If You Stay (Beautifully Broken)

by Cole , Courtney

  Dr. Tyler tries to call. But I won’t speak with him, either. Mila asks, then she turns away, speaking softly to the doctor. But I don’t give a fuck about that, either. They can say what they want.

  And Mila.

  Fuck.

  My stomach clenches at the thought of Mila. I’m causing her pain, too. Because I can’t be the person she needs me to be right now. I can’t drive back to the doctor’s and sit with her while we discuss my feelings. Instead, I’m an asshole. Because that’s who I am. That’s what I do best. There for a while, I tried to pretend that I wasn’t, but my true colors are showing now.

  I’m a fucking dick.

  Nothing I’ve done so far, though, has caused her to leave. I don’t want to talk, I pace instead of sleep, I drink too fucking much and I even angry-fucked her. She didn’t leave. She just looked at me, so understanding and soft, and said she wanted to help me however she could.

  What the fuck?

  My stomach clenches. As angry as I am at life, I don’t want to hurt her.

  I turn to her now, to where she is curled up on the couch reading.

  “Mila, you really should leave,” I tell her abruptly. “I’m not fit company. I think it would be best if you went back to your place while I work through this.”

  She looks at me, wounded. And my gut clenches again. I know I have to do this. I’m only going to hurt her in the long run anyway. I might as well do it in one fell swoop. A clean break. She starts to protest, but I interrupt.

  “It’s fine to leave me. I’m through the worst of it. You have a life to get back to, a job. Your sister needs you. Please. I need time alone. You can call me tonight.”

  She looks uncertain and my heart twinges.

  Fuck, how I hate this.

  But this is what I deserve. I don’t deserve someone like her.

  She stands up, reaching up to touch my face. I close my eyes for just a minute, but then steel my resolve and open them again.

  I stare down at her and remove her hand. That hurts her, I can see it.

  It’s for the best.

  She finally nods.

  “Okay. If that’s what you need,” she says uncertainly. “But call me if you need anything. And I’ll come back tonight after I close my shop and check in with my sister.”

  I nod. I walk away before I stop her from leaving.

  I hear her car pulling out of the drive and I throw my glass of water at the wall. It shatters and I replace it with a bottle of Jack.

  This is what I deserve.

  My chest feels like it is crushing me and I fight to swallow. There is just so much to deal with. I don’t know where to start. So fuck it.

  I grab the bottle of Xanax from the counter and head to the couch with my whiskey. I drop into a heap and pop the top off the pill bottle, taking several and washing them down with the Jack.

  I drink the rest of the bottle.

  I close my eyes and for once, there is nothing there but blackness. I breathe a sigh of relief and I finally sleep.

  When I wake, it is morning.

  I know that because morning sunlight pours through the windows.

  I wince and sit up, rubbing my temples.

  I slept through the night. With no nightmares, no thoughts of my mother. I smile, my lips stretching tightly. Suddenly, it’s clear. I can’t handle the issues on my own. I need my old friend, Jack. And my new friend, Xanax.

  X marks the spot.

  I pick up my phone and glance at it. Three missed calls, three voicemails and twelve texts, all from Mila.

  Are you alright?

  Pax, answer your phone.

  Please answer your phone.

  I’m worried about you, Pax. This isn’t fair. Answer your phone.

  They pretty much all say the same thing. I punch in one answer.

  Don’t worry. I’m fine.

  After I get a fresh bottle of whiskey from the kitchen, I pop more pills in my mouth, three of them. Then I add two more.

  It isn’t long before the blackness comes back. I welcome it with open arms. I sing to it, I croon to it. I cradle it in my arms. I do whatever the fuck I want to do to it because it’s blackness, the darkest of nights, and it doesn’t care. If I am alone in the dark, nothing matters. I can’t hurt anyone but myself and I fucking deserve it.

  I close my eyes and let the darkness cradle me. It can fuck me for all I care.

