by Kara Storti
I set my sister down on the couch and kneel next to her. I’m not sure if I should take what’s left of her sunglasses off her face (God, the little screws are in her eye too) or if that would hurt her more, so I don’t do anything. I grab her hand and tell her it’s going to be okay, but she’s staring straight up with her right eye—she doesn’t even nod. I’m dizzy with panic and because I don’t know what else to do, I start talking to her about birds, her limp hand in my shaky one.
“Do you know hummingbirds are the only birds that can fly backward and sideways? Have you ever seen one up close? You should. I’ll take you with me to bird-watch. I promise I’ll let you come with me from now on, okay? Okay?”
I’m stumbling over my words and my lips are so numb I can barely move them. I squeeze her hand, and thank God she squeezes back. I rest my forehead against the edge of the couch because I’m so so so relieved. She can communicate. She’s still with me. The birds help. They always do.
“I bet you didn’t know that there are poisonous birds. The pitohui has skin and feathers that contain poison that can kill you upon contact. Well, that’s a lie, I don’t think it would kill you, but it might make your skin numb or something. Interesting, right? Also, in case you were wondering, turkeys can have heart attacks. I’m serious. The air force was doing test runs and fields of turkeys dropped dead because their hearts gave out from fear.”
I pray she doesn’t hear the skittishness of my voice. At least I’m talking and she’s listening. Ignore the blood. Ignore the pieces of plastic lodged in her eye. Birds, birds, birds until the ambulance arrives, which feels like forever and then some, and even after they put her on the stretcher, my mind is still running away with bird facts and images of them, different colors, wingspans, all of them flying so high, so far, that nothing else matters but clouds and blue and Faith.
Pop and I ride with Faith in the ambulance and watch the paramedics give her oxygen and wrap her in a blanket because she’s shivering. I take her hand again, and it’s lifeless for a few moments . . . one second . . . two seconds . . . three seconds . . . four . . . then she squeezes my hand five times, and for some reason I know that she’s giving me five letters, B-I-R-D-S, so I’m at it again, going through another file of facts, eagles, egrets, and emus, and this time I don’t care what Pop thinks about it, I don’t care if he thinks I’m not a man, because I like feathers and beaks and chirps.
I don’t care, because birds are freedom.
They’re strength.
And though they fly, they anchor too. They anchor us both.
Chapter Fourteen
Someone is shaking me, saying Flynn, Flynn, Flynn. I get slapped across the face. I think I’m drooling. When I open my eyes, Mike is jostling me around, he’s all agitated but I can’t decide if he’s agitated pissed or agitated thrilled. I’m trying to process the memory, the most painful of any . . . she was in the hospital for a week . . . she didn’t want a glass eye . . . Mom didn’t talk for seven straight days . . . this is not how the drug is supposed to work and what if Mike had a similar trip? His meaty fingers are digging into my shoulders.
“Where the hell did you get that shit? It can’t be Early’s. This is 110 percent pure, this . . . blue stuff. It’s darker than what he has. He must have improved on it or something. That’s gotta be it,” he says, he’s bubbly, energetic, bouncing off the walls. “You ain’t kidding. You ain’t kidding at all. I had the best . . .” he swipes his hand over his brow, and his lip starts trembling. Nelson, who’s been sitting on the kitchen counter the whole time, I guess, is wide-eyed and anxious.
“Are you crying?” Nelson asks Mike.
Mike slams his fist on the table. “Fuck yeah, I’m crying. These are tears of joy. I have reached my paradise, my Buddha state, all because of this little dude.” He’s shaking his head, still not believing. I’m still out of it. My hands hurt. I look down. A tiny piece of hot pink plastic is stuck to my palm. I start breathing so hard I’m close to hyperventilating. I say my sister’s name, I say bird names, all in Latin, it comes to me fast, and . . . what am I doing? It can’t be Early’s . . . That’s what Mike said. What does that mean? Befuddlement, ten times over, the pink piece in my hand, I touch it, move it around because I’m too stunned to do anything else. It takes a bit for me to realize what it means, what I have in my possession, that it might be a part of Faith’s sunglasses. But then again I could have grabbed something off the kitchen table, there has to be a rational explanation, there has to be . . .
