by Tiffany King
“They don’t miss me. They miss their sister,” I mumbled. My bite of food lodged in my throat, making it difficult to swallow.
“Sweetie, they miss you, too. You haven’t seen them since . . .” Her voice trailed off as she worked to compose herself before her emotions got the best of her. As steadfast as my parents were in their quest for justice, Mom had a hard time saying the word accident. It had become a tainted word. She didn’t have to say any more for me to understand. The last time I had seen Tracey’s twin brothers was when I hugged them after the graduation ceremony on that fateful night. Before my life changed so radically that I couldn’t remember who I was.
Patricia had come to see me in the hospital two days after the accident. More than anyone else, I felt I owed her an explanation, but between the grief and the painkillers that had turned my thoughts into a jumbled mess, I couldn’t put two coherent words together. I wished badly that I could go back now and wipe the slate clean. To tell her everything I wanted to say.
• • •
graduation night 2013
The beach was just what I needed to mellow me out. I was still trying to process what I had seen between Zach and Tracey. It didn’t mean I wasn’t hurt, but somewhere between splashing in the water with my friends beneath the stars and plucking up a few seashells to commemorate our night, I decided I would not allow this to cause a rift in our group. Tomorrow would be soon enough to talk about it.
After rinsing away the remaining tiny grains of sand from our feet at the outdoor showers, we began to pile into the Suburban. My foot hesitated on the running board as my hand gripped the handle I used to propel myself into my usual seat. Over the last two and a half years since Zach got his license, I had always ridden shotgun. Everyone assumed the front seat belonged to me. For the first time ever, it no longer felt like mine. Zach watched me with curiosity. I could tell he saw my indecisiveness. My eyes flickered to Tracey, who was watching us both intently. She looked apologetic, ready to throw herself on the mercy of the group. My eyes moved to the rest of our friends, who were oblivious to what was going on. If I moved to the second row, giving Tracey the front seat, it would be like posting one of those giant theme park billboards over our heads. Then we would have to spend the rest of the night explaining who knew what and when and how I felt. I wasn’t ready to spend an evening discussing it. Seeing no diplomatic way to handle the situation, I finally climbed into the front seat, feeling like a complete fraud.
• • •
My hesitation that night still festered like an open wound, leaving me to forever deal with if only. Two words that should be stricken from the English language. If only we would have stayed at the beach a little longer, or if only we would have left just a few seconds earlier. If only I would have climbed into the Suburban without pause. Worst of all, if only I would have traded spots with Tracey. The thought of it keeps me up at night in a cold sweat, haunted by the rattling chains of guilt that bind me. If I would have switched seats, Tracey would be here and I wouldn’t. I didn’t want to be the person who said I was glad to be alive. Admitting that would be the same as accepting my friends’ fates. How could I explain that to Tracey’s mom or to her brothers? I was ashamed that I was glad to be alive. What kind of person did that make me?
Dad saved the day by finally changing the subject to something I could participate in, and by the end of our dinner I no longer felt the urge to stab myself in the eye with a fork. I considered that a success.
My parents refused to take no for an answer regarding the movie, threatening to follow me back to my dorm room to sit and chat for the next two hours as my only other option. Since the theater shared the same parking lot as the Olive Garden, we didn’t bother to move the car. The surrounding area of different shopping complexes and restaurants was littered with people, mostly students because of the close proximity to campus. Usually I avoided this area like it was a breeding ground for some epic disease. Navigating through crowds with my leg was never fun, and I got enough stares from my peers while walking back and forth to classes every day. Before the accident I never gave much thought to people who were different. Dragging a bum leg around with a cane had opened my eyes to a new level of understanding. People couldn’t seem to help looking. Not that anyone ever had an unkind word to say, but the pity in their eyes made me want to scream.
Walking bookended by my parents toward the theater, it occurred to me that it was the first time I had gone to the movies since the accident. Subconsciously, I think I realized it earlier, which was one of the reasons why I protested going. My thoughts transported me back to my adolescent years when Mom and Dad would take a turn at chaperoning my friends and me.
Over the years, all of our parents would take chaperoning duty on occasion to give the other parents a date night. My parents always liked taking us to the movies, saying it was an easy way to keep us corralled for a couple of hours. They would allow us to sit in our own row so we could feel like we didn’t actually have parents looking over our shoulders.
That was how my life was now defined—before the accident, and after the accident. A simple movie with my parents today had become a significant moment in my life because everything I did that used to involve my friends would now be a first. I hated all the firsts, absolutely loathed them. They would sneak up on me in the form of inconsequential everyday occurrences to bite me in the ass.
In all the sessions during the past year with my therapist, Tanya, she had neglected to tell me how to deal with firsts. Like the first time I picked up my phone without thinking about it to text Tracey or Jessica, and forgetting neither of them would be there to answer, or how I would feel two months after the accident when our graduation pictures arrived in the mail. That day was tough to remember. Anger had rippled through my body until I shook so severely I could barely focus. My computer had suffered the wrath of my pain as I hurled it with all my might against the wall, leaving nothing but broken pieces.
