by Sonya Sones
Red to crack up too.
But when I look over at her,
I see that she’s not laughing.
She’s not even smiling.
And she says,
“Why were you standing
so close to the edge of the cliff?”
“I . . . I wasn’t standing that close,” I say.
“Yes you were,” she says.
“You were gonna jump.”
“No I wasn’t,” I say.
“I thought you were gonna jump.
So I pretended I was going to—
hoping you’d try to save me,
just like Jimmy Stewart
saved the angel.”
Her eyes get wide when she hears this.
“I wasn’t gonna jump either,” she says.
“I was just pretending I was gonna jump
to keep you from jumping!”
And We’re Just Sort of Sitting Here
Shaking our heads in disbelief
at the weirdness of what just went down,
when a thought suddenly strikes me:
“Red—
if you didn’t come here to jump,
then why did you come?”
She shrugs and says, “The Duke told me
we were the ones who were lost
and that Pixel was searching for us—
here on the bluff.
So I raced straight over,
hoping he was right.”
“Well,” I say, burying my face
in Pixel’s infinite softness,
“please tell him thanks for me!”
And Just Then
I hear some kids singing “Jingle Bells”
at the top of their lungs.
I glance up and see a family,
walking along the path toward us—
the four of them holding hands,
with the boy and girl in the middle,
their parents gazing down at them
like they’re these two little miracles.
My parents used to look
at Noah and me that way . . .
My parents . . .
Oh my God!
They don’t even know
that Pixel’s okay!
I pull out my phone and switch it on.
But the warning message pops on again—
telling me I’ve only got 15 percent
left on my battery.
I’ll have to
tell them later.
I Hold My Phone Out to Red
“Let’s call your mom,” I say,
“before my battery runs out.”
Red’s face clouds over,
and I can tell right away
that The Duke and Lana
are weighing in.
“No thanks,” she says.
“I changed my mind.
I better not . . .
I better not.”
“But your mom and your little sisters
must be so worried about you.
And missing you awfully,
this being Christmas and all.”
Suddenly she’s glaring at me with ice-chip eyes.
“How would you know?” she says.
“How could you possibly know
how they’re feeling today?”
So I switch off my phone
and tell her how.
I Tell Her All About Noah
About how when he returned
from his tour of duty last October,
it was as if his body had come home,
but his mind was still stuck in Afghanistan.
I mean, I’d be telling him some story
about what had happened at school that day,
and all of a sudden he’d start shouting
and pointing at stuff I couldn’t even see.
Or he’d be struggling
to unscrew the lid from the jam jar
and he’d get so pissed off
he’d hurl it through the kitchen window.
Or we’d be
in the family room watching
his favorite scene from Anchorman
and he wouldn’t even crack a smile.
My parents were flipping out.
They took him to see a psychiatrist.
She said he had PTSD—
post-traumatic stress disorder.
She prescribed medication for him
and started seeing him twice a week.
Which was when Pixel came to live with us.
And having him around really did help Noah.
But he’d still wake up screaming
in the middle of the night.
He’d still drop to the ground and cover his head
with his arms whenever a door slammed.
He’d still push his dinner around on his plate,
the tears streaming down his cheeks,
like he was listening to a really sad song
that only he could hear.
The Ice in Red’s Eyes Has Melted
She asks me
how my brother’s doing now.
“That’s the thing,” I tell her.
“I don’t know how he’s doing.”
And then a torrent of words
comes gushing out of me,
like storm water
crashing through a dam.
And I’m telling her all about
how the therapist told my parents
that Noah shouldn’t be left alone,
even for a minute.
And about how after that,
they decided to tag-team it.
So that whenever one of them went out,
the other one stayed home.
My mom even closed down
the art gallery she ran,
so she could look after my brother
while Dad was at his law firm.
And then, before I can stop myself,
I’m telling Red the rest of the story—
the whole hideous story
of what happened
last New Year’s Eve.
My Dad Doesn’t Really Like Alcohol
And back then,
my mom never smoked pot.
