My Beating Teenage Heart

by C. K. Kelly Martin

  Dad and his father stand around in the backyard so my grandfather can smoke a cigarette, and Mom, Lily and I stare at an old disaster movie on TV. Eventually we eat reheated chicken stew and when my grandmothers get me alone one of them asks if there’s anything of Skylar’s she should take away or tidy up but I don’t know what to say.

  She sniffles, pats my hand and says, “Don’t mention it to your mother. I don’t want her to have to give anything a thought today.”

  I nod numbly, excusing myself to find my grandfather and ask if he’s ready for another smoke. We head off to the front yard this time, and he hesitates before shaking the package in front of me and asking if I’d like one. I don’t care what I do so I take one. Jules smoked vanilla herbal cigarettes for a couple months last fall. They were supposed to taste like marshmallow mixed with vanilla but instead their flavor was more like moldy leaves that you rake up off the lawn in October and after a while I couldn’t even bring myself to kiss her if she’d just finished a cigarette, which is like the equivalent of Superman losing his lust for Lois Lane.

  My grandfather’s brand tastes more like a cigarette is supposed to but mostly I just hold it between my fingers and keep him company until Lily walks out the front door and says she’s going to the funeral home to pick up the photographs. If she was going somewhere else I’d offer to keep her company but I don’t want to see that place again.

  When my grandfather and I go back into the house Moose jumps on me like he did this mornin Cd tm">

  Moose stares at him in the same annoyingly blank way he’s been staring at everyone in the past few days. “He’s driving me crazy,” I tell my grandfather, my voice nearly breaking.

  My grandfather scratches under Moose’s chin and dips his head like he understands.

  “You want a dog?” I ask, trying to make a joke out of it. “You can have him dirt cheap.”

  My grandfather bounces Moose up and down in his arms like he’s a baby that he can make laugh. “You hear that?” my grandfather asks him. “He’s trying to unload you for a quick buck. You better try harder to earn your keep.”

  Moose barks, wanting to be let down. “Ah, go on then.” My grandfather lowers him to the carpet and Moose trots off down the hall looking as unmoose-like as ever. “Your sister sure had a sense of humor,” my grandfather mutters, rubbing at his left eye. “Imagine calling a little bit of a thing like that Moose.”

  Skylar wanted a big dog—an Akita or German shepherd—but my mom said she wouldn’t have a horse in the house, so this is what we ended up with. Skylar gave him a big-dog name to compensate but Moose doesn’t realize he has a big-dog name and acts like a little dog or even a cat. Sometimes, when he’s really content, he makes a purring noise and if you take him for too long a walk he flat out refuses to take another step and you have to carry him home in your arms. Lucky for Moose, Skylar ended up loving him despite all of his deficiencies.

  At the end of the day, when my grandparents have gone home, all of Skylar’s photographs are hanging back where they should be, and I think I can finally be alone, Moose scratches insistently at my bedroom door. I ignore the noise for a while, thinking he’ll get bored and wander off, but then the sound of his claws on the door starts to wear on me so I let him in. He zips into the middle of the room and just stands there with his head cocked, wanting something I can’t give him.

  She’s not here, idiot dog. She’s not anywhere you can find her.

  I point silently towards my open door and hope he’ll get the message and leave. I don’t want to yell at him anymore today.

  Instead Moose hops straight up onto my bed and sits down, eyes still watching me. I don’t care how much he gawks. I’m not letting him sleep at the end of my bed like he used to sleep on Skylar’s. “Down,” I command. I don’t shout but I’m not using my happy voice either. I snap my fingers and repeat myself.

  On a normal day I don’t have anything against the dog, but we’re done with normal days around here. I can’t keep an airtight lid on myself and feel sorry for him too. There’s not enough of me left over for that. If Moose is depending on me to get him through this I guess he just won’t make it.

