Trigger

by Susan Vaught

  “Stop it.” I sat up.

  The table rattled when I banged it with my fist. My hand throbbed. It felt good and bad at the same time. Something different from cold empty.

  The hurt made me move. When I hurt, I felt less tired. When I moved, I felt something, at least. So I got up and didn’t think about Before or now or Leza or Mama Rush or Mom or anybody else.

  I just went upstairs.

  J.B.’s voice caught me as I limped by my closed bedroom door. Hey. Moron. What are you doing?

  For some idiot reason, I stopped. I felt like killing something. Maybe I could finally kill the ghost. “Shut up. You want me dead, anyway. Bullets. Die, die, die.”

  Stupid. I never wanted you dead. I never hurt you.

  “You shot me.” I banged on the closed door with my fist. It hurt, and that felt good, and the door rattled. “You ruined everything!”

  But … when I tried to lower my arm, I couldn’t. My hand just stayed stuck against the door wood, fingers all curled up to make a fist.

  “You shot me,” I said to the hand and the door and J.B., but not as loud this time. I felt a little hot instead of cold. Wrong and upside down inside. The door looked funny. My hand looked even funnier.

  You’re an idiot and a moron and a ruiner and a Big Larry. You’re selfish and self-centered and I bet you think I’m mad at you. Shoelaces. Bullets. Ears. Peanuts. Cheerleaders. Up and forward. You threw away your memory book. You threw everything away.

  J.B.’s snarl made me want to snarl back, but I still couldn’t move my hand. I kicked the door. My hand didn’t come loose.

  “Let me go.” Whispering now, but I didn’t know why.

  You let me go, J.B. shot back. It’s you, not me.

  My hand got bigger in my brain, like some kind of giant’s fist. I stopped trying to move. It was me. It was always me. My hand. I shot myself with the hand stuck to my door. The giant, giant hand. It was always me. Nobody. Nobody home.

  That upside down feeling got lots worse. I felt dizzy, then sick, then all of a sudden, nothing again. Cold empty. Quiet empty.

  And I knew.

  Oh, no. Please. Please?

  “Don’t go away,” I whispered to J.B.

  Nothing.

  I jerked my giant shooting hand back so hard I almost fell, then I used it to open my door.

  Sunlight lit up dancing dust all around my bed with the green bedspread. The football rug lay neatly on the floor. Nothing sparkled. No shadows waited in the corners.

  “Don’t go away,” I whispered again, then I yelled it until my throat hurt. But it was too late.

  J.B. was gone, too. He left because he hadn’t ever been there, not really.

  Please. Not really. Gone. Gone. Nobody home. Nobody. I shot myself, and there was nobody here but me. I did this. I did it all. Bullets. Bullets. Bullets.

  I couldn’t be crying. J.B. wasn’t real. But he sort of was, and he talked, and when I saw him in my head, he looked at me. He didn’t count my stupid-marks and look away. But it was always me.

  When I shut the door, I felt emptier than ever. Cold empty. Quiet empty. And really, really tired, way down deep, where the volcano used to be. Where it blew up and left me here with nothing inside.

  It was easy. Really easy.

  Gun in the bedside table—Dad was Dad.

  Bullets in a junk box way in the back of the closet—Dad was Dad.

  We needed to go to the police station, but we never had time. There was never any time. Our family ran out of time, or something. No way to buy more or work for more or find more. Now we hadn’t gone to the police station, and I still had the gun, and I was glad. Bullets. I had bullets, too.

  Made a mess getting them, but I got them, and I left the mess. Didn’t care as I put the bullets in the holes. Wasn’t easy with one hand, but up and forward, up and forward. Left the box and extra bullets on the bed. Then I took the gun back downstairs and put it on the kitchen table.

  When I sat down, I felt better. I wasn’t alone now. I had the gun, and it had bullets, and if I got too tired or too mad or too cold empty, then I could have another blowout and just be finished. Being finished didn’t seem too bad. I wouldn’t screw it up. Not this time.

  “What are you doing, moron?”

  I kept asking myself that, since J.B. was gone now, and he wasn’t there to ask me anymore. “What are you doing, moron? What are you doing? What, what, what?”

  Looking at the gun, that’s what.

  Feeling tired, but not so tired.

  Feeling scared, but not so scared.

  A little mad. A little hot-cold.

  But feeling something, at least. Something was better than nothing. Something wasn’t so awful.

