by Ruth Morse
“What’s that?” Mel said.
“My phone, please.”
“I can’t hear you. The blanket is so thick it doesn’t let the sound through.”
“You’re running into a lot of trouble, you know that, right?” I said, laughing.
Mel threw herself at me, her treacherous hands beginning to tickle me. It was the second time she caught me off guard. Yeah, I’d really lost my edge.
“All right, you won, you won! Get off me!” I cried.
Her hands stopped moving. “Can I give my terms for peace?” Mel said.
“Go ahead, invader.”
“We’ll go shopping!”
“Jeez, not this—”
Mel’s fingers immediately slid back to my neck. I moaned. “Okay, just not for too long,” I grumbled.
“Yay!”
Mel jumped to her feet and waltzed over to the dresser, singing on her way. The plan for my revenge appeared on its own accord. I got up, took nicely calibrated aim, and tossed my pillow right at her wagging butt. She screamed and straightened up, hitting her head on the open shelf.
“Damn, I’m sorry,” I said, barely holding back my laughter.
“Sorry, you say.” Mel rubbed her head. “Do you know what you’ve just done? You’ve declared war!”
“Let’s reschedule our battle for tomorrow; the soldiers should rest while their generals are buying new armor.”
The lines between Mel’s eyebrows smoothed out. “Agreed.” She giggled, pulling out a blue shirt from the dresser and handing it to me.
“I can go in my own clothes,” I protested.
“Your clothes are on the balcony,” Mel replied.
I raised one eyebrow at her.
Mel snorted. “They smelled of cigarette smoke so terribly that I’d have to wear a gas mask to drive with you in the car.”
A summer scarf and a plaid skirt flew onto the bed along with the blue shirt. I rolled my eyes. I knew I couldn’t get away that easily.
“That’s way more than what we agreed on,” I grumbled, pulling on the slim skirt.
“Can I at least see you not wearing jeans for once in my life? I deserve that. Besides, you look beautiful.”
I sighed, missing my comfortable jeans already.
We headed down to the kitchen. Mel opened two soda cans and handed me one. We drank in silence.
As soon as I gathered my breath, my phone beeped. Mel made big eyes and winked at me without taking her mouth off the can.
I huffed. “Back off,” I said, taking my phone.
A text from Max:
Are you awake?
How are you feeling? I texted.
I should be asking you that.
I sighed.
I’m okay I guess. Mel told me I didn’t do anything stupid, so everything’s cool, right?
You mean you don’t remember anything from yesterday?
Just starting to recall. Slowly.
Not even when we said goodbye?
What about it?
His answer came after a long pause.
Just wondering. I’m glad you’re okay.
I took a deep breath, trying to avoid the already forgotten but suddenly reappearing pain in my stomach.
“What happened?” Mel asked, plopping down on the chair next to me. “You’re pale.”
“What happened when we said goodbye yesterday?”
“What do you mean?” Mel blinked blankly at me.
“Did anything happen?”
“Hmm.” She frowned. “Nothing really. I turned off the engine, we got out of the car, then we approached my house. I walked away to give you guys personal space. You know, tact and all that.”
“And we just said goodbye to each other?”
“No, you kicked him in the groin and hysterically laughed. I’m joking!” she added, seeing how my face changed. “What could you have done? And why are you even asking me?”
“I just want to remember,” I murmured.
Mel gave me a knowing smile and patted me on the shoulder. “It’s all right, Foxy. You’ll recall everything soon. Remember how fucked up I was after your prom?” she said, snorting with laughter.
“Oh, I definitely do.” I smiled.
The whole school would never forget Mel yelling at the principal for her tasteless dress. Mel was so drunk that she only recalled her memories of that night a week later. She made my prom a legend and the next morning I had to explain to her why she woke up a super star.
“Stand up, my general,” Mel said, giving me a hand. “The great fight awaits us. Let’s go to the mall!”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
After a day of nonstop shopping, I finally understood what an orange in a juicer felt like. Mel wandered through the endless mall floors with the vigor of a bull and the agility of a panther. She maneuvered artfully among girls desperate to find the same discounts.
In good faith, I accompanied her for the first two hours but then gave up and took refuge in a cafe on the first floor. I took a big sip of coffee, leaned back in my chair, and looked around. The crowd buzzed noisily, absorbing new arrivals and spitting out the lucky ones with colorful packages in their hands. Husbands accompanied their wives, pretending to be interested in buying stuff yet inevitably lagging behind. Children pulled their parents by their sleeves, demanding with tears in their eyes for yet another trinket. The mall was an autonomous organism with its own finely tuned internal system, and I just wanted to stay away from it. Unfortunately, I was embroiled right in its center.
It was dark when we finally made it to the street. As we returned to Mel’s home, she immediately began to disassemble the bags. I watched her try on a short dress, a jumpsuit, and even an autumn coat that she got on sale, occasionally nodding my approval.
“Mel, even in a robe and with a bag over your head, you’d still rule,” I said after she gave me an exacting glance.
“Oh, stop it,” she replied. Then she gave it a thought and added, “Actually, go on. I kinda like it.”
“I’m done already,” I said.
