by Traci Finlay
“Hey, Charlotte?”
“Yeah, hi, Jack.”
“How’s everything? How’s your mom?”
“She left.”
He pauses. “She what? Left?”
I nod and swallow at the knife that feels lodged in my esophagus.
“Charlotte?”
“Yes, she left yesterday,” I say loudly.
“Oh, man. She’s building quite the track record. How are you?”
I shut my eyes and squeeze the bridge of my nose. “Let’s just say if Ian came bursting through the door right now, I’d hand him the axe.”
“Knock it off. Who’s with you?”
“No one. I’m here by myself.”
“Charlotte, get out of there before he comes home.”
“Didn’t you hear what I just said? I don’t care if he does.”
“Listen to me, I know you’re preoccupied with everything that just went down with your mom, but there’s something you should know. Something your mom said, it kind of stuck with me.”
I sit up in bed, and vertigo is kicking my butt. “What?”
“She said Ian was a sociopath. Eli Barrett was a sociopath, among many things. After your mom mentioned that, I started thinking about him. So when I got home I did some research … you should hear some of this.”
I rub my eyes and blink at my dresser. Good, there’s only one, and it’s no longer levitating. “Jack, I can’t do this. I’m sorry. I don’t want to hear about Ian. Or what a monster he is, or my mom, or my dad.”
“Please, I know you’re having a hard time coping with all this, but this is important, Charlotte. I know you’re wanting to talk to him about your dad and probably now your mom. But you need to understand—”
“Shut up, Jack! Just stop!” Salty tears burn my raw eyes, and my eye sockets feel like they’re pulsing against lead balls. “Stop trying to micromanage my decisions! Stop trying to intimidate me into listening to you so you can have some power trip you’ve never been able to have before. I’m twenty-four years old; I can make my own decisions and run my own life, so leave me alone, Ian!”
A pause. “The name’s Jack.” And he hangs up.
I sigh until my head rattles and toss my phone to the floor, falling back onto my pillow. What have I done? I look around my bedroom. Traces of my last night here scatter around the room—my folded laundry sitting on my dresser, the Converse I wore to the grocery store outside my closet, an empty Sprite bottle horizontal on my nightstand from when Ian and I had gone to the movies.
I think about what my mom said about worshipping Ian. Initially, I find that accusation ridiculous. But then I remember Jack and Nikka and their little French saying, what was it? Folie à deux. A madness shared by two. How can Ian and I share the same amount of crazy? If Ian’s a sociopath, are they saying I’m enabling him?
I’m pretty sure Stockholm syndrome was tossed around a few times, too. I guess I can understand how someone outside our situation would think Ian had too much control, but no one understands what happened with us when Dad killed Chrissy. We were just learning to survive without a mother when we lost Chrissy and Dad in the most horrendous way imaginable, and the only people we had in the entire world were each other.
I wanted to die when they told me Chrissy was dead. Nothing inside me wanted to keep going, not for one more second; suicide was seriously considered. But Ian kept me alive. He picked me up off the floor when I couldn’t stand. He held me and let me sob on him until his shirt was drenched in my tears and snot. He fed me when I wouldn’t eat. He became my guardian and provider, and not just because the law stated that. Yes, he yelled a lot, but he had demons of his own, and besides, it was always because I wasn’t living up to my fullest potential, frustrated after how much he had invested in my life. If anyone sacrificed for others, it was Ian.
But that was before. This new Ian, the one who swings axes at me, is something else entirely. Was I blinded? Should I have seen this coming?
If it’s true that my dad was a pedophile, I understand why Ian didn’t trust any of the guys I dated. He spent his entire life shielding me from one pervert, and he wasn’t about to stop now. But was that the real motive behind the harsh punishments as a teenager and overprotectiveness in general? Even at twenty-four, I still feel punished because the boys still fear Ian, because he dated all my friends and ruined my friendships with them. So in a way, he still manages to punish me, even as an adult.
But why am I analyzing this so much? These ponderings have caused me to alter my entire life the last couple weeks, and wow, maybe I am entirely too wrapped up in my brother.
