Rage: A Love Story

by Julie Anne Peters

  I shrink behind the door.

  Tessa muscles it open. “What happened to you?”

  I say, “I fell.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  I open my mouth, then shut it.

  “Come out here in the light.” She takes me by the wrist. Her eyes squinch and she winces. “Your nose.” She reaches up to touch it, but I move away. “We need to get you X-rayed.”

  “No. It’s fine.”

  “It’s not remotely fine. You’re hurt. Who did this to you?”

  “That’s none of your business,” I say flatly.

  “I’m making it my business,” she says. “You’re my sister. I love you.”

  “Oh, really? Could’ve fooled me.”

  Tessa looks crushed. Her eyes pool.

  The sliding door opens and Novak emerges. She glances up, shielding her eyes against the sun.

  “What’s she doing here?” I say. She limps over to one of the Adirondacks and curls into it, hugging her knees to her chest.

  Tessa says, “She called last night and said she was in trouble. I told her she could stay here.”

  “She can’t.” I go to close the door. “Tell her not to call me again.”

  “She didn’t call you. She called me. Reeve was here too.”

  I pull the door open. “When?”

  Tessa rubs her eyes and stretches the skin across her temples. “I don’t know. Two. Two-thirty. She was standing at the bottom of the stairs. When I came out, she left.”

  How long was Reeve here? Why didn’t she come up? “Did Reeve see Novak?”

  Tessa expels a weary breath. “I don’t know. What does it matter?”

  “It matters because Reeve might believe I brought Novak home.”

  Tessa bites her bottom lip and says softly, “Oh, Johanna.”

  It rips me. But I shut the door on her, the way she shut me out.

  The bruising seeps down my face like ink. Now the left side of my mouth is swelling and turning black. Maybe more than my nose is broken? Foundation or concealer is never going to cover this. I need a mask, like the Phantom of the Opera.

  It’s a random solution, but I wonder if any costume shops are open. Even if they are, I don’t have the money.

  My watch sits next to my purse, which means I took it off at some point and laid it on the table. There’s still blood smeared on the crystal.

  I could pawn it, or sell it on eBay.

  No. It was Mom’s watch.

  Mom, can you see me from heaven? Please don’t look.

  I need to get away from here, get out of my head.

  At the bottom of the stairs, a wave of dizziness slows me and I steady myself on the wooden railing. I feel something carved in the wood. I lift my hand. Two words: I CANT

  Who did this?

  “Johanna. Hey.” Novak springs like a cat.

  I launch off the bottom stair and race for my car, throwing my bag across the front seat and cranking the ignition. A whoosh of air draws my eyes to the busted-out window.

  “Joho!”

  I shift into Drive.

  “Wait.”

  She limps around the garage, clutching her stomach. My stomach hurts too, Novak.

  Reeve did it, the carving. I CANT.

  She doesn’t mean that. We have to talk.

  The gas gauge wiggles on E, but I can make it to Reeve’s. I exit at Vasquez and run a yellow light. The same thought keeps winding through my brain: “I can’t” is different from “I won’t.” “I can’t” is not a decision.

  She’s still scared.

  I see them as I turn onto 68th. Two cop cars parked in front of Reeve’s house. What’s going on? I pull to the curb across the street and wrench open my door. As I charge toward the driveway, an officer steps out from between the cruisers.

  “You can’t go in there,” he says. Another cop is stringing crime-scene tape.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  He eyes my face. “What happened to you?”

  I touch my nose and feel the bulge. “Nothing.”

  “Right.” He shakes his head. “Are you acquainted with the residents of this house?”

  The picture window is shattered, shards dangling from the window frame. “Where’s Reeve Hartt?” I ask.

  “Who is this Reeve Hartt?” The cop takes out a little notebook.

  “Reeve and Robbie. They live here with their mom and … Anthony.”

  He flips a page. “That’s Anthony Inouye, the uncle? Is there anyone else?”

  “Not that I know of. Where are they?”

  “Did you know them?”

  Did I? What does that mean, Did I?

