[Bellamy and the Brute 01.0] Bellamy and the Brute

by Alicia Michaels

  I paused, my hand on the doorknob. “Never see who?”

  Glancing at me over his shoulder, he shrugged one shoulder. “Your mother.”

  His voice came out raspy and thick, as if he’d been crying. I wanted to cross the room to his side and comfort him, but found myself frozen to the spot. Even though we’d talked about the ghosts, I’d never asked him about this—despite wondering on several occasions if he ever saw Mom’s spirit wandering around.

  Clearing my throat, I took a step back into the room. “Do you want to see her?”

  Turning to face me, he sat on the edge of the desk. “To be honest, I’m not sure. All the people I see are tortured. Their deaths were horrible and violent.”

  “Some would say cancer is torture,” I whispered. “Do you think she’d look like she did when she died? All emaciated and tired? Is that why you’re not sure you want to see her?”

  After a moment, he hung his head, staring down at the bare feet peeking out from beneath his pajama bottoms. “I hope not. I hated seeing her like that when she was alive. It’s my hope that she’s whole now, in a better place.”

  I forced a smile, despite my eyes filling with tears. “Maybe that’s why you haven’t seen her. You told me the ghosts seem to want something. Maybe Mom doesn’t want anything, and she is at peace. We don’t need to see her, and she doesn’t need to see us, because she knows we’re taking care of each other. She trusts us to do that.”

  Lifting his head to meet my gaze, he smiled. A tear splashed his face and disappeared into his beard. “You know, I think you’re right. It’s just the sort of reminder I need today.”

  Finally able to move again, I crossed the room, throwing my arms around him. He held me, bending down until his head rested on top of mine.

  “I’m sorry to be such a downer first thing in the morning,” he murmured.

  Pulling back, I stared up at him. “You get to be a downer today.”

  He shook his head and swiped at the tears pooling beneath his eyes. “That stops right now. We’ve both got to get to work, and your mother would scold us for being late. That coffee sure smells good.”

  Following his lead, I dried my own face and led him toward the kitchen. “I’ll whip up breakfast. Mom’s favorite?”

  I could hear him rifling through the cabinets for coffee mugs while I opened the fridge.

  “I haven’t had a pumpkin waffle in forever,” he answered. “Sounds perfect.”

  “Lucky for you we have some canned pumpkin in the pantry,” I replied.

  Working to prep the waffles, I pushed our conversation out of my mind. Talking about the possibility of Mom being a ghost made me think about Baldwin House and Tate. I’d spent the entire week doing what Tate had urged me to do—ignoring the rose petals trailing up the third-floor staircase, and pretending the two female wraiths didn’t exist. It was hard. A few times, I thought I heard their whispers, and even spotted the hem of a white nightgown at the top of the stairs once. But I’d simply turned my head and went on about my business. It had been hard, but as the week passed me by, I’d realized Tate had been right. Ignoring the ghosts had worked, and I was able to babysit in peace.

  Apparently, Tate was also doing his share of avoiding. I hadn’t seen him again, in the library or anywhere else. He hadn’t texted me or bothered to follow up and ensure I was following his advice.

  It was just as well. The few moments of understanding I’d thought we shared didn’t seem to have meant anything to him. Maybe I read too much into them.

  So, I turned my mind to thinking up rainy-day activities for the kids, and away from ghosts and boys with baggage.

  Unfortunately, the latter would be harder to forget than I’d thought. Deciding to take the kids into the library for some morning reading time, I found him seated in one of the chairs. He glanced up when we walked in, rising to his feet as if he’d been waiting for us. Max faltered in the doorway, staring at Tate as if uncertain of how to handle his brother’s presence in the room. Heedless of the tension, Emma raced toward him, arms outstretched.

  “Tate!”

  Surprisingly, he grinned in response, kneeling and opening his arms to her. She threw herself against him, wrapping her arms around his neck. He stood, though I noticed the strain on his face. He used his left arm, which led me to wonder if it hurt him to strain the other. Did Parry-Romberg syndrome also affect his body on one side?