I think about Jack and Nikka, how their lives were probably worse than mine, and I evaluate their outcome: Nikka somehow embraced some of her horrors, yet is the sweetest, most genuine person I’ve ever met. Jack, on the other hand, has denounced those immoralities, but can crush your self-esteem in the same breath. Regardless, they at least have their own belief system, their own identities. I don’t.
Well, that ends today. From now on, I will not lift a finger for the approval of Ian Stahl. Things have changed. I’ve been thrust into another realm of betrayal just like when Fanny left and Tim killed Chrissy. Now I’ve been betrayed by the one who walked me through all those tragedies, and I have no one but myself to carry me through.
I allow myself to mourn the loss of my brother. I drop to my pillow and cry until I’m out of tears, because I vow that this is the last time I’ll ever cry over Ian.
When I finally sit up and look around, a sharp orange sun is impaling my window, filling my room with a prickly ubiquitous light. I reach down to swipe my phone off the carpet; 1:27 p.m. knifes into my eyes. The first thing I need to do is to make a phone call to someone who’s currently angry with me because I told him off and called him by the wrong name. Again. I take a deep breath and hit redial.
“Hello?” I hear a feminine little voice answer, and my disappointment exhales through blubbery lips. “Hi, Nikka.”
“Charlotte! Hi! What happened? Jack tossed me his phone when it started ringing, grumbling about something, then he walked away. Are you guys fighting?”
“Uh, yeah,” I answer slowly. “He’s really mad at me, huh?”
“Seems like it. So how are things? Any sign of your brother?”
“Nothing. I think he’s forgotten about me. Maybe I’m safe,” I chuckle, feeling better as I talk with her.
“Jacky told me your mom came home. Were you excited or mad?” Nikka says, like she’s asking if I prefer a Coke Slurpee or Wild Cherry. Nikka knows every flavor of abandonment.
“I was both,” I answer—Cherry Coke! “But it wasn’t going to work. She’s better off somewhere else.”
“Well, you sound okay about it,” she remarks.
I sigh. “I have a long way to go. Nikka, I need your help. I’ve really pissed Jack off. Will you help me fix this?”
Nikka hesitates. “What did you do?”
I grimace. “I yelled at him and told him to stay out of my life, and I may have called him Ian.”
“Oh, Charlotte.”
“I know, I messed up. I need to fix this.”
“I have an idea. Do you have plans for this weekend?”
I spit out a laugh. “Yeah, right.”
I grip a hearty ten-and-two on the steering wheel of Dana’s car as I maneuver it up a steep, rocky driveway. I try thinking of the worst possible name Dana will call me if I wreck her car, and I just keep coming back to nincompoop. She made it very clear she wasn’t keen on letting me borrow it for the weekend.
“Why can’t you take your dad’s car?” she had whined.
“Well, there’s the fact that it hasn’t run in years. What else you got?”
“Take Ian’s truck! Oh, wait. He’s got it…”
I glared at her incredulously. “You’re joking, right? Did you really suggest I take Ian’s truck? You want me axed to death? Is there some bet going on, and you got money on Ian killing me in his truck?”
>
“Of course not, I’m just nervous having you take my car two hours to Holland, and right on Lake Michigan. Just to go make up with your boyfriend.”
I raised my right hand. “I swear on my life I won’t ruin your car. Unless you really do have a bet going on, in which case, I’d like in on that, please.”
Dana rolled her eyes. “If you so much as get bird poop on my car, I’ll make Ian and his little axe look like pink ponies sucking on lollipops.”
“Pink ponies sucking on lollipops,” I mock as I park at the top of the hill outside the biggest house I’ve ever seen. Wow. Maybe Jack and Nikka did get a break somewhere along the line. I snatch up my backpack and scuff my feet to the front door, my finger wavering over the doorbell.
The door swings open and out pops Nikka in all her berserk-red glory, at least fifty teeth in her grin. She throws herself in my arms, and I laugh as my backpack slips and catches in the crook of my elbow. Nikka unsnaps herself from my waist.
“How are you?” I ask.
“Good. It’s great to see you. Come in.”
