She stumbled out into the kitchen with her hand in her mouth. The gushing blood swam in her empty stomach and made her nauseous. She wrapped a wad of paper towel around the cut and reached with her other hand for her mother’s personal pharmacy: partial bottles of morphine, fentanyl, sleeping pills, and codeine that she’d schemed and lied to a dozen doctors to get.
Harmony looked at the tattoo: Summerland.
Her heaven.
She fumbled the lids and poured the pills out in her hand. There were at least twenty and when she tried to take them, Tom flung her hand up, scattering them.
“What’s the matter? Isn’t this what you wanted? It’s what I wanted.”
Crawling around on hands and knees, she gathered what pills she could find. She tossed them into her mouth and ground them between her teeth. Whole pills might not dissolve or worse, might dissolve enough to seize up her kidneys and liver leaving her alive, damaged, with a nasal tube full of activated charcoal and a stomach pumping.
“This is the kind of thing you only fail at once.”
The ground up pills filled the ridges of her teeth with a bitter paste that made her tongue feel numb and thick. She gagged and opened the refrigerator for something to wash them down. All that was in it were a half a bottle of generic ketchup, an expired carton of milk, and a single can of beer. She popped the tab on the beer and took a mouthful, swishing the crushed pill loose and swallowing. The second handful of pills went down easier and, as she finished the beer, they took hold. She was woozy and tired and as she walked out of the kitchen, she tipped off balance and crashed into the dish-filled sink, scattering and breaking two mold-covered milk glasses.
“I hope you’re happy.”
She staggered into her bedroom and pressed her palms and forehead to the cool glass of the mirror. The face staring back at her was ruddy but pale, her makeup blending into funhouse swirls of red and black. She blinked until her pinpoint pupils were clear in her reflection.
“This is what I want.”
She gasped, unable to draw a full breath.
Time was almost up.
20.
Brea and Jaxon stood under the marquee of the old Summit Theater. They were among an eager horde of horror fans, many in theme costumes, waiting for the doors to open to Shreikfest.
Brea knew she should have been more excited, but worry, anger, and preoccupation prevented it. She looked at her cell phone for the tenth or so time, and seeing no calls from Harmony, slid it back in her pea coat pocket.
Jaxon leaned over and gave her a playful nudge. “She’ll call. You two have fought before, right?” He sounded unconcerned.
“Of course we’ve fought, but she never stays mad this long.” She didn’t tell him what Harmony accused him of and didn’t have the guts to confront him about it. “I left her a message over two hours ago and she isn’t calling back. That’s not like her, not even when we’re fighting.” She took the phone back out and restarted it in case it had a glitch.
“Would you knock it off? You’re going to kill your battery.” He took her phone, shut it off, and put it back in her pocket.
The crowd moved toward the man in the white gloves releasing the crimson rope.
“All ticketholders this way, please. Anyone who needs to purchase a ticket should go to the window to my right. Will-call in the left line only.”
“Ready?” Jaxon wrapped his arm around Brea’s shoulder and the two of them were nearly knocked down by a woman in a Victorian gown with an enormous bustle.
“I feel a little underdressed.”
“You look great,” he said. “Let’s try and enjoy this.”
* * * * *
It was after one a.m. by the time Shreikfest let out and going for two when Brea got home.
Her mother was asleep under a blanket on the couch and she made it upstairs without waking her up. When she hung her coat on the back of her desk chair, her cell phone fell out of its pocket.
“Oh, crap.”
She turned it on. Seven messages. She entered her password and listened.
“Brea, it’s Adam. Call me when you get this.”
In the two years he’d been dating Harmony, he’d never once called Brea.
She dialed his number from the missed calls log.
The phone only rang two times, but it felt like a hundred.
“Brea?”
“Adam, what’s wrong? Where’s Harmony? Is she okay?”
He coughed and sniffled, crying so hard that she couldn’t understand what he was saying. Instinctively, she started crying, too. “What did she do? Where is she? Adam, what happened?”
