Not After Everything

by Michelle Levy

  I smile and say, “You must be Mrs. Hill.”

  “It’s Mrs. Reynolds-Hill,” she says, like I should know better.

  “Of course. Excuse me for one minute.” I step behind the curtain.

  Henry’s setting up the white backdrop.

  “Your gig has arrived,” I say with a tone that lets him know it will be a fun shoot.

  Henry grins. “One of those, huh?”

  “She wants to take a look at the props in order to see what works for her.”

  “Fantastic.” He wipes his hand over his beard. “Send her back.”

  I do. I expect her to take her demon offspring with her, but she does not. The child ricochets across the room and—

  “What’s your favorite animal?”

  “Uh, I don’t know, a lion?” I’m trying to check the jacket on eBay. Auction’s up to $286 already and I have till Saturday to figure out what to do. I’ve signed up for an e-mail alert every time someone bids and I just hope to Christ no one opts for the buy it now price.

  “Mine’s a shark, which is totally better than a stupid lion. What’s your favorite color?”

  “Black.” I press ENTER on my bid of $290. Yeah, I’m one of those guys now too.

  “Black’s not a color, dumb-ass. You’re not very smart for a grown-up.” He hops over and picks up every single picture frame we have on display—well, every frame he can reach, anyway, knocking them over and smearing greasy fingerprints all over the glass.

  Coke-baby’s photo shoot is a total party. The mother complains about everything she can possibly complain about. She even tsk-tsks some of Henry’s camera angles. I don’t know how he remains so cool. I want to grab her by her soccer-mom ponytail and drag her out the door. And the kid? He might be the literal spawn of Satan. I swear his head even does the Linda Blair 180 at one point.

  When they finish, the mom tries to argue her way into getting free retouching. I don’t know what to do, but Henry hears it from the back and comes up and puts her in her place.

  “We outsource the retouching, so we have no say in the pricing. It’s all pretty standard. So I guess it depends on how much retouching you want. You don’t really have to do any, it’s a personal preference kinda thing.”

  The woman wants to argue more, but Satan’s spawn has now started throwing a tantrum about it taking too long and wanting ice cream and shit. Henry smiles as she drags the kid toward the door and tells her he’ll see her on Monday to pick out which prints she wants.

  “I think that kid might need some major retouching,” I say as the door closes.

  “I don’t even know if I got one shot where he didn’t look deranged. Monday’ll be fun.”

  I don’t work on Monday. Part of me is relieved and part of me is bummed—I’d kind of like to see her reaction.

  “Hold on,” Henry says as he pushes the curtain out of his way. He quickly returns with the memory chip. “Plug her in. Let’s see what the damage is.”

  I do as asked. It’s not as bad as we thought. Little bastard is actually photogenic. He’s one of those kids who’s so ugly, he’s cute. Damn. I was hoping for a good laugh.

  “Oh, that reminds me,” Henry says, pulling open the drawers, searching for something. “It’s gotta be here somewhere . . .” After a few minutes of rifling, he gives up. “I don’t want to mess with Jordyn’s system too much. She’ll make my life hell.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  “The chip with your pictures on it. Aren’t you curious about how they turned out?”

  “I forgot all about that,” I say. I didn’t forget; I just hoped that he had.

  “Sure you did,” he says with a grin.

  • • •

  Dad’s home when Captain and I get back from our run. After school, it was either jerk off in the shower or get out of the house and do something productive. Since the first option would still be there after the second, it was only fair to take Captain for a run.

  But now Dad’s sitting on the couch, watching some ghost-hunting show, drinking what looks like the last of an entire case of beer, from all the empties on the coffee table and floor. Oh, and a Jack Daniel’s bottle is at his feet. I haven’t been gone more than two hours. I can tell he’s in the in-between state and I brace myself—unfortunately, I can’t lock myself away for the night because I’m starving. Fucking biology.

