Are You Mine?

by N. K. Smith

  I can’t imagine how much peace it’d bring him to be free of all of that. He could go to England with me and watch Liverpool play.

  But then something terrible would have to happened to Ma, and every time I think it, I get this deep ache in my chest and a pounding in my head.

  When we arrive, we’re greeted by one of the night nurses I don’t typically see. With her is my mother’s doctor. His gray hair is all over the place, and he’s digging his fingers into his eyes underneath his glasses, like he’s trying to force the tired from them.

  “We’ve found her,” Dr. Harrow says.

  Both Pop and I let out a breath. “Can we see her?” I ask.

  “Yes, but she’s in a fragile state.”

  “What do you mean? Is she restrained?” My dad narrows his eyes. Neither of us like it when they have to put those cuffs on her.

  “No. She’s not violent at the moment. She is distraught.”

  Although distraught sounds like a horrible thing for her to be, it’s better than violent, so we agree to go up to see her. It’s not usual for us to visit her in her room, but this time we do. The little reinforced window in the heavy metal door gives us a glimpse of her.

  “Where’s her bed?” Pop asks.

  “And my pictures?” I ask.

  “We’ve had to remove them all for the time being. She’ll get them back, but in her current state, the bed can be a weapon, the bedclothes can be instruments of suicide,” the doctor pauses to turn to me, “and we thought she may regret destroying your work.”

  With his hand on the doorknob, the doctor looks at my dad. “Just one at a time, and be prepared for quick shifts in her demeanor.”

  I realize he has to say that, but it’s not our first time dealing with my schizophrenic mother. It’s painful to watch through the window as Dr. Harrow and my father enter and creep toward her. Ma’s hair is matted, but wild. It’s like the beginning of dreadlocks, but not the kind that look nice; hers are like the kind that develop on long-haired dogs whose owners don’t groom them enough.

  She’s in the corner of the room and glances up at my dad. I can’t hear anything except for when she starts screaming. I can hear that. It pierces through the door. I place my hand flat on the cool metal, my forehead pressed against the thick glass. All of the sudden, I feel fatigued and much too immature to handle this. I want a mom with a sane mind. I want a mom who could take care of me for once instead of the other way around.

  When it’s my turn to go in, I’ll have to spend a half hour combing out her hair again, although by the looks of it, we might have to cut some of it out. My father squats down with his hands held up as if he’s showing her that he’s unarmed. How screwed up is it that he has to prove to his wife that he has no weapons and doesn’t want to hurt her?

  Ma looks up for just a second before becoming a blur of motion. Pop falls back and scrambles away as the doctor moves forward. The nurse pushes me to the side to gain access to the room. As she goes in, my father is able to get out.

  One side of his face is red from her fist, the other side is scratched all to hell. He looks at me. I look back. My mother yells and screams inside the room, but we don’t lose eye contact.

  “It’s a good thing I have some vacation left,” my dad says, trying to smile as he motions to his fresh wounds.

  Just the sound of his voice guts me, but it’s the way he tries to lighten the hopelessness we both feel that takes the bottom out from under me. My eyes burn and even though I tighten the muscles in my face, I can feel my chin tremble as the tears threaten to fall.

  I don’t make a conscious choice to do it, but somehow my arms wrap around Pop and his curve around my body. The tears fall now. As they soak his shirt, I’m powerless to stop them. He just tightens his arms around me. “It’ll be okay,” he says. “She’ll be okay.”

  It’s the same lie he’s been telling me since I was six years old. I want to believe it, but I know I can’t.

  ***

  Hours and hours after leaving, I arrive back at Saige’s. I hate that I’ve woken her up, but I love that she stands in front of me with bed-hair and blurry eyes. We say nothing to each other as she leads me to the bedroom and pulls me down onto the bed next to her.

  It doesn’t take me nearly as long as I thought it would to fall asleep.