I follow her into an open foyer with at least twenty-foot ceilings. “This is beautiful,” I whisper, my voice echoing through the house. “You’re sure your dad doesn’t mind that I’m here?”
“Not at all. He’s got that corporate fun run he’s sponsoring this weekend, so he and Jack are out getting that thing ready,” she rambles as she floats down the hall and into the first room on the left.
I follow in her trajectory and drop my bag on a Queen Anne’s chair. “Oh, that’s right! Jack told me about that. He wanted me to run in it.”
Nikka tosses herself on a four-poster bed. “Um, you are running it. That’s part of the plan for getting you back in Jack’s good graces. We’ll register you for that tomorrow. Jack will be here in about an hour. Do you have your speech planned?”
I nod.
“Good. Leave the rest to me. This is going to be a memorable weekend. I can feel it in my marrow.”
Our meetings at first were called the virgin gatherings. We were eighteen at the time—the oldest virgins in Cadillac. Attendees were me, Dana, and Lauren (Chrissy would’ve come, if she were alive). But then Lauren slept with Michael Grayling before announcing she was a lesbian, then Dana and I had that falling-out, so it turned into Lauren and me hanging out once a month, smoking cloves and discussing life, or the lack thereof. Throughout the four years since we started, they digressed into quarterly meetings, then biyearly meetings, and who knows from there.
Lauren was raised by her grandmother, and she still lived with her. Her grandma was the sweetest, cutest, most clueless old lady there ever was. That’s why all our gatherings were at her house, because she went to bed at eight and was dead until the next morning. To a teenager, that was like hitting the lottery.
Even at twenty-two, I made sure Grandma was comatose before walking past the house, through the backyard, and into the trees, heading for the pond. Lauren was already there, sitting on the ground and leaning against a tree stump. Her ripped jeans hung off her bone-thin legs that stretched across the forest floor, the cherry of her clove blazoning against the dusk backdrop. Her long, brown dreadlocks swooped down around her face, clashing against her ghostly white skin.
“You started without me,” I said as I plopped on the earth next to her. She handed me the box and lighter, blowing smoke from her lips that coiled around her girthy dreads and frayed off into the bushes. “Sorry. You were taking too long.” She took another hit.
I pulled a clove cigarette from the box and flicked the lighter, igniting a cherry of my own and sending smoke clouds into the atmosphere. “Sorry about that. I had to finish one of my finals online, then Ian’s track practice went extra-long today. I’m prepping the seniors for a meet this weekend. If I see one more agility ladder today, I’ll burn it.” I flicked the lighter to life and gazed at the plop of a flame at its crown.
“How’s school going? You’re almost finished, right?” Lauren asked, snatching the lighter from me because forest fires always began with flame plops.
“I have one semester left! And it’s mostly internship!” I chimed, and Lauren slapped me a high five. “So then what?” she asked.
“Then I’ll have a bachelor’s in biology.”
Lauren whistled. “You’re so badass, Charlotte. What are you going to do after that?”
I smiled and curled my knees to my chest and hugged them because this conversation always excited me. “I’m thinking of going into forensic science…” I heard a stick pop and looked up to see a familiar form creeping into our conversation. “Dana?” I said a little meaner than I meant to.
Dana looked at me expressionless, then turned to Lauren. “You didn’t tell her I was coming?”
Lauren rolled her eyes. “I can’t deal with you two. Such drama. Charlotte, Dana was feeling lonely and wanted to join us tonight. I told her she could, because there’s no reason she’s not hanging out with us anymore. Just because your hot-as-hell brother dumped her ass doesn’t mean you two can’t ever speak. It was almost three years ago. Get over it.”
I turned my eyes to the ashes falling from my clove. “My hot-as-hell brother? I thought you were gay.”
Lauren laughed and crossed her ankles. “I told you, there’s nothing more beautiful than Ian Stahl, and I’d go straight for a chance to hit that, no matter how crazy he is.”
Now Dana and I made eye contact, both mirroring disgusted faces. “Lauren, you’re talking about my brother.”
