Paint My Body Red

by Heidi R. Kling

  “Jake? Sure does. He’s been living here since he graduated high school. Easier to have him close.”

  Should I ask which cabin? No. No. Don’t ask. Why would you need to know that?

  Again, as if she can read my mind, Anna answers my question. “His is the one closest to the river. When he was moving in, I said it’s the longest walk to the house, but he said he prefers the peace and quiet.” She shrugs. “He used to like to get to the good fish before the other hands. That’s not so much a problem anymore.”

  “Yeah,” I say. That sounded like Jake—both the Jake I met as a kid, and the sane, balanced person I’m getting to know now. Too bad he thinks I’m a crazy person.

  I’m riding shotgun, but then, once we get to the stop sign, I switch so I can sit by Dad. His chair is in the second row, locked into a device keeping him still and safe.

  We bounce along the road, and I alternately joke around and fuss over him.

  “Don’t mind him,” Anna says. “He’s fine.”

  “You sure? Because all of these bumps…won’t they loosen up his tubes or anything?”

  “They’re in there pretty good,” she says. “Don’t annoy him or he won’t treat us to lunch.” She winks at Dad in the rearview mirror.

  “Fine, fine.” I squeeze Dad’s hand.

  It’s quiet for a few minutes before I ask. “Did his dad work on the ranch before? I think I remember him from when I was a kid.”

  Anna knows exactly whom I’m asking about.

  “Sure did. Good man, his daddy. Was killed when Jake was a boy.”

  “Oh my god. How?”

  “Rodeo. Bull accident. He was one of the best in Jackson. Tragic shame.”

  Shaking her head, Anna lifts her hand from the wheel and does the sign of the cross. Out of habit, I do, too, even though, outside of funerals, I haven’t gone to church in forever.

  “Poor Jake. That’s so sad.”

  No wonder he’s so caring with Dad. It made so much sense now, what he said about my dad telling him stories, mentoring him. Teaching him how to let the wild trout go. Now he’s teaching him how to run the ranch. Boy to man—he practically raised him. And did a damn good job of it, too.

  “His mama took it really hard. Turned to the drink, bless her heart. Jake got himself into a bit of trouble, too, without parents looking after him, and your daddy here, out of respect for Jake Senior, took Jake under his wing and looked after him.”

  All this new information about Jake has me reeling. He isn’t as simple as I thought. His life isn’t as black and white. Where is his mom now? Is she sober or still drinking? Does Jake have a relationship with her at all? My mouth opens to ask a follow up question, or ten, but Anna flips on a local radio station. Country music strums into the van through archaic speakers on the dash, and I clamp my lips closed, taking this as her non-subtle way of telling me she’s done talking. She hums along, quietly at first, and then bursts into full-on song.

  I listen for a minute before I say, “You have a great voice.”

  “Thank you,” she says, confidently accepting the compliment. I like that she doesn’t deny it with mock humility the way some people tend to do. Instead, she keeps on singing. When the song ends and an ad replaces it, she flips the radio off.

  “Did you ever try to do anything with it?” I ask. “Pursue a singing career or something?”

  At that, she bursts out laughing. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m quite satisfied with what I’m doing here with your daddy, Paige.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Really.” Her voice sharpens. She glances back to see if Dad heard. His eyes are closed but I’m not sure if he’s listening or not.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to imply you aren’t happy on the ranch. I meant, you know, earlier in life. I know people way less talented than you who try out for American Idol and The Voice and stuff.” I pick at the sparkles on my tank top.

  She pushes the dial on the radio again. Another country song pops on, this one a scratchy male voice.

  “Who is this singing?” She is so good to Dad, I feel like I need to give her more of a chance. Get to know her better at least.

  “Not sure. Probably someone who went on American Idol or The Voice or one of those shows,” she says with a snarky lilt to her voice.

  “You have those shows here?”

  “Paige, we own a ranch, we don’t live in the Dark Ages. We did get a DVD player a few years back. A major improvement. Course he made me buy all his favorites for that machine, and then they invented Blu-ray.”

