by Mimi Cross
“I told him then. Said I still had the clothes. Told him I knew about Sandy Clayton. Everything seemed like it was moving in slow motion, and then I said—then I said—”
Tears roll down Bryn’s cheeks. She’s one of those people for whom tears are an ornament, like diamonds. Her fine features don’t change. Her patrician nose—which I realize now is so much like David’s—doesn’t get red. Her blue eyes don’t swell. They simply swim with tears. Swim beautifully. Shining, under a shallow layer of water.
David. Does he know about this? The idea holds less water than Bryn’s shallow-end eyes. Now it evaporates. David knows Rod raped his sister. But he doesn’t know this, or he wouldn’t have asked me to talk to Bryn. No one—no one can ever know about this.
Bryn covers her face with her hands. It’s hard to think straight, but I have to.
“Bryn. You’re not a murderer. You didn’t put the gun to his head. You only said something. People can’t go around blowing their brains out over something someone says! Rod’s suicide was his choice, end of story.”
She drops her hands. Her expression is fierce.
“I would have used it, Cate, if I’d gotten it first. But in the end . . . in the end . . .” She looks away, into some invisible distance.
“It only took a couple of words, Cate. Venomous words. Then he put the tip of the barrel in his mouth . . . and pulled the trigger.”
BREATH
CATE
I’m surprised when Bryn allows me to put an arm around her and guide her to the kitchen.
I brew a cup of chamomile tea and place it in front of her. I’m here for you. All the while I try to breathe normally, not wanting her to know how upset I am.
It’s hard to unravel. She killed Rod. She didn’t. It’s huge. It’s horrible. But in some back room of my brain, I’m secretly, silently, fist pumping the air. Yes! Bryn, warrior goddess! Take credit for helping humanity. For saving some other girl from what you went through. Rod Whitaker deserved to die, dammit. Your body is yours.
And my body is mine, you motherfucker, I hope you’re in hell.
I take a deep breath. Try to reel in the mix of fury and self-righteous glee. But it’s a big fish. A dirty happiness. Fatty street food that’ll clog my arteries. Shameful as the brief fascination—and I confess arousal—I’d experienced when I’d looked at pornography online.
So, right, breathe. Hide the inappropriate feelings. Try . . . thinking of the facts.
Rod Whitaker was a rapist. He killed himself.
The rest . . . the idea that Bryn somehow assisted Rod in his suicide, the friggin’ psyched feeling I have because the guy is dead . . . I need to make disappear.
And Bryn as a victim? I need to banish that, too. Because I can’t bear to look at beautiful Bryn Bennet and think of her like that. I refuse to think of myself like that, as someone who’s been abused. He shouldn’t have the right, have the power, to stain us like that.
And I don’t want to stain myself, either, by thinking he deserved to die. But I do. So I am. Stained by my belief in the death penalty. I can’t damp this belief, like some ringing note from my guitar. Can only lower my inner voice to whisper—sans fist pump now—yes.
I take a bigger breath. Blow it out. My head is too full. I need a place to put all this.
Down on paper, in a notebook. Because where else? I can’t set the streets on fire.
And if I can’t find the right words? I’ll write a screaming punk anthem. Dedicated to dicks everywhere. That seems about right. Somehow, I’ll get this garbage out of my system.
Down on the paper, along with the facts, will go the idea that Rod deserved to die.
Down on the paper will go the idea that Rod is where he’s supposed to be. Hell.
Inked on an eight-by-ten page—yeah I might give you that much space—will be his story, through my goddamn filter.
And Bryn. How long will it take her to put this away? Because she has to, right? Put it away so she can live with herself?
“Bryn,” I want to say, “just don’t put yourself away. Not anymore. Stay in the center of the room where you belong. Center stage, like the diva you are. Live.”
Was Rod dead because of Bryn? She seems to think so.
But I think . . . Rod would have killed himself regardless. Because how could he live with himself? And maybe that’s all she’d said to him. Something like, “How can you live with yourself, Rod?”
