Saving Red

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Saving Red Page 14

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,

 

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