How to Live on the Edge

by Sarah Lynn Scheerger

  “Why does everyone try to control my life? I’m an adult.”

  “So I’ve been told.” Micah flashes me an openmouthed, chocolatey grin. The jerk.

  Chapter 23

  When I finally check my phone, Axel has sent eleven separate apology texts. I guess he’s more afraid of Saff than I would’ve thought, because he doesn’t show his face even once. Micah’s right that my sister is freakishly scary when she’s mad. It looks like her eyeballs are going to detonate out of her head. Still, how would Saff know if he visited me? It’s not like the nurses are acting as Saff’s spies, on the lookout for banned boyfriends making a little sympathy visit.

  Micah has taken off for a few hours, and I’m just twiddling my fingers (not literally, because of the IV hand, which is starting to ache as they dial down the pain meds) when Fletcher steps in, holding Maggie and Missy by the hands, one on each side. A deep purple bruise leeches onto Maggie’s left cheek, and Missy wears a small bandage. They’re both so miniature next to Fletch, who’s not that big of a guy, really. Something about their pale faces and their serious eyes punctures me, a metaphorical fishhook piercing my heart.

  I know those eyes. I remember them from my own expression in that video from the park. Before I fell from the tree. Where I stared at the camera and my eyes were old.

  I straighten up as much as I can and try to ignore my screaming ribs. “Hey there, cuties. Come on over.”

  They’re frozen, perhaps scared by the hospital apparatus. Fletcher leads them both forward and releases their hands. They clutch each other and shuffle toward me.

  “I’m fine, girls.” I reach for them both. “I promise I’m fine.”

  Maggie’s face crumples first. Missy holds off another few seconds, but after she hears the first whimper from her sister, her mouth folds under and she wails. I edge myself off the bed, since it’s clear they’ll never make it close enough. Favoring my fractured ankle, I inch over until I can gather them in my arms. Fletch scoots up Micah’s chair, and I sit down on it, gingerly pulling them as close as I can and smelling their little-girl hair. It’s hard to believe that less than a day ago I was worried about Luke’s reaction to their adorable matching haircuts. Now he’s probably more concerned about physical and emotional scars.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, wishing Fletch would leave so I can be alone with them.

  Maggie sniffles, her cheeks stained with tears and her nose running almost to her lip. “Don’t ever die, Cayenne.”

  “I won’t,” I say, realizing the foolishness of that statement as soon as Fletch clears his throat.

  “Promise, Cayenne?” Missy’s hands are cold and gummy. She presses them to my cheeks. “Promise you won’t ever die? Not ever ever?”

  I take a moment. “I promise I’ll do my best to live until I’m old and gray. Maybe even until you’re old and gray.”

  These words settle them. That, along with some caramel chocolates. I search for little treasures to send home with them and settle for one of those stretchy gloves that can be blown up into a balloon with five fingers. Only I don’t have the air in my lungs to blow it up, so I have Fletcher inflate it and tie it up for them. He entertains them with the disappearing penny trick for a while, and then he leans against the wall, quiet. For a moment I wish he’d come over and hug me or something. I need a hug—so badly that I’d accept one from some x-ray tech or a night custodian.

  Once I set the girls up with a video on my phone, Fletch says quietly, “Don’t say things you don’t mean, Cayenne.”

  I just sit there, and as pathetic as it is, I still want a hug. I want someone to tell me it’s okay.

  “These girls adore you. Saff adores you. So don’t speak lightly.” His voice is gentle, but stern.

  “When I make a promise, I make a promise,” I tell him, and in this moment, I mean it.

  ✱✱✱

  Ryan/Dad shows up at discharge to take me home. He hardly speaks, just sits in the chair next to the bed, fiddling with his phone and picking at the skin around his fingers. His facial hair is overgrown. He seems bored, and frankly, I’m all lectured out, so this arrangement works just fine for me.

