After the Ink Dries

by Cassie Gustafson

  Holding my breath, I tap on the window, but Forest doesn’t budge. I rap too hard and make him jump. Sandwich plate and crusts go flying. When he sees it’s me, he glances around, but his sister hasn’t noticed, and his mother must be busy because he nods toward his room. I nearly trip over Lady as I follow him.

  When Forest slides open his window, even through the mesh screen I can see how wrecked he looks. Still, his voice sounds the same as he whispers, “Tommy, my man. How goes it?” He glances down, and I pull my bandaged hand from the window ledge, leaving behind a trail of dragged fingerprints in the dust. How burglars get caught.

  “Things have been better,” I say. “You?”

  He nods to himself. “Things have been better. Things have definitely been better. On house arrest. How’d you find freedom?”

  “I snuck out.” He nods like any of this is normal as I continue. “Listen, Forest, do you know how Erica’s doing? She okay?” My voice pitches, and I clear my throat.

  “No idea, man.”

  “Do you, like, know what happened last night?”

  “Her blog thing? Naw, man. Only what I heard from people this morning. Before the cops came.”

  “What’d you hear?”

  “That she took a bunch of pills, Tommy. Tried to do herself in. She left a note online, too, saying stuff about us, I guess, but I haven’t read it. Can’t now that they took it down. Took my phone, too. And laptop. And now Mom’s barred me from fresh air for life.”

  “Same. I only wish I knew, you know? How she is?”

  He leans out the window, and Lady starts to whimper, wanting his attention. “Well, she was definitely acting crazy yesterday, my man. Guessing she’s pretty shitty today.”

  I stare at a dead fly trapped behind the screen, legs up, a wing broken off. Erica’s face replays in my head from yesterday when I told her to never talk to me again, every muscle falling slack.

  I let his words sink in, then blurt out, “What are you gonna tell the cops on Thursday?”

  Forest shakes his head. “I dunno, man. A lot’s riding on this, you know? Like, our entire fucking futures for one. It was one thing to act all self-righteous when the cops weren’t involved, but now? Stakes are high, Tommy. Sky-high.”

  “But, Forest, do you think we did this? Like, are we responsible for her trying to kill herself?”

  He drops his gaze, once again looking like the wilted shark from Zac’s kitchen who’s trying to hold his puke in. “I mean, I doubt it. People say she had some real problems.”

  “Yeah, but, like—”

  “Listen, man,” he cuts in. “Sure, we wrote on her. People teased her. But we didn’t make her take any pills or shit. And I had the same thing happen to me last year, remember? Went around for a week with a hairy dick drawn on my face.”

  A long silence stretches between us.

  “Yeah. Sure,” I finally mutter. But the look we share says it all—that what we did to Erica is nothing like what happened to Forest, and we both know it.

  “Forest?” Elle calls from somewhere inside.

  “Man, I gotta go.” The window slams in my face, the blast of air pushing the dead fly from sight as Forest scrambles from his room.

  Giving Lady a final pet on the head, I turn to leave with even fewer answers than I had before.

  ERICA

  A HOSPITAL ROOM. CRISP WHITE sheets cover my legs. Stomach sears with pain. Limbs full of lead. Something tugs at my inner elbow. I look to find an IV entering at the crook—Ricky was here. Ice fluid fills my veins. Fresh bandages cover my cut hand. Tubes and wires crisscross me, attached to machines on either side. The heart monitor to my left records spiky green mountains. Isn’t it supposed to beep? I can’t hear it past the shriek of the bugs….

  But there are no bugs.

  Something’s wrong.

  The hospital I see, but something else. My brain’s trying to tell me, though I can’t understand. Nausea pounds in my stomach. Throat, raw like a scraped knee.

  I drag shaky fingers over the hospital gown, heart monitors stuck to my chest. I move to sit up, but my head spins, and a sharp pressure between my legs stops me. Working around wires and tubes, I pull down the fitted sheets. A thicker tube runs between my thighs—Stallion! / Zac B. BITCHES!

  What are they doing to me? I can’t take it—any of it—the tubes and wires and sheets chaining me to the bed, keeping me here, dragging me down into the lake.

  I start to twist, pull. Movement catches my attention. Mom’s friend Valerie, dressed in green nurse scrubs and with a haphazard ponytail, rises from a chair, watching me intently. She rushes forward and takes my hand.

