Beyond the Pale

by Jennifer Millikin

  I threatened to tell him, but she begged me not to. I could never deny Penny a darn thing. Maybe that’s how she ended up in such a predicament to begin with. But Penny’s belly wasn’t the only thing growing. Alongside the circumference of her belly, my anger and resentment grew. She held inside her the child of the man I loved, and she never even acknowledged how she had hurt me.

  I walked Penny through her pregnancy, and each day I hid my anger.

  Penny had the baby. She labored for forty-six hours, and I stayed by her side. I stared down at the tiny baby, legs and arms flailing, mouth open in a scream. I didn’t see Penny fading. The room became a flurry of shouting doctors and nurses. I smelled their fear. If you think emotions don’t have a scent, you’re wrong. Fear smells sour, like curdled milk.

  I was pushed from the room, and the next time I saw Penny she was dead. Even in death, she was stunning, but she no longer shined.

  As her only known relative and next of kin, the baby became mine.

  Have you guessed it yet, Lennon?

  The baby is you.

  You’re named Lennon, not because I loved the Beatles, but because Penny did.

  So there I was, grieving my sister, consumed with guilt for being angry with her when she died, and thrust into the world of diapers and diaper rash cream. You were a screamer. You screamed for hours on end, and I had no idea what I was supposed to do with you. I had no money, I begged neighbors to watch you while I went to work, and every cent I made went to feeding you. Mother’s milk, I did not have.

  I was a harsh mother. I know how much you hated me. You never said it, but I saw it in your eyes. You’re not very good at hiding your emotions. What you feel is seen on your face. It’s not a bad thing; it’s what showed me how you were feeling when you stayed silent.

  I did things I wasn’t proud of, Lennon. I won’t go into the details, mostly because I don’t need to. You seem to remember all my transgressions, despite being so young when many of them occurred. I was young, too. I made mistakes. Bad choices are compounded by grief. Looking back, I can see things a little more clearly.

  Marrying Ted was both a mistake and a blessing. (Stop making that face, Lennon. That one where you can’t believe what I’m saying so you scrunch up your entire face.) Ted took us out of poverty; he gave you a life I never would’ve been able to give you. As with everything, you have to take the good with the bad. For me, I didn’t know any of the bad until after Ted died.

  You told me what happened, and I didn’t want to believe you. Finding Ted unresponsive and being told he had died was devastating, and in my upset condition, I told the police I overheard your conversation with Finn and Brady. Later, I felt badly about that, and chose not to allow an autopsy. I wondered if you had somehow managed to kill Ted, and if I allowed the autopsy, they’d find out.

  I’m sorry I didn’t believe you when you told me what Ted did. I believe you now.

  Two years ago, I found evidence that he had an... inclination. I destroyed it. What would be the point of blowing up Ted’s good name? It certainly wouldn’t do anything to him. It would only hurt the congregation who loved him so dearly.

  But, you were right, Lennon. You were telling the truth.

  I’m sorry you’re finding all this out in a letter. Having difficult conversations was never my strong suit.

  I wasn’t a good mother, and I know that. There isn’t much that can be done to make up for that now, but there is something I want you to have. In the top drawer of my desk is a key. Use it to open Safe Deposit Box twenty-six at the bank. Also, I added you to my accounts there. Clear them out. Whatever is in there is yours to keep.

  I know I didn’t show it in the way I should have, but I do love you. I don’t expect you to forgive me, but maybe I’ve taught you what not to do when you become a mother.

  I hope the remainder of your life is happy, Lennon. Also, you look just like Pretty Penny.

  Love,

  Mom

  Loud breaths draw in and out of my nose. I can’t breathe through my mouth; it’s covered by my hand. My stomach is gone. It left me somewhere in the first part of the letter. Right around the spot where I learned my mom was actually my aunt.

  Oh my god.

  My eyes skim the letter, not reading the words but instead taking in her handwriting. How could she have kept this a secret? And why? What was the point?

