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Page 11

by Liz Reinhardt; Steph Campbell

“Easy there, killer, I wasn’t going to answer it.” He shakes his head and my outburst.

  I silence the phone and toss it into my purse.

  “Seriously, Whit, I wasn’t going to answer your phone. You don’t have to hide it away.” Deo takes a few steps toward me to close the space between us and pulls me in by my shoulders. He presses his lips to the top of my head like he’s comforting me, but he has no idea why.

  “Okay,” is all I offer. Inside, I’m fighting the urge to recoil and tell him to leave. To stay away from me, because I ruin everything. Because I make brothers make decisions they shouldn’t have to, I make parents choose, I ruin things, I destroy lives. I leave.

  “But, are you going to tell me who Rich and Paula are, at least?” Deo’s mouth is still pressed into my hair as he speaks. He knows I won’t be able to do both-look at him, and open up.

  I shake my head, curling myself tighter to him when I do.

  “Whit…” he breathes into my hair. “It’s not going to change things with us, you opening up a little. You know that right? You can open up a little. Let me know what’s going on. I’m not just here to cook you delicious food and rub your feet. I’m also hear to listen to you gripe about annoying people you don’t want to talk to on the phone. And to keep cats from eating your face, just on the off-chance that any of those furry bastards get any funny ideas.”

  The guilt of my inability to share this simple piece of information without him having to drag it from me while I kick and scream makes me feel like a coward and a fraud. I’m also well aware that we can’t keep existing in our current state of cohabitation. Every single day Deo moves a little closer to my heart, and I try to block him with more defensive shields. One of us is going to press the other too far any day now.

  “It’s nothing. Rich and Paula are my parents. I’m just not in the mood to talk to them.” My words are cold and dull, like I’m some kind of robot.

  Deo stiffens for a second, his shoulders and arms suddenly tight. “Or about them. Or about anything that has to do with your life since you got here. All I know about the girl I share a bed with is that you don’t sleep well at night, you hate to cook, you draw amazing tattoos, give even more amazing head…and that’s not good enough for me, Whit. I want to know you.” He runs his hands up my arms from elbow to shoulder and rubs my neck with quick, gentle pressure, the way he knows will make me goosebumped and ready for him. “Not that I don’t also want to get head, because, and I think I may have told you this a couple thousand times, but I’ll say it again; you have a true gift. Seriously.”

  He slides his hands to my face and squeezes my cheeks until my face is so squished I can barely see his smile through my squeezed eyes. “But what else is there? I know four things about you, and I’m under your spell. Imagine if I knew seven or eight things! I’d be your slave forever.”

  I pull his hands down by the wrists, irritated by his goofiness and doubly irritated by my irritation at him. “There’s nothing to tell, Deo, okay? I had a super boring life before I moved here. I work for Rocko because the hours are perfect, I go to school because I want to have a kick ass job one day. I live in this crappy apartment because I don’t want my parents’ money.” Just drop it, Deo. I can’t go there.

  I can’t tell him that I moved here to escape. That I’m here because here is so far from there, and here I don’t have to relive what I lost every damn day like I had to there, over and over until just the thought of getting out of bed and seeing reminders of him everywhere sapped all of the strength from my body.

  I couldn’t look at the damn poster of Eleanor Roosevelt above my bedroom door that he drew a moustache on and laughed about like a hyena, or the bathroom mirror he cracked when he threw a marble during a tantrum when he was seven, or the tree in the backyard he swore was safe to climb, but wasn’t, and left him with two broken ankles, or the Thunderbird he bought with four years worth of dog-walking and yard-raking money, rotting under the carport where we shared our first bottle of vodka, stolen from our parents’ liquor cabinet by him while I distracted them in the kitchen.

  I couldn’t look at any of it because I’d remember, and it was too raw and painful to have to accept over and over, everyday, that he was gone. For good. No more. Eleanor Roosevelt and the bathroom mirror and the old tree and the Thunderbird and my parents’ vodka would never be disturbed by Wakefield again, because he was dead and gone, and I can’t even add ‘and buried’ to that list in any real sense, because there wasn’t enough of my big, beautiful brother left to put in a box and send home.