  Moose obeys my command, leaps down from my bed and scurries out of the room. I shut the door behind him, reach for my cell and speed-dial Jules before I can lose momentum. Usually she’s the easiest person in the world for me to talk to but I don’t have the energy for anyone right now.

  Jules answers on the first ring and I hear her mother calling “Julianna” in the background—like she’s always doing to let Jules know her cell is ringing in another room—as Jules picks up.

  “Hi,” Jules says to me and then shouts to her mother, “I’ve got it, Mom.”

  “I picked up your messages earlier,” I tell her, “but I couldn’t talk. My grandparents were around for most of the day.” I sit on the bed and notice the clump of orange fur Moose left behind on my bedspread.

  “I figured there’d be people over. I just wanted to make sure you were doing …” Jules pauses and tries to start over. “… that you were—”

  I cut her off. “Thanks. I know.”

  Jules is quiet and waits for me to continue. When I don’t, she says, “Do you want me to come over?”

  I don’t want anything, really, so it’s impossible to say. “Maybe I’ll just try to get some sleep.” I knock Moose’s flyaway fur to the ground.

  “That’s a good idea,” Jules says in a soothing voice.

  “I don’t think I slept at all last night.” I close my eyes and yawn. I didn’t feel tired until this second and now I’m down to the bone exhausted.

  “Sleep,” she tells me, the word itself sounding like a lullaby. “Sleep. I’ll come over after school tomorrow.”

  My stomach twinges as my eyes pop open. “But I bet I’ll just lie here, that I probably won’t be able to drift off, no matter how tired I am.” The minute my head hits the pillow I’ll either lie there as numb as a dead thing like I did for hours last night or lose it the way I did in the shower.

  “You know, your parents probably have pills that would help,” Jules says into my ear. “Didn’t you say you thought they were both taking something?”

  They’re like zombies, so yeah, they’re sure as fuck on something but … “I don’t want to ask them,” I admit, my voice strained.

  “I can bring you something,” Jules promises without a moment’s hesitation.

  I can’t imagine what she has access to—Jules doesn’t even really like smoking weed—but I say okay and to call me when she’s outside because I don’t think my parents are ready for visitors that aren’t family, not even my girlfriend.

  My mom didn’t like Jules much when we first started going out last year after the tenth-grade trip to New York. I told her that Jules was big into theater and really independent-minded—one of the least superficial people I’d ever met—but when they met I watched Jules’s nose ring, dyed black hair and the battered burgundy combat boots that she wore all last year overpower the good things I’d said about her. As far as my mother was concerned Jules’s personal style indicated that she—and by extension I—was on the way to becoming a drug addict or homeless person. Not that my mom said anything like that, but she’d get this slightly pained squint when she’d look in Jules’s direction and she didn’t say much to her until about the fifth time Jules came over.

  Skylar had found this frog at the park down the street and smuggled it home in her hoodie pocket. When my mom found out she told Skylar she had to bring it straight back and Skylar got so sad and quiet (but she didn’t cry, Skylar hardly ever cried) that my mom told her she could have an hour to say goodbye to it.

  Enter Jules and me, interrupting Skylar’s bonding time with the frog, which probably only would’ve made saying goodbye harder anyway. Jules started to make up a story about how the frog’s family would be waiting for him back at the pond and I helped pile on the details. It probably sounds stupid now and it’s not like Skylar believe
d a word we said, but it seemed funny at the time and when we took Skylar out later to return the frog to nature she didn’t seem so sad anymore.

  My mom thanked Jules and me and I could tell that she’d changed her mind about Jules because she didn’t have the squint in her eye anymore when she looked at her. I never asked Jules if she noticed any of that but it’s ancient history because now both my parents like her a lot. This is the first time I’ve ever suggested that she meet me at the side door so I can sneak her in. Maybe my parents wouldn’t mind her being around, but I don’t want to take any chances.

  So fifteen minutes after we hang up Jules calls back and says she’s standing outside. I hear the family room TV on as I head downstairs to meet her. Someone’s still up, but if we’re lucky we won’t run into them.

