by Andrea Wolfe
14
Arielle picked me up a little before noon. Had she not texted me when she woke up, I probably would have totally forgotten. Other than her reminder, there was nothing else waiting for me on my phone.
I fought to stay awake all morning, eventually catching twenty very furtive minutes of sleep in the back corner of the room while we watched the Lord of the Flies movie in English class. I had to make up an excuse for why my paper wasn't done, but Mr. Turner didn't seem to mind too much.
Somehow, I lasted all the way to lunch.
It was an obnoxiously bright day, cold, but not miserable thanks to the warm, golden beams of the sun. The sky was nearly cloudless, and I was so fascinated by the beautiful spectacle—it had been really dreary when I got to school in the morning—that I almost slipped on a huge, completely conspicuous patch of ice.
I regained my balance and jumped into the car with Arielle.
"You look like shit," she said.
"I didn't sleep well," I remarked, getting situated on the seat and buckling up. I pulled the door shut.
"Was the bed not—"
"Bed was great," I said curtly. "I just couldn't stop... thinking."
"I can understand that. And you wonder why I do drugs." She smirked and cranked the car into drive. Soon after, we were out of the parking lot and zipping toward my neighborhood. "So are you ready?"
"For what?" I asked.
"I mean, it's like a covert mission," she said. "You're kind of breaking in."
"But it's my own house," I pleaded. "That's not breaking in. I have a key. And I'm just getting some clothes and my backpack, not stealing rare jewels or something."
"You got kicked out," she said. "I mean, I probably shouldn't say it, but I've heard of people getting picked up by the cops after being kicked out."
I swallowed hard and straightened up in the seat. She rounded a corner hard and I started to feel nauseous. "I mean, I wasn't legally kicked out," I said. "My mom just told me to leave. It's not like she has a restraining order."
Arielle laughed and lit up a cigarette. "You're no fun. I'm just trying to make life a bit more sensational and you keep acting so damn realistic. And maybe she did get a restraining order. You never know."
"Whatever," I scoffed. "I'm sleep-deprived and confused."
"Like the rest of us," she answered coyly. My lack of response seemed to unnerve her. "I'm sorry, I'm just goofing around. We'll stop and get coffee afterward, okay?"
I smiled for the first time all day. "Yeah. I need a quadruple latte."
"I've gotcha covered," she said.
Honestly, I was so thankful to have Arielle as a friend, even though she could be so goofy and intense sometimes. I was just happy she wasn't saying how sorry she was about Mason. I could only handle so much of that in a day.
We slowly drove into the subdivision where my house was, making sure nobody was there. If my parents ever came home for lunch—which happened very rarely—they parked in the driveway instead of the garage.
As we took a left onto Sparrow Street, I saw a very empty driveway. "Looks like we're fine," I muttered.
"Cool," Arielle said. She drove past my driveway until she was in front of the neighbor's house and parked on the street. We both jumped out of the car.
"You're coming in too?" I asked.
"Yeah. I said I'd help."
I shrugged. "Okay." I knew it would be better not to be alone, so I gave in.
We walked up the driveway and headed across the sidewalk to the front door. The house looked different for some reason, like it was actively watching me. Like I really was a home invader, sneaking in to make a mess of its innards and all it could do is sit there and observe while I had my way.
The front windows looked like eyes, and the porch like a devilish smile. The venetian blinds were like half-closed eyelids. The whole thing felt like a hallucination.
Just yesterday, this tan, ranch-style building had been the most unremarkable thing in the world to me.
Now, it was like some haunted medieval place that I was about to defile.
I unlocked the front door and headed inside. "Hello?" I called from the entry way.
Nothing. Silence. I crept around the corner and looked to see if my dad's preferred bathroom was occupied; it was empty.
"I guess we're clear."
"All right," Arielle said. "Do you have a big suitcase?"
"Yeah, I'll grab it in the basement."