  And, as if I didn’t find a million ways to torture myself missing him every damn day, the community we’d grown up in rallied to keep me in eternal misery whether they meant it or not. Every time someone back home saw me, they’d get this look on their face. First it was horror, like what had happened to me was somehow contagious, like you could catch having a dead brother. Then it was guilt, because my brother got blown to hell for their freedom and all that. Then it was one of two things. If I was really, super lucky, the friend or neighbor or former shop teacher would suddenly get really interested in a sale on peaches or concentrate on walking their dog or see someone they knew and had to talk to right away. If I wasn’t lucky, if the guilt was too heavy for them, they’d amble over with long, sad faces. Faces Wakefield would have laughed at. And trap me with stupid, bumbling words that made me sad and furious and tired and guilty all at once. Day after day.

  Wakefield would have hated it. Hated the whole thing. My brother had the brains and the looks in my family, lucky bastard, and, to top it off, he was a riot. Seriously, I cannot remember a holiday or birthday when Wakefield didn’t have me laughing so hard, I was snotting sparkling grape juice or cake icing out of my nose. Our parents used to complain that they couldn’t take us to movies or plays or church because we were always doubled over, giggling like two fools no matter what was going on on the screen or stage or in the pulpit. I know most kids cried during Bambi, and I have no clue what Wakefield said that made a mama deer getting shot in cold blood hilarious, but that movie is still classified as a comedy in my brain.

  How the hell did he die?

  How did something so full of life suddenly wind up empty of life?

  And how have I managed to keep going now that he’s gone?

  My hands shake, my stomach churns, and my head swims. I know exactly how I managed to keep going. By pushing it all out of my head.

  I drag my Wakefield memories into the middle of my brain, dump them in a huge chest, and slam the lid shut. That’s how it has to be. Period.

  Deo pulls back from me and leans down so that our foreheads are touching.

  “You’re the only girl I’ve ever met that doesn’t have any pictures out. You don’t answer your phone when your parents call. You don’t ever talk about home. It all points to one thing, Whit. You’re hiding something. So what is it?”

  -Thirteen—

  Deo

  There’s something epically depressing about cooking a girl a romantic celebration meal and ending up alone in the kitchen putting the leftovers in questionable Tupperware instead of rolling around in the sheets with said girl.

  But that’s what I’m doing, because Whit doesn’t like people pawing around in her life and I’m like that cat that got all fucked up by curiosity.

  By the way, I guarantee that stupid curious cat wound up yowling from the top of some junkyard fence, lonely, with a raging set of blue balls. If he wasn’t dead. Or eating someone’s face.

  I shake my head to clear it of all cat-related thoughts and try to put together a plan. Whit said she needed ‘space,’ which seems like a colossally bad sign to me. Isn’t ‘I need space’ the universal couples equivalent of ‘I need you to pack your shit and get out of my life’?

  I have no clue, since I’ve never really done this couple thing. I’m winging it and brilliant plan number one is just to keep busy and hope she cools off and comes back. But there are only so many dishes I can wash or p
iles of junk I can move around before I start to get antsy and wonder where the fuck Whit went. She grabbed her keys and her wallet off the table, but left her purse, which has her phone in it. So she’s driving around, possibly pissed and upset, with no phone.

  I definitely hate all of this.

  I decide to do a drive-by of Rocko’s. If her car is there, I’ll know she’s safe and come back. I can stay on the couch until she kicks me out or wants sweaty make-up sex. I’m seriously hoping for the latter. My brain is spinning jokes to keep things light and help aid in my anti-panic plot, but all comedy and calm goes flying out the fucking window when I’ve circled the parking lot for the second time and realize Whit isn’t here.

  Maybe she’s at the beach. But she’s scared of sharks, so she’s not swimming, and I told her how the cretin fucking crackheads troll the shitty areas at night and to stay away. I wonder if she listened to me.

  Maybe she’s just cruising around, clearing her head. But her fucking Lebaron gets dick gas mileage, and she doesn’t usually have money to waste on that.

  Maybe she called Ryan.