  I’ll never know. I’ll never be able to ask her.

  And Ted... He had an inclination? What does that mean? He had a habit of forcing himself on teenage girls?

  The only thing I know for certain, is that the fucker deserved to die. Maybe God really did strike him down, right there in his own bed.

  I need to tell someone. I need to say the words, to feel them leave my body and no longer belong to me only.

  I push back from the desk, and in my haste, nearly knock over the chair. It topples, righting itself, and I rush from the office, my mother’s letter in my hand.

  I find Laine asleep on the couch in the living room. Her head is tipped back, her mouth open. Soft snores slip from her. I want to wake her, but I can’t bring myself to.

  I go to the kitchen and grab my keys off the counter. I’m stuffing them in my pocket when I look out the window into the dark night. An arc of light from the neighbor’s patio shines on a small section of the backyard, illuminating the tomato plants.

  In seconds I’m outside, striding across the small yard. I grab the first plant I reach by the stalk, yanking with all my might. It doesn’t give right away, so I yank two more times. It’s the third pull that does it. I stumble back as the plant leaves the soil it’s been living in for who knows how long.

  The air I’m breathing mixes with the pungent odor of earth and the unmistakable scent of the leaves of the plant. I set to work on the other two, repeating the process. They join the first plant on the ground.

  I step back, wiping my forearm across the sweat beaded on my upper lip. Then I go inside, wash my hands, and hustle out the front door.

  I got in Laine’s car and started driving. I didn’t know where I was going, at least not at first. But then, my hands turned the wheel by memory, and it became clear where I was headed. Who I was headed to.

  I put the car in park at his curb, letting it idle.

  Looking around for my phone, I realize I forgot it in my rush to get to someone who would hear my news. I have no way to tell Brady I’m here. Glancing at the house, I look from dark window to dark window. Brady’s room doesn't face the street, and it’s only ten o’clock. Not that late.

  I kill the engine and jump from the car, determined not to overthink this.

  I decide against ringing the doorbell, choosing instead to knock, as if that cushions the blow of an unexpected late night visit. If Brady’s mom is anything like me, she’ll assume a knock on her door at this hour automatically means something bad has happened.

  And she does. I can tell the second she opens the door. Her eyes are wide, her forehead wrinkled with worry. She wears a silky, T-shirt style nightdress, and her hair sticks up in the back.

  “Lennon? Is everything okay?” Her worry turns to confusion.

  “I’m sorry to show up unannounced. Is Brady home?” I didn’t stop to consider that Brady might be out.

  “I’m home.” Brady’s deep voice reaches me before he does. His mom steps aside, and then he’s there, standing in her place. And me? I fall apart. My tears are big and fat, gushing so quickly they seem to move from my eyes to dropping from my chin without ever traveling over my cheeks.

  Brady steps forward, taking me in his arms and guiding me over the threshold and into his home. I glance at his mom, embarrassed at my outburst. She says nothing, only hurrying to close the front door and then retreating quietly down the hallway to her bedroom.

  “What’s going on?” Brady’s hand rubs my back, soft and soothing.

  I lift my right hand and realize I didn’t bring the letter. It’s probably somewhere on the ground in my house,
and I didn’t notice its absence until this moment. It’s even scarier to think that I drove in this state.

  “I…I…” I’ve been dying to say these words to someone and now that I’m here, I don’t know how to start.

  “Here,” Brady says, grabbing my hand and leading me out to the backyard and to the lounge chairs we sat in only a few nights ago. He sinks down, and I take the seat opposite him. We’re facing each other, but his legs are long and his knees tuck around mine.

  “Now is it easier to talk?” He glances back at the house, and I realize he assumed I was afraid to speak within earshot of his parents.

  I rub my eyes, trying to clear away the moisture. Sucking in a deep breath, I open my mouth and my new truth comes out in one long stream of consciousness.

  “...And she knew Ted was a sicko. She knew, Brady! Can you believe it? My mother was not my mother. Not my mother. That’s why I don’t really look like her. And she never played The Beatles. Never! God!” My hands are in the air, my head shakes back and forth.