“She did it. She…killed herself.”
“What?” The words were momentarily incomprehensible. “Adam, no. Oh my God, no. When? How?” Guilt stunned her into an emotional vacancy built on denial. “It’s a mistake. It has to be.”
He drew a ragged breath. “It’s not. Charity found her, overdosed.”
Brea couldn’t help but to notice the irony. “Why are you calling me, where’s Charity?”
“She signed out of the hospital AMA , but the cops brought her back after she found Harmony. They have her up on the BHU.”
BHU. The Behavioral Health Unit. She remembered when Harmony was locked up there. She had been so sedated that she could barely hold down a conversation.
“What about Harmony?” Brea wiped her tears on her sleeve. “Where is she?”
“The hospital hasn’t released her yet,” he said.
Brea envisioned Harmony flayed open on a cold autopsy table. Another statistic. A victim of poverty and a broken system. “What do we do now?”
Adam sniffled, a little calmer than he had been. “I’ll see what I can find out.”
Brea stayed on the line a minute or two after he hung up, shocked and feeling, at least in part, to blame.
21.
It was a cold and rainy morning, apropos for the darkness that was eating Brea from the inside out. She spread a thin layer of foundation over her splotchy red skin, but it hid neither the redness nor the swelling from crying all night. She was angry at herself for fighting with Harmony and looking forward, couldn’t imagine a world without her.
She put on her half of the best friends locket Harmony had given her in kindergarten for the first time since she was eight.
Her mother called her for breakfast. “Brea, come on. I’m going to be late for my meeting.”
Brea dropped the necklace inside her shirt and stuffed a handful of Kleenex in her pocket. “I’m coming.”
The kitchen smelled of lemon cleaner and toast and Brea stared at the bagel and box of cream cheese on the table.
Her mother put on her gray suit jacket and looked up from her paper. “Brea, what happened?” She rushed over to hug her. “Is something wrong? Is it Jaxon?”
Brea didn’t know what else to do but to say it. “Mom, Harmony’s dead.” The words tore her open.
Her mother backed away. “Oh.”
The tears came fast and hard. “Oh? My best friend committed suicide and you say ‘oh’?” Brea shattered a juice glass on the slate tile floor and the kitchen door opened.
“I was knocking out front,” Jaxon said. “You ready to go?”
Joan lowered her head, embarrassed. “Don’t do this now,” she said to Brea through clenched teeth.
“No, of course not. Not now.” Brea kicked over a chair and it narrowly missed Jaxon’s leg. “Not with a precious Winslow in the house.”
“Whoa, what’s going on?” Jaxon tried to calm her. “What did I do?”
“You picked the wrong girl.” Joan stormed out of the kitchen, skirting the pool of juice and glass.
Brea crumpled to the floor alongside the mess.
“Hey, what happened? Brea, talk to me.” Jaxon wrapped his arms around her and kissed the top of her head. “Are you okay?”
She soaked up the comforting embrace and pulled herself together. “I’ll tell you what happened.” She grabbed her backpack
. “Just get me out of here.”
* * * * *
Jaxon parallel parked in front of the well-maintained, sprawling white Victorian that was, for the past hundred and fifty years, O’Connor’s funeral home.
Brea didn’t know why she wanted to come here, but when she found out it was where they brought Harmony, she needed to be close to her.
She wasn’t the only one.
Charity sat on the stairs of the wrap-around porch with her head in her hand. Her hair was pulled back in a stringy, unwashed pony tail and she was wearing a sweatshirt, hospital scrub pants, and the bracelet issued by the ward.
White wicker chairs lined the porch from one side to the other. There were ashtray stands, too, but Charity used neither, letting her ashes fall to the browning grass and the collection of butts that said she’d been there a while.
Brea hoped she’d notice her walking up the uneven cobblestone. Not knowing whether or not she had meds on-board meant approaching her was with inherent risk.
“Charity?”
