Push

by Claire Wallis

  I am shaken. But also not surprised. For some reason I feel as if I should call Ricky, despite the fact that I know it will probably be a waste of my time. It’s hard to believe how the love I once felt for both of my brothers has morphed into a completely different feeling. Love to disgust. Admiration to repulsion. It didn’t happen overnight—I think because I denied it for a long time. Acknowledging that Michael had that kind of power over them, the kind of power that can change a person’s moral compass, was the last thing I wanted to do. I felt that if I acknowledged it, I was giving Michael my approval. Denial was my safety net. I always tried to see the best in Ricky and Evan, even as I watched them turn more and more to Michael for attention and consent. But that fraternity party, that’s what made my continued denial completely impossible. That was when the last of the “best” in them vanished in a blur of cheap cologne and beer breath.

  I pick Ricky’s note up off the table and dial his number. When he answers, I nearly hang up. A cluster of nerves has moved up into my throat, and when I say hello, my voice sounds small. I hate myself for it.

  “It’s Emma,” I say, mentally shoving the wad of nerves back down into me.

  “I didn’t expect it to be you, Em. So, you got my letter, huh?”

  “Yes,” I say. My voice sounds better now. Reasonable, at least. “I know that Michael died. I called the hospital.”

  “He was on a ventilator, and I made the call to pull it.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you know about everything else going on? Do you know about the whole TruTimber Imports thing?” he asks.

  “Yes. I saw some articles about it online.”

  “Okay.” After a few seconds of silence, he adds, “Well, we’re having a funeral for him on Friday if you want to come.”

  “There is no fucking way that’s happening,” I say. Suddenly I feel like a small, angry child. I feel as if Ricky is going to say something at any moment that will fill me with contempt, and I am angry at him for it.

  “No one expects you to come. Hell, Evan isn’t even coming. I just wanted to put it out there for you.”

  “Isn’t Evan in Florida or something?”

  “Not anymore. He had no place to live anymore down there. Landlord kicked him out cause of the drugs. I don’t know what the fuck he was thinking. He moved back here a couple of months ago. He’s in debt and trying to clean himself up.” I don’t know what to say. I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about Evan, or Ricky, for that matter.

  I reach for the raven, and when I touch my own skin, it is burning. “Listen, I just called because I wanted to make sure it was all true. That he’s really dead.”

  Ricky laughs at me. Laughs. If he were in front of me right now, I would fucking beat his head with a baseball bat.

  “It’s all true, Em. He’s dead,” he says.

  “You turned out to be a real fucking asshole, Ricky,” I say with as much attitude as I can muster. Then I hang up the phone.

  I sink my face into my hands for the second time today—but this time I do not cry. This time I swipe my hands back off my face, across my scalp and down to the back of my neck. Fuck it. I am done with the bullshit.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Emma—Age 18

  It is five-thirty, and Peter Beckman is here to pick me up for prom. My mother has swept my hair up into a beautiful braid and fastened tiny rhinestones into the folds. She left a few spiral curls hanging down, and they frame my face sweetly. When I hold up the hand mirror so that I can see the back of my head, I see her reflection looking back at me. She looks proud. I tell her how much I love my hair and thank her for helping me with it. I stand up and turn to her. She smoothes my dress against my hips and tells me how lovely I look. How grown up I am. How much my father would have loved to see me like this.

  My father would have liked Peter, she says, because he is such a respectful young man. I ask her to please, stop. Please, stop talking about Daddy because it is making me emotional, and I don’t want to mess up my makeup. She smiles and says she wants to take some pictures of me and Peter before we go.

  Peter is waiting for me downstairs, dressed in a black tuxedo and looking a little sheepish. Michael is sitting on a chair next to him, and I get the distinct feeling that they were talking about something before I came downstairs. Peter’s face is a little flushed. My mom takes a handful of pictures, and Peter and I walk out to his car.