  “Hey, princess,” he said, his voice still low and gruff. “Are you being good for Bellamy?”

  Giggling, she nestled her face against the side of his neck, practically shoving her head inside his hoodie to do so. He didn’t seem to mind her getting close.

  “I’m always good for her,” she replied in a syrupy sweet voice. “Max is the bad one.”

  “That’s not nice, Emma,” I chided, despite being a bit amused at her throwing her brother under the bus. “No one here is bad.”

  Glancing at his little brother, Tate’s face became serious again. “Hey, kid.”

  Max simply stared at Tate in silence, his expression giving no hint to his emotion. It would seem the frosty poker face ran in the family. I’d seen it on all the Baldwin males so far, and it never ceased to lower the temperature in a room by a few degrees.

  Tate’s face flushed, and he glanced down as if uncomfortable around his own brother. He set Emma back on her feet and shoved his hands in his pockets.

  “Can you guys give me a minute to talk to Bellamy?” he said.

  Max was already gone, headed to the children’s section of the library. Emma followed, her ‘Bellamy’ doll dangling from one chubby hand.

  Gesturing toward the other side of the room, he cleared his throat but didn’t meet my gaze. With a sigh, I obliged him, crossing the room and putting more distance between us and the kids.

  Turning toward him, I crossed my arms over my chest. “What do you want, Tate?”

  “To apologize,” he blurted, as if needing to say it before he lost his nerve. “Again.”

  Unable to stop myself, I huffed, rolling my eyes. “Apologize? For what?”

  “Being an asshole the other day,” he replied. “You were trying to help, and I overreacted. You have to understand that I’ve been dealing with this on my own all this time, and—”

  “Oh, I understand just fine,” I interjected. “I understand that this kind of thing is just how you operate. One second, you’re lashing out, then you’re sorry, and then you’re back at square one. I’m not interested in taking another ride on the bipolar roller coaster, Tate, so you can save your apology. I don’t want to hear it.”

  His mouth trembled as if he were amused by my anger. “Mental illness isn’t something to joke about.”

  Grunting, I stomped one foot, unable to find another way of unleashing my frustration short of punching him straight in the face. Which wouldn’t be cool at all.

  “I know that! You know what? Comparing you to a person with a real problem isn’t fair to those who actually suffer from mental illness. There’s nothing wrong with you mentally apart from the fact that you’re a jerk who pouts when things don’t go his way. I’m done being nice to you, and I’m finished trying to help you. You’ve made yourself clear on more than one occasion what you think of me, and how little you want to have to deal with me. Message received, Tate. We’re done.”

  I brushed past him, making my way toward the kids, who obviously knew we were arguing even if they couldn’t decipher exactly why.

  “Bellamy—”

  I stopped abruptly and turned, unprepared to find him directly behind me. I flinched away when he tried to steady me, holding my hands up to ward him off.

  “Don’t,” I snapped. “Don’t touch me, and stop saying my name. You don’t get to say my name… my name is too awesome for you! And you know what? I’m awesome, too. I am a nice person! I didn’t do anything to deserve any of this. So do me a favor and leave me the hell alone. Think you can manage that?”

  After a moment of silence
in which he stared at me as if I’d lost my mind, he nodded and sighed.

  “Yeah,” he whispered. “You got it.”

  Nodding in satisfaction, I resumed my walk across the room, well aware that he was still watching me.

  Don’t turn around. Don’t turn around. Don’t turn around.

  I repeated the mantra to myself until I heard him leave the room, closing the door gently behind him this time.

  Sighing, I buried my face in my hands and ignored the curious stares of the children. Now, more than ever, I wish I’d just stayed in bed.

  Within an hour of my outburst toward Tate, I began to feel like absolute crap. That sort of behavior wasn’t like me at all, even if I did find myself mentally chewing people out on many occasions. Tate had acted like a jerk, but he had a reason to be one—even if I hadn’t deserved to be on the other end of his bad mood. Maybe it had served him right, but it still didn’t sit well with me. Especially since I knew I wouldn’t have treated him that way on any other day. He’d just so happened to try to approach me on the worse possible day, finding himself dealing with both my frustration and grief.