  A movement in one of the police cars snags my attention. Behind the metal grate separating the front and backseats is Anthony. He meets my eyes and a chill slithers up my spine. He does that nasty flicking with his tongue.

  The officer says, “The detectives may want to question you. Wait here.”

  He turns to leave and I run to my car.

  This is stupid, just driving around. I do a U-turn in the Ramada lot and retrace my route back to 68th. At the last second, I change my mind and steer into the alley between blocks. I drive slowly, counting houses.

  The chain-link fence in back of Reeve’s house is trashed. The kitchen window is broken too. There’s that yellow and black crime-scene tape everywhere.

  Next door, the neighbor is outside on a plastic chair, watching a kid scrape dirt with a spoon. I park in the alley and approach her.

  “Do you know what happened next door?” I ask. “Why the cops are there?”

  She’s not much older than me, I think. She flips through a fashion magazine. “There was a party.” She dog-ears a page. “I couldn’t get my baby to sleep because the music was so loud. Then there was yelling and crashing around, which is nothing new with them.”

  The kid is filthy, like he’s been eating dirt. The girl squints up at me. “You must’ve been at the party.”

  “Me? No.” Why would she think …? I cover my nose with a hand.

  She pages through the magazine and says, “I come out for a smoke and see Robbie tearing out the door with this knife and he takes off running. He’s got blood all over him.”

  “Robbie?” I glance over at the house to see a man with a camera exit the back door.

  “The ambulance comes, then the cops. That’s all I know.” She slaps her magazine closed, scoops up the kid, and disappears inside.

  My vision blurs as I stumble back to the car. I feel queasy. My chest constricts and I can’t breathe, like a panic attack. I make it to the car, but my aim is off and I can’t stick the key in the ignition. I lie on the seat, convulsing.

  I close my eyes to visualize her. Her emotions pour into me and I shiver. Her terror, hopelessness.

  I CANT.

  Somebody died. No no no. Don’t think that way.

  A final spasm ripples through me, then calm. Control.

  I push on the seat to right myself. Think, Johanna. Make calls. Find her.

  Chapter 30

  I slam into the curb and almost hit the mailbox. My eye is swelling shut.

  “Hey.” Novak jumps up from the bottom of the apartment stairs. “I want to apologize—” She stops. “Oh. My. God.”

  I flatten my hands over my face. Tears threaten.

  Novak says, “Did she do that to you?”

  My panic attack returns full force.

  “What? What, sweetie?” Novak clenches my arms.

  I steel myself because I need to be strong for Reeve. “I have to find her. I don’t know where she is.”

  Novak says, “You’re shivering. Sit down. Tell me what’s going on.”

  My legs give out and I drop to the step. I press my fingers over my eyelids and they burn, my nose throbs. Think. Words pour out: “There were cops at her house. An ambulance.”

  Novak eases herself down in front of me on the grass. “Just now?”

  “I went over there. I drove around. I don’t k
now where she is, or what happened.”

  “Okay,” Novak goes. “She’ll call you. Right?”

  I CANT.

  “You promised not to tell. Damn you!” I clutch the stair rail to haul myself up.

  She scrambles to her feet and takes off running.

  Nice. Leave me to drown. She’s right, I really know how to pick them. But not Reeve. She needs me now more than ever.

  Maybe, maybe she did call. A glimmer of hope lifts my feet up the stairs.

  There are no messages on my phone and I barely make it to the divan before my knees give out.

  “What time did this happen?” Tessa asks. I didn’t shut the front door, and she and Novak are coming inside.

  Novak says, “I don’t know. Ask Johanna.”

  Tessa suddenly looms over me. “Tell me everything you know,” she demands.

  I slit-eye Novak. How could she run to Tessa? I can handle this. I don’t need Tessa.

  Tessa says, “Johanna, I can help.”

  “I don’t think you can.” I push to my feet and my head explodes.

  “Johanna!” Novak yells.

  “What!” I scream back.

  She says, “Let Tessa help.”

  I look at Tessa. “No,” I say. “I’ll call the cops myself and find out.”