That was the curse of surviving. You’re left to pick up the pieces of your broken, shattered, decimated life. I couldn’t remember what it felt like to be whole.
I managed to make it into the lobby without either of my parents catching a hint of what I was feeling inside. They lightly bickered over what size popcorn to get, while I shoved my pain deep down like I did all my feelings these days.
It was only after we entered the theater and faced the steep incline of the stadium-style seating that we remembered the stairs. In the past we had always preferred to sit in the top row. A row which now sat at the top of a mountain of mockery as yet another example of something that would never be the same again. Refusing to concede, I gripped the railing, preparing myself for the grueling task of making it to the top.
Mom made a move toward the first row. “Honey, let’s sit down here.”
Dad nodded his head. “This works for me,” he said with a forced jovial cheerfulness.
I ignored them, mostly out of frustration, wondering briefly if this would be the moment that Mount Mac the volcano would make an appearance again and erupt all over the theater. Since the graduation picture episode, which led to the demise of my laptop, I’d managed to hide my feelings. I was convinced that if anyone caught a glimpse of the darkness that now resided inside me, they would lock me away.
I turned back toward the stairs, done with letting another simple task make me the victim again. With painstaking care, I climbed the first two steps, using my cane and the railing for support. Neither of my parents spoke as they trailed patiently behind me. The entire theater could have been staring at me at that point, but I didn’t notice and, frankly, didn’t care. My resolve, or perhaps stubbornness was a better way to say it, was set in stone. I made it up ten steps with a thin trail of sweat trickling down my back. My hand shook slightly on my cane from exertion. Dad offered me his hand when he saw me wavering on the fourteenth step, but I brushed it away. I had to do this on my own.
Shallow and erratic breaths wheezed from my lun
gs and black dots speckled across my vision. My hair clung to the nape of my neck from perspiration. I sounded and most likely looked like a wreck. Judging by the painful rhythmic throbbing, my leg had suffered the heaviest consequences, but I still made it to the top step.
The last task was getting to the seats Mom and Dad preferred. “Excuse me,” I said to two couples who stood as I approached.
They began gathering their belongings. “Here, we’ll move down.”
“No,” I answered abruptly as I shuffled awkwardly around them to get down the row. I heard my dad thank them as I sank down into my seat just as the lights in the theater dimmed. Grateful for the shield of darkness, I wiped a stray tear from my cheek as I tried to massage the pain from my leg.
Mom reached over without saying a word and handed me a couple of pain relievers and my drink. I kept my eyes glued to the screen, not daring to look at her. The last thing I wanted was some sort of merciful look from my own mother. My newfound streak of obstinacy had caused a fair amount of friction in our family over the past year. The old me would never have ignored my parents and climbed the steps. I would have gone with the flow and meekly followed Mom and Dad to the first-row crappiest seats in the house. Even with a kink in my neck from looking up at the screen, I would have remained sitting there, saying nothing because that was what I did. Before the accident I was the good girl—the one who didn’t buck the system. Since then, everything my friends and I had endured made me reconsider the necessity of compliance for the sake of conformity.
I swallowed the pain pills, hoping the throbbing in my leg would subside soon. Most of the theater barked with laughter over a preview for some Christmas spoof movie coming out in November. It wasn’t that I didn’t think it was funny, but the pain in my leg had monopolized my focus. Thankfully, the pills worked their magic and the throbbing in my leg eased to a dull ache. I sat with a small measure of pride in the pit of my stomach. Six months ago those stairs would have been impossible. Today I wouldn’t say I made them my bitch, but I definitely proved they couldn’t beat me down.
For a brief moment in the darkened theater, I felt more alive than I had in a long time.
five
Bentley
Friday was a complete bust in one respect, but a surprising windfall in another. I headed to the library under the bullshit pretense of studying, hoping to see Mac again. I was banking on being able to coax her out of her shell a bit. It was a total Hail Mary pass considering the way she shot me down yesterday, but I couldn’t help being intrigued.
I would have thought the library would be as busy as yesterday, but it was dead as a cemetery. The only people I saw were a couple dudes sitting at a table arguing in loud whispers about some card game they were playing. I looped the entire library, expecting to find Mac hiding in one of the far corners. Coming up empty, I sank down in the same chair as the day before to wait her out. I pulled out a book so I would at least look like I was studying when she came in.
Eventually boredom took over and I figured if I was going to sit here, I might as well at least attempt to get a little work done, so I pulled my laptop from my backpack. As it turned out, I was able to find my zone, roughing an outline for a paper that was due Monday. Mac still hadn’t turned up, and I debated packing my bag and heading out. I stood up and stretched, looking over at the table of card players that had now increased to six people. It was some kind of fantasy nerdfest game, but they seemed to be taking it seriously.
“Fuck it,” I said quietly as I sat back down to start my paper. I had it completely drafted out anyway, and it wasn’t like I had anything going on at home.
Three hours later my neck was one big freaking knot from leaning over my laptop, but my paper was done. Rubbing a hand over my neck, I looked at my computer screen with satisfaction. It had been a while since I’d kicked out an assignment so flawlessly. Maybe there was something to using the library to study after all.