  “What are you doing, moron?”

  My eyes went back to the trash can, to the memory book, to the oatmeal paper towels and crumpled bread wrapper. Dad made me breakfast this morning. Bad, bad, bad oatmeal. But he made it for me. If I shot myself, I needed to keep it clean this time. No me-mess at the table. No me-mess in the house. No me-mess anywhere.

  This time, I’d go over to Lake Raven, to the place where the benches faced the little fence. I’d climb the fence and do it there, so I’d just fall in the lake. Bullets. The lake would cover up everything. No me-mess at all.

  “What are you doing, moron?”

  I picked up the gun, fumbled to open it. One at a time, I took out all the bullets. Dropped some on the floor, picked them up. Then I tucked the gun in my pants and put the bullets in one of my pockets. It took a while, with just one hand. But now I couldn’t shoot and I couldn’t see the gun. Good. Right? Or bad. Maybe?

  My breath came out fast, all at once.

  Did that feel better or worse?

  Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  My insides were breathing now, in and out, in and out. Breathing wasn’t so bad. The gun pressed against my belly wasn’t so bad. I didn’t feel blank, but I didn’t feel sick. Not so bad. Sunshine came through the kitchen window. Afternoon sun. My memory book was in the trash on top of oatmeal. Dad made me oatmeal.

  “Oatmeal.”

  Was Dad at his desk? I could try to call him. Mom’s number at the beach was somewhere. And Mama Rush. I could call any of them. When Leza came home, I could call her, too, and say I was sorry about Todd and stuff.

  If J.B. were still here, he’d tell me none of that mattered. He’d tell me they’d all be mad and hate me. But he didn’t have to be here, because he wasn’t real, and I told myself that stuff. Only not so much this time.

  Breathing, breathing, breathing.

  If the bullets stayed out of the gun and I stayed at the table, everything would be okay, wouldn’t it? Sooner or later, everything might be okay. It could happen, like the sunshine in the afternoon and how I felt a little better now. Good things could happen, right?

  They could. Bullets. Really. I’d killed a ghost, even if he wasn’t a ghost. That was something. It had to be something.

  The phone rang.

  I jumped so bad the gun in my pants banged the table. The phone rang again before I could get up, and another time before I got to it and punched it on.

  “Dad?” I said, holding onto the counter.

  “Uh, no. It’s me. Todd.” A roar-noise in the background made it hard to hear him.

  When I didn’t answer, he said, “You there? I’m in the car, so talk loud.”

  “Yeah,” I said, well, sort of yelled so he would hear me.

  “Mama Rush is sick and they took her to the hospital. She’s got pneumonia. I—I thought somebody should tell you.”

  No. No. No way. No way! My insides stopped breathing again. I wanted to climb out of my own skin and run. Just run.

  “Where?” I yelled. “They took her—where?”

  “Mercy East. We’re going there now.”

  Now. Go. Bullets. Mama Rush! No, no, no. No!

  “I’ll come. I’ll—I don’t have a ride.” Slow down. Make sense. Think. Think and breathe. Bullets. Don�
�t say bullets. “I’ll call Dad. I’ll come! I can come, right?” My fingers got tight, tight on the phone.

  “Hold on.” He covered up on his end and said something. I heard him say something again, heard yelling. Then Todd again. “I’ll call you back.”

  He hung up.

  I hung up.

  God!

  Really fast, I dialed Dad. His voice mail answered. No!

  “Dad, come home!” I yelled. “Where are you? Come home now!”

  I hung up. Tried Mom’s number at the beach. It rang until the hotel picked up. I didn’t leave a message.

  Who else could I call? I had to get a ride. I could get a cab, but I didn’t have the money. Mercy East. It was a few miles away. Mercy East. I’d been there first, after I shot myself. Mama Rush was there now. I didn’t die there. Maybe it was a good hospital. I had to get there. Useless. If I could drive, I’d drive fast. I’d already be there. Ruined that.

  “Mama Rush!” I banged the phone on the counter. It broke open. The battery went flying. Then I threw the rest of it against the refrigerator. It broke into two more pieces. Phone pieces. Mama Rush, Mama Rush. I crammed my good hand in my pocket and felt the bullets. Bullets in my pocket. Bullets were there. Mama Rush.

  Tears swelled up in my eyes, popped out, ran down my face. I could walk. I’d have to walk. I had to get to Mercy East. I couldn’t just sit here. Bullets. I couldn’t just wait. I closed my eyes. Slow down. Try to breathe. Try to think. Figure something out. Come on. Figure it out.

