Soulstruck

by Natasha Sinel

  I freeze.

  “He told me you were at The Wicked Oyster,” she continues. “And he told me what you said. What you asked.”

  “Oh.”

  “And?” she asks.

  It seems like now that she knows I’m safe, she’s angry. But I’m the one who should be angry. I feel like everything she’s ever told me is a lie.

  “I have to change,” I say, noticing the brownish-red streaks on the knees of my jeans. “I’ll be right back.”

  I go to my room and change into pajama pants and a tank top. I come back to the kitchen table and sit across from her. This is it. The moment when she’ll finally tell me everything.

  Mom takes a shaky breath, like she’s gearing up for something big.

  “How did you know about the clinic?” she asks.

  I hadn’t expected questions; I’d expected answers.

  I pull my elbows off the table and stare at her.

  “Why did you lie?” I ask. “You had an abortion and then Carson died. There’s no way he could have been my father.”

  Mom shakes her head no.

  “I didn’t lie to you. How did you know about the clinic? I want to know how you know. Now.”

  I clear my throat.

  “I read the letters in your box,” I say.

  Mom turns away, like she can’t even look at me.

  “You went into my room and looked through my things?”

  “It’s just that you’re so secretive and I wanted to know everything.” I start to cry. “But now I only have more questions.”

  Mom stands and starts walking to her room. I follow her down the hall, crying, apologizing. I feel a heaviness in the bottom of my stomach. It will only get bigger until it takes over my body. Mom slams her bedroom door behind her.

  I go back to my room and fall face first onto my bed. I’ve done something unforgivable. And I can’t undo it.

  And Jay probably thinks something happened with Sawyer again. And Serena has a guy and a whole new life and is doing fine without me.

  I’m alone. I’ve lost everyone.

  I text Jay.

  ME: Please call as soon as you’re done with your shift. I really need to talk to you. Nothing happened with Sawyer, if that’s what you’re thinking.

  My pillow is soaked with tears. I’m too spent to undress, so I flip the pillow over, slide under the comforter, close my eyes, and wait for him to text back.

  On Sunday, the sunlight wakes me up at seven-thirty. I’m sweaty and my face is tight with dried tears. I find my phone under my pillow. There’s nothing from Jay.

  Mom’s bedroom door is open. I knock on the doorframe as I peek in, but she isn’t there. Her bed is made—a little rumpled, like she sat on top of it but never got under the covers. I look out the window—her car is gone. I check the kitchen, but there’s no note. She left the house at some point between when I fell asleep and now. I can only imagine how angry she is.

  I take a long shower, turning the water to almost-scalding. I’m torn between feeling guilty about what I did and being angry that she’s never told me anything, that she may have lied to me my whole life about Carson being my father. As the water pelts down on my head, my shoulders, anger wins out over guilt. I’m tired of the secrets, the survivors and their neediness, Mom and her half-truths. I don’t care how angry she is at me; I’m even angrier at her. And now I have even more motivation to get the garage livable. It’s the closest I can come to moving out.

  When I get out of the shower, I check my phone. A text from Mom that says only Went out early. Be back later. Nothing from Jay. I hope it’s because he’s sleeping after an all-night shift and not that he’s pissed at me for being at that party.

  I don’t know what to do with myself. It’s spitting rain out—a gray, cold wetness that seeps right into me—so I don’t want to be outside.

  I go to the garage, figuring I’ll clean up more stuff, but most of it’s done. The next steps are painting and then moving stuff in. I haven’t picked out paint yet, but I have sandpaper and putty, so I start sanding down some of the bumps and filling in the cracks in the walls.

  A car pulls into the driveway and a door slams.

  Mom comes in the front door.

  I go out into the hallway to see her walking back out again, some bags on the floor. I follow her out.

  “Hi,” I say, following her to the car and pulling more bags out. “You went shopping?”

  Mom smiles. “I did. I went nuts. And I want to do more. So, help me with these bags and then I’m taking you to Snowe’s to get stuff for your room.”

