by Eli Lang
It was me who was at a loss for words now. My lower lip might have been trembling. This was too much, on top of everything else, and I didn’t know how to respond to it. “She was happy,” I said finally.
My voice sounded so small, but my mother acted like I had slapped her. She slumped against the chair. Her hand reached out, scrabbling for purchase, until she found the back of it, so she could hold on. Maybe so she could hold herself up. She stared at me, not as pale anymore. She’d flushed when she’d been shouting, and now bright pink streaked over her cheekbones, made her look angry and confused and shocked.
“She was happy,” I said again, as much to myself as my mother. “I’ve seen her with those books. I’ve seen . . . They made her happy.”
My mother swallowed, hard enough that I saw her throat move with it. A convulsive thing, like she was choking. “We could have made her happy.”
I nodded. I could argue it, or agree and try to explain. Because it wasn’t one or the other. It wasn’t like that. But she didn’t know that. So instead, I told her, “I’ve been happy.”
She blinked up at me.
“Do you know that? All those times we were broke or rejected or no one wanted to let us play, all those times we thought we wouldn’t make it. They were worth it. I’ve been happy. This has made me happy. It’s made me . . .” I sighed and waved my hand around, trying to find a way to explain it.
Had she ever had anything like that? A passion so huge she couldn’t ignore it, even when it felt like it might kill her? Something that was as much her life as breathing? Something that was completely intrinsic to her? I wanted to think it had been me, but I wasn’t quite that selfish, not yet. And I didn’t know the answer. I took a deep breath, letting my lungs expand, feeling the stretch of all that air inside me.
“It’s made me feel so full,” I told her. “Like I could overflow with all of it.” Tuck would laugh at me for that, probably, and Bellamy too—he had a way with words, and that was why he wrote the lyrics and I didn’t. But the explanation felt right to me, even if it was overly dramatic and too sentimental. At least it was honest.
And, almost as suddenly, I felt like I had overflowed. Like all the anger I’d had, everything I’d been wanting to say to my mother for so long, nearly didn’t matter anymore. I just wanted it to stop. A clean break, if I could get one. But a break, one way or another.
“I’ve been able to be myself,” I told her, and then I realized that wasn’t quite true. I hadn’t quite done that, because I’d been hiding. Because I’d been afraid. Because I’d always let Tuck, or Bellamy, or even Quinn, take the lead from me. Because I hadn’t told Tuck everything I wanted to tell him. And because even though I’d moved away from my parents and tried to put their influence out of my mind, I’d still been worried about disappointing them. Maybe that would never go away. Maybe it would always be in the back of my mind. But I wasn’t going to change what I was doing, either, or who I was, to make them feel better. I loved drumming. I loved being in Escaping Indigo. And I wanted to be able to be myself, be honest about who I was, in every aspect.
Might as well put it all out there now, while my mom was already upset with me. “I’m bisexual,” I told her. She went, if possible, even paler. “I feel like a fraud, saying it,” I admitted, and I gave a little shrug. At myself or for her, I didn’t know. “I definitely lean in one direction. I’m always afraid someone’s going to . . . I don’t know. Call me out on it. Tell me I’m faking. Taking something that doesn’t belong to me.” I blinked, and I found that my eyes were a little damp. I was too wound up for this conversation. I’d started it, though, and now I wanted it out. “I could pass as straight and maybe it wouldn’t ever make a difference, because I’m mostly attracted to guys. I could probably keep it hidden, and no one would ever know. Maybe it won’t ever make a difference.” I thought of Cara, for a flash. Her smile in my mind’s eye. I didn’t think I’d ever see her again. But still. “It makes a difference to me.” It did, I realized. This was my mother. Above everything else, I wanted her to understand. I wanted her to tell me that she loved me.