  “At home, everyone streams everything.”

  “Streams?”

  “Netflix and stuff?” I try.

  “Don’t know it.”

  “And you probably don’t need to.”

  She shrugs and I smile to myself, looking out the window. She’s sort of the perfect match for my dad, and I’m glad he’s found her.

  Ten minutes and as many miles rumble by as I stare out the open window, chin resting on folded arms. I watch my reflection in the side mirror as places zip by behind us. My hair whips around my face. It already seems dryer from high-altitude sun, a shade lighter. Without makeup, my eyes peering through the strips of tumbling hair look quieter, softer, my skin a shade darker, too. My face isn’t so gaunt; even though I’ve only been here a bit over a week, my cheeks are filling out from the hearty ranch food, the good milk, the nine-hour sleeps, and the fresh air. If I had stayed at home, nothing would’ve changed. I’d be lying on my bed staring up at the ceiling…or worse.

  When she speaks again, her voice startles me. “Why is it always so hard for you city slickers to understand? You don’t have to be chasing something in order to be happy.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Jackson Hole’s downtown looks like an Old West movie colliding with an upscale tourist destination, which is essentially what it is. Thai restaurants, fancy salons, and boutiques blend easily with authentic steak houses and Western saloons.

  Anna pulls the van into an open handicapped parking spot next to a wooden planked sidewalk. I jump out and wait by the side of the van while Dad’s lowered on a metal platform onto the sidewalk.

  “We always park here. Great height to unload Gus,” Anna says, cheerfully.

  “What can I do to help?” I ask.

  “Just don’t get in my way,” she says with a wink.

  Does that mean she isn’t cross with me anymore?

  “Hey, Paige? We’re glad you’re here.”

  Her words stop me in my tracks. I think I mutter thank you, but I turn my face away from hers, stare instead into a closed store window at a wood carved Native American greeting me with his open palm. I blink away a grateful tear before turning around and following my dad and Anna.

  After a long lunch at a smoke-filled steak house with a blasting jukebox and a waitress that looked like she walked off the set of an indie film, I excuse myself and head outside.

  I turn on my cell phone for the first time in what feels like forever. Sure enough, I have reception in town. Three bars of it.

  I dial my mother’s number.

  “Paige! Finally! I’ve left you dozens of messages!”

  I hold the phone away from my ear, push speaker, and talk into that instead. “Sorry. I have horrible reception at the ranch. This is my first time in town since I got here.”

  She sighs. “You could use the landline. Or email.”

  True.

  “I’m glad to hear your voice, finally. How are you?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Good, good.”

  Not knowing what to say next, I stare at the shops lining the street. Anna said most people go to church Sunday morning, and then they spend the rest of the day with their families. Church. I know like three people total who still go to church. Only the one steak house is open for lunch, one clothing store, and a couple of brunch places. I hang my ankles over the steps, studying the webs cracking throug
h my blue leather boots.

  I agreed to the ankle ones, even though the high ones did look sort of cool. I considered the red ones, but Anna and Dad said I looked better in blue.

  “Mom?”

  “I’m here, Paige.”

  I look around to make sure nobody is listening. “What do Dad and Anna and Jake know about me? About what happened?”

  “Who is Jake?”

  “He works for Dad, he picked me up at the airport.”

  “Well, I don’t know him, so as far as I know, he knows what Anna told him.”

  “So you know Anna?”

  “Not personally, but I spoke with her on the phone to arrange your visit. Since she actually answers the landline at the ranch”—insert innuendo—“I’ve talked to her several times since you’ve arrived.”

  “Mom! You pretended not to know I was okay.”

  “You think I’m going to be completely out of touch with your well-being, Paige? You weren’t answering your cell, so of course I called Anna. We talk daily.”

  I hate the thought of them discussing me like I’m some little kid. Matching her fiery tone, I snap, “So you knew about Dad and didn’t tell me.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “You knew he couldn’t talk? You knew he was in a wheelchair? Mom, he is breathing with a respirator!”

