Harder (Caroline and West)

by Robin York

  I worried she wouldn’t have anything to wear to school, and when she had a fever I worried that her brain would fry and it would make her stupid. I worried when I found out about all that recalled Tylenol that I’d given her too much and she was going to get asthma or seizures or whatever.

  When I was in middle school, Frankie was a toddler. Mom would leave her at the neighbor’s, Mrs. Dieks, and I would come off the bus and straight to Mrs. Dieks’s place to pick her up. Most of the time I’d find Frankie in nothing but a diaper, slapping her fat little palms on the coffee table, wreathed in smoke and babbling at the TV.

  She’s a terror, Mrs. Dieks would tell me, and I knew even when I was twelve years old that Frankie wasn’t. She was normal. Curious. It was Mrs. Dieks who was too old to be watching her.

  I could tell from the way she looked at me – like I might be carrying a disease – that Mrs. Dieks didn’t like me. I could guess from the bruises on the softest parts of Frankie’s thighs that Mrs. Dieks didn’t like my sister, either.

  But there was nothing I could do about it but tell my mom, who blew it off. She falls down, my mom said. I’m sure they’re from accidents.

  I remember being so upset, I threw up. Wiped my eyes, rinsed out my mouth from the bathroom tap, and swore it was the last time I’d count on my mom for anything.

  You’re going to have to fix this, I told myself. You’re going to have to make it better for her.

  But what could I do? I was a kid, barely older than Frankie is now. I carried my sister home the second I got off the bus, changed her diaper, rubbed the diaper rash cream in as gently as I could.

  Once she was in school during the day, we both got off the bus at the same time. Mom was working. Frankie was mine to worry about.

  When I got my driver’s license, I could drive her around. I had money of my own to buy some of what she needed – clothes and food and treats. Even when I left her behind to come to Putnam, Frankie was my first priority, my principal worry, my sister, mine.

  But now she is mine, legally my responsibility, and I’ve failed her. I brought her here where she’s vulnerable. I left her alone too much. I knew something was going on, but I didn’t want to hear it.

  “It’s my fault,” I say. “All of this is my fault.”

  “You’re wrong,” Caroline replies.

  “You don’t understand.”

  “I do understand, and you’re wrong. But we can talk about that later. Right now, you need to focus on constructive solutions to this problem.”

  “What’ll be constructive is if I bash that little fucker’s face in.”

  I don’t mean it. I just haven’t got anything constructive to offer.

  “It won’t help if you get yourself arrested,” she says. She braces an arm on the chair in front of me and leans close to my back to say, “Everything’s going to be fine, West. Trust me. I know this feels huge, but I was already talking to the counselor, and it’s really going to be okay.”

  I grab her arm, wrap it across my chest, forcing her to drop into a seat behind me on the chair, pressed up against my back. When she puts her other arm around me, I cross mine to cover her hands and squeeze tight.

  “Breathe,” she says.

  I breathe in. Breathe out. Drop my head back until it rests against her neck, her shoulder.

  I focus on Caroline. How right she feels against me.

  I pitch my voice low and tell her, “It’s abuse. What he’s been saying to Frankie.”

  “I know.”

  “That kind of shit messes you up. I can’t fix it.”

  “I know. But West, we’ll help her through it. I promise.”

  I look at my sister, perched on the seat of a blue plastic chair with her knees squeezed in tight to her chest, and I try to make myself believe it.

  From where I stand, leaning against the exterior of the school building, Frankie’s face is visible in profile.

  She’s got her head bent, her hair pushed behind her ear and scattered over her shoulder. I told her to brush it this morning, but it looks like she forgot.

  She’s sitting in my truck, and I’m pressing the back of my head against unyielding brick, letting the rough surface bite into the underside of my fingers.

  All I can see is Frankie. The fine little-girl lines of her face. Her thin shoulders and scraggly hair and black sweatshirt.