  “Novak told me someone was hurt, there was an ambulance,” she says. “The police won’t release information to you.”

  The conversation with the neighbor replays in my head. “Robbie had a knife. He was all bloody.”

  Tessa says, “Whoever was hurt was transported to a hospital, right? Do you know which one?”

  “How many are there?”

  Tessa says, “Thirteen, not counting all the urgent-care facilities around.”

  Thirteen?

  “We’re wasting time!” Novak cries.

  She’s right.

  Tessa hustles out the door. “We’ll find them,” she calls. “Come on. We’ll figure this out.”

  I stumble after her, elbowing Novak away.

  Inside the house, Tessa opens her carryall and yanks out a thick black notebook. Page after page of resources and referrals, people and places and phone numbers to call for help.

  She works at a free clinic. She’d have this.

  “What’s the address?” Tessa asks.

  “Of what?”

  “Their house.” She opens to a listing of hospitals.

  “I … I’m not sure.” There’s no house number on the front. “It’s 68th Street.”

  “23 something West 68th Street,” Novak pipes up. “I sent Reeve an invitation to my party.”

  Tessa says, “North Suburban’s closest.” She punches numbers on her cell. “Turn on the TV news. Yes, hello. I’m looking for someone who might have been brought into Emergency this morning? Thank you.” Tessa slides onto a barstool at the counter and looks at me. “What’s their last name again?”

  “Hartt. Reeve Hartt,” I say. “And Robbie Inouye.”

  The TV blasts in the living room.

  Tessa says into the phone, “Hartt. Or Inouye.” She asks me, “How do you spell that?”

  Martin staggers in from the back, yawning. “What’s up?” He rakes a hand through his messy hair.

  “Someone got stabbed,” Novak says behind him.

  “We don’t know that,” I snap.

  Martin asks, “Who?”

  Tessa holds up a finger for silence. Bookmarking a page with her finger, she flips through a section of laminated sheets in the notebook and I see they’re children’s services and halfway houses, shelters and abortion clinics.

  I never really knew what Tessa did at the free clinic. Fed poor people and vaccinated children?

  “Okay, thank you.” Tessa presses a button on her cell. “They might’ve gone to St. Joseph’s. Or Denver Health.” She pages back to the hospitals.

  Martin settles a hand on my shoulder and asks, “What happened to your face?”

  Novak reaches for my hand, but I won’t let her. “Don’t worry, Joho. We’ll find her.”

  There is no “we.” There is only me. And only Reeve.

  I lower my head and close my eyes. I send her a silent message. I’m coming. Hold on.

  “They’re at St. Joseph’s.” Tessa shuts her cell.

  Novak says, “They took Dante there after he totaled his car.” She heads for the door and I snag her arm.

  “You’re not coming,” I tell her. “This is partly your fault.” I say to Tessa, “Nobody’s coming.”

  Tessa says, “Johanna—”

  “Stay out of it.”

  I race upstairs for my keys and bag, feeling a little dizzy. My face and hair are wet by the time I reach the car. When did it start to rain?

  Tessa’s waiting by my car.

  I shoulder her aside and lock myself in. Jamming the key into the ignition, I crank and nothing happens.

  I try again.

  “Damn. Dammit.” I’m out of gas. Rain is pouring through the broken window in back. I ball my fists and punch my eyes. Ow.

  Now what? Think. THINK. My head hurts so bad.

  I open the door and Tessa says, “We’ll take my car.”

  We park in the visitors’ garage and follow the signs to Emergency. The receptionist tells us, “I’m not allowed to give out information on that party. If you’ll wait in the lounge, a doctor will be in to speak with you.”

  “What does it mean when they aren’t allowed to give out information?” I ask Tessa.

  “We’re not family. It’s not our information.”

  The signs point toward a corridor and as we turn the corner, I see her. “Reeve!” She’s at the drinking fountain. She raises her head, pivots, and hurries off the other way.

  I chase her down. I spin her around and lift her off her feet. “Reeve. Oh my God.” I hold her so tight.