  For dinner this evening, I have ramen or ramen to choose from. God, I have to talk to Henry about money tomorrow. The bad thing about ramen, especially at this very moment, is that it requires me to be in the kitchen long enough for Dad to start shit with me. He’s down in the family room. Seven stairs and a railing separate us, but we have a clear line of sight on each other. And he can make it up those seven stairs much quicker than one might think possible.

  I’m hyperaware of his every movement. Every hair on my body is alive, like it’s sensing a shift in the electric currents in case I need to flee the storm before lightning strikes.

  I feed Captain by picking the kibbles from the bag with my hand and placing them in the bowl with minimal noise. Dad clears his throat and my jaw snaps shut. I freeze, sure he’s heard my teeth hit together and he’s going to view it as an opening. He takes a swig of JD right from the bottle and sniffles. As I stir my ramen, I hear Captain descend the stairs, his tags clinking against each other with every step. Dad sighs and I hold my breath, waiting for him to take out his aggression on Captain again, but the flap of the doggie door clacks shut after he’s made his way outside. I jump when the flap clacks again and Dad shifts on the couch. I brave looking and see the self-satisfied smile on his face as he scratches Captain’s ears and lets Captain lick his face. What is he up to? I mean, he’s obviously fucking with me, but what’s his endgame?

  And now that my ramen’s finished and Captain, the traitor, is all taken care of, I have two choices: Sit at the kitchen table and jump every time Dad takes a breath, or retreat to my bedroom to take shelter and wait out the Friday night storm. I choose option two. Now all I have to do is descend those seven stairs with my ramen in hand, balance said ramen as I unlock the door to the basement, lock the door behind me, and I’m home free. But I’m so on edge that I fumble with the keys longer than planned while trying to balance the ramen.

  I wait for something to fly at my head—a bottle, a snot-filled, wadded-up napkin, a fork, a knife. He’s not picky. But instead, he lets out a low laugh and mumbles something about what a fucking disappointment I am and how I killed my mom, the usual shit, to Captain, who’s now curled up in his lap. Once I’m through the door, I calmly close it, and when the lock slides into place, I feel completely drained. Like after an adrenaline rush how your body just wants to shut down. I swear he has a bible that he uses to plot his various methods of torture. Today: psychological warfare. Next up: Who the hell knows?

  I try to talk myself out of my nightly ritual because I’m so afraid I won’t be able to keep myself from doing something to Mom’s pictures after having to deal with Dad’s shit, but I just can’t. It feels like I’d be insulting her or something. All I feel tonight when I see her face is sad. I almost understand her wanting to escape. But why the hell couldn’t she talk to me about it? I could have helped. I would have skipped practice in a heartbeat if she’d asked. Why didn’t she just ask? Her depression seemed managed. The lows weren’t any worse than usual. Why didn’t I sense it coming? Was there something that happened that sent her over the edge? I just wish she’d left me some kind of clue, even like, Tyler, this is what happened that made me understand there’s only one way out. I hope you’re smarter than me. I hope you’re able to figure out another.

  ELEVEN

  “Statistically speaking, twenty percent of all suicides don’t leave a note.”

  “It doesn’t matter how many times you throw that statistic crap at me, Doc. I’m never going to stop obsessing.”

&
nbsp; Dr. Dave has told me this about ten thousand times. Every time he brings it up, I want to punch him in the face. It’s one of the only things that makes me hate our mandatory time together.

  I don’t buy it. I mean, the statistic might be true, but I don’t think it applies to my mother. My mom was a planner. She kept a calendar of appointments a year in advance, some of which I’ve been able to find phone numbers for and cancel. The gynecologist was a fun call to make. Thanks, Mom. This is why the whole “no suicide note” thing doesn’t sit well with me. I’m convinced that either my dad found a note that made him sound like the abusive asshole he is and was afraid he would be implicated or some shit and destroyed it, or he actually killed her and made it look like a suicide. But since she was still warm when I found her, and Dad was nowhere nearby, I’m pretty sure it was option number one.

  “Well, I still don’t think it applies to my mom. Like I’ve said, she was a planner. It just doesn’t . . . fit.” My leg is bouncing. My muscles are wound so tight, I’m surprised I’m able to move at all. “Can we please talk about something else?”