  We are going to meet a couple of his friends and their dates for dinner at Caprice. Because we go to different schools, I have only met Peter’s friends a couple of times. They were nice, though, the few times we did hang out, so I think tonight is going to be a lot of fun. On our way to the restaurant, Peter tells me how much he likes my dress and how beautiful I look. I thank him and let him know that he doesn’t have to compliment me because I am already a sure thing. Unless he throws himself at some other girl, there is no way he isn’t getting a piece of ass tonight. It’s prom night, for God’s sake. Everyone does it on prom night. Peter’s parents even booked a suite at the downtown Sheraton for a bunch of us. They’ll be there to chaperone our little after-party, of course, but there are ways around that.

  Before we get to the restaurant, I ask Peter what he and Michael were discussing before I came downstairs. He tells me quietly that Michael said he has to bring me home at eleven, right after the dance ends. I am not allowed to go to the after-party, even though my mother already said it was all right. If he is late in bringing me home, I’ll be in trouble. Peter wasn’t going to tell me about Michael’s demand until after the dance. He didn’t want it to ruin our night.

  I tell him that it won’t ruin our night because Michael is full of bullshit, and we are going to completely ignore him. Peter looks worried. But I tell him not to worry because Michael is just being a dick and trying to manipulate and control me like he always does. This is my prom night, and I’m not going to let Michael ruin it.

  Peter is silent for the rest of the drive, and when we pull into the parking lot at the restaurant, he asks me if I’m sure I want to risk it. The school year is nearly over anyway, I tell him, and Case Western has already accepted me. I’ve got nothing to lose. Okay, he says, we’ll do whatever you want.

  * * *

  When the dance is over and everyone heads to the Sheraton, Peter tells me he is happy to take me home if I’ve changed my mind. He doesn’t want me to get in trouble because he knows perfectly well what Michael is capable of. I tell him again that I won’t let Michael ruin this. Not tonight. Not my senior prom.

  Peter’s parents are so amazing. They paid for the room, and rather than watching over us like a couple of mother bears, they spend the evening in their adjoining room. The door between their room and our double suite is slightly ajar so they can hear if we are getting too rowdy, but other than that, they pretty much leave us alone. Peter’s friend Hayden sets up the music system he brought from home, and we spend an hour or two just dancing around and being silly. One of the other boys brought a bottle of booze in his duffel bag, and we pass it around until it’s empty. My head is a little foggy, but no one seems to be drunk. No one is out of hand. No one is doing anything but having a good time.

  At three in the morning we are all sitting around in our sweats playing truth or dare and laughing our asses off. There is a knock at the door, and Peter goes over to get his parents. Everyone gets really quiet wondering who the hell it is. But I already know it’s Michael. Fuck. For a second I consider hiding in the other room, but I know that I am probably safer right here, in front of everyone else.

  Mr. Beckman looks out the peephole and sighs. He opens the door and starts conversing with a man who I assume is the hotel manager. Behind the manager are two police officers. And behind the police officers is Michael. He is standing there with his arms folded across his chest and a smug, sideways grin on his face. I can see him in the tiny space between the door frame and Peter’s father’s body, but I don’t think he can see me. The manager is telling Mr.
Beckman that Michael is looking for his daughter. Peter’s dad turns to me and smiles sadly. The expression on his face tells me that Peter has told him all about Michael. That he knows what a prick Michael really is.

  And with that, Michael and the police officers come into the room. My face is getting hot, and I want to sink into the floor, to vanish into the ground. Everyone’s eyes move to me, waiting to see what I will do. But instead of walking over to me, Michael heads straight for Peter.

  “Peter,” he says, “I told you very clearly that Emma had to come home right after the dance. Why is she here instead?” My mouth is open. I want to gasp for air.

  “Because this is where she wants to be,” Peter says. I am completely taken aback. I have never heard Peter speak to anyone like this before. He is usually so compliant and respectful toward adults. Inside, I am cheering like a fucking lunatic. Hell, I’m giving him a standing ovation.