  I want to ask her why. Is this some sort of apology for keeping secrets and lying to me? Or is it a way of smoothing everything over so she can avoid talking about it some more?

  We finish unloading the car and then put all the food away in the cupboards and the refrigerator.

  “Mom,” I start. “About Carson. The letters.”

  Mom holds up her hand.

  “Soon. But Snowe’s sale ends today. I want to get there. Go put on some real clothes. Come on.”

  “Okay,” I say. But it really isn’t.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  There is nothing new in the world except the history you do not know.

  —Harry S Truman (US president)

  On the way to Snowe’s, Mom keeps up a running monologue about everything but the letters. She doesn’t even pause to let me talk at all.

  I still haven’t heard from Jay by the time we get to Orleans, and I find myself checking my phone every few minutes.

  We pull into the Snowe’s parking lot.

  “What do you think about pale green for the walls,” Mom says, putting the car in park.

  “Yeah. The rug I liked at the thrift shop has some green in it.”

  Her phone rings.

  “It’s Sue. Hold on—hi,” she says, as she answers, “Sue, just a sec, okay?”

  Mom puts the phone down on her lap.

  “I won’t be long, okay? You mind going in and getting started? I’ll be in in a minute.”

  “Sure,” I say and get out of the car.

  I feel the dry heat blasting as I step into Snowe’s.

  I go straight to the paint swatches and start flipping through them absently.

  “Rachel,” I hear behind me and spin around. It’s Kyle.

  “Oh, hey,” I say.

  “My mom dragged us to help pick out curtains for the basement,” Kyle says. “Fun, right? You painting?”

  I nod. “The garage. I’m making it my room.”

  “Sweet. We can help, if you want. Jay and I painted most of the rooms in our house. And the outside. That was a disaster, though. I’m never painting outside again.”

  He must notice me looking behind him, because he says, “I was sent for a measuring tape. My mom and Jay are over by the blinds. Come on.”

  I don’t know how Jay will react to seeing me. I have no idea where I stand with him after last night. Even though I texted him that nothing happened with Sawyer, he may not believe me. I prepare myself for the worst.

  I follow Kyle down the bathroom fixture aisle and to the window treatment section. Jay’s standing with his mom. Even though she’s probably almost six feet tall, she looks borderline small next to Jay. She holds out two fabrics, one in each hand. Jay studies the fabric like he can see beyond plaid or stripes. My gaze lowers to his chest. The shirt he’s wearing is tight, one of those wicking-material running shirts. I’ve never seen him wear anything that clung to his body like that—he usually wears plain cotton T-shirts that hang to his hips. But right now, I can see the outline of his pecs, the bumps of his shoulders. I force myself to count to ten in my head and think of window treatments.

  “Look who I found in the paint aisle,” Kyle says. Jay and his mom look up. The resemblance between them is obvious—the strong jaw, wide-ish face, the spray of freckles across their noses.

  Jay’s eyes flick to my face, down, back up, then to my ear.

  “Hi,
” he says, quietly.

  “Hi,” I say.

  His mom looks at Jay, then at me, and smiles, but it looks forced. Or sad. Maybe Jay told her he was mad at me. Jay shuffles his feet a little and keeps his eyes down. Then, as if he suddenly remembers his tight shirt, he crosses his arms in front of his chest, and his ears and neck flush red.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks. I know he doesn’t mean it to sound accusatory, but I see his mom reach to squeeze his elbow.

  “Came to get paint samples. My mom is all geared up to get going.”

  Jay looks at me, his eyes right on mine, questioning.

  “Yeah, I know,” I say. “She’s suddenly very gung-ho about it.”

  “That’s good,” he says.

  I shrug.

  “Kyle, let’s go look at … patio furniture,” their mom says.

  She grabs Kyle’s arm and starts pulling him in the other direction. Jay rolls his eyes.

  “You’re so embarrassing, Mom,” I hear Kyle say. “I mean, seriously.”