She didn’t respond. She just shuffled the black plastic bag at her feet.
“Charity?”
She didn’t even flinch. She kept her head down and sucked on the diminishing cigarette. Her fingernails were nicotine yellow and as Brea got closer, she caught a whiff of skunky marijuana and withdrawal sweats mixed with alcohol.
Brea touched Charity’s bony shoulder and she looked up with the delay of someone pharmaceutically numb. Her eyes were a gray and empty void.
“I’m so sorry,” Brea said. “Can I sit down?”
Charity lit a fresh cigarette off the butt of the last, stoic, but more level than she’d been in months. “She’s not ready for anyone to see her yet.”
“I know. I mean, I shouldn’t have come. Of course she’s not ready.” Brea looked through the parted front door at the empty showing room.
“I thought you’d come.” Charity slid the trash bag over to Brea. “She’d want you to have this.”
She flicked her cigarette butt into the manicured bushes and went inside, closing the door behind her.
Brea picked up the bag and turned her head, trying not to smell the smoke.
Jaxon tried to take it from her. “Here, let me help you.” He tugged the gathered plastic top.
“I got it.”
“Come on. It looks heavy.” He yanked and she let go. Completely.
It was as if he ripped away a security blanket from a toddler. Brea sat down, balled herself up, and cried until she could barely talk.
Jaxon was at a loss. “Hey, I’m sorry. Here.” He held the bag out and she buried her face in her knees. “Brea, what did I do?”
“Nothing.” She wiped her eyes with her stiff cotton sleeve. “You didn’t do anything.”
“Come on. It’s going to be okay. It has to be.”
He helped her up and to the car, piling the stinky bag in the trunk and opening the windows.
22.
Reston High had changed and as Brea walked inside dragging Harmony’s things behind her, she wondered if anyone else noticed. The halls were quiet and Jaxon kept his distance, she figured because of the smell. He hadn’t said much since the funeral home which was fine. She wasn’t really in the mood to talk.
“Thanks,” she said, “for taking me this morning and for everything.”
“You don’t have to thank me. It’s what I’m here for. Are you sure you don’t want me to walk you to class?”
The bell rang, flooding the hall with students.
Brea shuddered as they hurried past her, the light and sounds too much under the circumstances. “You’re heading the complete opposite way. I’m okay. It’s fine.”
The one-minute warning rang and Brea ran toward her locker.
Rachael and her posse formed a wall of airheads to block her.
Brea groaned and avoided eye contact. If word was out about Harmony and, with how small Reston was she still wasn’t certain, things were about to get ugly.
She heaved the bag up on her shoulder and tried to plow right through them.
Rachael whistled to call attention and the classroom doorways filled with watchers. “You know what they call a virgin on a waterbed?” She was really making a show of it. “A cherry float.”
The hallway erupted with laughter.
“Grow up.” Brea shoved Rachael aside and saw the word “VIRGIN” written in black permanent marker on her locker. She slammed her fist into the door. Her bones cracked and it hurt like hell, but the pain and the anger kept her from crying.
One of the jocks gestured at his zipper. “Hey, little girl, want some candy?”
Someone told Jaxon what was happening and he pushed his way down the hall to get to her. “Cut that shit out, Mark. Leave her alone.”
“Oh, Brea.” Another boy made kissy faces and smooched his hand.
“F-u-c-k!” she screamed.
As she ran from the school, Rachael shouted after her, “She’s not here to protect you now, is she?”
* * * * *
The wind kicked up a burst of leaves as Brea got off the city bus at the closest stop to Oakwood cemetery. She zipped up her hoodie and shut off her phone. The news of Harmony’s death was out and Rachael had opened season.
“Like things aren’t bad enough.”
She walked between the headstones and hid in Lost Souls.
“I’m so sorry, Harmony.”
She sat on the mausoleum steps and closed her eyes trying to imagine Harmony here.
