What's Broken Between Us

by Alexis Bass

  There are dark bags under Jonathan’s eyes, and his skin is bruised from the side of his nose to his cheekbone. But he seems to be finished swelling. There’s a cut across his bottom lip, slick and fresh, like it could start bleeding any second.

  “Who were you talking to?”

  “Who do you think?” He continues quickly, like he sees that I’m not in the mood to joke. “Just Wren.”

  “Was that supposed to be funny? Why would you say those things to her?” Or to anyone—is what I’m thinking.

  He licks his lips, and for a second I think he really is going to laugh. “I was only trying to shock her. It’s harder than you might think.”

  “But . . . why?”

  He shrugs. “Because girls like her are effortlessly impressed, but not easily stunned.”

  “I don’t understand you lately.” I can’t look at him when I say it.

  “Come on, I’m an open book. I quite literally went on TV and spilled my guts.”

  “Why did you agree to that interview? Give me a real answer, for once.”

  “It was for her, so . . .” He shrugs again. “And besides, they’re always telling you it looks good in your case file to be involved in the community. I went the extra mile.”

  I’m shaking my head, still unable to meet his gaze. It’s too flat; there’s no concern, no conscience.

  “If you have something to say, baby sister, just say it.”

  “Tell me what happened with Sutton. Why did you—”

  “Get stinking drunk in the middle of the day? Because day drinking is our favorite pastime, and I had no idea she was no longer equipped to handle it.”

  “What made you finally decide to see her?” Really: What the hell took you so long?

  Jonathan scratches his side as he shifts on the couch, wincing like he has bruises that I can’t see. “Odds,” he says.

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Odds,” he repeats. “The odds that if someone calls you around twenty times a day, for several days in a row, you’ll end up answering, and fulfilling their requests in order to get said phone calls to cease.”

  “What did she want from you?”

  “Sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll.”

  “Seriously, Jonathan.”

  “Oh, what do you think? She wanted her drinking buddy back, her fuck buddy back—now stop asking questions you really don’t want the answers to.”

  But he’s stringing me along, trying to put me off the conversation, like he did at the diner. He can’t get away with it this time.

  “She didn’t want to talk about Grace?”

  “No.” He rubs his forehead, looking away from me like I’m as bad as a hangover right now.

  “I don’t believe you,” I say, and he shrugs. But I keep going. “There’s more to you than the life of the party, a good lay, a good laugh. I don’t believe you’re going to keep passing up every opportunity to do the right thing.”

  “And tell me, baby sister, what’s the right thing?”

  “Talk to Sutton when she calls; listen to her—”

  “I already told you, she brought the vodka.”

  “Take your probation seriously—”

  “I’m speaking for Chicago Cares, aren’t I?”

  “Say you’re sorry, to someone, anyone! Act like you care at all about what you’ve done—”

  “You want a hero.”

  “I want you to act like a human.”

  “No, you want a martyr. You want me to sit there looking respectable in a tie, sobbing over Grace, recapping everything I did wrong, from that first toast of champagne to that last shot of whiskey, while I go on and on and on about regret as if hating what I did and wishing my best friend was still alive is somehow noble. Everyone already knows how I irreversibly fucked up—she’s dead. I think that says enough!”

  “You owe it to us, to everyone,” I say, though I see his point. A girl died at sixteen—what else matters? “It’s not for you, it’s for them.” As the last word chokes out, I suddenly feel dizzy with the memory of Henry and me outside Ludwig’s. That was some performance, Amanda. It’s a blurry line, us and them, perception and the truth; what you express and what you feel.

  “It’s not my job to restore anyone’s faith in humanity. ‘Look how someone awful can turn their life around; look how he learned from his mistakes, look how we can all learn.’ It’s such shit. People shouldn’t need me to tell them that murder is wrong and jail is awful.”

  “What about Wren, who liked you because you told the truth about the party, and Sutton, who wanted so badly to see you even after everything you guys have been through? And what about me? I couldn’t wait to have my big brother back. You don’t have anything but witty repartee for us, even though we’re the ones who still have hope for you?”

