by Beth Michele
For a second, I think her resolve weakens. There’s a softening in her expression and her eyes water. But I blink, and it’s gone. Her gaze hardens and she clears her throat.
“It sucks being in this chair—”
“You’re right,” I agree, “it does suck. But you know what doesn’t suck?”
“No, but I know you’re going to tell me.” Again, a flash of a grin. And for a beat, I hear the old Evie in that sarcastic remark and hope takes root in my chest. But it withers when her lips flatten, cold eyes piercing me, and they’re angry.
“Living doesn’t suck. You’re alive.” I gesture, waving my hands haphazardly in the air. “When you were lying in that hospital bed, I didn’t know if you’d ever wake up again. I didn’t know how I would go on without you. But now you’re here. Yet, you’re so far away I don’t know how to reel you back in.” I drop my head on a sigh before lifting my eyes to hers. “Damn it, Evie. You got hurt. But the hurt isn’t who you are. You can still see the stars. Hear the sound of the ocean. Feel the rain on your face. All the things you love.”
“But I can’t walk,” she chokes out, gripping the sides of the chair so hard her knuckles turn white. Her voice lowers to barely above a whisper. “I want to walk again.”
I close the gap between us, staring down into empty blue eyes. The only thing I want to do is fill them up again. “So walk, Evie. Fight, damn it. Can’t you see? This is me, fighting for you. Fighting for us….”
The deafening silence hanging in the air between us tells me too much. Things I don’t want to hear. Things I refuse to accept. But maybe it’s time I face them.
“You know what, Evie? I’m done. I can’t watch you do this to yourself anymore. I won’t.” I turn and walk out the door, my pulse quickening along with my feet. But then all the breath leaves my lungs in one giant whoosh when I realize I just did something I promised I’d never do. I left her.
And what’s worse, with no way to run after me.
I curse under my breath as I jam the key in the lock, nearly kicking the door off its hinges once it clicks into place.
Fuck it.
My determined stride leads me to the kitchen cabinet to the right of the fridge. A place I haven’t visited since my father left. But I know what’s there, and I need it now more than anything.
The aged bottle of cheap whiskey still sits in the back, unopened, and nothing has ever looked better. I whip it out from the cabinet and slam it on the table, grabbing a clean glass from the dish drainer. I’m unable to open it fast enough.
The glugging sound as I pour serves to calm me in some distorted way. Not nearly as much as when I knock it back though, the amber liquid sliding down my throat, the burn providing me temporary relief.
Just one more, I think to myself, because the numbing of my head feels too damn good. The pain floats away like a wave rolling out to shore, becoming a distant memory. I collapse onto a chair when a note next to an envelope catches my attention. It’s in Grandma’s handwriting.
Went out to eat. Be back a bit later. Think the envelope belongs to you. Love, Gran
What now?
Reluctantly, I pick up the white letter-sized envelope. The return address in the far corner makes me drop it on the table and take another drink.
Parsons School of Design
Another round of whiskey and maybe I’ll have the courage to open it. Or I could throw it away.
Tapping my fingers against the table, I stare at it. Something else that’s taunting me, saying I dare you. But I suppose I have nothing to lose. Then I laugh out loud, though it comes out more like a howl. Nothing more to lose.
“‘Don’t be a pussy, Dylan,’” I hear my father saying, the excessive amount of whiskey in my system magnifying his voice as if he were here with me. I swipe the envelope from the table, hitting it against my open palm a few times before sliding my thumb under the flap and tearing it. I’m hesitant as I unfold the paper. But I’m also curious.
My eyes scan from left to right. Words highlighted in bold letters grab my attention.
Congratulations!
On behalf of the Admissions Committee, you are offered a place….
I don’t need to read anymore. I should be thrilled. Screaming at the top of my lungs, running across the street to share the news with Evie.
Evie.
But all I can do is think how life has a sense of humor. And irony is a bitch.