I shake my hand and watch the piece fall to the floor. I let out a groan that has Nelson grabbing for something in his pocket. Mike isn’t on earth for the time being and therefore isn’t questioning my behavior at all, and this makes Nelson stand down. If he pulled out a gun, maybe I would have welcomed it, maybe I need it to shock me out of this . . . eeriness? I put my head on the table, covering myself with my arms. It’s too much.
“So when do we start?” Mike asks.
My mind is foggy and the aftereffects don’t feel at all like the first time I did the drug. There’s no euphoria, no burst of energy. This is worse than a heroin comedown. I want to go away, I’ll pull a Thoreau and let the woods take me, and I won’t come back. I got Mike over here delirious and making no sense, rambling on about Victoria, a kiss, a night of perfection. I couldn’t care less.
“I don’t have the product. I told you,” I say, trying to get my thoughts together but I can’t, there are still too many flashes from that day. After we took Faith to the hospital, she had her first seizure, with pink plastic and metal still stuck in her eye. Doctors thought it was a one-time thing as a result of the trauma. Didn’t put her on any medication—at first.
I come back to the present. I emphasize to Mike, “I’m trying to find the product. Thought you would have a tip on it. But now you’re saying Early. Who’s Early?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, what are you talking about? Find the product?” He frowns, disbelieving. Does he have amnesia or something?
“I told you from the beginning that I’m looking for it.” I grasp the edge of the table out of frustration. Seriously? He’s pulling this crap on me? He’s really forgotten?
But Mike isn’t listening. He’s gazing at the ceiling like he sees the face of God up there. His fingers are tapping real fast on his knees. Something’s not right. Mike’s not right. Then he smiles and it seems genuine, brand new. He’s never smiled like this before, and it surprises Nelson so much he flinches as if he’s been slapped.
“I swear to you. Best I’ve ever tried. Best. Ever. The first time we met—me and Victoria. She made me feel smart. Loved. I took her out for ice cream, she kissed me.” He holds his hand up to his face, one side of it marked with a pink smear. Nah, can’t be what I think it is, nah, there’s no possible way that’s a lipstick smear, an actual remnant of his memory that appeared out of nowhere. It’s got to be a trick of light, a splotch on his face. Mike’s eyes are all dreamy. Probably the first and last time I’ll see him glow. “We didn’t even fuck on the first date. We talked. More than I had ever talked to a woman in my life.”
Mike gets up and he’s cheering her name, Vic, Vic, Victoria!
“Mike, you feeling okay?” Nelson asks.
“I don’t think I could feel any better. Finn. Product. Now.” He gives me an accusatory but possibly desperate look.
“I’m not gonna keep repeating myself. I told you—” I get up to leave but he’s too fast, he’s got his hand around my neck, a huge clammy hand that squeezes, tighter and tighter.
“You’re lying,” he says.
“Am not,” I croak.
He wrestles me out of the chair by my neck, and I feel the little tendons and muscles and whatever else is in me stretch to their limit, the floor is hard, tile, really nice tile, and he’s dragging me further into the back of the house, I’m kicking, reaching, grabbing chairs, carpet, walls, anything I can.
“Nelson . . . Nelson, you gonna talk some sense into Mike here?” I holler
. Nelson isn’t processing fast enough for me. He hasn’t even jumped down from the kitchen counter, he’s probably still floored by Mike’s behavior. Mike is babbling on and on about how I’m hiding the product from him, how I’m deceiving him, and how I’ve always been a manipulative little dickhole. And here I thought we were on better terms.
I bat my hands around so that he’ll let up but I can’t reach him and I swear he’s stretching my neck out, it’s getting longer, I’m telling you, and his hands are getting stronger by the second. My sight is fuzzing up around the edges. I reach. I miss. I reach. I miss again. Out of control flailing. Maybe the knife really isn’t around my calf. Maybe I imagined that it was there.
One last chance before I black out.
Faith, I think. If I could go back to that day, I would have saved you. Maybe I could have done something different.