“It does belong to me,” I said. “Even if I never date another girl. Even if it never happens again. It’s still who I am. The same way the music is who I am. I don’t want to take that out of my life, Mom. None of it. Not the touring, not the recording, not the . . .” I laughed, “not the parts that make me stressed or depressed or angry or worried. I want all of it. It makes my life . . .” I shook my head. “It makes it worth something. For me. It lets me be me. Can you understand that?”
For a long minute, she didn’t move. I imagined I could hear every sound magnified in that silence—the refrigerator running and the clock in the kitchen and the breath moving through me. I didn’t think she was going to move at all, didn’t think she’d say anything, and I didn’t know what I’d do. But then she nodded, stiffly, once. And that was enough for me, for now. It was enough.
I nodded back and turned before either of us could say anything else. I needed it to stop there.
I went up to the guest room and shut the door behind me. I couldn’t sit down, couldn’t do anything. My mind was racing, and I paced back and forth, from the window to the door. Outside, the neighborhood looked like it always did, picture-perfect even after dark: mellow porch lights casting deep shadows on neat flower beds, the few streetlamps illuminating the road for the last couple kids, out on bikes, returning home. But inside, in this room, in my own mind, it was like everything had changed all at once, without any planning from me. I didn’t know how to put it back together. I didn’t know if I wanted to put it back together.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket and called up the text conversation Tuck and I had been having.
I’m bi, I typed, and hit Send before I could think any more about it, or wonder whether he’d even know what I meant, what I was talking about.
His reply came fast, maybe only a minute later. As if he’d typed without thinking, like I had, and just as quickly. I know. And, a second later, another text shook the phone in my hand, popping up over the first. I love you.
That’s what I had wanted. It seemed so stupid, that I’d been afraid to voice it before now. Afraid to tell him. Afraid to tell anyone. But Tuck especially. I wasn’t in love with him for no reason. He wasn’t my best friend, the person I trusted most in the world, for no reason. I knew he didn’t mean he loved me in the way I loved him. But he did love me, and that was what I’d wanted to hear. Needed to know. Even though it was ridiculous. I’d only wanted him, or anyone, to tell me that it was okay.
I flopped down on my bed and stared up at the ceiling. I didn’t write back, but I kept my hand wrapped tightly around my phone, like I could hold on to those words. I pressed it against my chest and breathed, lay there and breathed, and reminded myself that, no matter what else happened, I was still loved.
The next couple of days I spent in a self-induced haze. I didn’t call Cara, and my mother and I avoided each other as much as possible. It wasn’t hard. We were busy getting everything together for my grandmother, and there was enough work to do in different rooms of her house that we could get away with passing each other in hallways with nothing more than a quick hello. She looked uncomfortable whenever she saw me, and I was awkward as hell, but I didn’t want to reopen any of it, even if it would make things better. It was too raw right now, and I wasn’t sure what was going on with me, but I did think I knew what I could and couldn’t handle.
If Gran noticed, she didn’t say anything about it. In her bedroom, we surrounded ourselves in an ocean of books. Conversation was always about plot and characters and why she thought certain books were important, or why she loved them so much. I wrote a lot of it down. I felt like I was gathering bits of her life. Even when the books were done and packed away, to go with her or with me, and we’d moved on to packing up the last of her personal things, cleaning out her bedroom closets and her office, we still talked about books. I wasn’t surprised our convers
ation didn’t wander much. It was the thing we had in common, and it was safe. But I found myself enjoying it.
I let myself get lost in it, pretended for those few hours every day that there wasn’t anything else outside that room, outside the smells of paper and dust and ink. I knew I was escaping, but I didn’t care. I wanted a retreat. I wanted time to think. Or not think.
Then it was time for Gran to go. The place was about forty-five minutes away—inconvenient, but worth it for a home that would be comfortable and where the people would treat Gran well. My dad asked me if I wanted to go with them the day they took her. He knew something had happened between me and my mom, but I wasn’t sure if he knew exactly what. He wanted to make peace. But the idea of a car ride with my parents, while Gran left her home, struck me as both unbearably uncomfortable and awfully sad. I apologized to Gran about it the day before, but she waved it away. I’d spend some time at home in the morning, and then I’d go over to Gran’s house by myself, Zevi would meet me there in the afternoon, and we could work on finishing up the last of emptying the house out.