  He breaks out in a laugh, crude and loud. “Oh come on, Amanda!” He shakes his head—I’m ridiculous; I’m the epitome of a baby sister. “It’s Sutton who’s afraid no one will see anything good about her ever again, and Wren who is only attracted to toxic things, and you—you’re just as bad; seeing potential in me that doesn’t exist, waiting for me to give you an excuse to forgive me.” He leans back, his expression darkening. “I killed Grace Marlamount, Sutton will never walk on her own again, and here you all are, still giving me the benefit of the doubt.” He throws his hands in the air, shrugging.

  My nose is running, tears are starting to leak, and I know my next breath is going to come out as a sob. He’s right; I can see the good in him, like they can, but I haven’t lost sight of the footprints he’s left dancing on the wrong side either.

  “You sure do punish us for it.”

  He flinches, like the sight of me falling apart is too much for him. But he’s still frowning, still writhing in his seat as if his skin is binding.

  “You want to know what Sutton wants, why she wants to see me?” Jonathan looks at me, his expression hollow, his eyes vacant. “You won’t like it,” he warns, but I still say, “Tell me.”

  “When we got into the accident, Grace and Sutton were fighting,” he says. “About me.” He leans forward, all determination. “I’d told Grace I wished she was coming with me to Chicago for college next year. And that’s how I said it. Me. Not us. I left Sutton out, because it wasn’t about her. I wanted Grace to know . . . how I felt—she was more than just Sutton’s friend, more than just someone to party with.” He swallows hard—his indifferent expression slipping up, but only for a second. “Sutton heard. Didn’t say anything about it until we were all alone, just the three of us in the car, though Grace had been asking her what was wrong all night. Grace could always tell. I thought it was that we’d graduated—I thought she was sad about leaving Grace, too.” He shakes his head. “I should have known better. She started screaming at Grace; like this had been Grace’s plan all along, getting close to Sutton to get close to me. I tried to stick up for her—tried to tell Sutton it wasn’t like that. Grace told me to stop, I was making it worse. I didn’t care. Sutton was attacking Grace—she was drunk and emotional and paranoid. That was my fault, I guess, for giving her so many reasons to doubt me.” He stares down and is quiet for a long time.

  “Jonathan,” I say. I’m hoping that if he looks at me, he’ll turn into my brother again.

  But he’s still lifeless. “I never would’ve tried to hook up with Grace. Sutton was her best friend. I’d never come between her and her best friend.” He swipes under his nose, then stares at his fingers like he’s checking for blood. “And contrary to popular belief, I’d never do that to Sutton either.” His voice softens as he adds, “I did love her, you know.”

  I nod. Through his blank eyes, I’m not sure he can see me.

  “I was the only conscious one, after we crashed.” He looks to the floor, hiding from me, the way we were taught to hide, to avoid. “That, I deserved.”

  I say the only thing I can, the only thing that might bring him back. “I’m sorry I didn’t stop you fro
m driving.”

  Jonathan’s head snaps up. “No,” he says. “Don’t ever fucking say that. Not you, too.” He’s at the edge of his seat, eyes ablaze, his hands balled up against the cushion. “Sutton wanted to see me so she could apologize—to me—the way you just did. The way you’ll never do again. She blames herself, thinks it was her fault, as if the argument in the car was the reason we . . . please. It wasn’t the fight, it wasn’t the wind, it wasn’t the rain, it wasn’t the missing sign. It was the whiskey. And me.”

  “Why didn’t you say that? When Patricia asked you,” I shout. “For Sutton, at least. You had to know she’d be watching. I promise you, nobody will think you’re a martyr just because you’re sorry.”

  He sneers at me. “No one listens when you tell them it’s not their fault. It’s my fault. I did this. And I’ve tried to make sure”—he gestures to the TV—“that everyone knows.” He stares at me, hard, directly, and his expression dims. “Really, the most devastating part of what I did isn’t what happened on Lifeline. It’s that I wrapped my car around the pole, instead of crashing into it head-on.”