  I flip out once I wake up because I have to go to work, and I know I’m going to be late. It’s a bit disorienting to wake up in Saige’s room, especially since she’s not in here. As I roll out of bed, stumble through the living room, I try to figure out how I can get from here to my house to shower and change, and still make it to work on time.

  Saige isn’t anywhere to be seen, but after I come out of the bathroom, I poke my head into the kitchen and there she is, sitting at the little two-top table. She has brewed coffee and placed croissants and muffins on the table in front of her.

  “I went out and got breakfast.” Saige points to the other chair. “Sit.”

  I study the display of goodness, then glance down the hall to the foyer. “I really, really want to eat all that, but I’m completely late and—”

  She holds up my phone. “I texted your friend Jason. He was off and is covering for you now.”

  I relax a bit and take a step into the kitchen. “Really?”

  “Yep.”

  When I’m seated, she gets up and pours me a cup of coffee. “How’d you know I work in the warehouse with him?”

  She places the cup down in front of me and shrugs. Her cheeks are pink as she says, “I snooped on your phone. His last text said, This warehouse is killing me. Good thing I have tomorrow off. And his name in your phone is Warehouse Jason. Wasn’t too hard to figure out”

  A grin curves my lips as I grab a muffin and start to peel the paper down. I don’t even remember getting that text. “You’re awesome.”

  “You’re not pissed I snooped?”

  “Nope,” I say. “If you didn’t, I’d be late for work, and since you did, I get to spend all day with you.” I wag a finger at her. “Didn’t know you’d be stuck with me for the whole day, did you? Bet you wouldn’t have texted Jason if you knew.”

  Saige rolls her eyes and takes a bite of her croissant. “Shows how much you know. I totally knew you’d hang here all day, that’s exactly why I snooped, thank you very much.”

  “Ah ha!” I exclaim so loudly she jerks her hand on the table and nearly spills her coffee. “So you do like me.” Her cheeks redden even more, and I don’t give her a chance to answer. “You’re cute in the morning.”

  “Are you okay?” she asks.

  It takes me a minute to understand why she’s asking, because I’m smiling and we’re having fun, but then last night comes back to me.

  “Is your mom okay?”

  Although I’m hungry, I set the muffin down. “I don’t think my mom will ever be okay.”

  “But she’s—”

  “Safe.” I raise my eyes to hers when she reaches over the small table and puts her hand on mine. “My dad’s beat up though.” I can see the question brewing a mile away, so I don’t give her the chance to ask it. “She hit him a couple times and scratched up his face pretty bad.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You didn’t do anything.”

  Saige squeezes my hand, then lets go. “No, but that doesn’t mean I can’t express remorse for what you have to go through every day.”

  Why does she have to be so formal about it? Can’t she just say I have a suck life sometimes and move on? There’s something in the formality of how she says express remorse that makes this whole thing even more painful. I don’t typically spend my days depressed and crying, but this morning is shaping up to be a miserable morning, and I can already feel the urge to run away from it. As my eyes burn with tears, my fingers itch for a paintbrush, pencil, or chalk.

  “Let’s work on ‘Myka’s Metal Valentine’ today. We might be able to finish it soon if we push ourselves.”

  “What if I don’t
want to finish it soon?”

  I pick up my muffin again. “Why wouldn’t you?”

  “Because then we’re finished with it.”

  “Well, that’s the point right?” I ask with a mouthful of blueberry muffin.

  “But then the glue of us is gone.”

  Again, it takes me a second to work out what she’s really saying, but when I do, I have to put the damned muffin down again. I guess this will just be an overly emotional day for me. There’s a part of me that wants to pump my fist in the air because the acknowledgement from her that there is an us—even if she’s admitted it before—feels like such a huge victory. But I don’t do anything except say, “There’s always the next book.”

  There’s a light in her eyes I can’t get enough of as we finish our breakfast and talk about my gods and demons graphic novel. As the day passes and we busy ourselves with “Myka’s Metal Valentine,” I feel better, except for when I don’t. Throughout the day, the memories of my mother and the cold fact of her illness slam into me, and I’m pushed down into murky emotions about it all.