There’s something else that wanders into my alcohol-dazed brain. I left her, and I wonder now if my father was right. If maybe I can’t be the man that she needs.
“Why the fuck are you here!” he snapped, slouched in the brown recliner. A bottle of whiskey clutched tightly in one hand, an empty glass in the other.
“I live here, remember? Oh yeah, you wouldn’t remember that,” I walked further into the room, “you’re too drunk half the time.”
“Don’t backtalk me, son.” He spit the words out, and with every one he spoke, I hated him more and more. He had no right to call me his son.
“You don’t even know me. Who I am. What I’m made of.” Tears began to form in the corners of my eyes but I refused to give him the satisfaction. “How dare you call me that!”
“Yeah, you’re probably right. No son of mine would act like a pussy, writing ridiculous love letters, pining away for a girl who will never want him. You can’t even tell her, that’s how much of a pussy you are. Not to mention, you’re lazy as shit. You’ll never get the things you want out of life that way.”
“What about you, Dad?” I mocked, emphasizing his ridiculous title. We both knew he’d never been a real dad to me. “Did you get what you wanted?”
He stared at the bottle and clumsily poured more into his glass, the alcohol sloshing over the sides and onto his jeans. He held it up before he downed the entire thing, and said, “Does it look like I did?”
A hand makes a warm imprint on my shoulder, hauling me away from the nightmare.
“Dylan.”
The softness in Gran’s tone encourages me to breathe for the first time since sitting down. She pulls out a chair, the noise grating on my nerves. Taking hold of the neck of the bottle and dragging it toward her, she says, “You shouldn’t be drinking this.” There’s nothing judgmental in her voice, only concern.
“I know.” I push the glass away with my hand, but it’s a little late.
“So, why are you?” She taps on my arm. “I’m over here, Dylan,” she offers, and I twist my whole body so I’m facing her.
“Why? Well, I’m losing the best thing in my life. Evie’s about given up on herself, on us, and I—I needed to escape for a little while.”
“Is it working? The escape,” she clarifies, her honey-colored eyes piercing mine.
“Temporarily.” I reach for the letter, curling the corner with my thumb. “I got into the design program at Parsons,” I announce, although nothing in my speech is indicative of excitement.
“That’s wonderful, dear. Congratulations!”
“That’s the thing, Gran. It doesn’t feel so wonderful,” I admit, making a grab for the bottle that she pulls further away from me. “Evie, well, we were going to go together, and now she doesn’t want much to do with me.” I let out a resentful laugh. “Those thoughts are coming back again. The ones that tell me I’m not man enough for her, that I can’t be who she needs.”
“Whose voice is telling you that?” Determination fuels her words and lights her eyes, but not enough to make me answer the question. “Dylan?” she presses again, this time more urgently.
“My father’s.”
“I never did like him much.” Her gaze leaves mine, the silence so thick I can feel it between my fingers. Something is obviously weighing on her mind.
She turns in her chair and takes my hands in hers, anguish flowing from her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Dylan. I… I didn’t realize until very recently the profound effect this has had on you. If I had only put it together earlier… with everything you went
through after your father left….” She closes her eyes and bows her head. “I blame myself for that, too, but,” she lifts her gaze back to mine, “but now that I truly understand, I can’t let this go on. I won’t let it ruin the rest of your life, Dylan.”
She steels herself with a big breath. “Before Jordy was born, your mother got pregnant, but very shortly into the pregnancy she miscarried. Then, a year after your brother came, your mother got pregnant again. When she realized she was pregnant, nearly two months in, she and your father were ecstatic. They didn’t want to just have one child, as both of them were only children. But at three months, your mother started bleeding, and she ended up losing the baby again.” Nausea unfurls in my stomach, but she doesn’t stop there. “But your mother, even as upset as she was, still wanted another child. So, as soon as the doctors gave her the okay, they tried again. A year and a half later, she had given birth to the most beautiful baby girl, Clara Rose.”