  “We can talk about whatever you want to talk about, Tyler.”

  “It creeps me out when you use my name like that, David.”

  He laughs. “I know. I apologize. What do you want to talk about?”

  “You know that goth chick who works at the photo place? I kind of did something.”

  “I knew it. If I were a betting man—”

  “If you were a betting man, you’d be totally screwed because I didn’t have sex with her.”

  I give Dr. Dave the rundown about my indirect involvement in the ruining of Jordyn’s leather jacket. “The strange part is that I feel like such an asshole about the whole thing. I mean, I think I need to replace the jacket . . . I have an interview with a company that specializes in picking up dog shit for lazy bastards to make some extra cash.”

  Dr. Dave sits back in his chair and grins. “Why, Tyler Blackwell, I do believe I’ve earned my first paycheck.”

  “You were just hoping I’d find salvation in the scooping of dog shit?”

  “I think it’s great that you feel bad.”

  “You’re reveling in the fact that I feel bad? That’s pretty messed up, Doc.”

  “This is huge, Tyler. You’ve allowed yourself to actually feel. To, you know, give a shit.”

  “I don’t give a shit.”

  His face beams in triumph but he holds his hands up. “Fair enough. Let’s talk about your anger toward your dad.”

  “Nice try.” But I begrudgingly smile at him—gotta admire his determination.

  • • •

  I have to stop at home before the photo studio, so I’m a little late. Really only thirty seconds late, but I feel like I should be there early to show Henry how appreciative I am for the job. I have to wait for Jordyn to come out from the back to open the door for me.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I say.

  She looks at me like I have three heads as she raises the counter divider to our circular work area. I hear the whirr of her computer and hover behind her to see the schedule on her screen.

  “You can get into the calendar from your own computer.” She sounds annoyed.

  “But that would require patience. Plus I wouldn’t get my daily dose of up close and personal Jordyn-hate.”

  She glares at me and I smile bigger. “Ah, yeah.” I make a big show of taking in a deep breath. She doesn’t strike me as a perfume kind of girl, but there’s a hint of something sweet and fresh coming off her. Jasmine maybe? “That’s the stuff.”

  She reaches back and smacks my arm pretty hard. When I laugh, she slaps me again, only this time I grab her wrist and hold it until she turns her full glare on me. After I’ve fully basked in her hatred, I allow her arm to drop. When I turn back toward my area, I’m thumped across the back of the head. This time she’s the one laughing.

  Crap. Are we flirting? I have to stop with this. I need her to hate me. Shit. But then why am I trying so hard to fix the jacket thing?

  I sneak a peek at the eBay auction. It’s up to $452. Fuck me. Also, I see that Jordyn’s stopped bidding. Her last bid was $402, and now the two assholes who kept outbidding us by one freaking dollar are outbidding each other by a few at a time.

  I know what I have to do. I have no choice. I’ll have to pay the “buy it now” price. Six hundred goddamn dollars. I have the wad of cash in my front pocket. I stopped home to grab it out of my emergency funds just in case, and I’ll have to go to the bank at lunch to put it on my debit card so I can get the jacket before the auction ends at midnight—if one of the two assholes doesn’t “buy it now” first.

  Henry enters around lunchtime. We have some senior photos to do this afternoon at 3:00, so I’m not sure why he’s here now.

  I follow him back to the studio. “Do you need me now, Henry? Because I need to run to the bank and I was hoping to do that at lunch.”

  “No problem. Actually, that’s more than fine. Lunch is on me.” Henry digs out his wallet. “I’ll have Jordyn call in the order and you can pick it up. You like Chinese?”

  I nod. I should probably make a show of telling him he really doesn’t have to pay for my meal, but I’m so hungry and I can’t stomach the thought of another lunch of snacks, so I just nod.

  “Good. You know that place on the corner of Santa Fe?”

  Again, I nod.

  “Great.” He places three twenties in my hand. “Hurry back. My mouth’s watering just thinking about it. Jordyn!” I hurry past her as she pushes through the curtain.