  Around three in the afternoon, I sit back on her couch and let some of it wash over me. To her credit, she lets me have these moments. But when I linger in this mood too much, Saige looks at her laptop and asks, “So why doesn’t the shrimp share his treasure?”

  I know the answer. She’s probably reading it at the same joke website I’ve visited since I was a kid, but jokes aren’t fun when the other person knows the answer, so I ask, “Why?”

  “Because he’s a little shellfish.”

  “Very nice.”

  She studies me with worry on her face, and I can tell I’m dwelling in the lowlands of depression a little too long. It’s probably time for me to force myself to feel something beyond what I do.

  But I just sit. Saige gets up and changes the music, comes back and pulls me off the couch. “My mom was a major Ani DiFranco fan” She points to the flag on the shelf. “At least that’s what my dad told me in a letter. This song was one of her favorites, and we’re going to dance to it.”

  I’m amazed at Saige. She’s not the just start dancing type, but here she is, bringing my mood up by getting me to focus on the song, the beat, her body. She looks great dancing. Even though she likes to keep to herself, Saige can move. It’s not the first time I’ve seen her dance, but it’s the first time I pay attention to the actual dancing.

  “You’re a good dancer,” I say.

  “Lessons when I was kid. Gramma thought keeping me busy would make not having parents better. I also know how to ride horses, cross-stitch, swim, flip around on uneven bars, and if you piss me off, I might kick you in the solar plexus with my Taekwondo moves.”

  “Damn.”

  “Yeah, I’m totally awesome.”

  I know she means it as a joke, but I’m serious when I say, “Yes, you are.”

  “And as a side note, knowing how to do all those things doesn’t make being an orphan suck less.”

  Once the song ends, I pull her to me. “Your grandma was probably just trying to take your mind off it in the moment.”

  “I know,” she says.

  I don’t want to be depressed anymore. “Bree Howerton’s having a party.”

  I tilt my head down as she tilts hers up.

  She’s unimpressed. “So?”

  “So, let’s go to it. We’ll have fun, and I want my friends to know you.”

  “They know me,” she says as she pulls out of my arms.

  “No. They know the closed-off version of you. You can let them see how funny and awesome you are.”

  “They won’t care.”

  “You don’t know them either. You can see how cool they are and—”

  “I know how cool they are. I’ve lived all my life knowing how cool they are.”

  “I meant how fun they are, too. They’re good people if you just give them the opportunity to be.”

  Saige shakes her head. “I’m not a party person.”

  “Please?” I lower myself to one knee and take her hand in mine. “Please? For me?”

  There’s a moment when she fixes her gaze onto my eyes. It’s like I can see her mind moving, arguing back and forth on if she wants to do this or not; if she’s willing to give this to me.

  “Fine,” she says finally.

  I’m thrilled that she’s agreed to go, and the afternoon lightens again. We’re leaving for the party at seven, but at six-forty-five, I find her breaking up some marijuana and shoving it into a glass pipe. Before she can light it, I pluck it from between her fingers and say, “Nope to dope, Saigey. Try this party sober.”

  She looks a little pissed that I’ve taken her pot away, but I intentionally don’t acknowledge it.

  “Why?” Saige asks.

  “Because you’re so fun and nice when you’re sober.”

  She says nothing while she flicks her fingers over the knees of her jeans. I hope she doesn’t get too upset, but it’s true. That night at the graduation party, she was mean and surly, but when she’s not intoxicated, she’s very pleasant.

  “So that means no alcohol, too?” she asks after a bit.

  “Yeah. I mean, it’s your life, but I think you’ll have a good time without getting wasted.

  “You think I’m a horrible person when I—”

  I don’t even let her finish. “No. I don’t think you’re horrible ever, but. . .” The words hang there between us because I don’t think she’ll be happy if I tell her I like her more when she’s sober.

  Saige takes the pipe back from me, replaces it in the wooden box, and shoves it under her couch. “Fine,” she says again, “but if this party sucks, I’m bailing.”