  Even the ride home is mostly silent. He turns the music up and thumps his fingers on the wheel as he drives. The pain has officially moved in, settling into my muscles and bones like it plans to stay awhile. It’s all I can do to survive the turns, which Ryan/Dad makes with wide and quick movements. We thump over the train tracks, not far from my secret dodging spot, and I visualize myself jumping, rolling, getting sand stuck in my teeth. A wave of nausea washes over me, and I weakly ask Ryan/Dad to pull over.

  Given my current condition, it is very difficult to vomit on the side of the road without getting ick all over myself. I do my best.

  We drive again and after a while I drift into a Vicodin-induced haze, but when he turns the music down and clears his throat, my eyes pop open. I catch him looking at me, and I sort of point to the road. I’m not in any hurry to have another accident.

  “There’s one thing I can promise you, Cay,” he says, like we’re mid-conversation instead of mid-nap. “I will never judge you.”

  The Vicodin has zapped my ability to think of snappy comebacks, so all I can muster is “Thanks.”

  “Pruning,” he says next.

  “Wha . . . ?”

  “Definition of pruning—cutting something down so it can grow.”

  “I’m confused, Da—” I stop short, realizing I almost called him Dad.

  “It’s a good metaphor.” He palms the wheel, hand over hand, to make a turn.

  “Yeah. I’m really drugged out. I have no idea what you’re saying.”

  “For life.” He turns to look at me again, too long. I gesture wildly toward the road, but this is a mistake because my ribs are howling and my arm feels like it might fall off. Maybe he can prune my arm off and I can grow a new one. “We get cut down too,” he goes on. “We can use those moments to redefine ourselves.”

  “Like you did?” My words trail out long and slow, and I imagine them in elongated cartoon word bubbles.

  “No, like I didn’t.” Ryan pulls up to the curb by my house. “Like I wish I had. Like I’m trying to do now.”

  “You’re smarter than you look.” The Vicodin has switched off any filter I might have once had. I imagine myself reaching up and popping my cartoon word bubble. “No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  This time I’m sure it’s the Vicodin, but I’d much rather sit in the car having an awkward conversation with Ryan/Dad than set foot in my own house.

  ✱✱✱

  The pain meds have blurred the lines between reality and fantasy. I lie in my bed in a haze, imagining conversations with Lorelei.

  Stay away. I won’t let you take me. I won’t let you take my family. And I won’t let you take me away from my family, I tell her, thinking how badly I want to be here to watch the Minions grow up. Back off.

  She touches her hand to her heart. Ouch. That hurts.

  Shut up. Don’t mock me.

  Who, me?

  What do I have to do to get you to stay away from me and my family?

  The game is over. I told you that already. Lorelei preens, smoothing her hair and re-wrapping her scarves. But I’m not leaving yet. I’ll go when my job here is done.

  Then you’re gonna be waiting awhile, you old witch.

  You’re missing the point. Still.

  But when I blink, she’s gone, no longer willing to waste her time. Leaving me with my lingering questions.

  Chapter 24

  Tee’s been released from the hospital, moving like she’s turned part zombie and saying things like “Man, that was brutal” and “I’m so glad that’s over.” Between the two of us with our pain pills, we could start our own opioid distribution business. She’s also got these drains the surgeon left attached to her body. They’re tubes attached to plastic packets, which fill up with a yellowish fluid. Just looking at it gives me the urge to hurl.
She dumps the fluid out several times a day and then it fills back up again.

  I guess Luke gave Tee the watered-down version of what happened. Minor accident, small injuries, kids okay, car in shop. Tee doesn’t seem overly mad at me, but maybe I have the Percocet to thank for that.

  Tee’s friends and the Chowders are taking turns bringing meals and watching the Minions after preschool. Apparently I can no longer be trusted with the Minions, so any time I spend with them is highly supervised by Luke or Saff, as if I’m a kid myself. But aside from that, Luke’s giving me the cold shoulder. In a strange way, I kind of miss his lectures. It’s almost like he’s detached himself, cutting his losses, deciding I’m no longer worth the time to lecture. I wonder if I remind him of his brother. Of my dad.