I waited upstairs in the guest room the day my parents were taking my grandmother. I listened to them moving around downstairs, my father hunting for his keys, my mother telling him right where he’d left them. I could almost picture her with her hand in her purse, checking that she had the right paperwork, her wallet, her phone. I stood with my back against my shut door, eyes closed, and listened and listened, waiting. It was childish and I knew it, but I didn’t want to go down there before they left. I didn’t want this to be any more awkward than it had to be. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t know when I would be.
Finally, I heard what I thought was the soft thump of the door closing, then the dull roar of a car starting in the garage. A second later, I crossed to the window, and watched their car leave, moving slowly down the street, pearly and indistinct in the early-morning light.
I took my time after that. Had a long shower. Used up all the hot water, and what did it matter, because there wasn’t anyone home but me, and wouldn’t be for a few hours at least? They’d have to go and get my grandmother, load up the last of her things and her, and then, after the drive, get her settled. I had all morning to myself.
What I wanted to do, most of all, was go down and play my drums. I stopped for coffee in the kitchen, adding milk and sugar without really stopping to watch what I was doing. My mind was already with my kit.
I had the songs Tuck had sent me. I’d listened to them, over and over, getting familiar with them, diving into them so I could see the spots where I wanted to put different rhythms, different fills. I’d sent Tuck a few suggestions, about where I thought they sounded rough, but mostly that wasn’t my area to mess with. I knew drums. That was what I did.
I could have been playing, in the evenings or mornings, over the last few days since I’d set the kit up. But I hadn’t. It was loud, true, but more than that, I didn’t want my parents to hear me. The thought of it had never really bothered me before, but now I would wonder what they were thinking of it. What my mother was thinking. Whether she was remembering everything I’d said, about how happy it made me. I wondered, when I let myself think about it, whether she’d even tried to understand any of that. If she’d been running it all over and over in her mind like I had, or if she’d dismissed it. I didn’t want any of that to bleed over into what I was playing. Maybe for another song. Not for these. These weren’t like that.
These songs were all about Bellamy and Tuck being happy. Fast and catchy and with a lot of depth to the sound. When I listened to them, I could picture both of those boys with their partners. Satisfied and content and just fucking pleased with life. Writing songs that made them feel good, that would make people want to get up and move. I wanted that. I wanted to know what it was like. If it made them feel complete. If it was like when we were on stage and we finished a song and the audience roared, so loud sometimes I thought the walls would come down on us. The unbelievable power of that. It must be like that, if it was like anything. And I didn’t want to get my anger, or lonely love I had for Tuck, all over that.
I let myself play and play, until I felt like the drumsticks were part of me, and my muscles were moving more from memory than any conscious thought, until I felt like the music was crawling under my skin. It would have been boring for anyone to listen to—it was repetition and mistakes and experiments while I tried to figure out what I wanted to do and exactly how I wanted it to sound. I let myself get lost in it, though, more completely than I’d ever gotten lost in my grandmother’s books. Maybe it was the same for her, when she wrote. Maybe it was like she was floating above it all, like she could start to pick out patterns and words and suddenly everything fit and it was the best high ever. That was what drumming was for me. As if I was breathing. As if I could breathe again, when I hadn’t even noticed I was short of breath to begin with. I hoped it was the same for her.
After an hour, maybe two—I hadn’t checked my phone, and I’d completely lost track of time—I realized that I hadn’t eaten anything. Drumming wasn’t always a workout, but I’d been doing enough of it to work up a sweat. I’d have to eat something if I wanted to keep playing.