My phone beeped, interrupting our laughter.
“Someone’s popular.” Mel snorted.
This time it wasn’t Max. It was my dad:
Honey, when will you be home?
“Mel, have you ever had a feeling that everything is just too good to be true?” I said thoughtfully, fiddling with my phone.
“Of course I have. But you get used to it and everything falls into place,” she replied.
“Hmm.”
Dad didn’t freak out that I slept over Mel’s. And then he actually wondered when I’d be coming home. I smiled. I didn’t know what was going on with his mood or when he was starting to care about me again, but I definitely liked it.
***
“Hi h-honey!”
Dad met me at the front door, his back leaning against the wall. The smell of booze assaulted my nose.
“Hey, Dad.”
“How was school?”
I gave him a puzzled look. “I finished school a few months ago.”
“Oops. My mistake.”
Dad turned around and walked into the living room. I watched his unstable gait, clutching my jacket in my hands. I hung it up in the closet and shifted my gaze to the keyring. Mom’s keys weren’t there.
“Mom isn’t home yet?” I had to shout over the blaring TV.
“Still at work, poor creature,” Dad shouted back.
I walked into the living room. My foot kicked something on the floor and it rolled away with a ringing sound. A beer bottle. I looked around. The identical empty beer bottles littered the table, there were wet spots on the carpet, and amidst all the garbage my dad had tossed on the floor, he idly clicked the TV remote.
I swore under my breath so Dad wouldn’t hear me.
“When is Mom coming back?” I asked him.
“I don’t know,” he replied blankly.
“I see.”
I took some trash bags from the kitchen and came back to se
e my dad. The beer bottles rattled against each other as they disappeared, one by one, into the trash bag. The table quickly cleared. I opened the windows to get rid of the stench.
Out on the street, I threw all the evidence of Dad’s binge drinking into the garbage can and finally took a deep breath. My heart was racing and my stomach cringed with a bad feeling. Dad was suddenly being nice to me after six years of coldness and endless complaints. But then he lapsed into his old boozing ways. Hopefully, Mom didn’t know about it.
It happened just after the accident. Or maybe some time had passed. I don’t remember. But that night I couldn’t forget.
Bang, bang, bang!
I sit in my bed under the blanket, my shoulders swaying from side to side, faster with every new bang. My hands are pressed to my ears. The sounds scare me. I squeeze my ears with all the strength I have, but I can’t make the banging stop.
Mom screams. She’s been screaming so often these days. My hands start to tremble from squeezing my ears shut so tightly. Please, stop. I don’t want to hear it. I want it all gone. BANG, BANG, BANG. Something cracks and rolls on the floor downstairs.
“I hate this, I hate this, I hate this!”
“Tom, stop!”
“How can you do this, huh? How can you live like nothing happened! Fuck!”
Boom! One more cry, only quieter this time, then everything remains silent. The cold wind rushes into my room from the open window, but I’m too scared to leave my bed and close it. My heart thumps somewhere in my throat. I lift the edge of the blanket. The room sinks in the dusk, illuminated by the light from the hallway seeping from under the door. I take a deep breath and get up on my feet.
The stairs are littered with shards of broken flowerpots. Orange, white, some with lines and dots or animals painted on them, the colorful pieces scattered everywhere. Always carefully wiped down and washed by Mom, they are now covered in soil, leaving trails of dirt and mud on the floor. I step on something slimy and recoil in horror. On the stair lies the torn and crumpled stem of an orchid. I look around the living room. The plants have been slaughtered and their mass grave is empty. Something cracks in the kitchen. I hear mumbling and soon I can discern my dad’s voice.
“I’m so scared…”
I walk through the living room, stepping over the flower corpses and shattered flowerpots. The soil under my feet is cold and slippery. I reach the kitchen and see my parents. Dad lies on the floor, his back against the overturned box of apples our neighbors gave my mom when they heard of the accident. Dad’s unblinking eyes stare at the dark spot on the floor in front of the refrigerator. After hours of cleaning with dozens of different bleaches, the purple stain turned into a dark blue smear and the edges blur. In time, my dad would remove the boards with the stain and completely replace the flooring.
“You have to quit drinking.”
Mom sits next to Dad with a white bandage in hand. Only now I notice the blood. Dad’s shirt sleeve is rolled up, all red from blood, and below it a deep wound cuts his arm from the elbow to the wrist. Rivulets of blood run down his hand and fingers, soaking his pants.
Mom wearily tilts her head to one side. She starts to put a bandage on Dad’s arm. Her shoulders are trembling as if she’s crying, but I don’t see the tears.
“You can’t live a normal life in this house, Marth.” Dad turns his head to Mom and stares at her. “I won’t let you.”
“I don’t feel anything,” Mom whispers. “I can’t feel anything anymore. I don’t want to die, but I can’t live either. What are we supposed to do?”
“I don’t care.” Dad’s unharmed arm reaches for a kitchen drawer, opens it, and takes out a new bottle of whiskey. “I’m just tired, that’s all.”