  Brady’s mouth dropped open while I was talking, and it’s still open. I watch his mouth move, trying to form words but unable to because of the shock he’s obviously feeling.

  “I don’t even know what to say,” he finally manages.

  “Me neither.”

  Brady swats at a mosquito near my leg. “Come on,” he says, standing and extending an arm down to me.

  I place my hand in his, and he pulls me up into the lack of space between the chairs. We’re chest to chest, only a few inches between our lips. With his hands cupping my cheeks, he looks at me, his eyes nearly exploding with emotion. “You are still Lennon.” One of his hands leaves my face, only to settle on my heart. “In here, where it all counts, you’re still you. I know you feel like the carpet just came out from under you, but the parts of you that keep you grounded, the same parts that have always kept you grounded, they are all still here. Your interests are the same. Your heart is the same. You’ll still hate when people say expresso instead of espresso. Laine is still here. I’m still here.” Something flickers through his eyes, and he adds, “Finn is still here.”

  “You’re right,” I whisper. Nothing about me feels any different now that I know this. I recognize every inch of myself, the way I did yesterday and the day before that.

  “You cut your hair.”

  Brady captures the ends of my hair between his fingers. His hand is next to my breast, and if he moved half an inch he’d be touching it.

  “I donated it.”

  “You look beautiful.”

  “Thank you.” My lips curl into a tiny smile.

  “Lennon?”

  My name is a whisper coming off his lips, slipping down onto mine. Looking into his eyes, I already know what he’s asking. It’s a question he’s been asking silently for so long. And tonight I’m ready. Ready to be held and consoled, ready to let something else take over in my brain.

  A surge of adrenaline zings through me. “Yes?”

  “Can I—”

  “Yes,” I answer without hesitation, so certain I know what he’s asking.

  I’m right.

  His mouth lowers to mine, gentle at first, both of us in shock. The tender hesitance quickly turns to hunger. His lips take more of me, his tongue sweeps the inside of my mouth. He groans into me, and then there’s a second sound, a more feminine moan. Mine. His hands run up the sides of my body, over my back, and into my hair. I taste the toothpaste he used before bed, but more than that I taste him. Brady. The inevitability of this long-awaited meeting of our lips makes his kiss even sweeter.

  I break the kiss to breathe, and Brady turns his head slightly, his ragged breath hot on my bare shoulder, making my whole body feel even hotter. Our chests bump against one another with each new breath we drag in.

  I look over his shoulder and spy something that could either make the rest of this night very right, or very wrong. In this moment, I don’t care. My mind is a mess, and I want to run from it. “Brady?”

  He looks down at me, his gaze starry. “Hmm?”

  Lifting a finger, I point in the direction of my find.

  Brady’s gaze follows, then he turns back to me. “Lennon... are you sure?”

  I step away from him and reach back for his hand, then lead him past the pool. I haven’t answered him verbally but I figure my actions are an adequate response.

  The pool house door opens with a muted protest, and locks with a single, loud click. Brady pushes me against the door, his mouth on the skin beside my lips.

  “Just like at your apartment that night,” he says, his breath tickling my cheek.

  “But this time?”

  “This time I won’t stop myself.”

  Brady takes my hand, leading me through the small kitchen toward the bedroom at the back. For a moment I see third-grade Brady, leading me out to recess. Anticipation sends a shiver down my spine.

  At the edge of the bed, Brady turns to me, pulling me in and kissing me until I’m gasping for breath. His hands reach under my shirt, skimming my waistline. I know what’s coming, and it’s something I want. I’m certain it is.

  So why then, in this moment when I should be drunk on endorphins, do I see Finn?

  22

  Now

  Finn

  “I’ll be back later tonight or sometime tomorrow.” I grab my ball cap and pull it down over my forehead.

  “Heading up?” Uncle Jeff looks over from the television.