  For a minute I lose my trademark calm and smash my hands on the steering wheel over and over, screaming like a fucking maniac. I don’t give a goddamn who sees me or what they think. This is about Whit, my Whit, out somewhere, possibly not safe, and I’m feeling so out of control, I don’t really know what to do.

  I’m either going to break my steering wheel or my hand, so I kick the door open and closed and stalk into Rocko’s store. He’s just finishing giving some cougar a tramp stamp when he sees my face and asks the woman, “Would you mind waiting a minute?”

  She looks me up and down, and I can practically hear her purr across the shop. Painful flashbacks of my cabana days punch me upside the head. Rocko has me by the shoulders in a minute flat.

  “Deo. You look like you saw a ghost. Everything okay?” He stares at me, and I can’t get the words out for a minute. “Is Marigold alright? Your grandfather?”

  I nod twice, and when I manage to find my voice, I have to tear it out of my throat. “Whit.”

  His eyes go wide. “Doreen,” he calls over his shoulder. “I have a family emergency. If you could be a sweetheart and let me finish tomorrow, I’ll do the color on your shoulder piece for free.”

  “You got it, baby.” Doreen slides off the table and saunters out, but not before she gives Rocko a sticky kiss and shoves a scrap of paper in my jeans pocket. I’m sure it has her name and number on it, and I’m also sure I’m never, ever going to look at it.

  Rocko is already flipping the lights off and turning the sign to closed. “You want to take my car?” he asks.

  “Yeah. I came over in the Jeep, but it’s sort of low on gas at the moment. I don’t mind stopping to fill up if we need.” Rocko says we’ll just take his car, and I don’t even bother to lock my doors. My Jeep will be fine in front of Rocko’s well-lit shop. Plus that, I know this area backward and forward, and have more than a few car thieves in my band of merry friends. It’ll stay put.

  I jump into Rocko’s cherry-red Camaro. “When did you last see her?” He pulls onto the highway and heads for the beach.

  “An hour ago. I made dinner for her, and it was all going alright until she got a call from her parents she wouldn’t take. I asked a question or two, and you know Whit.” I shrug and lean my forehead on the passenger window of his car, watching the bright white of the lights shine intermittently into the interior.

  “I do. Know Whit.” Rocko’s voice is calm and cool. “Deo, how much did she tell you about her parents?”

  “Um, let’s see. I learned their names today. And I know she’s living in a shithole because she won’t take their money.” I lean my head back on the seat. “I don’t think I’m being all weird about things, you know? It’s normal to want to know things about someone else, right? Someone you care about?”

  Rocko nods and runs a hand over his slicked-back hair. “It’s normal. It is. But Whit is…look, I’ve never met anyone with as much need for control as Whit has. That girl is dealing with a ton of shit that would buckle you and me. But she just plows on. I don’t know how she doesn’t collapse.”

  I don’t tell Rocko that I know exactly when she does collapse. It’s when she falls into bed at night, shaking with exhaustion and shuddering in my arms all night long. “So, what is it? What’s the big secret she can’t tell me?” I look at him, his mouth pulled down in the dim light. “Her parents are satanists? She was kidnapped at birth? Drugs? Sex? Rock n’ roll? Give me a hint at least.”

  “You know that isn’t my story to tell. I want her to tell you. I think you kids make a hell of a lotta sense together. But whether she tells you or not isn’t my decision.” He’s about to say more when his phone beeps. He switches on the speaker. “Marigold!”

  “Hey babe.” Her voice is a low, scratchy whisper. “I just wanted you to know that Whit is here and she’s fine, but she may not make it to work tomorrow. She’s had a really rough night.”

  Rocko looks my way, his eyes bugged out, and I shake my head, letting him know he should keep quiet about me being in the car. “Um, did she mention what happened, Mari?”

  “Just that she’s been dealing with a lot. Poor thing. She’s overworked and overwhelmed. I thought Deo was staying at her place, but maybe he went back to check on his grandpa? Anyway, she’s going to stay the night with me. I’m going to run her a lavender bath and give her a massage. She has the back of a fifty year old drill sergeant! I thought she and Deo were doing the dirty work at the crossroads if you know what I mean, but she’s so tense! I think she needs to get lai—”

  “Uh, someone just came in to the shop. A customer. Just walked in. So I should go, Mari.” Rocko does not make eye-contact with me, and I’m grateful.