Looking around as I packed my bag, I could see I was the last person to leave. Even the fantasy geeks were gone. I glanced at my phone, knowing the library closed early on Fridays. “Sorry about that,” I said to the librarian as she switched off the lights. I couldn’t help noticing she had it going on a little bit. She was older—mid-thirties maybe, but she fit comfortably in the MILF category.
“That’s okay. I had a few things to take care of. I was going to tell you when I was ready. Did you finish?” She nodded at my backpack.
I flashed my dimpled grin that I knew was my winning smile. “I did. Thanks.”
She blushed slightly. “No problem.” I couldn’t help grinning. I hesitated for a moment. This was a once-in-a-lifetime, hot-for-teacher-fantasy kind of moment. After what I’d passed on yesterday, it was like karma was giving me a second chance to keep my man card.
“Was there something else you wanted?” she asked.
Fuck. It was like I had been transported back in time into an old Van Halen video. “Uh, nah,” I answered as my thoughts drifted to Mac. I turned and got the hell out of there before my little head could make up my mind for me.
• • •
I slept in the next morning since I’d gotten my paper done. After leaving the library yesterday, I chilled out at home and went to sleep earlier than usual. Once I got out of bed, I made a halfhearted attempt to clear a path across my room so I was at least able to walk to the shower without tripping over dirty clothes and discarded shoes and textbooks. I grabbed my work uniform off the back of my desk chair where I’d draped it after washing it the week before. Mom would have my ass if she saw it there. I could just picture her yelling I had a closet for a reason. “This place would probably give her a stroke,” I muttered to myself as I spotted an empty pizza box peeking out from under my bed. At least, I thought it was empty. Honestly, I couldn’t even remember when it was from.
I should have probably cleaned up, but I dismissed the idea before it could fully come to fruition. It wasn’t all that bad, and I knew where everything was, so it wasn’t like I was living in total filth.
My eyes drifted again to the pizza box. Okay, maybe a little filth. Tomorrow I would clean it.
Chad was playing Halo as usual when I left the bathroom a half an hour later with a cloud of steam following me. “Where you going?” His eyes looked milky and bloodshot and his hair was matted on one side while the rest stood on end.
“Work. You know that thing some of us have to do when we’re not sucking off the parental tit.”
“Don’t be jealous, bro. We all can’t live the high life.” He stretched his arms around the area where he was sitting. Empty cans and dishes littered every square inch of the coffee table. Xbox games and their empty cases were scattered across the couch cushions and the floor.
“Dude, you’re a fucking mess.”
Chad ran a hand through the matted side of his hair, making it stand on end to match the other side. He looked like he’d gone mad. “What are you talking about?”
“You look like something a cat would hack up. You smell like it, too.”
“Like hell I do,” he said, grimacing when he lifted his arm and sniffed it.
“And you wonder why no chicks will come over here,” I pointed out, heading to the kitchen, which was separated from the living room space by a high counter.
“Psh, I get pussy anytime I want, unlike some people I know.”
I flipped him off. “By choice, man. And by pussy, I don’t mean stray cats, motherfucker,” I joked as he chucked an empty can at me.
“Fuck you, bitch. That pussy loved me,” he retorted, laughing at his own joke. “How about throwing me another Red Bull?” He slouched back against the couch, picking up his game controller from a dirty plate on the coffee table.
I shook my head, pulling a Red Bull out of the refrigerator along with a nearly empty jug of milk. Tossing Chad his drink, I opened the milk and sniffed it apprehensively. It smelled okay even though according to the date on the side, it had expired two days ago. My stomach gr
owled loudly, so I was willing to take the risk. Opening the cabinet, I pulled out the cereal I wanted while trying to keep the rest of the boxes that were crammed inside from falling out. Cereal, milk, and Red Bull were the three staple items that we all seemed to live on. We bought all three in bulk using Chad’s parents’ warehouse store card. Judging by the barren state of the refrigerator and the Red Bull cans everywhere, we’d be putting another dent on that card soon.
I was standing at the counter eating my breakfast/lunch when Michael stumbled out of his room looking worse than Chad.
“Hey, is that my Fruity Pebbles?” he asked, swiping the box off the counter.
I quickly snatched the box back. “No, they’re my Fruity Pebbles. Next time get your own box.”
“Don’t be a douche. You can share.”
“Okay, you can have some,” I offered, grinning as I tossed the box to him before he headed around the counter.
“What did you do, spit in it?” he asked suspiciously.
“Dude? Like I’d do something like that. It’d be unholy to defile a box of Fruity Pebbles.”
He looked in the box apprehensively before pouring himself a serving. He eyed the cereal skeptically as it filled the bowl.
I was already chuckling by the time he opened the refrigerator and discovered I used the last of the milk. “You’re an asshole,” he grumbled, grabbing a spoon from the sink. He rinsed it off before digging into his dry cereal.
“You can always use one of Chad’s Red Bulls.” To rub it in further, I tipped my bowl up to my lips to drink the last of the fruity-flavored milk.