  ********

  Mila

  I can’t think straight. I accidentally didn’t charge a customer at the store. So after that, I gave up and turned my sign to Closed.

  I sit by the window of my store, staring out at the happy people walking down the sidewalk. They don’t know how good they have it. Their lives are so easy.

  I try to text Pax again, but like the four days prior, there isn’t any answer. I’ve driven out there, pounded on the door, called him, even cussed into his voicemail.

  No answer.

  Only once. Don’t worry, I’m fine.

  He’s not fine. And no one seems to care but me.

  I’ve thought about calling the police to have them check on him, but I doubt they would. He’s not doing anything illegal, so what can they do? It’s not illegal to drink yourself into a stupor. And the only thing he has in the house, to my knowledge, is the prescription Xanax. I once again wonder at the wisdom of prescribing that to Pax.

  When I had asked Dr. Tyler about it, he explained that he had prescribed it because Pax isn’t an addict.

  “He’s not addicted to any substance,” the doctor had said. “He simply hasn’t formed proper coping mechanisms for stress. If he feels like he can’t cope, I’d rather him take a Xanax during the short term while we’re working on these issues rather than seek out illegal drugs. Plus, you’ll be there with him. Everything will be fine, Mila.”

  But I’m not there anymore. And things aren’t fine.

  I see an image of Jill’s open, dead eyes and shudder.

  That could have been Pax. And I’m terrified that if someone doesn’t do something, that will be Pax.

  With shaking fingers, I pick up the phone and do the only thing I can think of to do.

  I call his father.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Pax

  I am falling, falling, falling.

  It is black and dark and I can’t see, I can’t think, I can’t feel. But that’s how I like it. If I can’t feel, then nothing hurts. So I keep it that way.

  If I wake, I drink myself back to sleep with a Xanax chaser. It isn’t long before I’m in the black again, drifting pointlessly along, sleeping without nightmares.

  Only blackness.

  I sigh. This is where I belong, where the dark is timeless.

  Painless.

  The light is painful. The light is where I see her face and know how I failed her.

  I’ll stay far away from the light.

  Forever.

  It isn’t worth it.

  I start to close my eyes but realize that they are already closed, so I smile.

  This is where I belong.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I open my eyes blearily, trying to focus. I look around at the room. I’m in the living room and I seem to be wearing the same clothes that I’ve been wearing for a while. What woke me? It’s dark outside, so it wasn’t the sun.

  I reach for my whiskey, but find that the bottle is empty.

  Fuck.

  That means I’m out. I’ll have to make a trip to town.

  And then I hear what woke me. Pounding on the door.

  My heart twinges. I know it’s probably Mila. She’s been here a hundred times this week, trying to get me to open the door, but I never get off the couch to do it. She doesn’t need to see me this way. She doesn’t deserve to be here like this.

  The pounding gets louder, very loud.

  Fuck. She’s pissed now. I’m impressed with the strength she’s using on that door.

  And then, there’s a loud crack and something breaks.
r />   What the fuck?

  I stand up and the room spins. I haven’t been on my feet in a couple of days. I steady myself and re-open my eyes. When I do, I find my father standing in front of me. He is clean and shaven and dressed in jeans.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask him. “Did you just break down my fucking door?”

  My father’s jaw clenches. “That’s what happens when you don’t answer it for a week. Your girlfriend called me because she was worried. Get in the shower. We’re going to talk.”

  I glare at him. “Fuck you. The time to talk was years ago. In fact, you’ve had any number of chances over the years to talk. But you didn’t. And now I don’t want to talk. Get over it.”

  I try to shove past him, to walk through to the kitchen, but he grabs my arm.

  His grip is strong and determined.

  “Take a shower,” he says slowly and deliberately. “You smell like piss. Get clean clothes on and come back out here. We’re going to talk. Now. Today.”

  I stare at him and he stares back. He’s not backing down. And I do smell like piss. Finally, I look away.