  There it is again—that Something Wrong. Her mouth moves, but no sound reaches me. Valerie, spirally curls the color of ravens, is an actress in a silent film, animated but mute. Trying not to pull on my IV, I jab at my ears. Nothing happens. I can’t stop the screechy whine.

  I fight the fog in my mind even as waves of nausea hit and a strange thought wraps itself around me. The marbles from my nightmares were actually real. And they got into my ears, blocking all outside sound. The bugs are in there too, making that shrill sound in my brain.

  I shake my head to clear it. Because the marbles, bugs, lake—they weren’t real.

  Valerie leans in, face scrunched in concern. She moves her lips again, and this time a thick, muffled something penetrates the sound barrier. It’s a blob of words I can’t make out, but it’s the first sound I’ve heard since waking.

  What’s going on? Where’s Mom? Why can’t I hear?

  Val must see confusion on my face because she repeats her words, and this time I catch the raised end of her question: “…all right?” She’s asking if I’m all right.

  I pull my hand free from hers and slap at my ears, the dull thud I feel rather than hear. Looking back at Val, I shake my head. Panic takes over. The mold has found me here, too. No, I’m not all right. No, this isn’t happening. It’s only a dream. Another nightmare. My eyes dart around for something, anything that will help me, but it only increases my nausea.

  I can’t hear. I can’t hear.

  Did I say that aloud? Did I not?

  Val taps me hard on the shoulder until I focus on her. Her hands fly. Her mouth overexaggerates. As though from underwater, each of her words comes at me: “YOU. HAVING TROUBLE. HEARING?” Muffled noises, squished consonants.

  I nod hard, pressing my shaking hands into my lap, and add a tiny “Yes.”

  I can’t hear. I can’t hear.

  What have I done?

  Val raises a single finger—gimme a sec—then calls out something to the hallway. I feel so very far away, watching all this from my nearly silent island of flashing machines and a single shrill note.

  A male doctor strides into the room, rail-thin and taller than Valerie by a foot. Val stands back, hands on hips, giving him room. He glances from my chart to me with slate-gray eyes. His rigid posture and the upright way he holds the clipboard leaves no doubt that he’s the brusque, “all-business” type.

  As he leans in, I shrink back. His thin lips move, probably asking if I can hear him. I guess my nonresponse gives him the answer he’s looking for because he tucks the clipboard under one arm and moves beside me. I catch a glimpse of shiny metal and plastic before he presses something cold into my ear. Closing my eyes, I try not to move, try not to vomit, as I feel his hot breath on my face, so close.

  My eyes fly open as something presses against my foot. It’s Val settling in at the edge of the bed. She holds a small whiteboard. Her pen loops across it before she holds it up: You okay? Doc is checking your ears now.

  My nod is the smallest I can manage.

  The doctor withdraws, moving around to check my other ear, and the breath I’ve been holding rushes out. I’m reaching for the whiteboard when I realize Val can hear me perfectly. “Where’s Mom?” I think I say out loud. The question brings tears to my eyes.

  Val scribbles. I want to lean forward to read, but the doctor
pushes the instrument into my other ear, and it’s taking all I have not to vomit. After a bit, she holds up: Asleep down the hall. Been awake for 24 hours, which is how long you’ve been out.

  Twenty-four hours.

  Val runs the side of her fist across the board to clear it, looking up as the doctor pulls the instrument from my ear. Val nods at whatever he’s saying, lips pursed, then returns to her writing: There’s nothing blocking your hearing, but aspirin can damage the inner ear. Likely in this case with how much you took. Just not something we can physically see or test for.

  I grip the sheets with shaking fists. A clammy sweat breaks out across my skin as Valerie and the doctor talk. The doctor keeps gesturing at me, and Val’s hand holding the pen flies as she responds, though not a single word reaches me. Long minutes stretch by as I look between Val and the doctor, then around me for some place to throw up. I find a used coffee cup—Mom’s?—and pop the lid off, ready. Finally the doctor moves to go. As he nears the door, he turns and points his pen at me, saying one last thing to Val. Her shoulders rise then fall as she takes another deep breath. She sits by me again, scooting closer. Bad news. It’s bad news.

  “What did he say?” I ask, unsure if I’m too loud or even making the right sounds but knowing my raw throat hurts when I speak. My nausea swells. “Will it come back, my hearing? Can’t they give me anything for it?”

  Val’s pained expression asks, “Don’t you think you’ve taken enough?” But she’s writing again. And before she even finishes, I know I won’t like it.

  We can’t know for sure. Will have to wait and see.

