by Kyra Davis
When I’m finally let back in Ash looks even more drained than he did before.
“They’re keeping me here for observation.”
“Yeah,” I say as I reclaim my seat. “I figured.”
He hesitates a moment and then whispers, “I’m sorry.”
He’s not looking at me directly, but I can make out the regret and guilt on his face. “What are you sorry for?” I ask cautiously.
“For being a dick. I’ve . . . I’ve never treated you well.”
“Sometimes you did,” I correct, but he continues as if he didn’t hear me.
“I . . . had this fantasy. I would become rich and famous and . . . and I’d find you again and, okay, maybe you’d still be angry, but I’d have so many ways to make it up to you. I’d be able to take you to red carpet events and the best parties. I could help you with bills, buy you a new car. We’d send postcards to your parents made up of pictures of you and me living the high life.”
I laugh despite myself. “Is that why you told people we were still together? You thought we’d reunite before they found out the truth?”
“Yeah, I guess I thought . . . if I had enough money and power I could fix things. People who talk about how money isn’t important are the people who have it. Money and fame can fix problems, buy happiness—at this point it can practically buy eternal youth.”
“It can’t buy love,” I offer.
“No,” he rasps, “but it can buy some pretty interesting substitutes.”
I immediately bust up and Ash cracks a smile, then he starts laughing, too, which is painful for him, so he struggles with himself, silently shaking with suppressed laughter. It’s sweet, and it’s incredibly sad.
When we finally settle down he turns his head to me, his hair gently spread over the pillow. “I didn’t have to buy your love,” he says softly. “You said I already had that.”
I sigh audibly. “I also told you our love was a big fucked-up mess.”
“That’s what makes it interesting,” Ash says hopefully. “You and I, we don’t do conventional.”
“No, no we don’t,” I agree. I lean forward, resting my forearms on my quads. “I’m not coming back to you.”
He studies me for a long time and then asks again, this time in a voice that is so dejected, so weak it breaks my heart. “Why are you here, Mel? Really.”
I bite down on my lower lip and stare at the floor again. “I don’t want you to die,” I whisper. “That would be such a waste! Okay, fine, you don’t know who you are . . . but to die before you found out? Don’t do that! Please, please don’t do that. I guess . . .” I look up and meet his eyes. “I guess, in addition to telling you to save yourself, I’m here to tell you there’s a reason to. I’m here to tell you that there are people on this earth, people who may be kinda pissed at you, who nonetheless love you and who want you to live. And that includes me . . . and I think it includes you. If you really wanted to die you’d be dead. But that’s not what you want, right? You want to live. So stop fucking around and do it!”
He doesn’t reply right away. Instead he lets the silence build up between us before he quietly breaks it.
“Fuck,” he says, “your pep talks suck.”
“It’s not a pep talk, it’s the truth,” I snap. “The truth never sounds as good as a pep talk, but it usually holds up better.”
He grumbles something unintelligible.
I could just strangle this man.
“You should call your parents,” I say, pushing myself to my feet. “They might be mad, but from what you’ve told me, they do care. And call Eva, she definitely cares.”
“What about you? Do you care?”
“Yeah,” I say softly. “Yeah I do, but I can’t stay. But . . . try to remember what I said, okay? Take it to heart?”
“You said a lot,” Ash mutters, “and I’m not entirely with it right now. Maybe you could leave me the CliffsNotes?”
I stare at him for a moment, then fish out an old receipt and a pen from my purse. I hold the receipt against the wall so I have a flat surface, and across the back I write:
1. Figure out who you are.
2. Try not to die.
I hand it to him. “CliffsNotes.” He doesn’t even glance at them; instead he catches my eye and for a long moment we just look at each other. “Ash, you haven’t always treated me poorly,” I say. “There were times when you made me smile and laugh, so many times that you made me happy. But you never kept a promise to me.”
He averts his eyes but doesn’t disagree.