  “Whatever. I do need a shower.”

  I leave the room without looking back. I step into my shower and let the water run over me while my fucking head pounds. I can’t remember if I drank any water this week at all. I actually don’t remember much at all about this week. Every time I woke up, I simply took more pills and drank more whiskey.

  I wash, shave and get dressed.

  Then I make my way to the kitchen, where I chug two bottles of water. Even after that, my mouth is still dry so I must be pretty dehydrated. I take another bottle of water with me to the living room, where my father is waiting for me.

  He’s cleaned the place up while he waited, picking up the empty bottles of whiskey from the floor. He’s sitting in a chair now.

  He stares at me as I enter.

  He’s grim and sober and I find that I suddenly don’t want to have this conversation.

  “Fuck this,” I tell my dad. “We haven’t talked about this in years. I don’t see the reason to talk about it now. The damage is done.”

  My father looks at me.

  “The damage has been done,” he agrees. “But there’s no reason to make it worse. Let’s talk.”

  I sit down and take a swig of water.

  “Fine. Why didn’t you force me to talk about what happened?”

  If we’re going to talk, we might as well cut to the chase.

  My father stares at me, then his gaze drops to the floor.

  “Because it was easier that way. I took you to a therapist and you wouldn’t talk. I tried to get you to talk about it myself, you refused. And then I decided that maybe I really didn’t want to know what happened. If it had scarred you so badly, then I wasn’t sure that I could deal with it either. So I stopped trying. And then the therapist told me that he thought you had actually suppressed the memories, so it seemed to be for the best.”

  I take another drink. My tongue feels thick from dehydration.

  “Did they ever catch him?”

  I cringe when my dad shakes his head. “No. They didn’t have a description to go on. None of the neighbors saw anything, they didn’t see anyone coming or going. The police didn’t have anything to work with.”

  Fuck. Yet another reason to feel guilty. I could have given them a description.

  “What happened that day?” my dad asks. “I need to know. There was gun residue on your hands. And you had that cut. But the police couldn’t determine what happened, except your mother wasn’t sexually violated. She had epithelial cells in her mouth, but no trace of semen. There was no match to the DNA sample in the police database. I know this is hard to think about or talk about. But what did you see?”

  I close my eyes, squeezing them hard before I open them again. My dad is still staring at me, still waiting for answers.

  “I heard mom crying. I found the guy in your room with a gun held to mom’s side. The guy forced her to give him a blowjob. I tried to help, but when I did, I bumped the gun and it went off. She’s dead because I tried to help. If I hadn’t, she would still be here today.”

  My father chokes a little and I try to swallow the fucking lump that keeps forming in my throat. He looks at me.

  “Do you really think he would have left her alive?” Dad finally says. “Think about that, Pax. She knew what he looked like. If he told you that he wouldn’t have killed her, he was lying.”

  “He left me alive,” I tell him limply. “Maybe he would have left her, too.”

  My dad shakes his head, his cheeks flushed. “No. He wouldn’t have. He probably couldn’t bring himself to kill a kid in cold blood and he felt confident enough that he’d scared you into silence. Your mom never stood a chance, Pax. There wasn’t anything you could’ve done about it.”

  He turns away now, staring out the window.

  “But there’s something you can do now. Now that you remember, come with me. Let’s fly to Connecticut right now and sit down with the detective who handled the case. You can give him the description. What did the guy look like, anyway?”

  I feel a chill run through me as I picture the guy’s sneering face. “He was skinny, with a gray ponytail and yellow teeth. Really yellow teeth. He was wearing a blue striped shirt.”

  My father is frozen.

  “I know who you are talking about. That was our mailman. I’d never forget that gray ponytail or those horrible teeth. Pax, go pack a bag. We’re going to Connecticut.”

  “The mailman?” I am incredulous. “I don’t remember the mail man at all.”