  I unlock the side door for Jules and raise a finger to my lips to let her know we have to be quiet. In place of her nose ring she has the clear retainer thing in, the same way she did at the funeral yesterday, her hair’s tied back in a messy ponytail and she’s wearing the chunky black Mary Janes, which are her favorite shoes these days.

  She nods at me and grabs for my hand, squeezing hard. I lead her upstairs. Our steps don’t creak much and we make it upstairs without a soul intercepting us. Inside my room I turn the radio on low to cover the sound of our voices and Jules sits on my bed and holds out her palm to reveal five white caplets. “You only need one,” she whispers. “I brought extras in case you need some for the next few days.”

  I can’t imagine how things could be any better after the next five days but I tell her thanks, pluck a caplet from her hand, slip out to the bathroom and gulp water to chase it down. Then I go back to my room, sit on the bed next to Jules and mutter, “How long do they take to work?”

  “It didn’t say on the bottle,” she says apologetically. “But I guess most things take about thirty minutes to kick in.” Jules motions to my bedside table. “I stuck the rest of them in there.”

  I open the drawer and look at the other four tablets laying across the sheet music for the Beatles tune “I’ve Just Seen a Face.” The song always reminds me of Jules and I was teaching it to myself just before Skylar died but now I never want to play it, or hear it, again. With all that’s happened, I can’t believe the music’s still there and that I haven’t torn it up and burned the pieces to ashes.

  I shut the drawer and ask, “Where did you get the pills?”

  “My parents’ medicine cabinet. Sometimes my dad has trouble sleeping.” Jules runs a hand loosely along her dark ponytail and adds, “His job stresses him out.”

  She’s never mentioned that her dad takes sleeping pills before but I nod. I still can’t make up my mind whether I really want her here or not.

  Jules rubs my back and pulls me nearer to her on the bed. “Do you want me to stay?” she asks. Jules’s parents don’t hit her with a curfew when they know the two of us are just hanging out at my house and not a party somewhere but she’s never spent the night.

  “I told my mom I was coming over and that I thought maybe I should stay if you wanted me to,” she adds, her voice soft and supportive. The sound pushes me a step closer to crumbling.

  The air in here’s too heavy. My lungs fight to breathe.

  “Why don’t you get in?” Jules suggests, taking charge. “I’ll get the light.” She slips off her Mary Janes before ambling towards the light switch and flicking it off. Then she stands in front of my key-chain collection, examining them in the dark. “I’ll go before your parents wake up in the morning,” she whispers, reaching for one of the key chains in the second row. My eyes haven’t adjusted to the dark yet but I think it’s the toy penguin that Ty found on the steps of the Royal Ontario Museum back when we were in seventh grade.

  Ever since I started collecting key chains at ten years old, everyone I know has felt compelled to pick them up for me when they go away on vacation or stumble across bizarre novelty ones. You wouldn’t believe all the weird things they make into key chains. I have emergency condom key chains in three different colors given to me by three different people; a pregnant woman key chain that’s clear so you can see the baby inside her; a fish-shaped one that works as a TV remote, bottle opener and flashlight; and a solar-powered LED key chain that flashes “Barack” every two minutes. I take off my pants and shirt and slip under the covers in my boxers and T-shirt, continuing to itemize my collection in my head to see if that levels me out any.

  Jules strips off her skintight black jeans and gets in next to me. I leave the radio on and turn onto my side, Jules spooning protectively up against me. “You’re chilly tonight,” she murmurs as she lays her hand against my abdomen.

  I feel her bare legs, cold, against the back of my calves. Jules is always freezing but she’s right, tonight I’m cold too.

  Most of the time that I’m not on the verge of losing it, I’m working backwards in my head, trying to redo things with Skylar and make them turn out differently. It’s like my brain still believes I have another chance, for a millisecond, before it completes the equation and realizes it’s all over. BAM.