“Here, wrap your lips around this—I’ll give you something bigger in a minute . . .”
My breath comes in shallow gasps. I get up. Go lean out the Bennets’ back door.
A dark-green cover stretches taut over the pool.
I imagine Rod Whitaker beneath it, begging for breath.
“Begging for Breath.” What a fucking great song title. I’ll spin this shit into gold yet.
HEART
CATE
The next day, exhausted, I drive out West Front Street. Besides an abandoned industrial park and a few old farmhouses, there’s nothing out this way but fields and nurseries.
Kimmy is sitting in the passenger seat, silent as a crash-test dummy—
I cringe. How can I even think the word crash?
“Kimmy, I’m sorry,” I say, “that I haven’t been around.”
“It’s okay. I know your friend died. Was he your boyfriend?”
“No.”
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No.”
“Why isn’t David your boyfriend?”
I blow out a breath. “Kimmy,” I begin.
“David does that.”
“Does what?”
Kimmy makes a big exaggerated sigh, and I laugh. She does, too, and seems to forget all about her question. But I don’t.
The pale early-winter sun balances precariously in a blue sky stretched thin and high over the frozen fields and into forever. Leafless trees stand alongside the road like some dark audience, their bare black branches—traceries sparkling with icy jewels.
I want to be clear, like the faceted ice. But my veins are filled with chemicals, and I feel sluggish. Bryn was still in bed when I picked Kimmy up. I envy her. I didn’t sleep last night.
West Front comes to a T and I drop Kim at her old preschool. She’s volunteering at the annual Winter Carnival. She won’t be too long, and it’s a haul to get here, so I head to the old red store a half a mile down the road. I’ll grab something to eat and read in the car till she’s finished.
Pulling into the parking lot, I manage to squeeze between a battered pickup and a gray Honda without hitting either. I let out a breath. Having a license hasn’t made me a better driver.
I’ve only been here once before. The place is far from appealing, with grungy linoleum and half-stocked shelves. The deli cases are full, though, so they must have a good turnover.
The door bangs closed behind me. It’s freezing—no heat? With a shiver I walk over to the counter and order a roast-beef sandwich from an enormous man wearing an apron.
“Want that warmed up?”
“Um—” Hot roast beef. It never occurred to me. “Sure. That’d be good.”
He nods. “Want some cheese on that?”
Mmm. Melted cheese. “Yes. Please.” I smile at the man. He just nods. Sandwiches are, apparently, a serious business to him.
“Drink?” he asks, as I step toward the cash register.
“Coffee, please. Black.”
He nods once more, pours the coffee from a pot that’s sitting on the counter, and rings up my order. And then, to my surprise, he nods again, toward someone behind me. “See that guy?”
Peering over my shoulder, I see a man in a gray suit with silver-rimmed glasses and graying hair. A businessman is how I’d categorize him if pressed, a man with a long commute. Someone I can’t imagine having anything in common with. I feel the same way about the huge man behind the cash register, actually.
But then the man in the suit smiles—
And the store lights u
p.
“Joe!”
The man behind the counter grins. His serious sandwich-making face is transformed. He says, “How are ya, Stu?”
“I’m great.” The gray-suited man beams. “Just great. How’re you doing, Joe?”
“Yeah, I’m good. Real good.”
The two men smile at each other for another moment, then they exchange a nod, and the businessman turns away, heading down the narrow aisle to a cooler filled with veggies.
The guy behind the counter, Joe, leans forward. “That guy?”
“Uh, yes?” As the serious sandwich-making expression settles on his face, I realize I’m holding my breath. He leans a little closer.
“That guy was gonna die. Set to go. His heart was giving out. Some disease. The chances he’d find a donor, even though he was on a list? Not so good.”
Joe and I lock eyes. Tears begin to well in mine.
“Now, he’s got a brand-new one,” Joe tells me. “Kid crashed his car on Chapel Hill Road over in Middleburn, back in September. Stu got his heart. It saved his life.”
I fold my lips, but it’s no use. Tears spill out of my eyes. I turn around, looking for Stu.