I ran down and grabbed my giant red suitcase I always used for long trips. It was very appropriate, because by the sound of it, this was going to be one long trip.
Arielle strolled around the living room, gazing at family photos and the dumb bucolic paintings and animal figures my mom hung on the wall. "She does look a little crazy," Arielle said.
"C'mon." I led her upstairs.
She followed along, a few steps behind me the whole time like a loyal pet.
It hit me again in that brief ascent up the stairs how lucky I was to have her in my life. And then it also hit me that I hadn't checked up on Mason in a couple of days.
I have to do that soon, I thought.
We went into my room and literally raided my closet. I yanked out a bunch of skirts and dresses and shirts and pants, leaving them in a huge pile on the bed, creating basically a landfill of clothing. I stepped back for a moment, admiring the confusing spectacle.
There were a lot of outfits there. This wasn't just some weekend getaway. The thought made my legs feel like jelly, so I tried to let it go. I had too much to do in too little time to stop and ruminate on my life situation.
I grabbed underwear and bras, and snatched up my backpack from the corner. Arielle just stood on the sideline, watching in either amusement, horror, or some combination of both.
"I need to get my toothbrush and stuff," I said.
"Go. I'll try to fit this mess into the suitcase," she said. "I'm a good packer. Trust me."
I nodded and rushed into the bathroom. I found my toiletry bag under the sink and filled it with as much as it could hold, even grabbing my shampoo and conditioner from the shower. My eyes caught the vintage My Little Pony plastic cup I had been using in the bathroom since I was six.
It was covered in images of the Twinkle-Eyed Ponies, the characters engaged in either obvious adventure or boring poses. The images were mostly worn off in some places, but you could still make them out. Honestly, I had been using it automatically, day after day for over a decade, never even stopping to look at it.
I just brushed and rinsed, filled and emptied it. Threw it in the dishwasher sometimes.
How ridiculous. But it wasn't ridiculous. It was a relic from a time when things were easier and more innocent and much happier. Boyfriends weren't dying and moms weren't totally nuts.
I left it and moved on.
By the time I got back to my room, Arielle was still wrestling with the clothing heap, struggling as if she were trying to give a cat a bath. "I think it's gonna fit," she grunted. "I mean, I hope it will."
I leaned down and put my toiletry bag into my backpack and went over to help her. "I don't need all of this," I mumbled, grabbing the third and fourth pairs of dress pants and tossing them back into my closet. I had no idea why I grabbed so much. It's not like I could bring everything.
Tears streamed down my cheeks. I felt like I was making a prison break—only I was escaping from home.
Arielle turned to me and frowned. "It's okay, Naomi," she said, leaving the pile and stepping toward me. "It'll be fine."
She gave me an awkward side hug, which instantly cheered me up because it was distinctly Arielle.
I let out a nervous giggle. "I don't know why I'm getting so emotional. I feel so dumb."
"I'd love to hash this all out with you," she said, "but we're on a tight schedule and that suitcase ain't gonna close itself."
I wiped my eyes on my sleeve. "Right."
I continued pulling unnecessary items out of the suitcase until it was a man
ageable size. I had plenty of outfits one way or another; the downsizing just meant that I might have to do laundry more often.
Everything will be fine, I thought. I kind of believed it.
I grabbed my laptop and phone charger and threw them in my backpack, zipping it closed when I was done. Arielle dragged the suitcase into the hall while I gave the room one last look. I realized that it might be the last time I would ever set foot in there. I had to give it the respect it deserved.
I looked down at my little table where I did homework, at the old flexible sewing light from my mom that allowed me to finish hundreds of assignments at night. I glanced at the posters of sexy movie and rock stars on the wall, none of them fully approved by my mom. Stuffed animals on chairs, photos hanging on the wall.
So many memories, some good, some bad, some horrible. Groundings and sleepovers and Jesse...
Too many to handle right now.
A very typical girl's room, no doubt. And as I walked out, I realized it was now a room that belonged to no one. I was abandoning it. The thought of my mom using it for storage made me sick.