“If you make me a promise now, will you keep it?” I ask, my voice cracking. “Just this one time, can I trust you?”
“Yes,” he croaks, and then meets my eyes again, and again, with conviction this time, says, “Yes.”
“Good.” I exhale a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Then promise me you’ll follow the instructions on the CliffsNotes, okay? Promise me, Ash.”
He finally looks at the receipt, and this time he can’t suppress his smile. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I can do that. I promise you, I’ll follow the notes.” He looks back up at me. “I do love you, Mel.”
“And I love you,” I say softly.
But even as I say the words, I know I’m not in love with him anymore. That’s gone—which makes me wonder, was I in love with him? Or was I just in love with what he represented? Would either of us know the difference? And then I remember what I told him on my front steps the last time I saw him: . . . you don’t know the very things I don’t know . . . and what we don’t know? It’s so much!
Again I feel the bile rise, but I manage to hide it, and even lean over to kiss away a tear rolling down his cheek. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “But I’ve gotta say good-bye.”
CHAPTER 36
AFTER LEAVING ASH, I don’t go home. Instead I go to the beach and sit on the sand, listening to the waves for a very long time. There are so many thoughts going through my head. As self-involved and obnoxious as it sounds, every time I picture Ash in that hospital bed I can’t help but think about how that easily could have been me. What drugs had he been taking, anyway? And really, how many times have I mixed copious amounts of drugs and alcohol? How many times have I flirted with death? Sometimes weekly . . . sometimes daily. And yet I don’t want to die. I do want to figure out who I am. But more than that, I don’t want to hurt people, not like I have in the past. And . . . and to accomplish both those goals, I’m going to have to learn to live with myself . . . and . . . and maybe, for just a little while, by myself.
I fish my phone out of my purse and call Brad.
“Hello,” he says, yawning through the line. “Mercy?”
“Yeah,” I say, staring out onto the dark sea. “I was wondering if I could stop by.”
“Now?” I can visualize him looking at the digital clock by his bed, noting with alarm that it’s after 2 a.m. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, it’s okay . . . but . . . can I just come over?”
And of course he says yes, because someone like Brad will always say yes to a damsel in distress. And damsels in distress are the only damsels he knows.
By the time I get there it’s almost three. Brad looks like he’s hovering between exhaustion and anxiety. He ushers me in, closes the door softly behind us, and leads me into his bedroom.
“What’s going on?” he asks as I sit cross-legged on his bed.
“It’s not fair,” I say quietly as I stare down at his comforter. “It’s not fair that I’m going to tell you this now, in the middle of the night . . . but it can’t wait.”
“Mercy, you’re scaring me.”
“I just . . . I want you to know that I’m in love with you,” I say quietly. “I’ve never really been in love before. It . . . it makes me wonder if the other time was even love at all.”
From the corner of my eye I can see his body relax. He closes the distance between us and sits next to me. “I’m in love with you, too, Mercy, I told you that.”
“And Nalla?”
“Mercy, I promise you—”
“When you said you chose me,” I say, cutting him off, “did you mean that you made a choice between her and me? Was she an option?”
He hesitates, then runs his fingers through my hair. “What does it matter?” he asks. “I chose you. That’s what counts.”
I smile sadly, keeping my eyes down. I’m afraid if I look up at him I’ll chicken out of what I have to do. “It matters because from the little I know about Nalla, she shouldn’t be a choice at all. It’s great that she’s going to UCLA and that she’s trying to be part of June’s life, but . . . calling you late at night crying because of something she’s done to you? She expects you to comfort her because she fucked with you? Do you see the problem with that?”
“Okay, she’s a little lost. She just needs an ear and she is the mother of my child.”
“Oh, Brad, she’s more than a little lost. And these crises of faith . . . I mean, what is that?” I pick at the comforter with my nails, my heart going a little faster than it should.