  As soon as the words are out of Peter’s mouth, Michael raises his fist, as if he is going to hit Peter. I am on my feet in an instant, rushing over to where they are. Mr. Beckman grabs Michael’s arm, and the police are telling everyone to calm down. The world is spinning; everything is crashing down around me. What the fuck was I thinking, telling Peter to bring me here instead of taking me home? Michael is going to go over the edge right here in front of everyone.

  Mr. Beckman lets go of Michael’s arm and pulls Peter toward him. Then he tells me I’d better go home with my father. Peter tries to argue, telling him not to send me home with Michael. Mr. Beckman asks Peter if he knew that Michael wanted me home right after the dance. When Peter says yes, Mr. Beckman tells everyone to get their things together because he is going to call everyone’s parents to come pick them up.

  No. No. No. Holy shit. What is going on? How can Mr. Beckman be mad at Peter when this whole thing was my idea? When I was the one who wanted to come? As I gather my things, I try to explain to Mr. Beckman that this was my fault and not Peter’s, that he was just doing what I asked. But Mr. Beckman says that Peter knows better. He apologizes to Michael and the police officers and promises to see that everyone gets home safely.

  As Michael is pulling me out of the room, I mouth the word “sorry” to Peter. He looks sad and worried, but he also looks angry. At Michael, I hope, and not at me. I think I’m going to be sick.

  * * *

  It is a week later, and I am no longer playing volleyball. Michael got me pulled from the team due to “disciplinary issues,” telling my coach that I have been drinking and lying. Telling her that I don’t deserve to be on the team. I was in the room when they met to discuss it, and frankly, the whole conversation was more humiliating than anything else Michael could have come up with. He told her that my behavior has been so bad that he’s considering contacting Case Western and withdrawing my acceptance. What the fuck? Can he even do that? The thing that bothered me the most, though, was the fact that Coach Lyons believed him. She let him do this. When we left her office, I felt betrayed.

  Peter said he can’t see me anymore. The day after prom he called to tell me his parents said we need to take a break. I think they are worried that Michael will hurt him somehow if something like that were ever to happen again. I understand they are trying to protect him. Peter apologized profusely, telling me how much he still cares about me and how he hopes that things get better for me. He even said he’s sorry that he couldn’t be the one to make it better. I wished him good luck at Northwestern and told him that I’ll be okay.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Emma—Present Day

  My alarm is going off, and I wake up sweating. I was dreaming about the buzzing sound, and it makes me wonder how long the alarm was going off before I woke up. Jesus, I am hotter than shit. My pajamas are soaked, and my hair is stuck in a matted-up wad. Why am I so fucking hot? I kick off the covers, roll on to my side, and switch off the alarm. It is then that I smell the now-familiar odor of stale cigarettes and warm whisky breath. I roll over on to my other side and see that David is in my bed. He is sound asleep, lying flat on his back with his hands resting on his chest. The blanket covers only his lower body, and I spend a few minutes watching his chest rise and fall. His mouth is slightly open, and for a moment I consider kissing it. I could put my face against his and sink my tongue into his mouth. But I know he didn’t get to sleep until just a few hours ago, and I don’t want to wake him. He is so quiet. He looks almost childlike. I smile at the thought of David stumbling into my apartment after poker. I smile knowing that he wanted to come here to make sure that I am okay. To make sure that I survived a night without him.

  As I shower and eat my breakfast, I think about how David will feel when I tell him that I spoke with Ricky last night. I wonder if he’s going to consider me nuts for even caring to find more out about Michael. And then I think about Lucia, and I wonder how much David cared about all the things that she did.

  * * *

  Wednesday is acting just like the hump that it is. The morning is slow. Slow as fuck. I feel as if I am treading water. I’m not working with Matt this morning because he is having a meeting with some of the project managers, going over our initial designs and tweaking some of the kinks we stumbled on. But then, in the afternoon, things pick up. We have a conference with the architects—making the rest of the day slip by seamlessly. And now, a handful of hours later, I am on the bus again, listening to my iPod and headed back home. Headed back to David. I haven’t heard from him all day.