  “I gotta go, too. I didn’t want Whit to know I was calling. She’s all about being independent and that whole liberated woman thing. But you, my love? Get ready to park your yacht in hair harbor later tonight!” My mom’s whisper is all kinds of dirty and so wrong, I wish for ear and brain bleach to cleanse it all away.

  “You bet! Will do! Gotta go, baby!” Rocko fumbles to end the call, and I consider that he might wind up driving us off the road in a fiery car crash.

  After hearing that little convo with my mother, it doesn’t seem like such a bad end to my night. Rocko u-turns and takes me back to the shop. Now that I know Whit is safe, I expect to feel relieved, but it’s more like I’m deflated.

  “Sorry about all that with your mom—” Rocko starts, but I wave my hand at him in a desperate plea for him to allow me to begin the immediate process of forgetting.

  “It’s cool. I know you two, er, are adults. And thanks for covering for me.” I rub my eyes. “I have no fucking clue what to do now. What do you think?”

  “I know you’re not going to love hearing this.” Rocko looks over at me and gives me this sad, sorry little smile. “I think you’re gonna have to give her time. And, you know I can’t tell you without Whit’s permission, but let me just say, what she’s going through is real. It’s the kind of thing people spend their entire lives trying to get over.” He pulls up next to my Jeep and cuts the engine. “And I meant what I said about you two. I’m rooting for you guys to figure this all out.”

  I clap my hand on his shoulder, appreciative that he gave me advice, even if I have no plans on taking it. I like Rocko. Even if he and my mother are near constant breakers of the TMI code. “Thanks, man. I appreciate the ride.”

  I get in the Jeep and think about taking a long, fast cruise along the twining ocean roads, but I don’t feel like bothering to fill the tank, and I’m exhausted anyway. I’m old-man tired, and I consider going to my grandpa’s house to revel in my codger-dom, but the only place that I feel like going to is Whit’s apartment.

  I know I made a mistake as soon as I open the door and walk in. Without Whit, this is just an overcrowded, cluttered, dirty little depressing space. I pace back and forth, tempted to dri
ve to my mother’s house, when I notice her laptop open on the coffee table.

  I don’t go through other peoples’ shit.

  I don’t do it because it’s disrespectful, and also because I don’t care to dig for information on people who just don’t matter all that much.

  But Whit matters. She matters more than anyone else ever has. And I care. So much.

  So much that I break my own moral code and click the machine on. It was in sleep-mode, so I don’t have to be a dirtbag and try to figure out her password. I can just be a dirtbag and spy on her shit.

  There’s an icon for a web browser at the bottom of her page, and when I click on it, some super boring anthropology article pops up. Blah blah wedding practices around the world. I open a tab and type in ‘Facebook.’ I have a page I haven’t logged into or checked in a few years, but girls tend to like this stuff better.

  My intention is to log-in as myself and search for Whit. But I’m not sure if I can even remember my password after all this time. And her user name is already in. And the little password box is filled with circles, like the computer automatically saved her information. I click the log-in button like I’m having an out-of-body experience, and a picture of her with the long, wavy hair that she has in her ID photo pops up. She’s not really looking at the camera and not really smiling. It’s a picture that makes me sad for reasons I can’t put my finger on.

  I quickly find that Whit and I have one thing in common. Neither one of us checks our Facebook account often.

  I click her ‘information,’ but I already know her gender and birthday and the fact that she loves Eleanor Roosevelt quotes and zombies and is scared of sharks.

  She has no photo albums set up.

  Her last update was months before, something about naked Ewoks. So she’s a Star Wars geek? And aren’t Ewoks always naked? I’ll have to find a non-incriminating way to bring it up.

  The rest of her page is mind-numbingly boring. A tiny part of me feels letdown that I threw my morals to the wind for this disappointing lack of anything substantial.

 

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