It takes my remaining pathetic strength to grasp for my knife on my leg and ram it into Mike’s foot. I feel the bone push aside, it creaks, but it doesn’t crack. Mike yelps and falls to the floor, holding onto his foot. It takes me a few seconds to get to my feet, I’m feeling dizzy, out of control. Nelson appears, but I’m already shoving, running past him and out the door, toward my car, man, my hooptie’s never looked so good, trip over a bush, land on my knees but the adrenaline has me up in a hot second, in my car now, where are the keys, fuck, I’m patting down my pockets, no keys, no keys, shit, shit, shit. Nelson is tearing through the door, the keys are in the ignition, dumbass, turn quick, throw it in reverse, backing out of the driveway before the car door is even shut, Nelson yelling, raging, chucking rocks at my car as I zoom up the road.
There are no yellow finches on the way back to D-Town. There are just crows, crows, and more crows, pecking at nothing on the side of the road, their black marble eyes hostile and unblinking.
Who the fuck is Early? And what did Mike mean when he talked about my having darker blue stuff?
Chapter Fifteen
It’s late afternoon when I get home, and I don’t want to talk to anyone, I just want to take an oxy and go to sleep. Peter has left five messages, Bryce has texted me twelve times, and the first thing my mother says to me when I get through the door is: “Some girl is waiting for you in your room. The one with the nose ring. Who doesn’t wear underwear. She thinks I don’t notice, but I do.”
Mom is drinking wine, flipping through one of her home goods magazines. The peacefulness of the scene is actually soothing, how mundane and leisurely. Sometimes Mom has this effect on me—her state of surrender at times makes me jealous. If only I could accept the cards that I’ve been dealt, if only I didn’t have such fight in me. There’s a lot to process and who knows when Mike’s crew will show up and exact revenge.
“Where’s Pop?” I ask.
“Where do you think he is?” she says. I have no desire to see him after reliving that terrible memory, so I’m relieved to know he’s not around. She pats the couch seat next to her. “Come sit by your old mom before you go in to see that girl.”
I do, because I don’t want to see Penelope. She’s one those needy girls that gets on your nerves after three seconds, but she’s easy and always there. From where we sit, Mom’s packages are stacked up high; it didn’t take her long after the yard sale to fill the trailer up again—even more so than before—but I know better than to say anything about it.
“I’m worried about you,” she says, taking a big gulp of her wine. She stares at the bruises on my neck.
“Ditto.”
We sit in silence. Why did I get that memory instead of the fort one? Why the worst memory of my life? What did I do to deserve this? Is the universe sending me some kind of message? Like, Finn, you’re a shithead, you try to get people hooked so you can make money and we’re punishing you, muahahaha!
I’m so jonesin’ for a high. The need comes on so fast.
“You’re going to stay around and take care of me, won’t you? I know you will, you’re the man of the family now, my little boy.” She nods and rests her head on my shoulder. I don’t shrug her off. On another day I would have, but tonight the heaviness of her head, the heaviness of her is better than mine, and I can take comfort in that, as douche-y as that may sound.
Oh, my surroundings. My home. There have been too many times I’ve tried convincing myself that there aren’t that many boxes and they aren’t stacked up that high, and my mother only has a mild problem with it. She didn’t used to always be like this, or at least that’s what I remember when I was really young, when I had an imaginary friend and believed in the tooth fairy. I have a memory of her fixing up the trailer when we first moved in—she spent hours organizing all the cabinets to determine the best arrangement of cups, plates, pots, and pans; it took her careful deliberation to pick out the yellow ruffled curtains for the living room and for the tiny window above the sink. Pop even complimented her on her decorating prowess, and the beam that ensued from Mom was enough to put the radiance of the yellow curtains to shame.
Then Dad got out of shape, lost his charisma, couldn’t sell cars for shit anymore. The drinking began soon after that, and so did the cheating. Mom reacted by almost shopping herself to death; such a sad cry for attention barely heard over the growing walls of packages.
“When you going to get yourself a girlfriend?” she asks, smoothing my hair behind my ear. “I want me some grandchildren one day.”
My mind goes straight to Stacey. Not that I’m itching to be her baby daddy, but I could picture her as my girlfriend, holding her hand, hanging out by her locker, and kissing her on the cheek before she heads to class. Something steady and simple would be nice for once.
“Aw, Mom, don’t even go there. Besides, I have plenty of girlfriends. Penelope is in my room right now.” I wave in that direction.