  He doesn’t wait for me to figure out what to say next. He’s up, walking quickly toward the door.

  “Wait.” I get up, too, but I can’t bring myself to come any closer to where he’s standing frozen in the doorway. “What’s going to happen to you?”

  Jonathan shakes his head. “Nothing.”

  He leaves, and I don’t go after him.

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Jonathan spends Saturday in his room, and I spend it in mine. I emerge around four to find the house empty. Standard Dad is at my uncle’s watching the game, and Mumsy just left, meeting sorority-sister Clara at the club for a massage, facial, and post-spa salad. Jonathan’s not in his room.

  When the sun goes down and I’m still alone in the house, I start to get antsy. I call Jonathan’s phone three times—no answer each time. I try Henry’s cell and leave a message, in case there’s the slightest chance Sutton’s missing, too. He doesn’t answer, but a few seconds later I get a text.

  She’s here, he’s not, I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?

  I begin to pace. I want to rip my hair out. Everyone gone, hiding, and I’m here with nothing left to do but wonder where they are. I can’t take it anymore, so I get in my car and go. I drive to Starbucks—no sign of Jonathan. On my way home, I pass the church where the AA meeting is taking place right now. Gary’s promise—it can help—is ringing in my ears. I wonder if this stuck with Jonathan, too; if maybe after everything that happened with Sutton at the Riverwalk, he thought to come here. I wait in the parking lot until the meeting gets out, in case. But when the AA meeting ends and a few people trickle out, there’s no sign of my brother.

  My father’s in the living room when I get home; he stands when I come in. I watch the relief pass over his face, but notice that it doesn’t stick around.

  “He’s still not home?” My voice is tight.

  My father shakes his head. He motions for me to sit next to him. I curl up on the other end of the couch; he pulls the blanket down off the back of the couch and drapes it over my lap.

  “I was out looking for him,” I say.

  “I was thinking about going out to look for him,” he says. “But I realized I had no idea where to go.”

  “I checked Starbucks. And the AA meeting.”

  “Has been going to them?”

  “I don’t think so. It was a long shot.”

  “I wish he would go.”

  “You think it will help?”

  He thinks about this for a while before he shrugs. “I went once. A friend in college asked me to take him.”

  “What’s it like?”

  “It’s . . . intense, I guess. To me it was. But they say this prayer at the beginning—they call it the serenity prayer,” he says.

  I nod. I’ve heard of it, thanks to all the addict characters in movies. “Accept the things you cannot change, or something?”

  “Right,” he says. “I’ve been thinking about that . . . about the things I maybe could have changed. About the things that maybe I still can.”

  “I think the prayer is for letting go.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “Well, I’ve done too much of that already.”

  “Dad?”

  “I was a rebel.” It’s a Standard Dad way to start off a lecture—this is how I relate, I know what it’s like. I feel a strong urge to laugh. “But I was responsible, too—and your mother, she was . . . let’s just say she had her own ideas and her own agenda.” At this, the faintest smile appears. “We never wanted to be like our parents, who hated and scrutinized everything we did, said, wore. We stayed out all night, went to great parties, made the usual mistakes. But our parents had no idea, and the things we did, we hid from them, knowing they’d disapprove anyway. It tore us from them, made them impossible to trust. Your mother and I didn’t want to be like that. We wanted to keep our lives; we wanted to work hard and play hard, and we wanted you guys to have your own lives, too. We thought that would make us all closer. Plus, who were we to punish you kids? Your mother always said that punishment was inhibitory, it created shame. I still believe some of that . . . but now . . . I don’t know. Maybe learning the hard way is the only way; maybe nothing I said would have made a difference.”

  I can picture my father at age twenty-four, getting married, graduating with a DDS, talking about kids in the distant future, paying a mortgage—I can see him not wanting to get lost in the world of his parents, having an idea for creating trust—no space for rules, no reason to lie.

  In their perfect vision, we would learn to be independent like they were, and we’d love them for letting us make our own decisions. But our mistakes were too big. Maybe it could have worked—maybe it’s not his fault it didn’t.

