Exit Here.

by Jason Myers

  I walk through the front door, down a short hallway to the receptionist’s desk, and ask to see Vanessa Wayne.

  The receptionist, a chubby lady with brunette hair and glasses, asks me who I am.

  I’m her older brother.

  “You’re here by yourself?”

  Yes.

  “Hold on,” the lady says. She stands and leaves the desk and a moment later she returns with this younger-looking security guard rocking a handlebar mustache.

  The guard checks my ID and asks to see the small bag of things my mother sent with me. I hand it to him and he looks through the items one at a time: A self-help book, an empty journal, a handful of Us Weeklys, a box of green tea.

  He hands the bag back to me. “I had to make sure there were no drugs or drug-related content inside the bag,” the guard says.

  I understand.

  The receptionist points down another hallway. “Walk all the way down and make a left. Your sister should be in the rec room.”

  Thank you.

  I move past them, down the squeaky clean hallway, and find my sister right away. She’s sitting on a green sofa, watching the television all by herself.

  She looks tired and sad. She’s in her pajamas and her hair is scrunched into a ball in the back.

  Hey, Vanessa.

  She looks at me. “Why are you here?”

  Mom wanted me to bring you this care package.

  “Where is she? Is she not coming?” My sister looks panicked.

  She’s sick. I saw her this morning and she looked wrecked.

  I hand my sister the bag and sit down next to her and stare straight at the television, a rerun of the VHI show I Love the 80s flashing by, while she rummages through the bag.

  “Sweet,” she says, holding the journal. “I’ve been writing a lot the last few days. Mom must’ve remembered me telling her that.”

  I force a smile and look back at the screen and nothing is said for a while. The show fades into this Sienna Miller hair care commercial, and I watch it with a certain amount of intensity because it’s easier than talking to my sister and asking her about the huge bruise on her forehead and the cut underneath her left eye. It’s easier than looking at her and asking her where the big gash on her neck came from and why two fingers on her left hand are swollen and taped together. Watching Sienna Miller and listening to her talk about a hair care product is easier than talking to my own sister and listening to her tell me how she got here. So I keep watching and staring until the next commercial break.

  This is when my sister nudges me and asks me if I brought any cigarettes with me.

  I did.

  “Let’s go smoke,” she says.

  Are you allowed to smoke? You’re underage.

  “It’s rehab, dude. What are they gonna do, write me a fucking ticket and fine me?”

  I shrug.

  “Come on,” she begs. “I’m dying. Look at me. I’m dying. I need a cigarette.”

  Fine.

  We get up and we cross the room and we walk outside.

  I hand her a smoke.

  “Thank you so much.”

  I follow my sister across the yard and she sits down on the ground, under the shadow of a large tree, and I do the same.

  So how is it in here?

  “Fuck, man. How do you think?”

  I don’t know. I’ve never been in rehab before.

  My sister takes a drag. “I know you haven’t. That’s what’s weird.”

  I lean back against the grass.

  What’s that?

  “Me hitting rehab before you. I mean, I learned how to do drugs by watching you and Cliff and the rest of your friends do them.”

  For a minute my mind flashes to that one antidrug commercial I remember seeing all the time while watching Saturday morning cartoons when I was a kid. The one that was about this father who discovers drugs under his teenage son’s bed, and upon this totally shocking discovery, he confronts his son, asking him, “Where did you learn how to do this?”

  Only to have his son come right back at him with, “I learned it from you, Dad. I learned it by watching you.”

  And I say to my sister, Yeah, but the difference is I didn’t go into a fucking Gap store with any of my friends and start jacking shit.

  I sit up.

  I mean, the fucking Gap of all places. Why? Why were you even at the Gap? You’re better than that.

  My sister shrugs. Exhales. Says, “There’s not even an answer to that, Travis.” She pouts. “There’s not even a good lie I could tell or a completely made-up explanation I could give.” She presses a hand against her face. “It’s all a big blur.”

  I light a cigarette.

  “Nothing makes sense anymore.”

  I start sweating.

  “Everything spun out of control.”

  My sister flicks her smoke away and she starts to cry. She covers her face. She cries. And her entire body shakes.

  “I don’t know what to do anymore” she sobs. “I don’t, Travis. I have nothing.”

  That’s not true. It’s just rehab. You’ll get better and you’ll get out of here and you’ll do rad fucking things.

  My sister drops her hands. “No, I won’t. You don’t understand.”

  What don’t I understand, Vanessa?

  My sister punches the ground. Her fist thuds against the dirt. “When I was in the hospital the doctor ran some tests.”

  What kind of tests?

  “Blood tests.”

  Inhale. Exhale.

  And?

  My sister wipes her face with the back of the same hand she plowed into the ground and leaves a streak of dirt on the side of it.

  Did they find something wrong?

  My sister doesn’t say anything.

  What did they find, Vanessa?

  “I’m HIV positive.”

  Visions of my sister and me playing Marco Polo in a hotel swimming pool while we were on vacation in Aruba, when she was eight and I was twelve, smash through my head.

  She covers her face again.

  My first reaction: I scoot back. I slide myself farther away from my sister. I’m scared. I drop my cigarette.