“She was . . . or she is, a religious Catholic but . . . well, there are some things about the church—”
“What does any of that have to do with you? ” I demand, finally looking up to meet his gaze. “I mean, come on, Brad! You use Jesus’ name in vain more often than that girl with the rotating head in The Exorcist! God, the woman is going to be getting her PhD in genetics, she should be able to figure this out!”
“Mercy—”
“And she has worked it out!” I say, unwilling to let him defend her. “She’s manipulating you. She wants you to save her, and if I have any kind of read on this, what she wants you to save her from most of all is herself.”
“Why are we talking about this?” Brad asks with a heavy sigh. “It’s not important. It’s not even vaguely relevant. I’m not with her, and no matter how many times I need to comfort her or guide her, I will still never be with her. I choose you.”
“It’s relevant,” I say quietly, “because I need to know that she’s not the woman you’re going to run to when I’m not here.”
“When you’re not here,” he repeats. “You mean, when you’re at your place or working? You think I’m going to cheat on you?” He wraps his arm around my shoulder, kisses my hair. “I’m never going to do that.”
“I’m not going to be here because I’m going to do the right thing,” I say dully.
“What’s that?” he asks as his kisses move down to my ear.
“I’m going to find myself,” I say, laughing a bit at the cliché. I unfold my legs and stand up, putting distance between him and me. “We’ve had this conversation before, but . . . I want to try it without the animosity this time, okay?”
“I . . . I’m sorry, I’m just not following this.”
“A few months ago I was borderline suicidal. I wasn’t sure I wanted to live. I just . . . I wasn’t sure.”
“Mercy,” he whispers, getting up and crossing to me. “I promise, I’m never going to let you get there again.”
I laugh, and even I can hear that the laugh hints at encroaching hysteria. “You don’t get to be in charge of my mental health.” Once again I move away from him, this time finding a spot by the bookshelf. “Do you remember when I told you that those of us who are self-destructive will always love the ones who hurt us most?”
“Of course . . . wait.” He grows rigid as he lifts his chin up a bit, almost defiantly. “Is this about Ash?”
“No, not really. Not at all, actually. But . . .” I pull out one of his books, turn it over in my hands. “No one ever hurt me as much as my dad, and yet . . . do you know that I still love him?” When Brad doesn’t say anything I lean against the bookcase and close my eyes. “Every day I . . . I hope. I hope and I pray that my father will call me. That he’ll seek me out. That he will give me his love and his approval. I still want that. The man hit me. He threw me out. He tried to have me locked up in a psych ward; he disowned me and he had me declared dead. And if he called me right now and asked me to forgive him in exchange for his love I’d do it in a heartbeat.”
Brad remains silent. I know he doesn’t understand. I knew he wouldn’t. But I’m going to have to make him understand. It’s important now. “The way I see it,” I explain, “is he cared. He was completely fucked-up, and if they made a World’s Worst Dad mug I wouldn’t be out of line if I bought it for him and stuck it under the Christmas tree. But he was not indifferent. Furthermore, he must be going through some kind of struggle himself. I mean, I don’t know exactly what’s wrong with him, but emotionally healthy people don’t pull the shit he pulled . . . or at least that’s what I tell myself. It’s so easy for me to make excuses for him. So no, I don’t hate my father. You know who I do hate?”
I look up to see Brad’s brow crease, clearly unsure of where I’m going with this.
“I hate her. I hate my mother. I hate the woman who never once raised a hand to me. Never once tried to lock me up in a psych ward. Never once told me I was a complete freak and a failure and who never once spoke one word in my defense.”
“Ah,” Brad says, comprehension finally setting in.
“She didn’t protect me,” I say, my voice low, resentful. “I should never have even had a chance to love my father. She should have gotten Kasie and me out of that house the minute she saw what kind of man he was. The first time he hit me she was in the kitchen. She heard it and she came rushing in to see what the commotion was. And then she saw me, on the floor, and my father standing over me. I saw the look of distress on her face and I just knew she was going to help me. I was sure she was finally going to step in. And do you know what she did?”