Midway through my senior year, I was more or less out on my own—well, with some extra assistance.
Arielle went down the stairs first, and I followed closely behind. The suitcase was obviously heavy, and she struggled the whole way. Although I felt bad for not helping more, she wasn't complaining.
We got down into the living room and I stopped, wanting to have one last stroll through the house. "I'll go ahead," she said. "Double-check that you've got everything. I'll be back in a minute."
I nodded automatically, somewhat in a trance, a trance that broke after Arielle let out a comedic string of obscenities while struggling to get the suitcase out the front door. Once it swung shut, I started moving.
I looked around for anything major I might have forgotten. On the dining room table was my Calculus textbook, calculator, and homework for this week. I shoved the three items into my backpack and moved on.
Purposefully ignoring the family photos on the wall, I scanned the kitchen. The coffee maker didn't have a pot anymore, and I cringed when I remembered why. It reminded me of a body without a head. The floor had been thoroughly cleaned where it happened.
My mom probably had a terrible morning without her coffee, and that thought brought me some solace.
Just as I was turning to leave the kitchen, I heard the side door open and my heart skipped several beats. I froze in place, unable to move. If it was my mom, I worried I might be in actual danger.
"Naomi?" It was my dad's concerned voice. "I'm surprised to see you here."
I unfroze; I probably shouldn't have. I looked up at him—he was unshaven, and there were dark circles under his eyes. He looked haggard.
"I needed to get stuff," I said vaguely.
"I had to come home for lunch," he said. "The diner is closed for a plumbing issue." He sat down at the kitchen counter. Even sitting, he was taller than me. "So you're actually leaving?"
"Yeah," I lowered my head, unwilling to make eye contact because I feared he might somehow break my spirit through that crucial part of interaction.
The front door suddenly swung open and Arielle came charging in. "Naomi, are you ready? The car's running out there—" She stopped dead in her tracks, shocked at the sight of my dad.
"Oh, hi, Mr. Miller," she said abruptly. "I'm Arielle."
He immediately rose to his feet and extended his arm, shaking her hand even with her torn jeans and piercings. "Hi, Arielle. I've heard so much about you." Instantly, he had converted to pure diplomatic mode. "Your dad's company has donated a lot of money to the Chamber of Commerce and Lions' Club. We sure appreciate it."
"He's such a philanthropist," she said, almost mockingly.
"Yeah, he's a nice guy. Curt, right?"
She nodded. "Well, I'll give you two a moment," she said, cutting him off. "It was nice to finally meet you."
"Likewise," he said.
Arielle turned and gave me a hurry the hell up look and then disappeared out the front door.
My dad lowered back into the wooden kitchen chair. "I'm sorry, hon," he said. "I should have stood up for you yesterday. Your mom was way out of line with all of that crazy talk. You're still so young."
Once again, I was having a serious discussion while caffeine—and sleep—deprived. Seeing that expression of humility on his face only made my own emotions spiral out of control. Humbled or not, he never stuck up for me when it mattered.
Never.
In that moment, I thought about Arielle's kindness. I thought about Donna and her constant, persistent, magnanimous efforts to provide for Mason. Both people were unequivocally good, and nothing ever changed that.
"You don't have to leave," he said. "You can stay here."
"I can't," I said, staring down at the floor.
"You can't?"
"I won't," I said defiantly, maybe even proudly. "Not after what happened yesterday."
"Naomi—"
"No, dad," I said, "it's just too late. You never stood up for me. You never defended me from her hostility. Maybe she would have changed her ways if you actually did something instead of just going behind her back and saying you were on my side. That doesn't stop the emotional abuse. You're just unwilling to upset anyone. You're like a politician—on everyone's side and no one's at the same damn time."
I couldn't believe how angry the words were coming out of me. But this had been bottled up for so long that it basically felt like I was reciting a speech I had practiced a hundred-thousand times in my head.