  But I couldn’t. Nothing to figure.

  No Mom, no Dad, no driving. No car, no keys. Was a phone ringing? I thought I heard one, but I couldn’t tell. I shut my eyes tighter. Figure something out. Bullets. Figure it out.

  Ringing.

  Ringing.

  Upside down.

  Dizzy, dizzy, dizzy.

  Banging on the door. Somebody was banging on the front door.

  Somehow, I moved my feet. Moved my body and the gun and the bullets to the door.

  “Jersey!” Lots of banging. “Hey.”

  A guy. Todd?

  I opened the door. Todd had his phone in one hand and the other hand still up in the air to bang. “I said I was calling you back! What the hell?”

  “Sorry. I—”

  A horn honked. Honked again. Kept honking.

  “Come on.” Todd grabbed me by my good arm and jerked me out of the house. “We’ll give you a ride.”

  The two of us lurched down my front steps and across my yard. The horn stopped. Todd’s car in the driveway, a blue mustang. Leza in the passenger seat. Me and the gun in my pants and the bullets in my pocket got in the back. Todd slammed the door behind me. Leza didn’t turn around.

  “Don’t be a pain in the butt because I can’t take it right now,” she said before Todd even got to his door. “Do me a favor and shut up. Don’t even open your mouth.”

  I covered up my mouth with both hands.

  Todd got in, revved the engine, and we roared out of my driveway.

  chapter 22

  Todd used his phone and found out Mama Rush was in the Critical Care Unit. CCU. My mind kept saying, Sissy-U. Sissy-U. Mama Rush would lay an egg if I told her she was in Sissy-U. I couldn’t say Sissy-U. Todd talked to the care station in Sissy-U, though, then hung up.

  “Nurses sounded a little mad,” he said to Leza as he parked his car in the hospital garage.

  Leza grunted and bit at her thumb.

  I didn’t say anything. I still had my hands over my mouth, singing the alphabet in my head so I wouldn’t say Sissy-U. The gun felt hot and sweaty against my belly, but I tried to ignore it. I tried to ignore the bullets in my pocket, too.

  When we got inside, we found out we beat Mr. and Mrs. Rush to the hospital, and we weren’t supposed to go into the Sissy-U together—only one at a time. A-B-C-D-E-F-G … But we didn’t see any police at the door, and the nurses were busy, so we all slipped in and walked toward Room 3. Sissy-U.

  Beep, click, hissss.

  A-B. A-B-C. I wanted to sing it out loud. My heart banged against my ribs. The whole place smelled like alcohol and … other stuff, not as nice. Beep, click, hissss. The sound came from everywhere. I pushed at the mark on my throat and tried not to sniff or swallow or look left or right. Sissy-U. Sissy-U. Not for sissies. Definitely not. Sissy. Sissy. Beep, click, hissss.

  “A-B-C,” I whispered to make the sounds stop.

  Leza elbowed me so hard I almost fell into Room 2.

  Right about then, we heard a lot of swearing from Room 3, and, “Oh no you will not be sticking that tube down my throat,” followed by a big bunch of coughing, and a crash.

  Beep, click, hissss.

  Leza closed her eyes. “Crap.”

  “A-B-C,” I said nervously, rubbing the butt of the gun through my shirt.

  “D-E-F-G,” Todd said, sounding just as nervous.

  “Sissy-U,” I added.

  Leza hit Todd instead of me. Then she leaned toward Room 3. The curtains were pulled so we couldn’t see inside. “What’s she doing?”

  Beep, click, hissss.

  Another crash. More swearing. Not just Mama Rush, either. A-B-C-D-E-F-G.

  “What’s she doing?” Leza repeated.

  “Throwing a fit, sounds like,” Todd said as three nurses marched out carrying a tray, some silver things like scissors, and a torn-up plastic tube. I stared at the tube as two of the nurses brushed past us. Did I have a tube like that when I was in the hospital? A-B-C. H-I-J.

  Beep, click, hissss. Sissy-U. Sissy.

  The third nurse stopped and held up the plastic tube. He pointed it at us. “Too many,” he said. “Who are you here to see, anyway?”

  All three of us just stood there with our mouths open.

  After a second, I blurted, “A-B-C-D. Tube. Sissy!”

  “That stubborn old witch,” Leza said at the same time Todd said, “Mama Rush.”

