by Amanda Grace
He takes his keys out of his pocket. I can hear them shaking and jingling as he slides them into the lock, even over the rain pounding on the roof.
I lean back against the bed frame, waiting. Does he know I’m still here? Maybe he will think I locked up and left.
And yet another part of me is desperate for the door to open, for him to rush to me and gather me in his arms and make this pain disappear. I need him. I want to bury my face in his chest and cry and let him wipe away my tears.
He gets the knob unlocked, and I can see it turning, but the door doesn’t move. He stops trying and stands there in silence. He must realize I’ve locked the deadbolt.
“Ann?”
With one word, I can determine his mood. The anger is gone, melted away as fast as it arrived.
“Sweetheart?” he says, his voice tentative.
He doesn’t deserve to call me sweetheart. The fact that he would makes anger mix with the bitter sadness that keeps choking in my throat.
“Honey, I know you’re in there. You car is still here.”
Damn.
“Ann, I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was doing.” His voice is shaky, childlike. He knows he went too far. He was so big an hour ago and now he sounds so small.
I pull my knees up to my chest and rest my forehead on them and start humming to myself.
I can’t get up and open the door.
I can’t.
So why do I want to so badly? How can I be that girl, over and over?
I’m not his equal anymore. I’m his doormat; his punching bag.
It happened in pieces, tiny little turning points. I’ll never figure out when it all turned, because it wasn’t a single moment.
It doesn’t matter how many times I look back, how many times I try to figure it out. There is no before and after. Just a year of choices.
And now I’m here, sitting on the floor, afraid to open the door to the person I love most.
Maybe if I ignore him long enough, he’ll leave, and I won’t have to choose.
Maybe I’ll just stay here for eternity.
March 10
Six months, ten days
It’s late, but neither of us can sleep.
And so we’re lying in bed, side by side, our fingers intertwined. It’s cold in his new apartment, but neither of us are willing to slide from the warmth of the down comforter to turn on the heat, so we just burrow closer and tuck the blankets around us. The tip of the quilt is just short of my nose.
“Someday I’ll have so much money I’ll just leave the heat on all night, and you can climb out anytime you want and it’ll be warm,” he says.
I grin. “And will you do that in-floor heating thing? Where it makes the hardwoods warm on my bare feet?”
“Yep. And I’ll buy you a big house, so big you can go to the other side if I’m getting on your nerves.”
I push him playfully with my shoulder. I know he’s joking. He’s never on my nerves.
“And what about vacations? I want to go to Europe.”
“Of course. We’ll spend three months there and see every country. We’ll go up the Eiffel Tower and drift on the canals in Venice. You won’t want to come back.”
I smile at the image. Someday that’s really how life will be. We’ll conquer all this stuff together, and we’ll both forget about this tumultuous time.
It will be perfect.
“What do you love about me?” I ask. Tonight I want to hear it. I’ll savor this memory, hold it close to me, during all those other times when things are rocky.
“Everything,” he says, turning to me. He kisses me on the nose. “Your smile. Do you know how rare it is to smile as much as you do? I’m not used to it. And your laugh. And the way you talk. You use your tongue a lot, you know. More than normal.”
I laugh and push against him again with my shoulder, a playful nudge.
“And you’re smart. I mean, you’re going to go to college, right? I’ve never even planned on something like that, and you just know you’ll do it.”
I open my mouth to tell him that’s not true, but I snap it shut again.
I forgot all the application deadlines, and I haven’t told him yet. No, that’s a lie. I didn’t forget, per se. I was just too wrapped up in him to think about going away. Why bother applying when I couldn’t even stand the thought of leaving him behind? I just figured I’d go to community college for a couple of years, then he could go with me when I moved to the university and we’d get an apartment instead of living in a dorm.
These days, even community college seems like too much. I don’t want to think about it.
So I don’t. Think about it, that is. I just put it out of my mind. I’d rather focus on what’s in front of me: an intense, beautiful love. The thing I want more than anything. More than college.
I don’t tell him any of this. It would ruin the moment.
“And the way you see people. People like me. You’re not judgmental like so many others. You see the good in people and give them a chance. You believe in them. I think I like that the best.”
I squeeze his hand. Sometimes, he can make me melt.
“Do me,” he says.
I grin and give him a wicked look.
“Not like that,” he says. “I mean, tell me what you love.”
“I know. I just thought something else might be more fun.”
He laughs. I love it when he laughs.
“Okay, for real? I love that you’re such a strong person. After everything, you’re still here to tell about it and try to be a better person. I love how protective you are of the people you love. You’d do anything for them. I love how you always go after what you want. Whether it’s skateboarding or basketball … or me.”
He moves his arm and wraps it around his shoulders, and I turn toward him so my stomach is alongside his hips, and I sling my leg over him and rest my head on his chest until the warmth of his body seeps into mine.
This is what love is. And I don’t think I can ever let it go.
March 8
Six months, eight days
Connor is driving like an absolute lunatic. The way he snapped like this, the way he went from happy to absolutely crazy, is scaring me.