  And Saff is even worse. She morphs into this overly cheerful phony, chirping merry morning greetings, bouncing around the kitchen, preparing breakfast, heading off to school—with no offer to drive me in Tee’s car and no evident concern about me opting not to go. I know there are layers of resentment beneath this irritatingly pleasant façade.

  I send an SOS text to Axel on Thursday. We’ve been messaging back and forth since the accident on Monday, but I haven’t been able to get out of the house to see him, and with Luke and Saff standing watch, it’s not like he can barrel his way in.

  He responds within minutes, and I hobble out to the curb for a pickup. “I am so glad to get out of that house,” I confess, trying to climb into Churro with my crutches, while my ribs scold me with every movement. This proves harder than one might think. I notice he doesn’t get out of the car to help me.

  “When are you coming back to school?” he asks, watching me stretch awkwardly to shut the door behind me.

  “Next week, for sure.” Though right now the idea of maneuvering around the halls on crutches sounds daunting.

  “How you feeling?” He lets the car idle, studying me.

  I shrug. “Like I got thrown around a car at forty miles an hour. Thank god we weren’t on the freeway.”

  “Maybe now you’ll wear your seat belt,” he says. Seriously? Of all people, I’d figured Axel would be on my side. “Your family’s all pissed at me, but we wouldn’t even be in this situation if you’d just wear your damn belt.”

  My ribs ache as I stretch the seat belt over my arm, all sassy, and click it in extra loud, for emphasis. “Um, no. We wouldn’t be in this situation if you weren’t trying to street race with my cousins in the car.”

  “Why’d we even take them out so late? They should’ve been in bed,” Axel snaps. “And by the way, they were okay, because they had their belts on!”

  “I told you to stop. You didn’t listen.”

  He’s quiet for a moment. “Can we change the subject? I’m tired of being punished for this. Accidents happen. That’s why they’re called accidents.”

  This accident didn’t have to happen. But I hold my response in, ready to be done with this conversation too.

  We drive around aimlessly for a while. Our moods have soured, and nothing either of us says feels right. Axel doesn’t take me back to his apartment—perhaps he has no interest in my bruised and broken body. Not that I feel like making out either, but somehow this hurts me deep in my core. Is there nothing to do together if we’re not jumping off cliffs or tangling tongues?

  Finally he drops me off at the library, where I hobble around and flip through books for hours. At least books can’t lecture me. I feel like crying, but I pinch myself a few times, and that feeling dissipates. I distract myself by changing my phone’s screensaver image to one of the Minions swinging from the play structure at the spider web park. I love those girls so much. If they’d been seriously hurt in the accident I’d never forgive myself. I feel ill just thinking about it.

  I think about Ryan/Dad, and how the guilt of his choices nearly destroyed him. The parallel of our lives frightens me—both of us in a major accident senior year of high school. I don’t want to get stuck in the same patterns he did.

  I promise myself I’ll cut back on the pain medication starting tomorrow. They sent me home with more than I need, and I don’t want to take the chance of getting hooked.

  I text Micah for a ride home at seven, and he shows up, no questions asked.

  ✱✱✱

  My aching ribs and my cast-bound ankle make it nearly impossible to sleep. I want to prop my foot up on pillows, but Tee’s confiscated all the extra pillows in the house to arrange around herself. I feel for her—she can’t lie flat on her back and can hardly move her arms (I guess because the surgeons sliced through muscle), so nighttime is agony for her.

  Tee’s parked herself out on the couch, so it’s not like I can sleep there either. And I can’t complain to her, because my injuries are mere splinters compared to the hackage of her breasts. I can’t even justify feeling sorry for myself when I’m around her. I’ve basically resigned myself to never sleep again. I may start hallucinating from sleep deprivation, but what can I do?

  I’m struck by a craving. A deep want for something I know doesn’t exist—for someone to take care of me. To bring me an aspirin (I’ve switched to non-addictive pain management) with a glass of bubbling ginger ale and a straw. To tuck the blankets around me, to help me ice my ribs, and prop up my ankle. I want my mom.