  “What am I supposed to say? ‘I can cut the tension between these two with a knife—let’s give them some space?’ Which is more embarrassing, do you think?”

  “Okay, now you’re just being dramatic,” Kyle says, but the corners of Jay’s mouth turn up, just a teeny bit.

  His mom smiles at him. I can see the love between them. The honesty. The three of them, really. They like each other. They know each other well.

  “There you are, Rach, sorry that took so long, I—” Mom comes up behind me.

  “Naomi,” Jay’s mom says. “I haven’t seen you in ages.”

  They start chatting, and Kyle pulls out his phone.

  Jay and I just stand there across from each other.

  “Brad okay?” I ask.

  He clears his throat. “Yeah. A few stitches.”

  “What are you up to later? Do you want to—”

  “I’m helping my mom around the house. I can’t.”

  I nod. I’m afraid my voice won’t work or I’ll cry.

  “Mom,” Kyle says loudly. “I’ve got practice. Can we make a decision on this stuff and get out of here?”

  “We should get moving, too,” Mom says.

  “Talk later?” I say to Jay when I’m sure I can speak.

  He nods.

  Mom follows me back to the paints. She goes to the greens, mechanically pulling paint swatches out of the display.

  “This one is nice,” she says, pointing at one that’s called Envy. And then another called Gentle Stream.

  “That one,” I say. I grab two cans of Gentle Stream, primer, some brushes, and a paint roller and we go to pay. I hear Kyle on the phone walking out the door, so I know they’ve left.

  In the car, Mom is quiet for so long, I wonder whether she’s forgotten I’m here.

  “Mom, can we talk now?”

  She nods, but then says, “When we get home, okay?”

  She sighs loudly and I know she’s going to get lost in her thoughts now.

  I pull out my phone to text Jay.

  ME: I really need to talk to you.

  But he doesn’t respond.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Friendship often ends in love, but love in friendship—never.

  —Albert Camus (philosopher)

  When we pull into our driveway, I’m staring at my phone, waiting for Jay to text me, so at first I don’t see what causes Mom to say, “Oh, shit.”

  I look up and immediately feel all the blood rushing out of me, turning me into a pale, empty shell of a human being. Reed’s van is parked in front of our house.

  “Stay here,” Mom says, cutting the ignition and opening her door. “I can’t believe this. I told him not to come.”

  I watch Mom stomp off to the van and knock on the window. She stands there for a second and waits, then goes into the house. Our door is always open in case one of the survivors needs a place to be, but Reed should know better than to go in. Mom looks like she’s ready to kill someone.

  After a few minutes with no word from Mom and no text from Jay, I decide not to wait in the car anymore. I have to face Reed at some point. He’s here. What choice do I have?

  I slide the front door open as quietly as I can, my heart pounding.

  I hear Reed’s voice coming from the deck at the back of the house.

  “I know, but—”

  “I know you’re hurting Reed. But it’s extremely selfish of you to be here. I told you not to come. You can’t stay,” Mom says.

  “The thing is, though, the van won’t start. When I saw you weren’t home, I was going to go to see my old housemates, but the van’s dead.”

  Hearing his voice makes my chest hurt.

  “I’ll call for a tow,” Mom says, her words clipped by annoyance. “But it’s Sunday so they probably won’t be able to have a truck here until tomorrow. I can drop you off in town. In the meantime, steer clear of Rachel.”

  “How is she?” Reed asks quietly.

  Mom pauses. “She’s fine. But you being here—I don’t know. Jesus.”

  I walk through the kitchen and make sure the screen door to the deck makes lots of noise as I slide it open, announcing my presence. Mom and Reed turn to me. For a moment, time freezes as Reed’s eyes find mine. Even with the sun making me squint, I can see how blue they are. His hair is longer, a bit of it pulled back into a short ponytail or maybe it’s a little bun. Some curls come out and brush the side of his face. A ponytail? I didn’t think I liked that on guys, but on Reed it looks good. On Reed, anything looks good. Dammit.