Mom’s expression doesn’t change at the sight of the bottle in Dad’s hand. She takes it from him, opens it with a dull sound, and gives it back, not saying a word. Dad takes a big, greedy sip of whiskey and bangs the bottle against the floor. They don’t look at each other, their heads turned away from one another, the same expression frozen on their faces—tiredness, indifference, and numbness. I take a small step back and a piece of flowerpot cracks under my foot. Mom and Dad turn their heads to me simultaneously.
“It’s you, Lana,” Mom says, both in question and in statement, looking somewhere above my head. Then she closes her eyes and slowly turns away.
“Mom?” I call her, my voice lowered to a whisper from fear. She doesn’t respond. She doesn’t do anything at all, her body motionless and limp like a rag doll.
“Dad?”
He raises his head and looks at me. His gaze makes my skin crawl—the black holes of emptiness that his eyes have become scare me. He says in a tired voice that I don’t recognize:
“Go away.”
Shivering, I shook my head and returned to the living room. Dad was lying in the same pose I’d left him in.
“Don’t you want to take a shower? Mom’s going to be home soon,” I said, approaching the sofa.
“Hmm. What time is it?” Dad looked around, confused.
He glanced at the clock, his eyes widening. The next second he was on his feet, his lips moving and his hands rubbing his face as if he was trying to wipe it clean. I took the remote control and turned off the TV.
“Jesus Christ! Lana, please, clean the mess… Oh, you already did. Don’t tell Mom about that, will you? Our secret, okay? How does that sound?” His wet, restless eyes focused on me.
I gave him a fake cheerful smile. “Sure, just hurry up. After your shower, go straight to bed. You need some good sleep,” I said.
He took a deep breath. “Thanks,” he murmured. He studied me for a little longer, his head tilted to one side and his arms crossed over his chest. It looked like he wanted to tell me something, carefully picking the right words. After a whole minute of silence, he shook his head and looked away.
“We’ll be all right, you know. We are all gonna be all right,” he said, emphasizing each word.
Dad stretched his hand forward and laid it on my shoulder. He patted me softly yet clumsily and nodded.
I watched him disappear around the turn in the stairs. Soon, a door upstairs banged closed and the water started running. The clock behind me rang hoarsely as it struck eight. After that, everything was quiet.
When my tired legs finally brought me to my room, the front door opened. Mom was home. I heard her light steps pad through the living room, move up the stairs, then make their way into her bedroom. I held my breath. The bedroom remained quiet. It was a good sign.
I sat on my bed, my hands fiddling with a book and my eyes staring at the crack in the wall above the doorway. I didn’t see it, nor did I see the colorful vine that Mel and I added to the crack when we were kids. All I saw was my dad’s face. I couldn’t stop thinking about his gaze. He looked at me as if he… trusted me. He’d texted me and wanted me back home. He wanted me to see him like that. But why?
I closed my eyes. It was hard to believe, but seeing Dad in such a state, I finally realized how vulnerable he really was. For the first time in my life, I saw my dad not only as my parent but also as a human being. A human being that had his right to love, to hate… to suffer in his own way.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Dark liquid suffocates me. I gasp for air, but instead I swallow the viscous, sugary mass. It sticks to my lips, to my throat, to my lungs. I can’t see anything. My eyes are plastered shut and salty tears make it even worse. The screams come from somewhere. The long, inhuman howl mutes them for a moment, but then they come back louder, with a vengeance.
“Breathe! Breathe!”
Do they know they’re not helping me? No one can help me. I’m alone. I’m alone, and their screams are in my head just to make me lose my mind. I’m not crazy. I’m just dying. I open my mouth, letting the liquid gush into my lungs. It fills my body, makes it plastic, cold, like the body of a doll. I can see it now; it lies in the purple puddle, its pale arms flung wide, glassy eyes staring at the ceiling.
“It’s you, Lana.”
How can this be real? I see my body. I’m dead! It’s me! You don’t have to blame me—I am dead! There, look…
Startled, I sat up in bed. The moon loomed outside the window. Wind played with leaves on the trees, making shadows dance on the walls. My whole body ached. I stood up and stretched.
I turned on my phone. It was two in the morning.
Stretching out on the bed, my gaze fell back to my phone nestled between the pillows. Without giving it a second thought, I grabbed it and let my fingers slide across the screen.
Are you asleep?
He didn’t take too long to answer.
I guess I traded my sleep for insomnia. Why are you awake?
Just woke up.
It’s pretty early.
I took a deep breath and for the first time, I admitted to another person something I would rather hide from myself.
Nightmares.
You wanna talk?
I bit my lip. Yes.
My phone rang a second later.
“Hi Lana.”
I smiled and clutched the phone tighter.
“Is there any way for your insomnia to disappear?”
“Nah, I just realized the night is too beautiful to waste it on sleep.”
We remained silent for a while. I imagined him looking at the stars with his eyes squinted and his lips stretched in a smile that reached the right corner of his mouth. I wished that at least for a moment I could see this world through his eyes.
“What’s on your mind?” Max broke the silence first.
“You,” I said simply.
He paused. “You’re on mine too,” he said.
“What about me?”
“You said yesterday you wanted to be a writer?”
“Yes.”
“Which means you like books?”