  I think of the journal. I haven’t read it in a long time. I hobble over to Saff’s room. This time the smell of lilacs makes me want to cry again, and my throat twists up like the tears can somehow be wrung out. I swallow hard until the feeling fades.

  Stealthy stealing is nearly impossible with my ankle like this, but I’m at the point of not caring whether I’m discovered. What, would Saff be pissed at me? No problem. She’s already pissed at me. So I might as well do whatever the hell I want.

  Once I have the journal I hobble back to my room, edge myself down onto my bed, and start to read. I find a page that feels like it was written specifically for me in this moment in time.

  What’s in a life?

  It can happen to you. You think it can’t because you’re young and confident. But everything that happens to other people CAN happen to you. Like getting pregnant before you’re ready. Like losing your way. Like getting cancer. Like dying.

  Don’t be paralyzed by this idea. This shouldn’t stop you from living your life. Keep driving your car, keep dating, keep taking risks—but take precautions too. Don’t get so sucked into living in the moment that you forget you are vulnerable. You are human.

  And love . . .

  Love is a construct. It’s a feeling, of course, but it’s also a construct fed by media and books and our romantic minds. We think love will bowl us over. Sometimes it does. But mostly love is a sense of companionship, a warmth in your heart, a sense of security. Make sure you’re looking for the right kind of love.

  What’s in a life? —Saffron

  I know it can happen to me.

  I know it can happen to someone I love.

  I’m not paralyzed by this idea,

  But I am haunted by it.

  It weighs on my shoulders

  It taunts me in my dreams.

  And mostly I feel like Cayenne

  Wants to rub my face in it.

  She’s totally oblivious to how much this hurts me.

  Thank God for Fletch.

  He’s my companion, one hundred percent.

  And thank God for Vanessa.

  She’s my bestie.

  She’s been through her own hardships—

  Like when she first transitioned

  And her brother stopped talking to her for a year—

  And when her grandma passed

  And when her appendix burst.

  I’ve been there for her and she’s been there for me

  Every step of the way.

  I close the journal. I craved comfort and instead I got guilt. But I wonder—did Saff write this entry before the accident, or after?

  Chapter 25

  Another day passes, filled with
enough uncomfortable moments to make food poisoning sound fun by comparison. Trying to maneuver in the shower with my throbbing ankle wrapped in a plastic bag, my toes so swollen that they look like fat little sausages, my ribs making me feel like a cracked porcelain doll, and all this compounding the impossibility of finding a sleeping position that doesn’t ache.

  Even though it would be easier to keep taking the pain medication, I’ve committed to doing my best with just aspirin. Yes, it hurts. God. It hurts. But I’d rather not take the chance that the medication will fasten a hold on me. And there’s something satisfying about giving the middle finger to the pain. “Come at me!” I want to yell. “Is that all you got?”

  Besides, I’d take twice as much physical pain over the emotional ick with my sister. It sounds cliché, but I can literally feel the tension in the air. Like it’s thicker, tainted with some kind of toxin, and once it enters my lungs, it contaminates me too. It feels as if I’m trying to fit into someone else’s skin—two sizes too small and unbendable. There’s nothing I want more than to shed myself and slither away.

  I find myself texting Micah. The world has frozen over. Saff is the ice queen.

  It takes him about ten minutes to respond, during which I gaze longingly at the chipped lavender polish on my sausage toes. My tender ribs won’t let me bend down to them to apply even a single coat.

  My phone message dings in. As long as we’re talking ice cream, I’ll take cappuccino chip.

  You are irritating. I can’t help but smile.

  True. But ice cream is the best remedy for misery.

  Can’t you just let me be miserable?

  Negative.

  I resist messaging back, just to punish him, but a few minutes later he sends me a new one. You back to school yet?

  Still home. May stay home forever. Tee wanted me back today. It’s been almost a week. She says it’s time.

  I can pick you up this afternoon after fifth period. I have a free sixth.