  “You wouldn’t, would you?” my dad answers. “You were only seven. I used to tease your mother that he would find silly reasons to bring the mail to the door instead of leaving it in the box. I used to joke with her that he had a thing for her. We laughed about it. We thought he was just a little strange and lonely. I had no idea…”

  Dad’s voice chokes off and he looks away for a minute and pulls himself together before he looks back at me.

  “Get your things, Pax. That sick bastard deserves to pay.”

  The idea that I might find just a bit of redemption spurs me and I do get off the couch and go pack a bag. As I’m cramming my toothbrush into my overnight case, I see a ring laying on the counter. I pick it up. Mila must’ve left it. Her mother’s wedding ring. I slide it onto my pinkie and finish packing.

  In my haste, I leave my cellphone in the house and don’t realize it until we are speeding away toward Chicago.

  “Don’t worry,” my dad says. “If you need a phone, you can use mine. We won’t be gone that long anyway. Maybe a couple of days. This is huge, Pax. That fucking guy will finally get what he deserves. All they’ll need to do is match his DNA. This is huge.”

  My dad is more animated now than I’ve ever seen him. There is life in his eyes. I look at him.

  “Dad, why did you think it might be best if I never remembered? What did you mean? Best for me? Or best for you?”

  My dad glances at me with a sober look before returning his eyes to the road.

  “Maybe for both of us. I knew the memories would shatter you. And after they found the gunpowder residue on your hands, I didn’t think I wanted to know what happened. I couldn’t begin to imagine, but I wasn’t in a good place. And if I’d found out that you had a hand in her death, even accidentally, I didn’t know if I could get past it.”

  “But I was a kid,” I choke out. “I was trying to help her.”

  “Yes,” my dad says, leveling a gaze at me. “You were. I’m glad you realize that. But I was in a bad way then. Grief does that to a person. And so I coped in the only way I knew how. I threw myself into work. And when that didn’t stop the pain, I packed us up and moved us across the country.”

  “Did that stop the pain?” I ask him.

  He looks at me. “No.”

  I glance down at my hands and stare at the ring on my finger. I take it off, spinning it round and rou
nd in my hands. The inside has words inscribed. I peer closer to read them. Love Never Fails.

  I gulp.

  Sometimes, love does fail. I’ve certainly proven that. I’ve failed everyone. I failed my mother. I failed my father when I repressed the memories and couldn’t tell anyone what the killer looked like. And I’ve certainly failed Mila. I know I’ve ripped her heart out and I doubt I can ever put it back together again.

  I close my eyes to soothe the stinging in them.

  I nap in the airport until our plane takes off, then I nap on the plane. I think about trying to call Mila, but decide that I’d better not. Our conversation isn’t one for the phone. I’ll need to see her, face-to-face. In the meantime, I have something important to do.

  When we touch down in Hartford, we check into a hotel. Our dinner in the posh hotel restaurant is fairly silent.

  I watch my father swirling his scotch absently in his glass for a long time before I finally speak up.

  “It wasn’t your fault, either, dad.”

  He looks up at me.

  “No? Pax, we joked about that guy. The fucking mailman. I thought he was a joke. But he took my life away. Or he might as well have. Some joke. I guess he got the last laugh.”

  The bitter agony on my father’s face is apparent and as pissed as I am at him, I can’t help but feel terrible for him at the same time. I can’t imagine what he must feel like.

  “Dad,” I attempt again. But he interrupts.

  “Pax, you don’t understand. You can’t imagine how many times over the years I’ve wondered…what if I had left work early that day? What if I’d not stopped for gas? What if I’d hit one less red light? If any of those things had happened, maybe I could have stopped it. The constant not-knowing was terrible. But now, to find out that the fucking mailman took her life…my guilt is ten thousand times worse than it ever was. Because if I’d taken him seriously- if I’d recognized him for the perverted fuck that he was, your mother would be alive today. That’s an unarguable fact.”

  I gulp down the rest of my water before I answer.