  “Yes.”

  I click my heels together. “How could you not tell me?”

  “You knew he was sick, Paige. You knew he wasn’t getting better.”

  “That’s no excuse! Mom, I had no idea he was this bad! We’re downtown and we drove here in a van equipped for wheelchairs. He can’t even talk. I can’t understand him. How could you not at least warn me?”

  She’s quiet for a second. Then she says in this horrible filled-with-truth voice, “I had to get you out of town, get you somewhere safe, away from here where you’d have people to look after you…”

  Jake. Anna. Dad.

  “And,” her voice softens with guilt, “I was afraid you wouldn’t have agreed to go if you knew how bad it was.”

  My throat burns. “That’s not fair.”

  “Think about me being here, Paige. Here without you.” Her voice cracks. I don’t want her to cry. I’d rather her be mean, feisty. Vulnerable, undone mom slays me. “Do you think that’s fair?”

  “No,” I admit.

  The mess I left her is even bigger than mine.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Then

  “It might be my fault,” I confessed to Ty.

  “What?” he asked casually, as if I hadn’t been ignoring him for two months, ever since I heard the terrible rumor about him.

  “Elena.”

  Ty, splayed against the giant couch in the den, arms folded behind his head like wings, studied me. I thought about what Elena called him—the Devil. That I was Dancing with the Devil, and here he was splayed out like an angel. Truth was I missed him. I missed our talks. I missed the way he seemed to understand me in a way no one else did. It was stupid to reengage after hearing the rumors, but I didn’t care. Not anymore. She was gone now. Devil be damned.

  “Why would you think that?” His voice was sardonic and annoyed, but not judge-y. Not of me, anyway.

  “I said something really horrible to her.”

  “What’d you say?”

  I filled him in about my comment about jumping in front of a train.

  “Paige, not trying to be a dick here, but do you really think someone would kill themselves because some girl made a bitchy comment?”

  “But the train, Ty, I basically said if you don’t get into college you’ll kill yourself—and then she—” I tried to swallow but couldn’t. “Maybe, did I give her the idea?”

  I buried my face in the extra-stuffed pillow. It smelled like his hair gel. A smell I was starting to not hate. I tossed it away. I had to remind myself that he was dangerous, that he was my stepbrother. I stepped up to go, but I couldn’t stop watching him play this game. Ever since the funeral, I made sure I was home when he was showering. He was like clockwork with his shower: after school, but before dinner. He said his mom, before she left, was into the family coming to the dinner table in top form. It was a tradition he continued still, even though my mom and his dad didn’t care if I showed up to the table in pajamas. We only ate together maybe once a week anyway, and that was just delivery on paper plates. Who had time for a family dinner? Ty did. He wanted to anyway.

  So I’d stand outside in the hall and listen to him sing. Some of the songs I didn’t recognize. Did he make them up or were they just obscure? When the water turned off, I’d bolt back to my room, carefully shutting the door.

  Ty shifted, switching on a dystopian motorcycle game on the flat screen TV. His character weaved in and out of traffic. Once in a while he’d get mowed down but his alter ego—a guy with jet-black hair wearing a red-hot racing outfit—didn’t care. He would dissolve into a series of cloudy dots before coming back together, whole, and getting back on his bike.

  “Paige, I love ya, you know that.”

  His voice and his words startled me. I stiffened.

  “But sometimes you humor yourself into thinking you are the planet everyone orbits around.” He turned his head, catching my eye. “Though in certain instances you might be correct.”

  A flush crawled up my neck. Did he mean him and me? No. How could he?

  If he noticed my discomfort, he didn’t let on. He spoke in a clear, comforting tone. “But Elena? No way. That was so much deeper than some frenemy making a flippant comment. She didn’t like you because she was jealous you and Luce were so close. She wouldn’t like you no matter what you said or didn’t say. I think she pretty much hated white girls in general.”