He seemed to squint at me, actually, like what I had said was so overwhelming that he was blinded. "Naomi, please," he said. "I'm sorry you're upset, but I—"
"No," I said sharply. "You let her say those things to me, and that makes your intentions clear. I'm just a kid for crying out loud. I'm barely an adult at all and you let her... you let her say..." Tears were streaming down my cheeks again, and a powerful sob escaped my throat, interrupting the flow of speech. "Mason is dying and you let her say that stuff. You let her! No kid should ever have to deal with that."
I walked past him into the bathroom and grabbed a huge wad of tissues. He remained silent, his expression stoic, stagnant. I don't think he ever expected me to blow up. "It's too late," I murmured almost under my breath. "It's too late."
Again, I walked past him, and this time, I stopped and grabbed my backpack. "Bye, dad," I said, trying to leave before more tears came. I rushed toward the front door.
"So you're staying at Arielle's?" he called.
"Yes," I said weakly.
"For how long?"
"A long time," I said.
I opened the glass door and stepped outside into the familiar cold.
It was over.
15
I did my best to quickly acclimate to my new life. Arielle let me borrow her car sometimes, and when I couldn't, I used her bike to get to school. It was a pretty short journey either way, but I was still thankful I had options.
That meant I also had a convenient way to get to the hospital to see Mason.
And so the sadness continued.
He kept dying, and I kept coming to see him. Arielle came with me a couple of times—she mostly did it out of respect since he had stuck up for her against Daniel—but told me it was too upsetting in private.
"He was just so... strong, y'know?" she admitted one night. "I can't see him like that. It's too much. It's like a cruel joke by the universe."
I semi-reluctantly accepted her reasoning, because soon, I feared it would be the same for me.
It was also happening with Donna and Dennis to a lesser extent. They kept coming because they had to, because there was no choice. Obligation by blood. Donna seemed to spend the same amount of time outside the hospital smoking as she did in the room with Mason.
There were more strands of grey in her hair than ever. She was clearly deteriorating, not as fast as Mason obviously, but definitely at
an accelerated rate.
Watching your own son die did that to you.
I never told them that I had gotten kicked out of my house; I acted like everything was normal. I knew it would stir up sympathy if they found out, and I didn't want to steal any of their energy from Mason.
He deserved everything he could get.
Mason grew quieter all the time, more reflective than talkative. His voice became weak and hoarse, like it was a huge struggle for him to speak at all. It basically reduced him to someone who merely accepted influence, never giving any back other than through his fragile appearance.
The painkillers made him delirious sometimes, but other than those drugged-up moments of strange lucidity, he usually stayed consistent.
His mom brought him books on world religions, and he finished them unbelievably fast. Her spiritual side seemed to flourish as his life faded away, and she tried to share that with him. She wanted him to feel like his death was serving some bigger purpose.
Maybe it was, or maybe it wasn't. I didn't know.
I never spoke of my religious beliefs because that same guilt was still present all the time, wrapped around my neck like a noose. It was hard to enjoy anything.
The rest of February passed in a blur. Soon, it was March. Mason had outlived all prognoses once again. I finally met Curt, Arielle's dad.
He was suave and sophisticated, almost obnoxiously progressive. He smoked weed with her sometimes, often acting more like a friend than a parent. I wanted to be judgmental of his behavior by default—not many responsible parents did drugs with their kids, after all—but I couldn't.
I still felt he was a better father to her than my own dad was to me.
Curt kept her happy. After he graduated high school, he backpacked Europe for a long time, and he said it helped him figure out what he wanted to do with his life. So he never pressured her to go to college, just to seek out new experiences.
He took us out to fancy dinners and always ensured that Arielle had enough money for the both of us. I was insanely lucky to get kicked out of my own house at eighteen and not have to work nights at a gas station or fast food restaurant to pay the rent for some god-awful one-bedroom apartment overrun by cockroaches.