He’s grabbing a paper, just an ordinary-looking man.
An ordinary-looking man—with Cal’s heart.
Gulping air, I say, “Thank you. Thank you for telling me that story.”
The man just looks at me and nods.
RUNDOWN
CATE
I want to drive until I lose the road, but it’s time to pick up Kimmy.
Dropping her off at the Bennets’, I’m about to race home—
When Bryn stumbles to the door, black eyeliner ringing her eyes. She looks like some morning-flagged club kid. As Kimmy heads inside, Bryn comes over to the car.
“Why are you in such a hurry?” she asks, as if yesterday never happened. “Heard your tires squeal when you pulled in.” Her cool-blue eyes narrow slightly. “How come you look like you’re about to fly out of your skin?”
I can’t help it—I tell her what happened at the store. Then I tell her about Cal, about seeing him in the mirror, and in my dreams. About hearing him.
She shakes her head. “Wow, that’s some heavy shit, Cate.”
And then, she grins.
I don’t know, maybe she feels like we’re even, two tens on the one-to-ten psycho scale, but when she says, “You’re fucking crazy, woman,” there’s a grudging admiration in her voice that makes the words sound like an affirmation.
But now I notice something else about her eyes, besides all the smudgy black liner.
They’re luminous.
Bryn Bennet, I realize now, is always up for an adventure. Or maybe—
“Have you been hanging out with Dee Carson?” I ask.
“Like she has eyes for anyone but Laurel?”
“Not like tha—wait. Are you gay?”
“Why do you want to know?” she asks, sly-like.
I roll my eyes. “I didn’t mean are you hanging out with her like that.”
“Oh. Yeah, well, I wouldn’t. Hang out with her like that. She’s a bitch.”
Huh.
“Okay, I’ll bite,” she says. “What did you mean?”
“I meant, are you getting drugs from her. Ketamine.” Because although it had taken me a while, once I thought about it, it was easy to figure out where Laurel had gotten the Kit Kat.
“Please. That shit’s fucked up. You can hurt yourself with—Jesus, Cate. That stuff’s for animals; it’s an anesthetic. The vet at Stone Stable uses it on the horses.”
“Hey, it’s not like I’m the only one doing weird shit.” I eye her meaningfully.
“Yeah, you got me.” She opens the passenger door and gets into the car, as if she needs to be physically closer to me to emphasize her next point. “I talked an asshole into blowing his brains out—I didn’t try to kill myself.”
“I’m not trying to kill myself,” I say indignantly. “I’m just trying to . . .” Get out. “Have some fun.”
“Paralysis and amnesia—that’s fun for you?” But all of a sudden, Bryn’s laughing and then I am, too. “No wonder you think you’ve seen your friend—you’re taking that K shit! Maybe you’re so dosed you forgot he was dead!”
“No—” But I can’t talk, as another avalanche of laughter rolls over me, scree down a mountainside, unstoppable as the weather.
“So where are you going?” she finally says. “I want to do something.”
Where I’m going is Google, to find out the full name of the guy who has Cal’s heart. Then I’m going to look up his address, go to his house, and—well, I’m not sure what I’m going to do next, but that doesn’t matter right now, I just . . . need to keep moving.
I say, “Well, first I need to stop home, and then—I don’t know, but whatever. Do you want to come?”
“Yeah, why not,” Bryn says. “You’re full of crazy, and ketamine apparently, but I’m sure we can find some fun. I’ve got to at least wash my face before I go anywhere, though. Come.”
We climb out of the car and go inside.
Upstairs, she jerks her chin toward her room. “Wait here, I’ll be right back.”
“Can I use your computer?” I call out.
“Sure,” she answers from the bathroom.
I open her laptop. Type a few words into Google.
It’s so easy to find him I almost start laughing all over again.
A Life Continued: Oakhurst Man Receives a New Heart
There are few details, probably to protect the privacy of the people involved, but there’s a picture of the organ recipient, Stuart Wasserman. Another minute, and I have his address. A few more minutes, and Bryn and I are in the car and I’m punching it into the GPS.
