Want

by Stephanie Lawton

  I reach for the water to stall. If I tell him, it’ll break his heart. I thought if I could just make it to graduation, if I could just be strong enough, if…if I was good enough, she’d love me. My love could make her stop. She’d see I wanted to please her. I tried so hard that I missed out on the last two years of my life.

  Until Isaac entered the picture. Until the NEC became an obsession.

  “How long, Juli?”

  “Don’t make me answer that, R.J. It doesn’t matter. It happened, okay? Isn’t that enough?”

  “Why won’t you give me a straight answer? Dammit, Juli, don’t push me away! If you’d let me in, maybe none of this would have happened. You lied to me. I asked you over and over if everything was okay, and you lied to my face. I think I deserve to know why. Now I’m going to ask you again, when did she start hurting you?”

  I take a deep—and painful—breath. “Since you left last year. She got a little better over the summer when you were home. But as soon as you left again… R.J., I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to tell you. It’s not your fault.”

  “No?” He lets out a humorless laugh. “If it’s not my fault, then it’s not yours, either. I know what you’re thinking.”

  Daddy chooses that moment to walk in. Maybe it’s because I haven’t really looked at him lately, or the past twenty-four hours have taken their toll, but the lines on his face are so pronounced that it makes me wince. The skin around his eyes sags, and his hair has more gray than red. When did that happen?

  He comes to an abrupt halt when he sees I’m awake. He raises his chin to R.J., who gives me a look before he leaves as if to say, “Go easy on him.”

  I don’t want to deal with Daddy, but since I’m trapped in bed there’s not much choice. I look straight ahead at the clock on the wall. Six in the morning. Six-oh-one, tick, tick, tick. Six-oh-two.

  “Look at me, sweetie. No? Fine. Here’s the deal. Your mama’s in a treatment facility. She—she wants help this time. I know you don’t believe me, but that wasn’t her that hurt you. She wasn’t always like that. Anyway, she’s there indefinitely, until they figure out what’s wrong with her and how to fix it. It’s more than depression. That’s what they called it the last couple of years.”

  All he can do is talk about her. No I’m sorry. No Gee, I wish you would’ve told me it was so bad. I would have protected you.

  Six-oh-four, tick, tick, tick. Six-oh-five.

  “What do you want me to say, Juli?”

  “You’re sorry? That would be a good start. That’s what normal people would say.”

  “Fine. I’m sorry. Thought it was obvious.”

  “It’s not.”

  “Huh.”

  His head is still in the sand.

  In the afternoon, Mr. Cline appears in the doorway with a small bouquet. He has his cane, but he doesn’t lean on it nearly as much as before. I giggle at his patterned button-down shirt and old-man sweater vest.

  “One never visits a lady without a token of appreciation.” He sets the flowers down on the side table.

  I snort. “Appreciation for what? My pleasant personality? This rockin’ sling on my arm?”

  His little smile is the first I’ve seen in my hospital room. I watch him take in the IV, the sling, and finally, the patches that cover the stitches in my head.

  His chin quivers. “For your candor and wit, and the lovely, talented girl who lies beneath all that bravado.”

  And I’m done. I break. As soon as that hairline fracture in my armor appears, I crack wide open. Everything I’ve held inside pours out in a torrent of shame. Drops of it coalesce into tiny rivers that trickle down my cheeks. When I reach for the box of hospital tissues—the same one R.J. used earlier—Mr. Cline clucks and hands me a clean handkerchief.

  While I pull myself together, he scrapes a chair to the side of the bed. He patiently waits for me to finish, then takes my free hand in his. I’m struck with such a sense of déjà vu that it nearly overwhelms me. His hands are still papery, his knuckles still knobby, but mine have changed. They no longer belong to a hopeful, naïve girl. That girl died in my room last night.

  “So tell me, dear, what will you do? You have a few more obstacles to overcome now, but I know you too well to think this will stop you from achieving what you’ve set out to do. Tell me how I can help.”

  I swear he knows what I need to hear more than I do.

  “Can you wave your magic cane and make everything better?”