There were so many things she could have done differently. She should have been less judgmental, listened more to her fears and warnings about Tom. All Harmony wanted was answers and as the corner of the Ouija board poked through the bag and into her leg, she wondered if she had gotten them.
She heard footsteps and looked up to see Adam walking toward her. He was dressed in all black—a black, fitted button down, black tee-shirt, black leather jacket and jeans. His dark hair was combed back and looked wet with gel.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” she said, a little uncomfortable. “What’re you doing here?”
He sat down on the step next to her and she moved a bit away.
“Scoping a plot. Charity wasn’t going to pay. She’s on and off her meds and when I saw her this morning she was babbling on about how Child Protective Services killed Harmony and is trying to frame her. She says it’s some kind of trap. She doesn’t even care if Harmony gets a headstone, but I can’t let that happen.”
“Wow. She seemed okay when I saw her this morning.”
Adam looked down at the bag. “She give you that?” He lit a Marlboro.
“Yeah, she did.” The silver zippo reminded Brea of the day Harmony bought it at the village-wide garage sale. It had an “A” already engraved on the face.
Adam wafted the air away from her. “Smoke bothering you?”
She shook her head. “No, actually the opposite. It reminds me of Harmony. I’m used to it, but it’s a bad habit.” She smiled.
“It keeps the edge off.” A cloud formed at the corner of his mouth. “Listen, I’m sorry about how I dropped the news on you. It’s pretty much how I got it and it just came out.”
“There was no good way to say it.” She couldn’t help but notice that this was a completely different Adam; the one that loved Harmony and that Harmony loved, one that she could be honest with. She tucked her hair behind her ear and after a contemplative minute said, “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“What’s your problem with me?”
“Harmony never told you?” He didn’t seem put-off by the question.
“Told me what?”
“It’s not you, Brea. It’s your family. Your uncle, to be exact.” He sat back down and crushed the cigarette into the granite slab. “Harmony and I are a lot more alike than you think. I was in the system for a while growing up. My mother was unfit, too, not too different from Charity. “I also had…” he said and paused, looking i
nto her eyes. He averted his gaze as he continued. “I also had a sister.”
Had. She was afraid she knew what was coming.
“Her name was Melissa and she was fourteen when we ran away from foster. I was sixteen, two years older, and I thought I could protect her but she wouldn’t listen to me once we got out on the streets. There was this guy, Harold, an older guy that took care of her. I thought it was sick and creepy, but she loved him. Your uncle arrested him for kidnapping, which wasn’t at all the case. CPS put Melissa back in the foster house we were getting beat at. She went off the rails, ran away again, this time without me, and by the time I found her it was too late. She ran out into traffic... The driver didn’t see her...”
“Oh my god, I’m sorry.”
“Your uncle was only doing his job. It’s taken me five years to be able to say that. I should’ve protected Melissa like I should’ve protected Harmony.”
Brea hugged him and he hugged her back. “You did, Adam. More than you know.”
“Then why didn’t I see this coming? I knew she was hurting herself and I let it go to avoid a fight. I didn’t think she would choose this.” He motioned at the headstones. “Cutting was kind of her normal.”
Brea wanted to tell him about her fight with Harmony, about Tom, about all of it to alleviate his guilt, but she couldn’t. It was too soon after losing Harmony for it to not feel like a betrayal. She stood, understanding him better than she ever had, and picked up the bag. “If there’s anything I can do or if you need to talk, just call me.” It was a half-hearted invitation. The right thing to say, under the circumstances. “It’s getting late. I have to go before my mother gets home.”
“Can I give you a ride?”
Even now, history made it hard to trust him. “I’m all set, but thanks.”
“You’ll be there tonight, though, right?”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” she said and played like she was getting a call on her cell.
23.
O’Connor’s Funeral Home parking lot sat empty except for Adam’s towering beast of a truck which, in context, looked disrespectful and out-of-place. Adam arranged for a family-only service and, in Charity’s condition, she most likely wouldn’t show.
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