  Do Mom and Dad know?

  My sister looks up from her wet hands. “No. I begged the doctor not to tell them. I begged him to let me tell Mom first.”

  Damn.

  Mom will be destroyed.

  She will lose it.

  She will absolutely snap and she will lose it.

  “Can I have another cigarette, Travis?”

  Yes.

  I toss the entire pack at her.

  Take all of them.

  “Thank you.”

  “Hey! I saw that!” A bald man in a pair of slacks and a short-sleeve shirt snorts.

  He’s walking toward us and my sister goes, “Shit, it’s my counselor, Matt.”

  So?

  “I’m not supposed to be smoking.”

  Matt stops and stands over the two of us with his hands on his hips.

  “This is my brother, Travis,” my sister tells him, snorting up some snot.

  “I know who he is,” Matt snaps. “I saw his name signed on the registry. And now he has to leave.”

  Why? My sister and I both spit at the same time.

  “Because he gave you cigarettes, Vanessa. And I already told you that you’re not allowed to smoke. You’re not eighteen. We still abide by the law here.”

  Fuck you, man.

  I stand up.

  “Travis, don’t,” my sister says. “It’s fine.”

  I step into Matt’s bullshit face.

  That’s my sister. If she wants something from me, she’ll get it.

  And Matt says, “Not here. That won’t happen here.”

  Hey, man, you’re an asshole.

  “And you’re done here, sir. Leave now.”

  I look back at my sister.

  A different security guard approaches quickly.

  “Don’t make things worse fo
r your sister,” Matt snorts. “She’s here because of addiction. We have rules for a reason, so please leave now.”

  The guard closes in.

  “Travis, please listen to him,” my sister says. “Go if he wants you to go.”

  I shake my head.

  Fine.

  “Thank you,” Matt says.

  I nudge my way past the counselor and start back for my car. The security guard trails me all the way there. He stands atop the cement stairs, watching, as I pull away.

  55.

  I’M LIKE THIRTY MILES OUTSIDE of the city and police cars and ambulances and fire trucks are all over the place.

  As I get closer to the massive clutter of bright sirens, it becomes obvious that there’s been a major accident, and as I am cautiously directed through part of the scene, I see four cars completely totaled in a ditch, and another one halfway up a shallow hill that leads to a field.

  Beer cans are scattered all around the scene. A baseball cap floats through the vacant breeze. Stuffed animals lie beside one of the ambulances, which is being loaded with a stretcher, and on the stretcher is a body closed up in a bag. A few feet away from that lies a crumpled-up sign that says JESUS LOVES YOU, and next to the sign, a suitcase and a cover to a board that says SORRY.

  Everything in this car is in slow motion.

  I light a cigarette.

  56.

  MUCH LATER ON THAT NIGHT, While I’m eating a plate of reheated Chinese food, my mother walks into the kitchen holding the phone.

  “Please take the call,” she says.

  Who is it?

  “It’s Laura. She’s called four times for you today.”

  No.

  “Please, Travis.”

  No.

  My mother holds the phone against her chest. “Travis, just talk to her. You’re leaving soon. She sounds like she really needs to talk to you.”

  I drop the plate of food onto the counter.

  Fine.

  I take the phone.

  What do you want, Laura?

  My mother stands there watching.

  “Don’t be mad that I’m calling you,” Laura says.

  Oh, I’m not. I just want to know why you’re calling.

  “Did you hear about the small riot that happened last night at Whiskey Red’s during the Jack White show?”

  No.

  Pause.

  It was true, then. Jack White was playing all along.

  “Well, sorta. The dude who played, his name was Jack White, but he had Down syndrome, and dreadlocks, and sounded like a white version of Wesley Willis.”

  Shut up.

  “I’m not lying,” Laura laughs. “And when all the people who’d purchased the tickets and camped out for the shit saw it wasn’t the ‘real’ Jack White, it was like a total hipster backlash and a fucking riot broke out inside the bar. The SWAT team got called in.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “Isn’t that just hilarious? A guy named Jack White playing a solo show under the assumption that he’s the ‘real’ Jack White.”

  It’s hysterical, Laura.

  I roll my eyes.

  What do you really want?

  “What do you mean?”

  Come on. You didn’t call me just to tell me about a hipster riot at Whiskey Red’s. Be honest.

  “I heard you’re leaving again,” she says. “I heard you’re moving to LA and going to USC.”

  You heard right.

  “Oh.”

  Pause.

  “But I thought you wanted to stay here for good. That’s what you told me.”

  Hey, Laura. Like you said, things change.

  My mother leans against the counter, still staring.

  “Do you think it would be possible to get together and talk before you leave? I think it could be constructive.”

  “Constructive”? I snort. What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

  “You don’t have to be such a dick about it, Travis.”

  I clear my throat.

  Ya know, I’m just wondering, how do you do it, Laura?

  “How do I do what?” she asks.

  Ya know, how do you do it?

  “Do what, Travis? What are you talking about?”

  How do you suck so bad?

  “What?”

  Click.

  I set the phone on the counter and my mother shakes her head. She takes the phone back, and I tell her, You told me to take the call, Mom. You should’ve known better than that.