  “I’m afraid not. But I can tell you a story.”

  “A story?”

  “Indulge an old man.”

  “Okay. Is it all right if I close my eyes? The pain meds make me sleepy. Seriously, this stuff is good. But don’t leave! Please, I mean. Please don’t leave.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it. Close your eyes and listen to what I have to tell you.”

  The hospital pillows are unfamiliar and smell of disinfectant, but I nestle in the best I can and wait for Mr. Cline to begin.

  “A long time ago, there was a boy who lost the most important person in his life. This hurt him deeply, but he dealt with it well for his age. He was headstrong from the time he was born, so he pulled himself up and went on with life. He experienced all the normal ups and downs of childhood, but when he became an adolescent, it became obvious that he carried around a great deal of hurt. He didn’t trust people, always kept them at a distance. His family knew what a caring, loyal person he was, so it pained them to see him so alone.”

  Isaac had made it sound like he was fine after his daddy died. I guess not.

  “Then, in a matter of weeks, he blossomed. He’d met someone with whom he felt comfortable, someone who accepted him despite his perceived shortcomings. His family could see him struggle. He wanted to believe she was someone he could trust completely, but at the same time, he’d spent so many years guarding himself, it was hard to break old habits,” he continues.

  “Mind you, he was still rather young, but then they were both quite mature for their ages. After a time, their relationship progressed to…an adult one. Her mother discovered them and forbade them from seeing each other again. She was furious at her daughter for associating with someone so damaged.”

  I hear the disgust in his voice.

  “She saw no advantage in the match. Her daughter rebelled, so the mother hurt her by hurting the boy. She accused him of heinous things, things he would never dream of doing. All the trust he’d put in the girl and their relationship came to a terrible end. From then on, he trusted no one.”

  No wonder he stayed in Boston so long.

  “He went to college far away, where he didn’t even have his family to fall back on. He tried to keep his hard, protective shell in place, but he met some wonderful people who shared his interests and challenged him. By the time he graduated, he was well-known in his field, but his life was still empty.”

  Mr. Cline sighs.

  “He met a lady. Unlike the first girl, she was damaged much like him. They both had walls around them, but he eventually let his down. She did not. When he tried to breach those walls, she ended the relationship. Shortly afterward, a…stroke of fate brought him home again, to his family and the city he loved. His family barely recognized him. Gone was the loving, loyal little man whose persistence made his family proud. Instead, he was withdrawn, cold, even resentful. Time had not healed his wounds,” he says.

  “Fortunately, he was presented with a challenge in the form of a young talent much like he had been. Like him, she had been betrayed, hurt, and alone for much too long. Like him, she was also headstrong, persistent, and confused. Now, unlike him, she had a keen wit and an unassuming air, despite the beauty she carried both inside and out.”

  I open one eye and make a face at him.

  “Although she was unaware, she had a dramatic effect on him for the better. Anyone close to him could see he was excited about this new endeavor. He composed again. He reached out to old friends and the community and found that what
he thought was a scarlet letter on his chest had been forgiven and forgotten. Time often brings perspective to these matters. He enjoyed mentoring this young talent and took genuine pleasure in seeing her improve and succeed.”

  Warm blood rushes to my cheeks.

  “Unfortunately, not everything in his life was set to rights. There were complications that threw him back into his old melancholy habits. He began taking things out on those he cared for. Eventually, he became paranoid and angry. The walls he had dismantled went back into place, brick by brick, until he drove everyone away.”

  Half-in, half-out of consciousness, I listen to my own, regular breath.

  “Julianne?”

  I’m so sleepy, I have to fight to answer him. “Mmm?”

  “Don’t give up,” he whispers. “Don’t give up on yourself, and don’t give up on him. You both need a friend right now, and something constructive to work toward. You are the two most stubborn, hard-headed people I know, and I wouldn’t want it any other way. You will put that trait to good use to get yourself into the NEC, and you will make me proud. You will get through this, and I will help you if it’s the last thing I do.”

  When I squeeze his hand, we seal an unspoken deal.