I skipped track practice today. Connor seemed to be in one of his moods, and he wanted to spend some time together. I know it makes him feel better to have me around. It’s both a blessing and a burden, sometimes, to be needed like that.
When his mom called, we’d been sitting down by the river throwing rocks. She was crying. Something was happening and he couldn’t get it out of her, and now here we are racing down these back roads trying to get to her, trying to see what he’s done this time.
My heart is beating so hard I think it might jump right out of my chest, and I can’t stop this sick feeling weighing down the pit of my stomach. I don’t know if it’s his driving or my worry, but I’m on the verge of puking. My fingers ache with how hard I’m gripping the door. Connor rounds the last corner by his house so fast the tires squeal and slide, and then he skids to a stop.
The door is open, the screen flapping in the breeze. It’s not really spring yet. Too cold for the door to be open like that. He’s out of the truck before I can even get my seat belt undone. It’s jammed.
I struggle with it for a moment, wanting to scream the whole time, not knowing what’s happening inside, but finally it clicks free and I jump from the truck and sprint across the lawn. When I walk into the house, it’s dark and I have to stand at the door and let my eyes adjust.
A hurricane has gone through here. There’s nothing on the walls, nothing on the mantle, nothing anywhere but the floor. It’s all in pieces and shards all over.
And so is Nancy. She’s sitting on the floor sobbing, and Connor is next to her, pulling her to her feet.
She’s clutching her arm.
“I don’t know what I did … I don’t know what I did …” She just keeps repeating it and Connor just keeps saying, “I know,
it’s okay,” and I just keep standing here, wide-eyed, staring.
Their words echo in my ears and yet I feel so far away, like I’m watching a scene on the television and not standing right in the middle of it.
“Can you get the truck door open? We need to take her to the doctor’s.”
Connor’s voice, so calm and in control, breaks me out of my haze. I nod and spring into action, happy to be doing something, anything. I swing the door open before they’re even out the front door, and I hold it as Connor so carefully helps his mother into the truck, and as she moans when she bumps her arm.
I slide in next to her, so she’s in the middle, and try not to look at her black puffy eye as it grows shut. Instead, I just stare straight ahead.
Connor drives much more carefully to the clinic, as if his mother might finally break altogether if he rounds a corner too quickly or hits a speed bump at more than three miles per hour. It’s tortuous, sitting here next to her. She’s so silent now. She just holds her wrist and stares at nothing.
Eventually we arrive and Connor helps his mom out and I just stand there, next to the truck, as they walk away. I don’t want to go in and I don’t think Connor has even noticed, because he’s concentrating on his mom, on her slow, ginger steps. She’s walking like she’s eighty.
But then he glances back at me, my hand still on the door, and he smiles just the slightest bit and mouths, “Thank you,” as he looks at me.
And I just nod and climb back into the truck, where I wait for the next two hours.
Connor and I scoop the remains of Nancy’s things into a big plastic bag. She’s in her room, knocked out thanks to the concoction of pain killers prescribed to her.
I wish I could glue all this back together. I wish I could make it good as new again. But I can’t, so I just shovel more of it into the bags. Connor takes a full sack out to the curb and then comes back and collapses on the couch and stares at the ceiling, and I can see that he’s drained.
“How many times has this happened?” I ask as I put a little angel figurine, missing its wings, into the bag.
“More than I can count. It’s easier now, of course. I can drive. And my dad won’t touch her if I’m around. If she can get to the phone in time, I can stop him altogether. But she’s always in denial. You can see his moods a mile away, but she never calls before it happens. Every time, she thinks it’s going to be different.”
I swallow and try to pretend that a broken porcelain frog takes all my attention. My mom never needs me and Nancy always needs him. I wonder what that would be like. I don’t think it’s any better. I think it’s worse. She leans on him and his world weighs too much as it is.
“Where do you think he is?”
Connor shrugs. “He usually goes to his brother’s for a week or so after it happens. He probably knows I’d kill him if I saw him after this.”
I nod. I know he cares about his mother. I know he wishes he could save her from Jack, that he could somehow stop it all from happening ever again.
“I just wish she would leave him. Put out a restraining order. Change the locks. She’d be so much happier.”
I think so too. I can’t understand how she can put up with this. How she can look at herself and think this is what she deserves.
“Yeah. Probably,” I say.
I cram the rest of Nancy’s broken things into the bag and then drag it out front and put it next to Connor’s full one.
Tomorrow a garbage truck will come and take it away, and it will be gone forever, and Nancy will pretend it was never there at all.
Until the next time. Because if Connor’s right, there will always be a next time.
February 20
Five Months, twenty-one days
Today Connor and I are out for a drive. It was his idea. He wanted out of the house. He wanted to stop thinking about the latest event in his so-called life.
I’m in the driver’s seat, taking him down the most scenic, winding country roads I can find, hoping it is enough to take his mind off the bruises he saw on his mom’s arms. It won’t be. But I can hope.
