen,” she pouts, pulling away deeper into the corner. “I’m sad. Don’t you think I have a right to be sad? You’re leaving me, Max. You’re leaving me here all alone, and you don’t even care how I feel about it.”

  “Sadie,” I say. “This isn’t about you.”

  She is quiet. She looks at me like I am some mysterious new thing.

  “Is this about last night?” she says carefully. “Is this about something that happened last night?”

  When she drinks so much she forgets, Sadie sometimes still feels a tiny echo of the truth—not details of events, but more like their shadows, the aftershocks of their destruction. Her brain may be blank, but her heart and her body hold on to vague memories. They are full of them, full of these indecipherable regrets. I have always been the one to help Sadie make sense of them, to match images to the feelings. But I will not do that this time.

  I will let her go. I will give her the freedom to put the pieces together herself.

  “Sadie, I think you drink too much,” I say.

  “What?”

  I’ve never said it, not once, even though I’ve wanted to all these years. “You scare me, Sadie. It’s scary when you get that drunk. You should be able to remember what happened last night.”

  “Fuck you,” she says, her face red with anger.

  “What are you going to do when I’m not around anymore? What are you going to do if I’m not there?”

  “I don’t need you to take care of me.” She pushes the blankets off of her. “What makes you think you’re so fucking important?”

  I say nothing. I don’t have an answer for that. I wish I did.

  “You’re so self-righteous, Max,” she says. “You always have been. You’ve always thought you were so much better than me. Like I couldn’t survive without you. Like I’m some useless piece of shit who can’t even take care of myself.”

  “Sadie,” I say. “That’s not what I meant.” But maybe I’m lying. Maybe that is what I meant. Maybe I played a part in her becoming this person who needs me. Maybe I’ve wanted her to be helpless all this ti
me. Maybe I needed it. Maybe I’m as much to blame as Sadie.

  We sit there in silence on the two beds, facing each other but looking in opposite directions. So this is our goodbye. After all these years of friendship. Right now, Sadie thinks it’s just for the rest of the summer, but I already know she’ll stay here. I’m the only thing she’d have to come back to in Seattle. And we both know that’s no longer enough.

  “Doff and I are leaving around five tomorrow morning for the airport,” I say. “Do you want to come?”

  “I don’t think so.” We’re still not looking at each other.

  “I’m going to go get my stuff ready,” I lie. I have nothing to get ready.

  I stand up, wanting out of here, suddenly suffocating.

  “You look weird in my clothes,” Sadie says, looking up but not at me.

  I look down at what I’m wearing—the low-cut tank top, the short shorts that are a little too tight. “I know,” I say. “I am nothing like you.”

  “That’s not it,” she says. “That’s not it at all.”

  I back out the door, still looking at her, waiting for her to look me in the eye, but she never does. “Bye,” I finally say.

  “Bye,” she says. “See you later.” And I don’t have the heart or energy to tell her that maybe she won’t. At least not for a while. Not for a long time. Maybe not until we are different people and this summer is just a memory. Maybe we will compare notes; maybe we will laugh about how different our stories are. Maybe then I will tell her I forgive her. Maybe then she will have learned that there is so much more to love than that.

  I walk back up to the house, grateful for the storm’s destruction creating enough new chores to keep me busy until tomorrow morning. I can focus on those instead of the dull ache inside my chest. I almost wish the pain were sharper, more in focus, so I could at least define it, so I could give it a name and make it something ordinary. But this isn’t a feeling that fits cleanly into any category. It’s messier than that. It’s a feeling that will linger. It will morph into different things. It will ebb and flow, rise and fall like tides. It will evaporate with the sun, then fall back down as rain.