She squishes her face up in disgust. “She’s just your little plaything.” Her hand smacks my kneecap. “Not your girlfriend. You’re just like your father.”
Oh hell no. It’s my turn for disgust. I sit up straight. “I’m not like him. I won’t ever be like him.”
There is power in my voice, power coursing through me, I’m fighting so hard to separate myself from him because he’s nothing to me. He’s made Mom this way, he’s made Faith her way, and he’s made me . . . he won’t make me anything. I’ve got a lead on the drug and that’s all that counts right now. Early is the key. No doubt I can track down this cat—my list of contacts is from here to the moon. Yes. Finally, a small break.
Mom sighs and leans away from me, knowing our moment has passed. She’ll have to go to the restaurant soon to wait tables—a restaurant I make sure not to frequent no matter what. The last time I saw the inside of that place was when Pop dragged me and Faith there as little kids to ask Mom for some money. Probably to buy some liquor. Mom didn’t look surprised.
“You and your declarations,” she says as she gets up, pours herself another glass of wine, and turns on the television.
-----
The door to my room is open a crack, smoke wafting through, the smell strong and inconsiderate. I have my peeps smoke up in my room all the time, but in this case, I wasn’t there to give her permission. Faith will especially disapprove once she knows it was Penelope.
“Hey,” Penelope says, putting her pipe down on the nightstand. Usually she’d greet me with more enthusiasm, but there is none of that today. “You just killed my high.”
“I think you should leave. I want to be alone.” I don’t care that my tone is brusque. Her half-shut eyes smile but her mouth stays flat. She doesn’t move. “Did you hear what I just said?”
“I’ve got something to tell you.”
Where is it, I’m thinking, rummaging through my socks in the bureau, searching through the drawer of the nightstand my sister never uses. My hand brushes up against the plastic bottle of oxys. Ah, yes, thank God. My body is trembling for it—I won’t be able to concentrate without it. I pop a few in my mouth, hold them against my hot tongue as they dissolve. The
buzz slinks through my veins; their effect is holy.
“Sharing is caring,” Penelope says, reaching for a pill. I give her one. I’m seeing nirvana around the bend, so I’ll do what she wants. Makes no difference to me. I catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror on the closet door and it isn’t pretty. Bruises and welts on my neck, shadows under my eyes. I can’t believe I stabbed that bastard in the foot, shit, I’m kind of proud of myself for such a blatant display of testicular gumption. Maybe it will get around; people need to know I’m a force to reckoned be with.
“Thanks,” she says. “We’re both going to need it once I tell you what I gotta tell you.”
I glance down at Penelope’s Doc Martens. She didn’t take off her shoes when she curled up on the bed. Unbelievable.
“What’s going on?” I ask, already bored, wanting to be alone.
She takes a hit from her bowl, blows the smoke out slow. The cloud’s so dense it’s impressive. I guess the high of the oxy isn’t enough for her, and for a moment I sympathize. I know how that feels.
“Bryce’s in jail. The cops got him, Finny.” I try to ignore her high-pitched almost baby voice and concentrate on what she’s telling me. Keep your cool. Let the buzz do it for you.
“What do you mean he’s in jail?” I say, and then when I realize what I’m asking, I yell before she can answer. So long unflappable me. “How the hell did he end up there? What did you do? How did you screw things up? You fools can’t do anything right! I give you one assignment, one single assignment, and one of you already got busted. Dumbasses. That’s what you all are. A bunch of dumbasses who will never graduate high school, who will never succeed. I should have known, I should have just done this myself . . .” On and on I go. It’s just letting off steam, I tell myself, it’s something I need to do, vent, and it’s okay when you’re surrounded by incompetency.
Penelope is on the verge of tears. She recounts how the East Avenue knock-spot got busted by some cops who got a lead, and Bryce (who had a couple joints on him) happened to be there at the wrong place at the wrong time, carrying out his assignment. Penelope managed to hit the road before she got caught. Five guys were cuffed and thrown in jail for marijuana and cocaine possession. They confiscated a ridiculous amount of heroin. I thought the po-po had given up on D-Town, a place that is and will always and forever be bloated with drugs. There’s got to be a new cop in town or something.