  Good thing my bank is pretty close. I head in and deposit $650 into the account. My balance is now a whopping $659. But not for long. After the jacket I’ll have enough for a quarter-tank of gas and some more damn ramen. That’s about it.

  Then I stop and pick up our lunch. The total is over fifty bucks plus tax. I give the lady the whole sixty dollars and head back.

  There’s so much food. I feel like Henry ordered one of everything from the menu.

  When I return, he and Jordyn have set up chairs by Jordyn’s end of the counter. She arranges all the containers in a row and hands me a plate, then scoops out piles of fried rice and chow mein. I do the same.

  Then we all dig in. And it’s so good! I’d forgotten. It’s been forever since I’ve been able to afford good Chinese. Since before . . .

  Once we’re all too full to continue, Jordyn packs up the leftovers. “You want this for later?” she asks Henry.

  “Nah. Your mom’s making a roast tonight and we’re gone tomorrow. You want it, Tyler?” he asks.

  “I’ll take it if you don’t want it,” I say, trying to be as casual as I can, but I’m pretty sure I’ve failed.

  After stashing my delicious dinner in the fridge, I return to a computer screen full of me.

  “That’s the one.” Henry taps a greasy finger against the screen.

  Jordyn smacks his hand. “No touching. Use your words.”

  This gets a gruff chuckle from Henry. “Number forty-seven, then,” he says. “Well, Tyler Blackwell? What d’ya think?”

  The screen is alight with my face. I’m wearing the blue shirt and a smile I don’t even recognize. I wasn’t aware I still owned such a smile.

  “It’s good, but it’s not him,” Jordyn says. Then, as if the realization that she’s just admitted to knowing me hits her, her cheeks turn the slightest shade of pink.

  “Why? Because I’m smiling?” I try to make it into a joke.

  “Pretty much,” she says. “I like this one.” She clicks through and stops on a shot where I’m in the suit. I’m not smiling. My focus is off screen, like I’m looking at something. I look . . . I don’t know, sad, I guess.

  Henry grunts and gets closer to the monitor. “Hmm. It’s a good shot, but not for a yearbook. It’s sorta depressing, don�
�t you think?”

  Jordyn and I make eye contact. I’m begging her not to explain. I don’t want Henry to pity me. She nods so slightly, I almost don’t see it. Henry certainly misses it.

  We finally land on a shot where I’m—well, not really smiling. Maybe smirking? But not in, like, an assholic way. It’s the one that all three of us agree is the best for the yearbook. Henry tells me to sleep on it. He has Jordyn e-mail me the top pictures, and then he retreats to the studio.

  Back at my computer, I slyly click on the eBay screen. The bidding is up to $521 with eight hours to go till midnight eastern time. I have to get this jacket. I won’t be able to stop obsessing until I do.

  I hide the screen and glance over at Jordyn. She’s looking at the photo of me looking sad again. I can feel heat climb my neck and settle in my cheeks and ears. I clear my throat and she quickly clicks off the picture and turns around to see if she’s been caught. I turn back in time for her not to notice. At least I think I do.

  Then I hear her shuffle through the curtain and I know this is my chance.

  I click to eBay and hit the BUY IT NOW button, quickly entering all my information and hitting CONFIRM.

  It’s done.

  The confirmation screen reads $629, including shipping, and I practically start hyperventilating.

  I now have $30 to last me the rest of the week. Or until however long it takes to get paid. I’m totally screwed. But I know I’ve made the right decision when I turn toward Jordyn’s chair and the word slut stares back at me.

  I close the eBay window for good.

  • • •

  Jordyn must know I caught her looking at the picture of me because she’s taking her time in the back. So I sit at her computer and open the file with my name on it. The sad picture comes up again. It really is the most me of any of the pictures. Now I remember what I was looking at off screen when Henry took it. I was watching him and Jordyn. They were teasing each other, and I remember thinking how I will never feel that. I will never know that kind of parental love again. It’s a photograph of my heart breaking that is now frozen in time for all of eternity. I drag the mouse over the picture and contemplate deleting it.