Then jumping in my seat as David appears out of nowhere, knocking on my window.
I open it.
“Where are you off to? Can I come?”
FAMILY
DAVID
Before Cate can answer, I’m in the car, studying my sister, who’s riding shotgun. She’s wearing a long coat with a furred collar. Superdark sunglasses, even though the day’s turned cloudy.
“What’s with the glam?” I ask.
“Cate’s taking me ghost hunting,” she says. “I wanted to be properly dressed for the occasion.”
“Ghost hunting?” I lean forward so I can see Cate’s face.
She’s glaring at Bryn.
“What? You didn’t think I’d figure it out?” Bryn says waspishly.
Cate doesn’t reply. I wonder if she’s high, if Bryn is. I’m also still wondering who Cate was on the phone with, at school. If it’s someone I can make her forget.
I can’t quite figure out what’s between us, and I need to. I’ve never felt like this before. But I have a bad feeling, like Cate doesn’t want me now.
Of course that only makes me want her more.
I wonder how it would work, if I just told her how I felt. But as thunder rolls in the distance and we pull out of the driveway, the bad feeling persists. When will I have the chance to tell her anything?
She’s wrangling the radio now, which inspires Bryn to complain of a violent headache.
By the time she’s finished, Cate’s pulling over, tires jumping the curb.
“So what are we really doing?” I ask. But my sister’s talking, too.
“That’s some fancy driving, Cate Reese.” Bryn lifts her shades, looks around. “Hold up, are we really going to that guy’s house? The guy with your friend’s heart? What are we going to do, bodysnatch him? Leave a giant seedpod in his place? He has Cal’s heart, Cate. He isn’t Cal.”
“I know,” Cate says. “Just . . . give me a minute, will you?”
“You two going to tell me what’s up?” But I already know. This is about the guy who died, my ghostly rival. I shouldn’t have come—wait. Did Bryn just say what I think she said? “Back up. Are you saying—”
“Davey.” My sister interrupts. “You’re about to
see your girl Cate in full-on crazy mode.”
“Bryn.” Cate turns the name into a single-word warning.
“Oh whatever. Cate, seriously, I figured maybe we’d wind up at Laurel’s or in somebody’s basement playing beer pong. Okay, not really. That would be too normal. But—”
Bryn falls silent as Cate points to a Colonial across the street. “That’s his house.”
A beat goes by. Then Bryn rolls her eyes. “Fine. I’ll play along. When do we do The Ritual?”
“Ritual?” Cate asks. “Like sacrifice-a-virgin ritual?”
“Like on bad TV, yeah.” She side-eyes Cate. “Looks like you’re going down. Too bad, ’cause you were actually starting to grow on me. Now let’s get the fuck out of here.”
“Okay, but . . . just a second,” Cate says.
“Fine. Since Davey and I can’t walk home from here, we’ll wait till you talk to the guy. Or maybe we should just knock him unconscious and rip out his heart? Davey, what do you think?”
Before I have time to think anything, Cate says, “Bryn, I never said . . .”
But Bryn’s busy pulling a flask from her pocket.
Cate and I turn to statues.
“What?” Bryn looks at the silver flask in her hand, then at me, then at Cate. “Want some?”
“That’s . . . Rod’s,” I say.
She shrugs. Swigs. “Come on. Let’s go talk to this guy.”
I’m sick with myself, for thinking Bryn could have had anything to do with Rod Whitaker’s death, but—the flask.
“Talk to him how?” Cate’s voice sounds far away.
Could she have taken it that night at the Halls’? But why? And if not then—
“Cate,” Bryn says. “You dragged me here. What’s the plan? Casually knock on the door, ask this guy to please hand over his heart so you can give it to the ghost of your old boyfriend?”
I run my hands over my face. Bryn takes another drink from the silver flask. When she looks at me, her eyes are bloodshot, bleary. She doesn’t just need me watching out for her, she needs help. Professional help.