“My sister?” I ask, eyes wide, mouth dropping open in shock.
“Yes, Dylan. Your sister.” After expelling a shaky breath, she finds the strength to continue. “She was beautiful, Dylan. My granddaughter. Big brown eyes like yours. Soft round cheeks. I still remember what it was like to hold her in my arms for the first time. The way she smelled. How she looked up at me. I called her bright eyes.” Her smile is fleeting, the pain spilling onto her cheeks. “But… she was born with a congenital heart disease, and, a month later… she died.”
“Oh, Gran. I’m so sorry.” I pull her into an embrace, hoping to comfort her in the same way she always does me. She sniffs a few times then sits back, fishing in her purse for some tissue.
“You know, Dylan, unfortunately, we don’t parent in a bubble. There are too many outside influences, too many of our own issues, for better or for worse, that affect how we treat our children. In your mother and father’s case, you bore the brunt of their grief. She and your father almost got divorced before you were born because the grief was so devastating. But when she got pregnant with you, they ended up staying together.”
After rubbing the tissue across her cheeks and lightly blowing her nose, she presses on. “I could see your mother getting more and more depressed, and there were so many things I wanted to say to her, but felt she was too fragile, so I held back. Thinking she needed to grieve, when it had become long past grieving at that point. Then,” she goes on, a pained breath loosening from her chest, “she just couldn’t handle it anymore, so she took pills to finally escape her pain. And now I live with regret and the what ifs.”
She turns to me then, taking my face in her hands. “So, you see, my dear, sweet boy, it was never a question of whether you were good enough, because you’ve always been so much more than that. It was that you came after something neither of them could handle. All of those bad feelings hung over them, heavy, and you were trapped in their darkness. And you never deserved that.”
It all finally makes sense. The reason Jordy was favored. Why he was treated so differently. Because I’m the one who came after. They probably looked at me and saw the little girl they lost, the daughter they wanted, not the son who was right in front of them. And as hard as that is to swallow, my anger toward my mother dissipates into sympathy. Unfortunately, the same can’t be said of my father.
I glance back up to Gran. “Does Jordan know?”
“No. He doesn’t. He was too young to remember. And it’s up to you if you’d like to tell him. I’m telling you now because this has affected your life for way too long, and it’s time to let it go.
“You know,” she adds, “I honestly believe with all my heart that Evie loves you and she needs you. But in her head, her reasons for pushing you away are justified. Just,” she winks, ruffling my hair like she did when I was ten years old, “don’t you let her get away with it.
“Now,” she takes the bottle of whiskey, walks over to the sink and pours the remainder down the drain, “I think it’s safe to say you won’t be needing this anymore.”
Thanks to Gran’s sobering truth, I’ve already moved on from the whiskey. I had a sister. I’m still trying to wrap my head around it. Now I know what my mother was thinking about as she stared blankly out the window all those years. And my heart mourns for her. Because I can’t begin to fathom the agony of losing a child. The sheer devastation of carrying a life inside of you, only to have it taken away. But the pain of losing someone who’s so much a part of you that you can’t decipher where they end and you begin—that I can understand.
Because in my heart, I know I’m losing Evie.
I DON’T KNOW who I am anymore. My reflection bounces off the glass and it’s unrecognizable. Eyes filled with fear. My body rich with a longing I can’t satisfy. I’m afraid of never walking again. I’m afraid of what I’m capable of now. I’m afraid of losing Dylan.
Everyone wants to know the truth. I know the truth. It’s what keeps me awake at night, crying into my pillow until my eyes are so swollen I have no choice but to close them. But I can’t burden him. He’s been through enough. I won’t have him feeling responsible for me, like he’s been responsible to everyone else. He finally has the freedom to go live his dream, and I won’t be the one to hold him back from that. I love him too much.