  I went through the rest of the day on autopilot, feeling numb to everything going on around me. I barely remembered driving to the bookstore to pick up my dad, or having dinner once at home. Next thing I knew, it was eight o’clock and I lay in bed with a book, unable to concentrate. I’d barely been able to eat anything because my stomach was in so many knots.

  My mother had always told me that when your stomach bothered you after a confrontation, nothing would soothe it like making amends. It was why my parents had never gone to bed angry—Mom’s stomach wouldn’t let her rest until she’d set things right. Reaching for my phone, I scrolled to pull up my past conversations with Tate. Staring at the blinking cursor on my screen, I paused, wondering what the heck I was supposed to say. How could I explain the reason for my sudden outburst?

  Plunging in, I decided to just stick to the truth.

  Looks like it’s my turn to apologize. I’m really sorry about earlier. I had a rough morning, and I took it out on you. I’ll accept your apology if you accept mine.

  As always, he responded quickly.

  Of course I do. It’s not like I didn’t deserve it. Mind if I ask what’s wrong?

  For a moment, I put my phone aside, not wanting to answer. But then I remembered the worn copy of A Brave New World resting in the trunk under my bed. Tate had given me a part of himself. He could have ordered a new copy of the book and shipped it. He could have given me one of his other copies. Yet, he’d given me his favorite copy of his favorite book.

  I couldn’t take that from him, and then refuse to give him something back. With a shaking hand, I took the phone up again and began composing my reply. After a few attempts, I erased what I’d typed and kept it simple.

  Today is the anniversary of my mother’s death.

  I hit ‘send’ as fast as I could, unable to take the words back once I’d done so. My phone buzzed in my hand, and his reply lit up the screen.

  I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you’d lost your mother. How long has it been?

  Two years, I answered.

  Anything I can do? he asked.

  I smiled at the screen at the thoughtful gesture, even though we both knew there was nothing anyone could do to ease my pain.

  No, but thanks.

  After a long stretch without a reply, my phone lit up again.

  I’d like to talk to you in person. Would you meet me?

  My eyes widened as I read his words a second time, and then a third. Glancing at the clock on my screen, I saw it was only eight-thirty. I wasn’t going to get a good night’s sleep, and going to meet Tate was better than lying in bed crying.

  Okay. Where?

  Standing, I swapped my pajama pants out for a pair of jeans, and then slid into my sneakers. By the time I’d done that, Tate had responded.

  Stonehill Park.

  It was a short distance from here, a quick walk or bike ride along the walking trail stretching out behind our house. But it was getting dark and I knew Dad wouldn’t want me out on my bike. Sneaking out wasn’t an option this early, so as I walked to the living room, I fumbled for an excuse to leave the house.

  Dad was at the kitchen table, tinkering with something—I couldn’t tell what it was, but there were a lot of parts spread out in front of him. He didn’t look up when I came in, focused on the odds and ends at his fingertips.

  “Thought you were in bed,” he mumbled.

  “I was,” I said, tugging at the bottom of my shirt. “But I can’t sleep and I want something sweet. Can I use the car to go downtown and grab a milkshake or something? I won’t be gone long.”

  “Keys are on the counter. Drive safely.”

  “I will,” I promised, grabbing the keys and my purse before heading out.

  The rain had stopped, but moisture still hung in the air, so thick I could taste it. I made the quick drive to the park with butterflies in my stomach, wondering what to expect. No two encounters with Tate were alike, and I’d meant what I said about being exhausted by the constant up and down. I chose to be optimistic, since Tate had expressed regret over the past. Besides, no one could exactly be mean to a girl on the anniversary of her mother’s death. Even he wasn’t that much of an asshole.

  The sky had gone completely dark by the time Tate pulled his red Audi into a space beside mine. I could remember seeing the car in the school parking lot in the years before Tate stopped coming altogether, and I was surprised to see he still owned it. I exited my car, rounding it toward him as he followed suit, a cluster of roses held in one hand. He also wore a pair of rectangular-shaped glasses I’d never seen him in before.