She rarely even had a glass of wine.
But by ten o’clock that night
the two of them had already emptied
an entire bottle of champagne.
And then they decided they wanted to go
to our neighbor’s New Year’s Eve party.
Just two doors away.
They asked me if I’d mind
keeping an eye on Noah.
And without thinking I said, “Sure.”
Before they staggered off into the night,
my father paused in the doorway
and called back, “See you kids next year!”
All of us laughed at this—
like it was the funniest joke
we ever heard.
All of us
except
Noah.
He just smiled faintly
and then went back to pursuing
his new favorite hobby—
staring at the blank TV screen.
The Truth Is
I didn’t feel like
keeping an eye
on Noah.
It weirded me out
to see him sitting there
like that,
absentmindedly
stroking Pixel’s head,
staring at that blank TV.
And I know
it made no sense
whatsoever,
but I started to get this creepy feeling—
like if I kept on sitting there
in that room with him
I’d start seeing
whatever he was seeing
on that blank TV.
And I really
didn’t want that
to happen.
I Just Wanted to Have Some Fun
I was fed up with hav
ing my whole life
always be about my brother
and his problems.
I wanted to celebrate New Year’s Eve,
just like every single other person
on the entire planet.
So when
Rosa and Jasmine
rang my doorbell a few minutes later
and told me
to put my shoes on
because they were kidnapping me,
taking me
to Beachy Cream
for a New Year’s Eve sundae,
I felt like I was
about to be released
from prison.
“But how are we going to get there?” I asked.
“My uncle Marco’s driving us over,” Rosa said,
pointing to the Mini Cooper waiting by the curb.
I was halfway up the stairs
to grab my glittery silver high-tops,
when I remembered
Noah.
I Stopped in My Tracks
And cursed under my breath.
Then I trudged back downstairs,
past Pixel and my zombie brother,
to tell my friends I couldn’t go.
They didn’t even ask why.
They seemed to understand somehow.
They exchanged a quick glance,
and then Jasmine said,
“But you have to come with us.
We’re kidnapping you, remember?”
And Rosa added, “Don’t worry, Mollywood.
You’ll be home in fifteen minutes. We promise!”
“Let me . . . Let me just check on something,”
I said, still not sure what I should do.
But when I ran back into the family room,
I saw that Noah had fallen asleep.
What was the point in my sitting there
watching him snore?
I mean, I’d be back in a flash.
He’d sleep right through it!
So I tiptoed away,
closed the front door quietly behind me,
and the three of us skipped down
the front walk to the Mini Cooper.
As we sped away,
I shouted, “Happy New Year!”
to no one in particular.
And in that moment,
I felt so alive . . .
But
Fifteen minutes later,
I felt like I’d died.
Because
when I returned home
and hurried up the front walk
with a pint of fudge ripple for Noah,
I heard Pixel
barking his head off.
And when I rushed inside
to find out why,
Noah wasn’t where I’d left him—
sleeping on the couch in the family room.
He wasn’t
in the living room either.
Or in his bedroom.
Or the bathroom.
Or the kitchen.
Or the backyard.
Noah wasn’t
anywhere . . .
Red Squeezes My Hand
And asks me what happened next.
I tell her that it’s all just an ugly dark blur.
Though I do remember doing
some serious praying—
that eyes-squeezed-shut,
hands-clasped-together kind of praying.
I prayed to God
and to good . . .
But I can’t remember
much else of what happened.
Except that they searched
the water around the pier.
And they scoured the hiking trail
at the top of Paseo Miramar.
And they trolled the lake
at the Self-Realization Center.
All the places my brother used to go
before he went to war.
They searched
for hours.
For days.
For weeks.
Until
they didn’t.
Then Red Gathers Me into Her Arms
And I hang on to her like
I’ve fallen overboard
and she’s my life raft,
thinking if only
I hadn’t gone out for ice cream
last New Year’s Eve,
if only
I hadn’t let Noah out of my sight
that night,
if only
I hadn’t been such
a freaking self-centered idiot . . .