  Ten years old, alone in a cold car.

  Caroline pushes my shoulder, a gentle shove. “West. I’m talking to you.”

  “I heard you.”

  I didn’t, though. I’m not quite inside myself. I’m set apart, noticing the pressure of the brick teeth on my palm, observing my sister, listening to a recording of everything the counselor said without feeling any of it.

  Frankie needs enrichment. They haven’t got her test scores back, but she’s doing work above grade level in every subject.

  She’s unhappy. She’s in his office three or four times a week. She’s walking out of her classroom to sit in the chair by his door or across from his desk, and that’s okay. She’s allowed to do that. He cleared it with her teacher. He gave my sister a safe space to go to when she needs it.

  He’d like to see her make more friends.

  He’d like to see her talking more at school, would love to give her more opportunities across the board, and he wants to know if I’ve thought about music or art lessons, because sometimes they help kids who are dealing with grief.

  I guess that means she told him about Dad.

  What else does she tell him when she goes to sit in the safe space he made for her?

  What does she tell Caroline on their long afternoons together?

  Obviously a fuck of a lot more than she tells me.

  Caroline faces me. “West.”

  “I’m going to quit at the factory,” I say.

  “You don’t have to. I can pick her up every day. I don’t have any classes that late.”

  “I need to be around.”

  She reaches out with a fingertip and hooks my sleeve. I watch her rub the cloth between her thumb and her finger like she wants to touch me but she can’t get close enough to do it.

  “You should go,” I say. Never have I felt less like I deserved her loyalty.

  She takes my hand.

  I let her.

  “Last year,” I say.

  “What about last year?”

  “I was pretending.”

  “Which part?”

  “The part where I had a life outside of taking care of Frankie.”

  “But you did have a life here. It wasn’t imaginary.”

  “Look what came from that, though.”

  “You didn’t cause it. You didn’t make your mom get back with your dad, you didn’t kill him, you didn’t make it so Frankie had to see it.”

  “She told you she saw it?” The knowledge sweeps through me, leaving me cold.

  Of course she did.

  My mother lied. My sister witnessed a murder.

  She told Caroline, but she didn’t tell me.

  “I’m sorry,” Caroline says. “I wasn’t sure if I should say anything, or when, or how to tell you —”

  “I knew,” I interrupt. Because I did. I didn’t want to know, but I knew.

  I think of Dr. Tomlinson then. Of terrible secrets that are never secrets. Not really.

  “I’m supposed to keep her safe,” I say.

  “You’re doing a good job. She’s a wonderful kid.”

  “She’s fucked-up.”

  “West, everybody’s fucked-up.”

  “I don’t want Frankie to be like me.”

  Caroline’s eyes glisten. Her throat works.

  I pull her hand until her elbow’s against my side and I can put my other arm around her.

  We stand there like that.

  Past the parking lot, I can see the playground. They’ve got one of those spiral slides off by itself, and this huge play structure that has a climbing wall part, four different slides that branch off in d
ifferent directions, a rope bridge, all kinds of shit.

  There’s dried leaves gathered in the corners and against the fence – red and green and gold.

  So much color at this school.

  “I never had a counselor like him,” I say.

  “Jeff?”

  “Twenty-four years old. And that picture of his wife and his baby.”

  “What about them?”

  “You heard. He wants to see her settled in better. He wants her to reach her ‘full potential for achievement and happiness.’”

  Maybe that’s a thing people say in Caroline’s world. She would’ve gone to a school like this, with school counselors and teachers and principals who wanted things for her. She has a father who wants the world for her. It’s such a foreign country to me.

  Nobody ever talked to me about potential and achievement and happiness but Dr. T, and what I did to get what he was offering canceled out any part of me that might have deserved it.

  She strokes my arm. “It’s good, right? It’s all good.”

  I pull Caroline closer, position her in front of me, take her weight when she sags against me.