  “Really?”

  “Totally.”

  When had Ty gained this astute perspective about girlfriend dynamics?

  His thumb pushed the red button, his back jerking as he shot things.

  “Elena was just one of those,” he said, tilting his whole body as if he was really driving the bike.

  “Those?”

  He glanced up at me again before returning his full attention to the game.

  Red Hot Motorcycle Guy jumped off an iceberg.

  “You know, gunners. All she cared about was the next move. She didn’t live in the present at all. That’s why she didn’t care who she hurt. She was totally jacked psychologically. Her mom was a nutjob, and her dad was barely better. They’ve been pushing her since she was a toddler to be perfect. Under that kind of pressure, even the hardest nut will crack.”

  It was the most thoughtful and observant thing I’d ever heard him say. I wanted to hear more so I pressed him on it.

  “She never learned to think for herself. She was the parrot of her parents. She didn’t get that this life was real. That this life was all she had. This was it. It was always, ‘When I get out of high school. When I get out of my parents’ house.’ If she got accepted into Harvard, it would have been more of that same shit, ‘When I get accepted into med school,’ and then ‘When I get accepted into residency,’ then ‘When I’m attending at Harvard,’ then…blah blah.”

  “How do you know?”

  “My dad was trying to get me to date her when I first got here. I went out with her once but we didn’t hit it off. She was so cold. I prefer my girls a little warmer.” He glanced at me, his eyes lingering a moment too long. “And my mom,” he said, his eyes clouding a bit, “she was totally like that. Eyes on the prize always.” He tapped on his controls. “Never on today.” He pointed to the wood floor. “This day.”

  “Is that why…?”

  “She didn’t care that my dad left and that I moved out here with him? Probably.” He shrugged. “Her patients and extended family were always more important than us. She said my dad didn’t get it.”

  Ty didn’t move here because of a girl. He moved here because he wasn’t close with his mother. Elena hated Ty because he didn’t like her. She was lying abo
ut him. I knew it.

  He blinked. His lashes were so dark and long, waving over his green eyes. “When my dad met your mom, everything changed for him.”

  “Elena said some…terrible things about you.”

  “Oh, I’m sure she did.”

  He said it spitefully, but I had to know. If Ty wasn’t a rapist, I could still listen to him sing. We could still be friends.

  “It was something bad, Ty. Really bad. About a girl and a party…”

  His eyes hardened. “Elena was a lying bitch.”

  “Ty. You shouldn’t speak that way about the dead.”

  I said it in a whisper, like she could hear me, and even though I’d been thinking similar things, it didn’t feel right to think them out loud.

  “Think she’s listening? Doubt it. Her karma’s just reversed. She’s pretty much hosed.”

  “Do you believe that? I’m not very religious.”

  “Lucky you.”

  I was losing hold of this conversation, and I was already competing with the video game. “So it’s not true?”

  “No, it is. Suicide put her spiritual clock in reverse. It’s the murder of self. And she thought not getting into Harvard was bad.”

  “I’m talking about the…incident in Brooklyn.”

  I couldn’t even say it.

  Just say it. The rape. The rape in Brooklyn.

  He glanced up at me, his eyes rapidly blinking. Was that a sign of a liar? Erratic blinking? Clearly he was growing increasingly irritable with my questioning. It was the last thing he wanted to talk about. Of course it was. But if he wasn’t guilty, why not just deny it right away so we could move past it?

  “Did I date rape some slut at a party?” he snapped. “No, I did not.” His expression shifted. “I did have sex with her though, and she had been drinking. Did she consent? Did she say, ‘Yes, I will have sex with you, Ty’? No, of course not. Does anyone ever actually have that conversation? ‘Excuse me, Miss. Would you like to come under my covers and engage in sexual intercourse with me?’ ‘Why yes, I would. Thank you very much for asking.’ ‘Shall I remove your panties now?’ ‘Sure! Now is a good time. Thanks for checking in.’”