  The nurse stared at us.

  Beep, click, hissss. Beep, click, hissss.

  “Those are my grandchildren!” Mama Rush yelled, then coughed, then kept yelling. “Get out of the way and let them in here. I mean it!”

  Nurses weren’t supposed to kill people, but this nurse looked like he could have used that piece of tube to murder something. Us. Mama Rush. Sissy. A-B-C-D. He couldn’t make up his mind who to murder. I could tell.

  Beep, click, hissss. Beep, click, hissss.

  Instead of using the tube to do bad things, the nurse shook his head, mumbled under his breath, and left us standing there.

  Leza looked at Todd. Todd looked at me.

  “Tube,” I said. “Sissy.”

  We went inside.

  Leza and Todd walked straight up to Mama Rush’s bed. I stopped at the door.

  Mama Rush….

  It was her, but, but tube. Sissy. She was kind of dusky-pale. Skinnier. Wheezing. Frowning. Skinny djinni without her cigarette. A-B-C. Her gown was white and hospitallike, no real color. She didn’t look like herself at all. No. Tube. Tube-sissy. Sissy-U.

  I tried not to stare, but I couldn’t help staring. D-E-F-G. Leza and Todd were talking. Todd had hold of Mama Rush’s hand. She was telling them not to worry, in between coughing fits.

  Beep-click-hissss.

  Beep-click-hissss.

  I could hear that noise coming from other rooms. Didn’t want to hear it, but I did. Tube. The sounds made me sweat. Skinny, wheezing Mama Rush made me sweat. Tube. Sissy. How could she be sick? She was really sick. I thought she didn’t want to talk to me, but all the time, she was getting skinny and wheezy and sicker. L-M-N-O-P. Self-centered. Didn’t need J.B. to remind me. So self-centered, I thought she was mad at me. Mad at me. Self-centered. Tube. I had a gun. The gun. And bullets. Sissy. Sissy-U. But I didn’t want to think about the gun and bullets. Not around Mama Rush.

  She would … know.

  “Jersey Hatch,” she wheezed.

  I jumped.

  She motioned to me. “Get over here. Now.” To T
odd and Leza, she said, “You two move for a minute. On second thought, go on outside and see if your parents got here yet.” She coughed and shooed Todd and Leza with both hands, all at the same time. “Tell them I’m fine.”

  Todd didn’t argue. Neither did Leza, which sort of made me more nervous. They just glanced at me, nodded, and left. Tube. Tube sissy. Did she know about the gun? Did she know about the bullets? How could she already know? Mama Rush really was a djinni. Skinny djinni no cigarette no color. She was sick. So sick.

  “I said get over here,” Mama Rush snapped. Coughed. Frowned at me. “Got some things to talk about just between you and me.”

  I got over there. Close to the bed. Tube. Sissy. Close enough she could reach me and touch the gun. Touch my pocket and find the bullets. Sissy. Her hand—the one without needles and tubes—shot out. She grabbed my good hand and held on tight. Coughed so hard her whole skinny djinni body shook.

  “God, I hate hospitals. Okay, okay, go on. I can tell you need to say something first.”

  “What?”

  “Whatever nonsense you’re holding in. Loosen up. Let it out.”

  “Oh.” I let out a breath. “Tube. Like tube? And machines make that beep, click, hissss I hate. Sissy. Sissy-U. I shot myself with a gun that had bullets. Beep, click, hissss. You’re skinny.”

  Mama Rush kept hold of my hand. She looked down at herself. Coughed. One of her eyebrows lifted up. “Think I’ve lost some weight?”

  “Yeah. Skinny djinni no cigarette. Tube. Sissy.” Her fingers felt hot and dry against my skin. She coughed a long time. I started to sweat more. I had tears, too, but I was keeping them for now. Tube. At least I could do that much. The gun was a few inches from her hand. The bullets even closer. She’d find them. She’d know. Sissy. Tube. She’d probably shoot me and everything would be over. Beep, click, hissss, bang. Maybe she’d shoot the nurse bang, or save it all for Romeo man. Or maybe she’d just be upset and disappointed and I’d want to die instead of see that look on her face. Tube.

  “Quit fidgeting,” Mama Rush instructed between coughs. Beep, click, hissss from a room close by. Probably 2. Or maybe 1, or 4. I stood still. Hoped the gun didn’t show through my shirt. Sissy-U. Sissy-U.