  We watch my sister. She bends down and disappears, probably fishing around in her school bag. Takes something out of it, drops her head again. She’s writing.

  “If Jeff was her dad, he’d know what she was writing,” I say.

  “Probably not.”

  “She wouldn’t have nightmares. She’d have daydreams. Horses and unicorns, princes and castles, all that shit girls her age draw in their notebooks – that’s what Frankie would have.”

  Caroline turns in my arms and puts her cold hands against my cheeks. “That is such a mountain of crap.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “Even if it were true – even if she’d had a different life up to now, some sheltered life with unicorns and rainbows – sooner or later she’d grow up, and she’d get hurt. There’s no way around it.”

  “You didn’t see her when she was a baby. There was nothing to her.”

  She strokes her hands down my neck. “You know who I wish I could’ve seen? You. I wish I’d seen you when she was born. How old were you, ten?”

  I nod.

  “I want a time machine,” Caroline says, “so I can see you when you were eleven or twelve and she took her first steps. I want to see when she was learning to talk, and when you taught her to read.”

  “She taught herself to spell first,” I say. “Went right from the alphabet song to phonics to spelling everything out loud, and then once she could spell she picked up Fox in Socks and read it to me. Didn’t miss a single word.”

  “I bet you were proud of her.”

  I was. I always have been.

  Caroline flattens her hands against my chest and leans back to look me in the eye.

  “She doesn’t need another father,” she says. “She’s got you.”

  “I’m just her brother.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “I’m her guardian.”

  “Jesus, you’re stubborn.” Caroline steps away, turns to face the car, and points at Frankie. “Look at her,” she says. “Look at that girl and tell me you don’t know every single thing about her.”

  “She didn’t tell me about Clint.”

  “She’s ten,” Caroline says. “That’s old enough for secrets. But I met your mom, and I saw where you grew up. I’ve talked to your sister. I’ve seen her with you. You’re her father, whether you like it or not. You’ve been her father since the day your mom brought her home from the hospital. Look at her.”

  I look.

  I look for what feels like an hour.

  I can’t tell Caroline she’s wrong.

  I don’t know what Frankie’s writing about, but I know the way she nibbles on her lip when she’s got a pen in her hand. She gnaws the skin off that lip, and when it’s cold and dry out it cracks sometimes and bleeds, and I’ve got to get after her to put Carmex on it so it’ll heal.

  I’d give my life for her without hesitating. Anytime. Any day. Under any circumstances.

  That’s how it is, and Caroline’s right that it doesn’t matter what some piece of paper says. Me and my sister belong to each other deeper than words on paper, deeper than I can find the words to say out loud.

  She’s my kid.

  I guess that means I’m her father.

  What a fucking terrifying thought.

  “I don’t know what to do for her,” I say.

  “So you learn.”

  “I don’t know how to start.”

  “Quit being such a baby. Read a parenting book. Read twenty, if it makes you feel better.”

  “It’s not just parenting, though, it’s this stuff.” I gesture at the playground. “Enrichment. Art classes. It never crossed my mind to worry about that.”

  “That’s what Jeff’s for.”

  “No, that’s my point. I’m saying, we’re living here like we lived in Silt. We’re surviving, because that’s all I know how to do. Jeff hears about Clint and the bus and the sick shit that kid said to my sister, and he doesn’t think about punching someone. He tells me, Yeah, that’s terrible, but we’re gonna handle it. What I’m worried about is how we can make your sister’s life richer. Richer! What the fucking fuck?”

  She’s frowning at me.

  “Richer,” I say again, dropping the word like a hammer. “Fuller. More beautiful. That’s not surviving, it’s something else. It’s thriving. I don’t know how to do that.”

  Caroline butts her head into my chest, hard.

  Then she does it again.

  “What’d I say?”

  “West.” She slams her head into me a third time. Rolls her forehead back and forth. “You drive me crazy.”

  “What?”