“I can guess,” Brad says in a low voice.
“Yeah, well, if you’re putting your money on her turning her back and walking out of the room, then congratulations. You win.” Brad meets my eyes and then lowers his to the floor. “It was her duty to protect Kasie and me and she didn’t,” I continue. “I should hate him more than her. I’m not being fair. Maybe she’s sick, too. Maybe she needs help, but I didn’t see that. What I saw was weakness, and cowardice, and . . . and neglect in an area where she had the obligation not to be neglectful.” I take a step forward and then another until I’m standing in front of him, taking his hands in mine. “You are such a wonderful father, Brad,” I say softly. “But you’re going to have to protect your daughter a little better. You’re going to have to protect her from messed-up, self-destructive people. You need to keep your eye on Nalla because that woman is like a time bomb. Eventually she’s going to blow and everyone around her is going to be hit with the shrapnel. And . . . and you’re going to have to protect her from me.”
Brad looks up sharply. “That’s insane. You would never hurt June.”
“You’re right, I wouldn’t,” I agree. “Not intentionally. But I could hurt myself. I . . . I don’t think I would do it on purpose, but our subconscious can drive us to do some pretty messed-up stuff. And until I know I won’t do myself harm, in any way, you just can’t let me be a big part of your daughter’s life. I have to get myself together first. I have to . . . I have to figure out who I am and why I do the things that I do . . . and then . . . then I have to stop doing some of those things. Not for a few months, but for years. I need to just stop. And I don’t know that I’m there yet. I’m not ready to say that . . . and that means I can’t be ready for you.”
Brad’s jaw is tighter than I’ve ever seen it; he’s flexing and curling his fingers as if he’s fighting the urge to make a fist. And yet I know that he is no more a threat to me than I am to him or his daughter. Which is to say, he would never hurt me on purpose. But considering our issues, that’s just not enough. “What you’re saying is nonsense,” he says between gritted teeth. “This is just like what happened at the end of our day at the LACMA. This is just your self-destructiveness manifesting itself. You’re pushing me away because you don’t think you deserve to be happy.
But you’re wrong about that, Mercy. You’re wrong about everything.”
I take a deep breath, force myself to meet his eyes. “Maybe,” I admit. “But right now what I know is that if you broke up with me, I might end up in the hospital. Seriously, it could get that bad. And you don’t deserve that responsibility. You can’t take that responsibility. You have a kid.”
Brad stares at me for a long, long time, and then something happens: he just crumbles. The pain just rolls over his features like an avalanche and he reaches for me, pulling me to him, and in this moment I find I can’t resist him. My desire to be in his arms is just too strong. “You can’t walk away from me,” he whispers. “Please, Mercy. Let me . . . let me help you.”
There is no place in this world that is better than here, right here, in Brad’s arms, my head pressed up against his chest. This place where I feel so warm, so safe and cared for, so loved. And oh God, do I want to stay here, forever and ever. And when he lowers his head to mine and I open my lips for him, when I feel that kiss so powerful and needing and exquisite . . . how on earth can I give this up?
Because I have to. Because it’s the right thing to do.
“I wish I could do this,” I say, the tears now freely streaming down my face. “But the problem is you don’t want to help me, you want to save me. And only I can do that.” And with strength I didn’t know I had, I pull away.
The love this man feels for me. The way he wants me . . . I see it in his eyes and in the way he stands as if it’s everything he can do to keep from rushing to me, taking me back into his arms, laying me down on the bed, finding some way to make this better.
But he doesn’t, because he knows that wouldn’t be right. So we stand there, faced off in his bedroom. Both of us wanting the same thing, and both of us awash in the pain of our own resistance.
“Figure out how to be happy without saving people like me,” I say quietly. “Figure out how to make your dreams come true . . . And if you can’t do that”—I give a meek little shrug—“figure out how to find new dreams.”