  “Rachel,” Mom says. Her voice sounds apologetic. She knows this is right up there with the most uncomfortable moments of my life.

  Reed puts his back against the railing and leans his elbows on it.

  “That’s not very sturdy,” I say.

  So that’s the first thing I say to Reed after all this time.

  He straightens and puts one hand on the railing.

  “It’s okay, Mom. I’m okay,” I say.

  She looks at me carefully.

  “You don’t have to talk to him,” she says. “You don’t owe him anything.”

  I see Reed flinch a little out of the corner of my eye.

  “It’s okay,” I say.

  She nods. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”

  After she goes back inside, I turn to Reed.

  “Rachel,” he says.

  “My mom told you not to come but you did anyway?” I ask, not bothering to hide my hurt.

  “I thought maybe enough time had passed and it would be okay to come just to the meeting. I don’t know. I guess it was stupid.”

  I lean my elbows on the deck railing—not too close to him—and stare out at the bay. I don’t care that the railing isn’t sturdy enough. Despite the chill in the air, the water looks like summer—shimmering, sparkling in the sun.

  He puts his hand on my shoulder. The weight of it seems to burn right through my shirt, but I shiver anyway.

  He takes his hand away.

  “Can we—” He sighs.

  Was he going to say “Can we get back together?” or “Can we be friends?” or “Can we be civil?”

  “Can we what?” I snap and turn to him.

  He looks down at his feet, and the familiar straight line of his nose pains me.

  He meets my eyes, and we stay like that for a few seconds. I’d always said that I’d never get tired of looking into his eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Rachel,” Reed says, his voice so quiet. “About all of it.”

  What is all of it? Letting me see him in bed with Clarissa? The fall? Splitting town without saying good-bye? Or is he sorry about all of it, like even what we had together before that?

  A piece of my hair whips around in the wind and catches me on the cheek. I push it back. I shake my head. For a long time after he left, I’d wanted this moment. How many times had I imagined Reed showing up, apologizing, saying he wanted me back? How many times had I imagined the first time we’d
touch after so long, what it would feel like to have his arms around me again, squeezing tight? How many times had I imagined him tracing his fingers over my scars, telling me he wished he could take that night back? I’d wanted this moment. But in the last few weeks, I’d stopped.

  “Can we start over?” Reed asks.

  “Start over where?” I don’t want him anymore, but I still want the satisfaction of hearing him say he wants me back.

  “Like the very beginning,” he says. “Like when we first met. Before anything happened.”

  It’s like a punch to my chest. That is not what I thought he was going to say. Even though I’m all mixed up in Jay, I still never want the “let’s be friends” speech from Reed.

  “I had no business being with you, Rachel,” he says.

  “What the hell are you talking about? Actually, never mind. Don’t tell me. I get it.” I turn to the water again. I can’t face him. The rejection still stings too much.

  “I’m sorry about what happened that night,” he says. “And leaving without saying good-bye. I couldn’t deal. But you knew that. You knew who I was.”

  “Oh, so I should’ve known you’d be in bed with your housemate when you knew I was coming over, and it’s my fault that you left town while I was having shards of glass and metal removed from my legs? It’s my fault because I should’ve known that you were too fucked up, so I shouldn’t have let myself fall for you? Is that what you meant? What a stupid thing to say. Coward.”

  “Don’t be mean,” he says.

  I can’t stop the quick burst of disbelieving laughter.

  “I hope your van gets fixed quickly,” I say.

  I go to my room and close the door. I text Mom.

  ME: Tell me when he’s gone.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Whoever does not have a good father should procure one.

  —Friedrich Nietzsche (philosopher)

  I stay in my room for what seems like forever, waiting for Mom to text me that Reed’s gone and that she’s ready to tell me everything about Carson and Rafe. I remember how broken my heart was along with my body, and the defeat after Mom told me Reed wasn’t my soul mate, but she wouldn’t tell me who was or even if I had one.

  I hear Reed’s voice, but then after a while, Mom’s car starts up and the house is quiet.