  “If this party sucks or you hate it, we’ll both leave. Just promise me you’ll have an open mind.”

  “You ask for the world, Fox.”

  Chapter 17

  Saige

  Someone comes up next to me, and I know it’s not my boyfriend. Fox is taking forever in the kitchen. He went in there for some non-alcoholic drinks, but now it’s been about twenty minutes or so, and I’m cornered by Fat Cody Hayes.

  “How is it that you know every single word to this song?” he asks.

  I hadn’t realized I’d been singing and probably wouldn’t respond if it was anyone else, but since it’s Cody and I don’t have a problem with him, I say, “It’s Bob Marley. How is it that someone couldn’t know all the lyrics to ‘One Love’?”

  “Everyone’s shocked you’re here.”

  I turn to look at Cody and for a moment, there’s a spark of anger inside my chest, burning to ignite the easy kindling of annoyance, but I pull it all back. Fox wants me to be polite and kind to his friends, so I will. Besides, it’s not like Cody’s saying anything defaming. I mean, I’m shocked I’m here. Myka and Val are absent, and it’s just me and the cool kids.

  Despite wanting to drink, I don’t. Fox is right when he said I’m not the nicest person when I drink. I have to at least try to be sociable.

  “Yeah,” I say, finally acknowledging Cody’s statement, “I’m always keeping people on their toes.”

  He doesn’t say anything else, so I try to think of something to talk about. Myka would talk about something steampunk related, Val would just stand there and nod his head, but what would Fox do to win over friends? Probably just smile and. . .wait, maybe that’s a key action. Smile. I don’t do that much, so I try one on.

  It makes me feel weird. The muscles in my face feel pulled and stretched inappropriately. How can Fox do this so much?

  I think it’s creeping Cody out because his uneasy expression makes me feel like an alien creature asking to be taken to the human leader. “So,” I start oh-so-skillfully, “How’s your summer been?”

  “Awesome.”

  “Are you going to school in the fall?”

  “Yeah. I’m going to. . .”

  I intentionally don’t listen, even though I know Fox would, but there’s so much noise and music blaring, and it’s no
t like I’m interested in where Cody Hayes is going to school. I’ve still got the smile on my face when Fox finally comes back to me. He hands me a soda, nods to Cody, and shakes his hand like he hasn’t seen him in fifteen years.

  “What’s up, brother?”

  “You know,” Cody says, “the usual.”

  I tune out the rest, because that seems like the coping mechanism that will get me through the night. The unfortunate part of not paying attention is when you get caught, you look and feel like an idiot.

  “Having fun?” Fox’s voice is so low and so near me that I jump. It’s obvious that I’ve been zoned out, and the ever-present smile on his face tells me he thinks it’s hilarious.

  “Yeah, it’s alright.”

  “Your lies make little babies cry.”

  I screw up my lips and narrow my eyes, but then release them as I shrug. “Good thing I don’t like babies, or that would make me stop lying.”

  Fox allows his jaw to drop open and lifts his eyebrows high. “You don’t like babies? No way! You’re so warm and fuzzy, I’d think—”

  “Stuff it,” I say, giving him the narrowed eyed look again.

  “Seriously, Saige, I’m going to take you to a day care. You’ve heard of aversion therapy? This will be immersion therapy. Babies are the cutest with those big eyes and overlarge ears.”

  “They poop in their pants.”

  “Well, I think if their parents do it correctly, they poop in their diapers, but point taken. They’re so tiny and—”

  “Too tiny. They can’t do anything for themselves, and—”

  “But they have those little fingers that wrap around your big fingers, and they look up at you with those great big eyes that have never seen anything like you before, and—”

  “Want children, do you?”

  For some reason, he laughs at this. I’m not sure if it’s because of the tone I take or something else, but the sound his voice takes when it comes out like that turns me into something squishy. I want to be wrapped in that laugh and let it take any lingering pain and anger away.