  When I get to my apartment and unlock the door, David is sitting at the table. Spread out in front of him are mounds of money. Stacks, actually. He is sorting the bills and putting them into piles of the same denomination. I feel for a second as if I am interrupting him. But then I remember that this is my apartment and that he knows I come home at this time. I close the door behind me, lay my bags down, and walk over toward him. He holds up his index finger, silently asking me to hang on for a minute. I put my hands on the top of his shoulders and watch him finish counting the bills in one of the stacks. Next to him is a small pad of paper and a pencil with a novelty eraser in the shape of Spider-Man’s head. It looks silly sitting amongst all this money. There are numbers listed on the paper, and when he stops counting, he scribbles the number 8200 on the bottom of the list. Then he looks up at me, lifting his hand to his shoulder to stroke my fingers.

  “Hey,” he says. “Sorry I’m taking up your table, but Brad and some of the other guys are up at my place, and I didn’t want to do this there.”

  “No problem,” I say. Then I tip my head down at the table and add, “From poker?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “It was a pretty good night. I didn’t get back here till nearly five in the morning, and I was exhausted. There was no way I was gonna count all this then. I slept here until like four o’clock this afternoon. When I went up to take a shower and get changed, Brad and the guys were already up there. So I came down here instead.” My eyes skim over the stacks of money on the table. There must be at least twenty thousand dollars sitting there. “I hope you don’t mind,” he adds thoughtfully.

  “Mind what? That you’re counting your money here or that you slept in my bed until four o’clock?”

  “Both,” he says with a small grin.

  “I don’t mind one bit. Just surprised to see you here, that’s all,” I say. He looks up at me and shrugs. “That’s a damn lot of money you’ve got there,” I add as I walk into the kitchen to get something to drink.

  “Yep, it sure is. It’s not all mine, though. In fact, most of it is someone else’s. Like a tenth of this is actually mine.”

  “Still...” I say, my voice trailing off in suggestion.

  “Yeah, well, I usually get a bigger cut. But not this time.”

  “Why’s that?” I ask from the kitchen.

  “Just one of those times when someone else has to get paid before I do,” he says as I am walking out of the kitchen holding a pair of water bottles. I hand one to him and watch as he finishes counting t
he last pile of bills. When he’s done, he packs them all into a metal box, puts the pad and pencil on top, and closes the lid. The box has a combination lock, and I watch as he twists the dial and tests the lid to be sure it won’t open.

  “That little lock isn’t going to keep your money safe from me, sir,” I say in jest. “Picking locks is one of my surprise talents.” I am leaning on the wall now, my shoulder flush against the frame of the kitchen doorway. He raises his eyebrows.

  “Any other surprise talents I need to know about?” he asks.

  “I’ve got lots,” I say with a smile, “but if I tell you, then you won’t be surprised.”

  “True,” he says, “and so far all of your talents have been very interesting.” He stands up from the table and walks over to me, putting his palm against the door frame and leaning in to give me a kiss. It is hard and sweet. And it leaves me feeling a little woozy. When he pulls back, he strokes his thumb back and forth over the crest of my cheek. Instinctively, I drop my eyes toward the floor and lean my face into his hand.

  “Your skin is warm,” he says, slowly moving his hand from my face down the side of my neck.

  “Yeah, well, a kiss like that tends to do such things to a girl,” I say weakly. I sound like a meek little kid when I say it.

  David steps back from me and looks down at his shoes just as I raise my eyes to look at him. I’m not sure why, but I think I’ve made him uncomfortable. I thought that he would take my comment as a challenge. I thought he would have whisked me off to the bedroom by now. But instead, he is backing away from me, shuffling his feet back toward the sofa, with his eyes still on the ground.

  A moment later he lifts his eyes to mine. “I’m sorry,” he says. Why on earth would David be sorry? I don’t understand. Does he think I don’t like feeling this way?