  The truth is, there are things Jonathan and I needed them for; things I don’t even know how to talk about or pinpoint, but still feel like I’m missing. Or maybe everyone feels this way—like they’ve failed or been failed somehow. Families: letting each other down since the beginning of time.

  “I don’t know why Jonathan drove that night,” I say.

  My dad hesitates; he taps his fingers against the arm of the couch three times, thinking. “What about what he’s doing?”

  Of course my dad has noticed Jonathan’s reckless behavior; what’s surprising is that he’s talking about it with me.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “It’s not good, though, Dad.”

  “What do you think is wrong?” he says.

  “I don’t know where to start,” I say. “He’s going to speak at my school on Monday. I’m afraid of what he’s going to say. I’m afraid it will be like Lifeline.”

  My dad’s face turns concerned, but there’s something defensive in his voice. “I’ll try to talk to him.”

  For now, try is good enough.

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-EIGHT

  I don’t see much of Jonathan the rest of the weekend. I only hear him when he comes in on Sunday night, dropped off by a car that rumbles like Wren’s Jeep. It idles in our driveway, and from my room I listen as Jonathan runs back down the stairs just a minute after I heard him come up. I blow open my door, ready to catch him. My father catches him first.

  “Where have you been?”

  “You can’t leave for days and not tell us.”

  “There are rules in this house.”

  “We’re serious about your curfew!”

  I stand at the top of the steps, hidden from view, as I’m not sure I want to be seen now that my dad is yelling. It’s the most I’ve ever heard my dad pull from chapter 3: “Punishment.”

  Jonathan stands there, tapping his foot, hands on his hips, smiling, like he’s ready to pat my dad on the back and say “Worthy effort” or “Good one.” But my dad moves in front of the door, blocking it.

  “Come on,” Jonathan says. He’s speaking in a low, taunting tone—the same one
he would always use on Sutton when he caught her being mean to someone in the halls. I only catch the rest of what he says in snippets. “I’m legally an adult” and “Give me a break.” He ends with, “Do you hear yourself?”

  I think my dad is going to crack—but his expression hardens, and he has to take a moment to collect himself. This is the Standard Dad he never wanted to be—I wish I could whisper in his ear that he’s been him all along, the joke version. Now he can take the role to new and brave places.

  “Call your friend who’s outside to let her know you won’t be going back out tonight.”

  Jonathan’s very still, staring at our dad, waiting for him to snap back to predictable and lax. My dad looks like he’s holding his breath, but he stands his ground; he doesn’t move. Even after Jonathan rolls his eyes, laughs like he’s mocking a child, throws up his hands with a “Whatever, man,” and turns back up the stairs, not even acknowledging me as he passes. He slams his bedroom door and locks it—and my dad hasn’t moved. I wait for my dad to look up here, ready to give him a thumbs-up. As cheesy as that seems, I think maybe he needs it. It’s hard for me, too, watching my brother shut himself away. Before I can catch Dad’s eye, my mother opens the door of her room. She rushes to Jonathan’s door, starts to knock, but—knowing better—gently tries the door handle.

  She storms past me, down the stairs, and when she’s in front of my dad, she shakes her head the same way Jonathan did. Then she walks away from him, too.

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-NINE

  “Hellooo,” Dawn coos on the phone on Monday morning. I’m sitting in my car at the back of the school parking lot, since the first bell hasn’t rung yet. She pauses, waiting for me to match her enthusiasm. “Finally, Amanda! Even though it was technically your turn to call me.”

  “Oh,” I say. I hadn’t actually noticed. “So I guess I lose this round.” I don’t point out that if these are the rules of phone tag, she lost the last round.

  “Where’ve you been?”

  The answer is a combination of things I don’t know how to explain to her. Especially the part about spending this morning having a ham, egg, and cheese croissant with Henry, and kissing with greasy lips in the parking lot afterward, and how even though it was as good as it gets being there with him, my mind was still on my brother, currently a shut-in, soon to be on the stage of the Garfield High auditorium.