“I hate myself,” I hiss.
“I hate myself . . .
I hate myself . . .”
Suddenly Red Pulls Away from Me
She grips me by my shoulders,
her eyes blazing, and cries,
“Holy Moly, will you please stop
being so mean to my friend Holy Moly!”
Then she tugs me up off the bench
and starts dancing around me,
punching the air like she’s battling
a gang of invisible demons.
“The other day,” she says, “you told me
you were almost fifteen years old, right?”
“Yeah . . . But what does that
have to do with anything?”
“Everything!” she cries,
continuing to jab at the air.
“Because that means you were
only thirteen when all this happened—
which was
way too young
to be stuck with that kind
of responsibility.”
Red starts whirling around like a dervish now,
karate-chopping monsters only she can see.
“Your parents should never
have put you in that position,” she says.
“You were just a kid.
You’re still just a kid . . .”
Then she stops and brushes my cheek
with the tips of her fingers.
I swallow hard, then manage to croak,
“What are you . . . What are you saying?”
“You know what I’m saying.
And you know it’s true.”
“That it’s . . . That it’s not my fault?”
She folds her arms across her chest,
then smiles at me and says,
“Not one single bit of it.”
Pixel Cocks His Head at Me
But he doesn’t
say anything.
It’s not
my fault . . .
It’s not
my fault . . . ?
I want to believe Red.
I really do . . .
Is it
possible . . . ?
Is it
possible
she could actually
be right?
I Suck in a Breath
And when
I let it back out again,
I can feel
something,
something like
a steel plate
splitting
apart
deep inside
of me,
splitting
apart
into
a thousand pieces
and
dissolving . . .
I Give Red a Giant Bear Hug
The kind of hug Noah was famous for.
Then I say, “So that’s how I know
that your mom’s so worried about you.
That’s how I know
what she’s been going through
every single day since you’ve been gone.
That’s how I know
that all she wants for Christmas
is you.”
I reach into my pocket
and switch on my phone.
It’s down to 10 percent!
I offer it to Red.
And for a few seconds, she just stares at it,
with big, scared eyes—
a
s though
it’s a grenade with its pin
pulled out.
Then she gives me a weak smile,
and with trembling fingers
she plucks the phone from my hand
and punches in a number.
I Can Tell By the Look on Her Face
That someone
has picked up on the other end.
Her cheeks have gone
pale as paste.
She clutches her throat,
then shoves the phone at me.
“It’s my mom,” she whispers.
“You talk to her.”
So I do.
But first I put the phone on speaker
so Red can hear how she reacts
when I tell her mother she’s okay.
“Oh, thank God!” she cries.
“Thank God Red’s all right!
I’ve been so worried.
Where is she? Can I talk to her?”
Red shakes her head no,
but her eyes
are lit up brighter
than Christmas lights.
Pixel gives me a look like, “You did it, kiddo!”
I’m so overcome, I can hardly speak.
But somehow I manage to tell Red’s mom
that she’s safe.
That she’s in Santa Monica with me.
That she’s doing pretty well,
but that she misses her family.
And that she’s ready to come home now.
Ready to come home for the holidays.
I Wish I Could Say
That this phone call
has a happy ending.
That Red’s mom says
she’ll hop into the car right now.
That she’ll drive down from San Francisco
and be here in five hours to pick her up.
But real life
isn’t a fairy tale.
Real life isn’t
an easily answered prayer.
Real life
is a hot mess.
So What Red’s Mom Actually Says Is This:
“Is she taking her medication?”
Red hesitates, nibbling on her lower lip.
Then she shakes her head no.
When I tell Red’s mom this,
she says she loves her daughter,
loves her dearly.
But that she still has two small kids at home
and when Red’s not doing well
she poses a threat to their safety.
She tells me
that right before Red ran away,
she set fire to the living room curtains—
a fire that might have burned
the house down with the whole family in it,