I grabbed my coffee mug and, with the hum of the songs and the rhythms still flickering through my mind, I went back upstairs. There were a few different things in the fridge, but I wanted something quick. I wanted to get back downstairs, make the most of the time I had. I’d still be here a few more days, until Gran’s house was more or less emptied. Who knew if I’d get a chance like this to play again? I slipped a couple of pieces of bread into the toaster and grabbed butter and jam, hesitated for a second, then decided to go all out and have peanut butter too. Why not?
Someone had run the dishwasher, and it hadn’t been emptied yet. I flung it open and grabbed a plate, hurrying, then reached back in for a knife. I wasn’t looking. The toast had popped up, and I turned my head to see if it was ready, or if I should press the lever down again. I plunged my other hand down, hoping to close my fingers around the knife I’d seen. It was right there.
I must have moved my hand a little to the side when I glanced away, because instead of grabbing the knife, my hand went too far down, and my wrist caught on something sharp. Very sharp.
I yanked my hand back and looked down, but it was too late by then. I’d caught myself on a fork of all things. I stared at the tines, shiny and dark red. I hadn’t known a fork could actually stab someone. What a stupid thing.
Then I glanced at my wrist and almost passed out. I’d never been super good with blood. Anyone’s blood, in any amount. Tuck would probably laugh his ass off if he could see me swooning in my parents’ kitchen over a little cut. Except it didn’t really look small. I couldn’t actually see the cut, or cuts, because there was so much blood, drizzling out of my arm and onto the clean dishes and the dishwasher door and the floor. Startlingly bright red.
“Fuck.” I clamped my other hand over my wrist, but all that did was make the blood squish out around my fingers. A wave of dizziness came over me, and I had to turn away, stare up at the ceiling, and breathe through my mouth for a minute while I got myself under control. I couldn’t pass out. Not yet. I couldn’t have my parents come in and find me dead on the floor from a fork stabbing. What a fucking idiotic way to go.
I lifted my hand, grabbed for a dishtowel, and slapped that down. I tried to remember what you were supposed to do for something like this. Apply pressure. Right. Except the pressure hurt like a bitch, and the dishtowel was already going spotty and red. Just looking at it was making me woozy. Another wave of dizziness washed over me, a terrible tipping sensation, stronger than before. I stumbled a step, caught myself on the counter, then let myself slide down the cabinet door until I was sitting on the floor. Or sprawled on the floor, but I was still mostly upright. That counted as sitting.
Maybe I needed stitches. I needed something. I wasn’t an expert, but collective knowledge assured me that wounds to the wrist
were a big no-no, no matter how they were inflicted. I’d need to go to the emergency room. Could I drive? With one hand while I lost blood and tried not to pass out? Maybe not.
I could call my parents. But they were most likely already long on their way, if not already to the place. It would take them at least half an hour to get here. I didn’t know if Zevi had gone with them. He might have. Or he might be at Gran’s house, two towns over. Or he could be anywhere else.
I could call 911. That was the logical thing, the idea that had been drilled into me since I was a child. In an emergency, call an ambulance. But the idea of it was like a lead weight in my mind. What a fucking fool. Having to call an ambulance because I’d stabbed myself with a goddamn fork.
I took a couple of deep breaths, then carefully peeled my hand away from my wrist. It was hard to tell, but I thought the bleeding was slowing a little. The cloth was dark red in spots, but it didn’t look like the spots were growing that much.
I had to twist my head to the side and retch a couple of times after, but at least I had a slightly better idea of what I was looking at. Or pointedly not looking at anymore.
If Cara was at the studio, she was only one town over, a ten-minute drive at most. She was the closest person, unless I wandered outside and started knocking on neighbors’ doors. I didn’t want to do that. I didn’t want to call the ambulance. Stubbornness and pride and stupidity were all wrapped up in that decision, but my brain was sticking to it. Only if I had to. Only if I couldn’t get to the hospital any other way.
I unclamped my hand again and fumbled through my pockets for my phone. When I finally got it to eye level, I had to take a second and wonder why the screen was blurry. Then I realized I’d gotten bloody fingerprints all over it. I shuddered and did my best to forget about it while I searched for Cara’s number.