No one else understands, though, because no one knows him like I do. No one experienced his heartache like I did. The anger and the frustration. The pain of being beaten down by an overly critical father, or the negligence of a distant mother. Always feeling like it was on him to prove that he was worthy of their attention, of their love. Then having to struggle to carry on their legacy, unable to see a way out. It never ended for him, until now.
Now he has a chance to go, and do, and be. But there’s one obstacle standing in his way—and I’m the only one who can remove it. Even if that means destroying us in the process.
I flatten my open palm against the cool window. Condensation builds up on the tips of my fingers, leaving them damp. Tiny drops tickle the glass with a promise of more to come.
I close my eyes to the vibration of the falling rain. It calms me. But not enough to make me forget what it feels like—giving myself over to the sky. My arms wide open at my sides, my legs twirling in a dance all their own, forgetting everything. I miss that me. I don’t know how to get her back.
Streaking my hand in a circle across the surface of the glass, I see a woman, with hair the same color as mine, eyes bluer than the most beautiful ocean you could dream up. She’s wearing a yellow raincoat with a hood and bright yellow boots to match. She looks like a duck. I always used to tell her that.
There’s a little girl next to her. A tiny thing with red pigtails, jumping in a nearby puddle, giggling, wearing a pair of rain boots and a jacket with bright green frogs. She’s singing and doing a silly dance, splashing in puddles, trying to get the woman all wet. But the woman is laughing too, stomping, happy to let the little girl and the rain soak her with water. I blink and she is sitting on my bed, pulling the covers to my neck, kissing me on the tip of my nose.
“Do you know why we named you Evie?” she asked, and I shook my head.
“Because it means life,” she told me, and I lifted my shoulders up and down.
“Okay, Mommy.”
She tapped my nose three times. “Someday, you’ll understand.”
“When I’m older, right?” I asked, and she smiled.
“Yes, sweet pea, when you’re older.”
My chest pulls tight with memories. I miss you, Mom. I wonder what she would tell me now if she were here. I wish I’d had the chance to find out.
A brisk knock on the door startles me from my recollection of a happier time. Zoey yells out, “I’ve got it,” and prances down the stairs, aiming a disapproving glare in my direction when she sees me in front of the window. “You’re wearing a hole in that spot,” she says, her expression flat as she opens the door.
“Hey, Zoey.”
It’s been three days since I’ve heard Dylan’s voice. Three day
s since he walked away from me. Because you forced him to, I remind myself, and it’s for the best.
My heart doesn’t seem to agree. It’s racing too fast, wanting to burst through the walls of my chest and go to him, knowing he’s the only one that it beats for.
ZOEY OPENS THE door before I have a chance to knock again, her weary eyes greeting me as I step inside. “Hey.” Her lack of enthusiasm depresses the hell out of me. She exhales a sigh, the weight of it tugging on the air around us. With a weak lift of her hand, she points a finger toward the window before dropping her arm with another sigh. “She’s where she always is.” Without another word, she grabs her keys and walks past me out the door.
My chest tightens at the frightening resolve in her voice. I hate the way she talks to me now. A constant reminder of just how much everything has changed. Inside I’m pleading for her to call me names, to joke around like we used to. To show me that things are still normal. But they aren’t normal. And I’m not sure they ever will be again.
I walk in further, seeing Evie immediately. She shifts in her chair and our eyes lock, but no words are exchanged between us. Only the heaviness of our thoughts, weighing on the awkwardness of the moment.
“I thought you were done with me.” She is the first to speak, the hurt in her voice making my heart crack in half.
“No, Evie. I-I was just upset and frustrated.” She looks away then, back to the window.
There’s so much I want to tell her—about my sister, about New York. Nothing is ever real until I share it with Evie. But… everything about this is all wrong. The way she’s been pushing me away. The tension that thickens the distance between us. For the first time in our lives together, it’s as if she’s hiding something from me. I just wish I knew what it was.