  “You don’t know how to do it for your sister because you don’t know how to do it for yourself, okay? But if you’d just fucking listen to me sometimes, and if you’d just let me in, you might start to figure it out.”

  I’m as shocked as if she’d smacked me – still reeling from her words – when she lifts her face to mine, rises to her toes, and kisses me.

  Really kisses me, with tongue and teeth, her hands on my head, body pressing into mine.

  I don’t even think about resisting. I take her ass in both hands and pull her tight against me, kiss her back, one kiss after another, soft and then hard, a deep stroke of my tongue, scared and confused and glad she’s here, because I know what richer and fuller and more beautiful mean, but only when I’m with Caroline.

  She breaks away and kisses my chin, my jaw, my cheek, and my temple. “You’re going to figure it out,” she whispers. “Trust me on this one.”

  I can’t trust myself, but I can trust her. “I’ll try.”

  She hugs me tight, tucks her head against my neck, and says, “You fucking better.”

  I look down at the top of her head, and then I look at my sister again in the car, miles away, thinking whatever it is she’s thinking about.

  In between us is Caroline.

  Her house is a couple blocks from campus, a big old cedar-shingled place that’s impressive from a distance but looks shabby close up. I park in the alley in the back. Krishna lets me into the kitchen. It smells like onions and garlic – warm cooking scents. Bridget and Caroline are at a little table tucked into the corner of the room.

  “Where’s Frankie?” Caroline asks.

  “I left her with Laurie and Rikki.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “Yeah, she just got a better offer. They’re doing some kind of art-film double feature with popcorn and Junior Mints. She seemed excited, so I said go for it.”

  I want to is what Frankie actually told me. I couldn’t say no to that, especially not when it meant a night off for me and a chance to see if I can remember what it’s like to have friends.

  I’m holding a case of beer and a foot-long sausage. I stopped at the Kum and Go on the way here. “Happy birthday,” I say to Krishn
a. “Legal at last. Must be a thrill.”

  “Oh, it is. I almost creamed myself when I woke up this morning and realized I could finally drink with the big kids.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “That’s some present,” he says. “You must’ve killed yourself trying to figure out what to get me.”

  “I was gonna get you 101 Unsolved Math Problems, but they were all out at the gas station.”

  “It’s a poorly stocked mart, that’s for sure.”

  “Figured you’d rather have beer and a giant sausage than a copy of Hustler.”

  Krishna flicks his eyes at Bridget. “You can put the beer in the fridge,” he says absently. “Open one for me, though.”

  “You got it.”

  “We picked up two kegs for the party later.”

  “Two? You’re not screwing around.”

  “You only turn twenty-one once.”

  I set the sausage down, twist off two caps, hand him one.

  “Grab a chair,” he tells me. “I’m making minestrone.”

  “You’re wearing a fucking apron.”

  “I know. Trying to look like you, killer. You were always rocking the apron at the bakery last year.”

  Nostalgia and disappointment, pleasure and pain.

  So many times he came by the bakery just to hang out for an hour before he went home to crash.

  So many shifts I spent with Caroline sitting on the floor doing her Latin homework, talking through some idea for a paper or highlighting up her textbook.

  Gone now. I haven’t even walked by the bakery. I didn’t ask for my job back because I got myself fucking arrested out of the bakery, and I can’t look the owner, Bob, in the eye.

  I burned all these bridges behind me when I left Putnam, thinking I was going home when there wasn’t any home for me to go to. Just work and worry and people fucking things up while I tried to be someone they could count on.

  And to be that guy, I betrayed what I had with every single person in this kitchen.

  I take the chair next to Caroline.

  She’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt, just a plain white T-shirt with a pocket on it. Her hair’s down, against her back, still damp from the shower. Her feet, in thick gray socks, are hooked over the rungs of her chair.

  She looks amazing to me, even with that tilt to her head and that wrinkle between her eyebrows that means she’s trying to figure me out.