  If I’d known how precarious life was I would’ve kept track of the details and never allowed this to happen. I didn’t realize how everything could change in an instant. I don’t know how I could spend almost seventeen years on the planet without learning such a fundamental fact about life.

  I squeeze my eyes shut just as they begin to drain. Jules feels my chest collapse and hugs me harder. “I’m sorry,” she says to my back. “I’m so, so sorry, Breckon.” She says it over and over again, for I don’t know how long, until I’m sure the damn pill she brought over must be about as potent as children’s aspirin and that I’ll never sleep through the night again. And then, in a terminally slow fade, the cold and pain disappear and there’s just dark.

  four

  ashlyn

  Levitating in the center of what I can only describe as my mind’s eye, it’s as though someone left a single tiny lamp on in an attempt to illuminate infinite darkness. But the light isn’t nearly powerful enough to stretch far enough. It can’t and even if it could there’s not much to see. Oranges. Vague memories of snow and ice. The knowledge that my name is Ashlyn. Ashlyn Baptiste to be precise.

  Grateful as I am for my lightning-bolt moment, I wanted more. A landslide of information, the story of my life flashing through my head with the speed of a super computer upload. Instead, so far I’m not any wiser about myself than I was yesterday morning. I’m that same cutout novel I described before, name and age pasted on the cover but so full of holes it’s unreadable.

  The funny thing is that even with the majority of my backstory missing, I’m feeling more like myself, as though my thought patterns are homing in on my Ashlyn nature, digging down to the core and dragging up a more distilled Ashlyn, even if they don’t know what that means yet, to the surface of my being.

  I don’t know what any of it means yet. I can’t digest why my mind would offer up this gloomy grieving vision of Breckon and his world. If it’s to keep my brain occupied until I regain consciousness, wouldn’t it make more sense to drop me into some kind of brain-teaser reality, a puzzle that I have to solve? Watching this boy is really only accomplishing one thing. It’s making me feel, and what I feel is sad.

  Could it be that the empathy I feel for him is meant to make me f FA-teaseight harder to return to my own loved ones? But I don’t know how to fight any harder than I am right now.

  Surely every second of this darkness and despair must be making my cells ache with the desire to wake up again. I want to live, but not like this. I swear to God, or whoever else could be listening, that if I wake up I’ll do the right thing for the rest of my life, no matter how difficult that is. And I won’t be afraid of anything or anyone. I’ll be brave and true and make a difference somehow. I’ll help and heal people like Breckon and his family. I’ll do whatever it is you want, if only I’m allowed to wake up.

  Please, please, please. Give me m
y life back.

  This is what I do now. I make promises to the darkness.

  In front of me, Breckon and his girlfriend are beginning to stir. That makes a day and a half that I’ve been watching him now, following him around like he’s the star of a 24/7 reality TV show. Yes, I’ve learned I can stop watching, turn down the audio and video and retreat into the darkness, but it’s so lonely on my own that I don’t like to shut him out for very long. At least Breckon has the pills to make him rest. My mind never stops. I have two choices—I can watch his every move or wrestle with my memory in complete solitude, but either way there’s no such thing as sleep.

  Maybe that’s because technically I’m already unconscious.

  I’ll go stark raving mental in here with only my own thoughts or images from someone else’s train wreck of a life to keep me company. How will I stand it?

  Breckon’s girlfriend is leaning over him in bed. She watches him adjust his head on the pillow and swing his arm over his eyes—an unconscious reflex reaction to block the sun’s rays—but it appears that she doesn’t want to wake him. She lies back next to him until the alarm clock reads 8:42, at which point she throws her legs over the side of the bed and reaches for her jeans.

  When she turns to face him again, jeans on, Breckon peers up at her with sleepy eyes. I zoom in on them in an extreme close-up and am glad to spy the telltale crusty residue underneath his lashes that proves he’s been asleep and not faking.