“And my ex,” Dana chirped, and I wanted to tell her that her short-lived relationship with my brother two and a half years ago barely permits her the privilege of calling him her ex. I didn’t, though, because the eye contact we made was making me feel things.
“Here.” Lauren tossed her the box of cloves (which she fumbled and dropped), and held the lighter up to conceive a third cherry to our duo. Dana coughed and sputtered on her first inhale, and I rolled my eyes as Lauren said, “No worries. It’s been a while.”
We puffed for a few awkward moments before Lauren piped up again. “So! It’s like having the old group back. The old virgins.”
“You’re not a virgin,” Dana said in the same way I reminded her she was gay.
Lauren huffed. “Oh, please. The way Michael and I did it? Pshh. I’m pretty sure he’s gay himself, if he really liked what he did to me that much.” Dana and I made eye contact again—the looks of disgust just as vibrant—and I thought she was going to say something, but she didn’t.
“Charlotte was just telling me she’s about to finish her bachelor’s degree.”
“Congratulations,” Dana said sweetly.
“Thank you.” I tried to sound sweet, but it was artificial—more like aspartame. I gazed up into the sky and was impressed with the clear night, the stars spread majestically unevenly throughout the universe. I rubbed at the goosebumps at my arms—I was feeling things again.
“How’ve you been, Charlotte?” Dana asked.
I looked up at her (no looks of disgust from either party this time), and I smiled. “I’m good. How about you?”
“Fine.”
My cell rang from the pocket of my hoodie, and I pulled it out. “Sorry, guys, it’s my brother.” Lauren purred as I answered, and I turned the phone away so Ian wouldn’t hear.
“Hey, Chuck. You make it to Lauren’s all right?” he asked pleasantly. I heard his computer keys clicking, probably writing next week’s lesson plans.
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“What are you two doing?”
I glanced at Dana briefly, then back down at my clove. “Not much. Just hanging out. Why? What’s up?”
“You left your phone charger here.”
“Aw, shit.” I pulled the phone away and glanced at the battery percentage. Twenty-one. That wouldn’t last me until tomorrow.
“You want me to bring it to you?”
“No, don’t worry about it. I should be good until I come home in the morning.”
“Are you sure? How much battery do you have left?”
I shut my eyes. “Please, it’s okay. I really don’t need it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Suit yourself. Good night.”
I ended the call and took a deep breath. “What happened?” Dana asked in the same manner she always did when I’d hang up with Ian, and it was so nostalgic I almost hugged her.
“Did he scold you?” Lauren asked, stretching her arms above her head and pushing her breasts out. “Because that would be hot.”
Dana gagged, but I was just ignoring her at this point. “No, I forgot my phone charger.”
“Can’t you just be a normal lesbian?” Dana whined, and I actually laughed. They both joined in, and the three of us stubbed out our cigarette butts and tossed them into the woods.
“Seriously! You should have those feelings for me, Lauren,” I teased.
Lauren pulled another clove from the box. “You are the female version of that fine specimen,” she commented as she offered us another one, which I took and Dana declined. “But you’re like a sister.”
“And God forbid you make sexual comments about siblings,” I retorted as I lit my second clove of the night. I was feeling more relaxed already, and I leaned back on my elbows as Lauren started telling us about beauty school and the salon she was working in. But after a few minutes, her story suddenly stopped, and Dana’s eyes filled with terror. A stick cracked behind me, and I heard, “Charlotte.”
I dropped my head back and saw Ian’s upside-down body approaching. He stood over me, his face gazing down at me, and he was visibly livid. “Get up.” But he was standing on my hair, and I couldn’t retract my head.
“Ouch, you’re on my hair,” I said a lot more calmly than I felt.
For a moment, he didn’t move—reinforcing that my hair was trapped beneath his feet—then he stepped back, and I could move my neck again. I sat up and rubbed at my scalp, nursing the half-smoked clove between my fingers, when he reached down and plucked it from my hand. “This is what you’re doing out here?” He pitched it into the forest, his face contorting and reddening by the second. “I called you to see what you’re doing, and you told me nothing. Well, this is certainly something.” He turned his eyes to Dana.