“Wow, that’s a pretty horse,” I say, pointing to a splashy black and white horse in the field we pass. “Someday I’ll have one. I’ve always wanted a horse.”
That’s only sort of true. I wanted one when I was little. But I haven’t thought of it in a long time. I guess I was just filling the silence.
“Yeah. It’s not bad,” he says, half-heartedly.
We keep driving. It’s all trees and shadows and ditches. What am I supposed to talk about?
We reach a stop sign and a small colonial house sits on a grassy knoll across from us. It’s not huge or fancy. In fact, the paint is peeling and one of the shutters is hanging crookedly to the side, but it’s cute. “I wouldn’t mind a house like that one when I’m older,” I say, pointing to it. “You could do flower beds around the front walk. And the roof—”
“Don’t you get it?”
The harsh tone of his voice stops me mid-sentence.
“Get what?”
“I’m not going to have any of that stuff. It might be attainable to you, but to me, it’s out of reach. It will never happen. So stop acting like it will.”
“What do you mean? We’ve talked about this. We’re going to live in a big—”
“No. Now drop it,” he growls.
I stare at him for several long moments, trying to figure out what I’ve done to make him so angry. He’d been fine just seconds before. Sad, yeah, but angry? It’s like a switch flipping. I wish I knew what I was supposed to do. I wish I could read him better.
A car honks behind me and I’m forced to look back at the road, and I take a right turn and leave the little colonial behind. Only moments later he speaks again, and his mood has shifted a second time.
“Look, I’m sorry. It’s just … sometimes I think you’re too good for me. You can have anything you want. Including a house and a horse and whatever else you want. But people like me … I’m never going to have all that. My life will always be one big mess.”
A wide spot opens up next to the road and I pull into the gravel and put the car in park. I leave the engine idling and turn toward him. “That’s not true, Connor. I promise you. We’ll work together and we’ll get everything we’ve ever wanted. I swear to you, it’s going to happen.”
Connor doesn’t seem to hear my words. He turns and stares out the window, even as it fogs over. We sit in silence on the side of the road for what seems like eternity.
And then he speaks. “When I was seven, my mom kind of lost it for a while. I don’t even know where she ended up. Probably a psych ward. But I ended up with my dad for a few months without her around.”
Why is he telling me this? What does it have to do with anything? Is this part of his anger or has he tipped back toward depression? Which one is worse?
“We never had much money. And with her out of the house, he had no reason to hide what he spent on alcohol. He’d buy bottles and bottles of it while the cupboards were empty. Some days I’d eat nothing but dry ramen noodles or ketchup or frozen French fries. I couldn’t even cook the stuff ’cause he said I wasn’t allowed.”
And then it makes sense. The reason he took up cooking.
“Wow. I’m … I’m …”
What? Sorry? That doesn’t seem like it’s enough. I reach out, rest my hand on his shoulder. He shrugs. I don’t know if he’s trying to shrug my hand off or just act like it’s not a big deal.
I run my hand down his arm, then reach for his hand and pull it onto my lap, interlacing my fingers with his. He’s not looking at me, but the feeling of skin-on-skin somehow makes me feel better, like he knows I’m here for him.
I know he wants the stories out, but I know he also wants to act like they don’t matter anymore, and he’s forever stuck between hiding the pain and letting it pour out.
“I know I can’t blame him for everything,” he says.
“Who?” I ask, even though I know
the answer.
“My dad. I mean, eventually I’m supposed to just get over it, right? I’m supposed to just say fuck it, and move on, and forget all the shitty stuff. I’m supposed to be normal and grow up and buy colonial houses with flower beds and pretty horses.”
Oh. Now I get it. I take a long, slow breath, trying to figure out how I should answer, what I should think.
Because yes, sometimes I think he should just be over it. He can’t blame everything on him, can he? He’s eighteen. Old enough to take control of his life. Old enough to create his own and forget the man who screwed up everything.
But then, who am I to judge? Who am I to know what it’s like? I can’t even imagine the crap his dad has done to him. Maybe it’s normal that he’s haunted by it all. Maybe he’s supposed to think about it and confront it and not just ignore it all.
“I guess,” I finally say. Because that’s all it is. A guess.
“That’s what I want. To just put him behind me and pretend like he doesn’t exist. To just … be someone else. To work hard and to get ahead and not live this.”
I nod my head, but I don’t say anything. Sometimes the things he says … I don’t know how to answer him. I come from somewhere else. Somewhere with fancy cars and big birthday parties and Christmas sweaters and rose gardens and big screens. I’m not this.
“I wish I would stop fucking everything up.” Connor still isn’t looking at me. He’s staring out the windows, as if the answer to all his problems lies somewhere in the grassy field next to my car.
For a minute I’m not sure if I heard him correctly. But then he says it again.
“I know there’s a point where I’m supposed to just stop fucking everything up and look myself in the mirror and like what I see, and be my own person, and not let him be anything to me. I just wish I knew how to do that.”
“Yeah. That makes sense, I guess.” I stare at his hand in mine, run my finger up and down his, trying to resist the urge to trace the scars and remind him of their existence.