  At my surprised glance, he shrugged one shoulder while extending the flowers to me. “I thought… we could give them to your mom. Oh, and I need the glasses to drive. My right eye has diminished vision.”

  Glancing toward the walking path winding through the park, I realized how close we were to the cemetery. It hadn’t been my plan to visit her grave today—because I preferred to remember her other days, and not just on anniversaries. But we were here, and Tate had brought flowers. It seemed wrong not to go visit.

  “That was thoughtful of you,” I said as we began our walk. “Thank you.”

  Tate nodded in reply, but didn’t speak. I was content not to break the silence while we walked, my fingers stroking the velvety petals of the roses. There were a dozen of them, ruby red and only slightly opened. I thought of how ironic it was that he’d brought red roses, in light of the remnants of them littering the staircase at Baldwin House. Considering how unstable our peace agreement was, I didn’t want to risk annoying Tate by bringing it up.

  Before long, we arrived, and I solemnly led him between the rows and rows of stones and monuments to where my mother had been laid to rest two years ago. Removing the now brown and crumbling flowers resting in the small pot before her grave, I replaced them with the roses. For a while after that, we stood side by side, shoulders almost touching, staring at the headstone.

  Tate was the one who broke the silence. “You should talk about her if you think it will help. Or don’t. I’m listening either way.”

  I had a hard time controlling my facial expression, shocked that he even cared.

  He laughed, but it was more a sarcastic snort than anything else. “Come on, I’m not that mean.”

  Feeling bad now for second-guessing him, I turned to face him. “My mom was one of those people who, if you said she was a good person, you weren’t just saying it to be nice. She was genuinely good—kind, loving, generous. She adored books, too, all kinds. And flowers… she used to grow them in front of our house. Dad and I tried to keep them up after she was gone, but it’s almost like they knew she was gone. They withered away to nothing within six months.”

  “She sounds amazing,” he answered. “You said it’s been two years, right?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “Sometimes, it
feels like it’s been forever, and, other times, I wake up and my heart tells me it happened only yesterday. I don’t have a lot of friends… not anymore. She was my best friend.”

  “I know saying ‘I’m sorry’ is really cliché,” he murmured, glancing down at his shoes. “But I really am sorry. I don’t know what it’s like to be that close to someone, so I can’t even imagine how it must feel to lose them.”

  I frowned, studying his profile. As usual, he situated himself to my left so I could only see the normal side of his face. “You’re not close with either of your parents?” I asked, feeling sorry for him.

  I couldn’t understand it. Even the small lies I’d been telling Dad made me feel like the worst sort of betrayer. I couldn’t stand the thought of him finding out that I’d kept things from him and being sad that I’d felt I couldn’t tell him the truth.

  “My mother tries. She loves us, and shows us that she does, but the kind of relationship you have with your mom isn’t something I see ever developing between her and Emma. She’s not absent or neglectful, just… occupied with other things most of the time. Max and Emma spend more time with you, Ezra, and Hilda than her.”

  “What about your dad?” I prodded, remembering the poker-faced Douglas Baldwin.

  I’d never seen the man so much as crack a smile, and he always looked tired and strained.

  “He actually is absent and neglectful,” Tate spat, his jaw going tight. “Especially in the past few years. Look, I want to tell you something… the truth about my sickness.”

  Gesturing toward a nearby bench, I led the way toward it. “Let’s sit down.”

  Once seated, I turned a bit, propping a bent leg up onto the seat. Tate slouched, hiding his face with his hood, chin rested against his chest.

  “Ezra told me that you know all about my disorder,” he began.

  I nodded. “He told me after the night I first ran into you. I think he wanted me to understand you better… to try to comprehend the reason you’d lashed out.”

  “What Ezra doesn’t know is what really started the whole thing. Parry-Romberg Syndrome is an autoimmune disease, and it does appear out of nowhere, but I am almost certain that those ghosts in my house are what started it.”