  “And now, if I don’t get home and take my medication, it might be sooner rather than later.”

  I want to tell him “I love you,” but the pain meds are pulling me under and I don’t know if the words make it to my mouth. The last thing I remember is a cool hand brushing back the hair from my forehead, like Mama did when I was little.

  ***

  “For the love of Shakespeare, kitten, call me! Ike won’t answer his phone, and I can’t get ahold of you. Please call me back and at least let me know you two didn’t go all Romeo and Juliet. Ciao!”

  After I convince R.J. to sneak in my cell phone—his final brotherly act before he heads back to school—I listen to six messages from Dave, each more frantic than the last. When I call him back, he picks up on the first ring.

  “Julianne!”

  “What, dost thou not lovest enough to call thine own pet kitten?”

  “A rose by any other name, blah, blah, blah. Now tell me what the hell’s going on.”

  I fill him in but leave out some of the more embarrassing particulars. When I finish, it’s silent on the other end, and my stomach drops. I said too much. This is how it goes, I guess. I should be used to it. I say too much and get that wordless pity stare from people. Then, because my problems make them uncomfortable, they avoid me. I thought Dave was different, but I guess some things are universal.

  “When do you get out of the hospital?”

  “Tomorrow, why?”

  “I’ll see you then.”

  “Wait, what? Tomorr—” But he’s already hung up.

  ***

  True to his word, Dave’s in the driveway when we get home the next afternoon.

  “Who—is that—what’s he doing here?” Daddy’s knuckles turn white on the steering wheel.

  “Good to see you again, sir. Sorry it’s under these circumstances. Hope you don’t mind, but I thought you might need some help. From what Julianne’s told me, you have a lot on your plate.”

  Daddy blinks a few times but recovers his long-buried Southern manners. “Um, yes. Well. Guess you could get the suitcase out of the back while I help Juli into the house.”

  Dave doesn’t say a word to me, but he winks on his way back to the trunk. Fifteen minutes later, Daddy’s back out the door to visit Mama, and I’m settled on the couch in the den. Pillows support my shoulder, and Dave attempts to boost my morale. I want to be cynical, but Dave makes it difficult.

  “So, you just dropped everything and jumped on a plane?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I’m almost afraid to ask, but why?”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Thanks. Yeah, thanks, but really. Why would you do that? For me, I mean.”

  “Kitten, come on. I’m a jerk but I’m not heartless. Listen, you helped Isaac out of a funk. He’s my best friend, and I appreciate what you did for him. Now you’re my friend, too. Believe it or not, even a self-centered schmuck like me has a heart. Plus, you need me. Your brother’s at school, Ike’s…being Ike, and your dad doesn’t seem like the warm-fuzzy type. But I have to tell you, there are some things I won’t do for you. No matter how much you beg, I will not wipe your—”

  “Dave!”

  “You love it, admit it. I’m so thoughtful that I brought a collection of movies for your viewing pleasure. I also brought microwave popcorn and noticed you have sodas in the fridge.”

  “So what movies did you bring?”

  “I didn’t know what you liked, so I packed a bunch. I have quite the personal collection. You’re laughing. You thought all I owned was porn, huh? Common misconception. I actually have quite varied tastes. Here’s National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, comedic gold. Oh, but it probably hurts to laugh, huh? Okay, no comedies. Fight Club? Oh, no. Sorry. That was insensitive. How about something classic? Oh, I’ve got it. Everything I learned about the South, I got from this movie.”

  “As God is my witness,” I quote, “if you pull out Gone with the Wind, tomorrow will not be another day.”

  “No, no. A Streetcar Named Desire. Tennessee Williams. Hey, Stellaaaa!”

  “I had to read it in school, but I’ve never seen the play or movie.”

  “Oh, kitten, you’re killing me. But I have to warn you, Vivien Leigh is in this one, too. So if you go postal over Gone with the Wind—”

  “Just put it in.”

  The disc drops from his hands to the floor. “I never get tired of hearing those words.”

  I giggle, but it hurts and I can’t even hurl a pillow at him.