  57.

  IT’S THE DAY BEFORE I leave and I’m holding the plane ticket in my hand—the ticket I bought when I finally figured out that there was only one option, when I finally decided that it was time to take some responsibility for the first time in my life.

  Setting the ticket on the nightstand beside me, I grab a small bag and begin packing, and not long after I’ve begun, I come across that same Polaroid of Laura and me on her eighteenth birthday, and I never want to see it again. Ever. So I dig a lighter from my jeans and roll into the bathroom and light it on fire.

  And as I stand over the sink and watch it burn into smoke and ashes, I throw my arms above my head and yell, Nothing! You’re nothing!, then I run water over it and walk downstairs to grab some orange juice and the front doorbell of the house starts ringing.

  Looking through the peephole, I see Claire standing on the front steps, smoking a cigarette, and I open the door halfway.

  What are you doing here, Claire?

  “I have to talk to you about something. Will you let me in?”

  I don’t know if I should.

  “Please, Travis. This is important,” she presses, smearing out the cigarette with her foot.

  Fine. Come in.

  I step to the side and Claire walks in wearing a Black Flag hoodie and a pink miniskirt and black socks pulled to her knees.

  Shutting the door, I follow her into the kitchen and ask her what’s so important.

  “It’s just . . . ,” she starts, then stops. “Can I have some water?”

  Yeah.

  I grab a glass from the cupboard and fill it up and hand it to her, watching as she drinks the entire thing in one swig.

  And I say, I didn’t think I’d ever talk to you again.

  Claire sets the glass on the counter. “I didn’t either, but I’ve been thinking a ton about what happened and I realized some things and I figured I owed it to you, as someone I’ve known and adored for-fucking-ever, to bring it to your face first.”

  So . . . ?

  “Basically,” she starts, then stops once again, her head shaking, a hand on her forehead. “God, this is so hard.”

  Fucking spit it out, Claire.

  “So what I’ve decided is that if you don’t turn yourself in and at least make an attempt to see if you are responsible for that girl’s death, then I’m going to cruise on down to the police station and drop your name and tell them what you told me. Everything little thing, Travis Wayne.”

  But, Claire, I—

  “I’m dead serious, man!” she screams, making fists with her hands, cutting me right off. “I cannot let you get away with that. I can’t live with myself knowing I didn’t do a thing! I just can’t! I don’t care how much I care for you!”

  Claire, just—

  “How could you fucking do that to someone, Travis?” She grabs my shirt with both hands and goes, “Do you understand the hugeness of what you’re involved in? It’s fucking huge and now I feel dirty. You made me feel dirty, Travis. It’s like you dug a hole and threw me into it with you, and this is the only way I can get out of it!” She pushes herself away from me. “You did this, Travis!”

  Burying her face in her hands, Claire starts bawling, and I go, Are you finished?

  She looks up with a face full of tears. “What?”

  Because if you are, that means it’s my turn, and if it’s my turn, that means I get to tell you that I already bought a plane ticket to Hawaii.

  “You have?” she sniffs
.

  I’m leaving tomorrow.

  “Oh my god.”

  So there. You don’t have to feel bad about it, all right? It’s done. I’m leaving. I’m gonna deal with this shit.

  Stepping into me, Claire wraps her arms around my neck and goes, “Thank you, Travis,” but I push her off of me and say, Don’t thank me for this. I’m doing what’s right. People shouldn’t have to be thanked for doing the right thing.

  “What do you think will happen?”

  I don’t know.

  “Are you scared?”

  Yes.

  Pause.

  The two of us stare at each other and I can’t deal with it. I can’t deal with her being here, knowing that this may be the last time I see her, and I shut my eyes and I tell Claire to go home.

  Please, I say. Leave.

  “Okay, Travis,” I hear her whisper, and then there’re footsteps and the front door opening and closing, and when I open my eyes again, I fall against the kitchen counter and begin to cry.

  58.

  IT’S LATE AND I’M SITTING at the dining room table, smoking cigarettes, staring at the moon through the large window in front of me. The phone rings and I jump. It rings and it rings and it rings and my parents must not hear it ’cause it keeps ringing, so I answer it.

  “Travis,” I hear, the voice on the other end sending a hard chill up my spine. “Travis, is that you?”

  It’s Cliff.

  I know his whine from anywhere.

  “Travis,” he groans. “Fucking answer me.”

  What do you want, Cliff?

  I hear him rubbing his nose.

  “I need you to meet me now.”

  No way. No fucking way.

  “Travis!” His voice rips my ears and makes my stomach drop. “Listen to me. I need you to meet me.”

  Why should I?

  “’Cause I’m asking you, man. I’m asking you as a friend since preschool. I’m asking you as someone who once cut their arm with you and traded blood.”

  Cliff, I can’t.

  “Bullshit, man. You can. I need your help. I need you to meet me. Please” he begs. “Please come meet me. I need you to.”

  It sounds like he’s beginning to cry.

  “I need your help,” he whispers.

  Fine, Cliff. I’ll help you.

  Pause.

  He sniffs hard.