  “Yeah,” I answer, checking my back pocket for my wallet and my front pocket for my keys.

  “You getting close?” A flicker of excitement flashes through his eyes. It’s the only thing he’s looking forward to. It’s his one good thing.

  I nod. “Working on the flooring and countertops.”

  His palms rub together and he nods vigorously. “Only a little more to do.”

  “A few more weeks, I imagine. Being back here cost me some time.”

  Jeff looks back at the television, where a fighter jet is taking off from a ship in the middle of the ocean. “How’s Lennon?”

  Yesterday before the funeral I’d filled him in on why I’d come home. He didn’t care that it wasn’t solely for him, or if he did, he didn’t show it.

  “She’s alright.”

  “You two, uh”—he glances at me—“you found your way together yet?”

  “That’s a loaded question.”

  He gestures around the room. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  I shake my head. He may have the time, but I don’t. I told Brady I’d be over to pick him up at seven, and I’m already running a few minutes behind. I can’t stand being late, so there’s no way I’m spending even two more minutes explaining the world’s most complicated situation to my uncle.

  “I have to go,” I tell him, walking toward the door. “Be back soon. There’s food in the fridge, okay?”

  Uncle Jeff waves a hand and looks back to the screen.

  The door falls into place behind me as I hurry to my truck. I zone out during the drive, and think of Lennon, because is there really any other thought in my head? For me, it’s the cabin, keeping myself alive with the basics like food and water, and Lennon. My uncle wants to know if we’ve found our way together yet, and who knows what his follow-up questions would be? Probably something along the lines of, Why not?

  I could pretend not to know, but the answer is smack dab in the middle of the paper, written in red ink.

  She loves Brady.

  I can’t even blame her. Who wouldn’t love Brady?

  But she loves me too. And she loves me differently than she loves him. I can feel it when we’re together. She and I have a spark they don’t have. I’ve seen them together a hundred times, I see the way he makes her feel safe and stable. But that’s not enough.

  She needs to choose. I know an ultimatum isn’t fair, but dammit, I’m close to giving her one. Someone who doesn’t know us, who doesn’t understand our unique situation, might say she’s bei
ng selfish or unfair, dancing back and forth between us the way she does. But here’s the heart of the problem: by choosing, she automatically decreases in love by fifty percent. Or at least I’m certain that’s what she believes. Brady won’t stop loving her immediately, like a gushing spout being turned to the off position. But he’ll pull away. He’ll need time to recover from losing to me, probably for the first time in all the time we’ve been friends. Eventually he’ll get to a place where he loves her the appropriate amount, the way a long-time friend should.

  I’m using Brady as the loser in this example because Lennon choosing him is inconceivable. Of course she’ll choose me. We have a spark that’s never been allowed to smolder, and I know as soon as we’re given the green light, we’ll become a massive, fiery blaze.

  Maybe Lennon and I will live in the cabin. Or will she want to go back to her job in Dallas? It’s sad a job like that is even needed, and it’s killing her slowly to be in that role.

  In the picture I’m painting in my head, we live in my cozy cabin. Lennon sits in a brown leather armchair, her knees pulled into her chest, an open book in her hands. She wears an oversized soft looking sweater. And underneath she wears nothing.

  This is the part of Lennon I’ve never gotten to know, and I’m looking forward to learning every inch of her, every curve, every freckle and blemish. We’ll make love, have sex, fuck, whatever it is we want to call it. All the damn time. Because we can. Because we finally can.

  Maybe we’ll— is that Lennon's car?

  I slow to a stop behind that fancy SUV Lennon has been driving around. Laine’s car. What the fuck is it doing here so early? Lennon must have come over for breakfast.

  If Lennon’s car weren’t here, I’d honk my horn and wait for Brady to come out. It’s not like I’m nine and I’ve just shown up on my bike, knocking on the door and asking if Brady can come out to play.

  But since Lennon’s here, I climb out of my truck and set off across the yard. I’ll take every opportunity I can get to see her.