  She says in a raspy voice, “Go away. Get the fuck out of my life.”

  Her carving fills my brain. I CANT.

  “No, Reeve. I can’t.”

  Robbie said he’d kill her. In his essay, he wrote, “May 23 I kill my mother.”

  Tessa is talking to an older lady who seems to be with Reeve. I don’t see Robbie or their mom. I hear a few details: A bunch of Anthony’s friends showed up with drugs and booze. The party got out of hand. Someone had a knife.

  Reeve seems dazed, so I clutch her hand and lead her outside. There’s a covered gazebo in the visitors’ area. As we sit on the pentagonal bench, she looks at me, at my face, and visibly shrinks.

  I lift her onto my lap and wind her legs around my waist. “It’s okay, baby,” I say.

  “No, it’s not.” Her voice is hollow. “It’s never going to be okay.”

  I rub her thin arms. “I’m here. I’m never leaving you.”

  Her chest heaves. I just want to hold her until she stops fighting it. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t volunteer information, and I don’t want to push her to the dark place. I ask, “Where’s Robbie?”

  She shakes her head. “He grabbed the knife from Anthony and I couldn’t stop him. He’s so stupid.” She draws her knees to her chest and I wrap my arms around her to hold her on my lap.

  “Start at the beginning. You left the party. …”

  “My dad was there.”

  “At Novak’s?”

  “No. At our house. I didn’t want him to see me or Robbie, so we snuck upstairs and covered ourselves with a blanket.”

  No cover …

  She lolls her head back. “I heard this crash and Mom screamed. Then Anthony yelled, ‘Shut up, bitch! Shut that whore up!’ She was doing meth and heroin. There was so much noise and I thought I heard a gun go off.” Reeve closes her eyes. “When I got to the kitchen, Anthony was smacking Mom around. It wasn’t the first time, but it was the first time she fought back.” Reeve blinks at me. “She always took it. She kept taking it. My dad hit her too.”

  I feel my jaw clench.

  Her hair is wild and tangled. I go to smooth it down and sna
g my fingers. “Where’s your dad now?”

  “Robbie sleeps so hard, you know? I thought he’d sleep through it. I don’t know what happened to Mom. It was like, finally, something snapped. She said, ‘That’s it, Anthony,’ and she grabbed a knife. I think she really would’ve cut him.”

  She should have cut out his heart.

  I rub her arms. “Where were you? What were you doing?”

  “Staying out of the way. I used to try to stop it, you know? With Dad too. I’d call the cops or run to the neighbors and they’d call the cops. Mom would get pissed.”

  “Why?”

  “She didn’t want to go back to rehab.”

  Gently, I comb my fingers through Reeve’s hair. “You were just trying to save her life,” I say.

  “She doesn’t want her life saved. She thrives on the hurt, same as you.”

  That stops me. “What?”

  Reeve scoots off my lap. “You let me hit you. You enjoy it.”

  “No, I don’t.” Heat rises up my neck.

  “Really?” She cocks her head. “You keep coming back for more.”

  “It’s not the same,” I say.

  “How is it different?”

  My mind scatters. “I don’t know. It just is.”

  “When you figure out the difference, let me know.” She turns to leave.

  “The difference is… the difference”—I stand and clamp her arm—”is that you don’t want to hurt me.”

  Her head swivels.

  “That’s the difference, Reeve.”

  “I don’t see it. All I see is …” Her eyes sweep across my face.

  “My love for you.”

  She lets out a hiss of air. “You’re sick.”

  I take her hand and she tries to pull away, but can’t. At last she surrenders. “Tell me the rest,” I say.

  “Can we go back inside?”

  The rain mists our faces as we stroll toward the building. “So your mom’s in surgery?”

  She looks at me. “My mom’s dead.”

  “No. You don’t know that.”

  “I was there. They took her out in the ambulance.”

  Is she serious?

  “Robbie got the knife away from Anthony, but…” Reeve swallows hard.

  “Robbie was all bloody,” I finish. “Your neighbor saw them.”