  “Oh, oh, sorry. I’ve been a bad boy.” He wags his eyebrows at me but starts the movie.

  “Whoa. Like…whoa.” I can’t take my eyes off the screen.

  “What?”

  “Who is that guy?”

  “What guy?

  “What do you mean, what guy? That guy. Stanley.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No. Who is he?”

  “Uh, Marlon Brando?”

  I draw a blank.

  Dave looks incredulous. “You know, Julius Caesar? On the Waterfront? The Godfather? Superman?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Born in 1924, died in 2004…”

  “Still nothing.”

  The guy who plays Stanley in the movie is crazy hot. Dead, according to Dave, but hot.

  “You gonna go jump the TV screen?”

  “Shut up.”

  “So he does it for you, huh? That’s the type you go for?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The strong, moody, broken type. A fixer-upper. Since you’ve read the play, I don’t have to tell you what happens and how it ends. The guy’s an uber ass. Me? I’m more like Mitch.”

  “Oh, please. You’re more like Don Juan. Or Hugh Hefner.”

  “I’ll accept Don Juan. But Hugh Hefner? Give me a little credit.”

  “Oh, right. He doesn’t have a problem with age differences like you do. My bad.”

  “No, I just believe good things come to those who wait. And I’m willing to wait,” he says, suddenly serious.

  He skims his fingertips down my arm and turns my hand over to brush the inside of my wrist. The scars are visible, but he doesn’t say anything about them. I try to pull away, but he holds tight. He lifts my wrist to his mouth and places the lightest kiss there.

  “When you’re done with him, or he’s done with you, or whatever it is you’ve got going on, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “I take it we’re not talking about Marlon Brando anymore.”

  “You tell me.”

  “I…I haven’t talked to Isaac since—”

  “I know.” Dave suddenly stands and heads to the kitchen.

  When he returns with two glasses of soda, I tell
him, “I’m a Taurus, did you know that?”

  “An April birthday, huh? That’s not too far away.”

  “Well, I don’t know how many redheaded Tauruses you’ve met in your life, but I can tell you, if you think I’ll drop a subject just because you walk into another room to avoid it, you’ve seriously underestimated genetics and astrology.”

  He chuckles. “I’d expect nothing less.”

  Vivien Leigh flutters on the screen like a broken Southern belle. She waves her hands and covers her face.

  “So. He knows you’re in Mobile? Are you staying with him?”

  “Yes to the first question, no to the second.”

  “Did you talk to him about what happened at Felix’s?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  I raise my eyebrows and wait for him to elaborate. He watches the screen. Marlon Brando grabs Vivien Leigh, throws her down on the bed.

  “I told him to stay the hell away until he can stop acting like a psychotic prick. Sorry. Don’t mean to be territorial—I won’t lift my leg or anything—but he was really out of line. In a few days, he’ll probably show up here like nothing happened. He doesn’t know the extent of…he knows the basics, but unless his uncle told him, he doesn’t know details. Are you able to, um—”

  “Am I able to play? I don’t know. Not for a while. I’ve got physical therapy tomorrow, and other kinds of therapy every day after school.”

  “And your audition’s coming up, right?”

  “Yeah. Next month.”

  I don’t tell him that when the pills wear off, the muscle pain is excruciating, like someone’s twisting a hot branding iron into my shoulder socket. I have two black eyes and my head aches.

  Vivien Leigh throws herself to the floor, writhing and moaning. A stout woman tries to force her out the door, but she won’t budge. The doctor who’s come to take her away uses a different tactic. He’s kind and patient, and gives her his hand to help her up. When she’s upright, he offers his arm, which she takes. Then she utters her iconic line: “Whoever you are…I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.”

  ***

  That night, Dave stays at Mrs. Laroche’s house. He refuses to ask Isaac for a bed—“I’m making a point”—and Daddy doesn’t offer him R.J.’s room, though it would be the polite thing to do. I’m not sure what I think or feel about that. There’s so much to go over, so much the therapists want me to talk about. I don’t have the energy to sort this out, too.