  She squeezes my foot as I stare at her words, trying to make them sink in. Then I jerk the cup to my mouth and vomit violently, insides burning hot as Val’s words whirl through my mind:

  Wait and see. Wait and see. Will I hear again? Wait and see.

  THOMAS

  MY FATHER HASN’T COME OUT of his office since he returned earlier. No doubt he’d rather stare at stacks of old case files than have to look at me. And lying on my bed staring at the ceiling, I doubt I’ll leave this room again before the deposition.

  Mom’s the opposite, trying to worm her way into my space all afternoon. So, when there’s another knock at my bedroom door, I ignore it. I don’t feel much like talking or responding to her schemes of “just checking on you,” or “just checking for dirty laundry,” or “just checking to see if you’ve seen my keys.”

  The knock comes again, more insistent this time, but it also comes with a voice. “Tommy, open the door.” Not Mom’s voice—male. I know that voice. The knob twists but doesn’t open.

  It’s Michael, home from college in the middle of his semester. Which can only mean Mom holstered her lipstick gun and pulled out a bazooka. I can’t blow off my brother like I can Mom, and both of them know it.

  I can’t think of anyone I’d be more afraid or more relieved to see right now.

  “Thomas Patrick, if you don’t unlock this door right now, so help me…”

  I leap up and yank the door open, catching a glimpse of maroon shirt before flopping back on the bed. As he enters the room, I don’t know what to do with myself. I consider grabbing the book off my nightstand, an autobiography on Muse’s lead singer, to pretend like I’ve been reading. But I haven’t lived with Michael most of my life without learning that delay tactics won’t work on him.

  “So,” he says, bringing in a wave of cologne. “I assume you know why I’m here.” Even in the few months since Christmas break, he’s gotten tougher looking, more fit. The Bruins tank top and workout pants he wears only emphasize how buff the last wrestling season made him.

  I shrug then reach for the book. I need something to look at besides his glare.

  Michael strides across the room, ripping the book from my hands and tossing it away. It hits the wood floor before skidding a few feet shy of the dresser. “Cut the crap, Tommy.” He plops down next to me. “You know why. Why Mom’s chain-smoking in the backyard. Why Dad’s frantically researching with half a dozen paralegals. So, don’t be an idiot. The parent meeting tomorrow morning, maybe? Your police deposition in two days?”

  “It’s too late for that.” I rake my fingers through my hair, still not looking up.

  “Too late for what?”

  “Not being an idiot.”

  He snorts, but there’s no humor in it. A pause. “Look at me, Tommy.”

  But I can’t. I know that if I do, I’ll completely lose it. I flex my knuckles against the Band-Aids.

  “Okay, then listen. Dad wanted me to keep this under wraps, but I think it’s something you need to see.” He drops a stack of papers in my lap. Illustrations in little boxes fill the page. I know that superhero girl. And that’s… me. It’s Erica’s webcomic. It has to be. What everyone’s been talking about. And she’d posted drawings of us together?

  “Where’d you get this?” I ask, incredulous.

  “Picked it up from one of Dad’s cop buddies on my way into town. Guess Dad didn’t want to be seen cavorting with the opposition, so he sent me.” A flash of bitterness crosses his face, like this isn’t the first time my father’s asked Michael for a favor he didn’t like.

  “Anyway, someone took screenshots before it got pulled.” Michael shrugs. “I think you need to read it. All of it. There’s a lot you should see.”

  “Do colleges run criminal background checks?” I blurt out.

  Michael nods, jaw tight. “Yeah, especially in California. And pending charges do show up. Sexual assault crimes aren’t… aren’t usually overlooked.”

  My guts free-fall. Thornton will find out, then.

  He stares at me hard. “What are you going to do?”

  I shake my head, blinking fast. “I dunno yet.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “Not… not yet.”

  He watches me for another minute, then nods and gets to his feet. “Well, I’ll be in my room when you need me.” Michael pauses, hand wrapped around the half-open door. “And by the way, I made some calls. That girl, Erica?”

  My heart stops.

  “She’s going to be okay. Well, she’ll survive. There’s apparently some complications, but she’s awake and talking. Thought you’d want to know.”

  I sit there, gripping her webcomic in my hand, too stunned to speak even though I want to ask him What complications?

  His gaze hardens, and he points to the pile of papers. “Read those.” The door closes behind him.

  My chest feels ready to cave. I heave in a breath, dropping Erica’s drawings at my feet. I can’t read any of this after knowing she almost died, or see the pictures she drew of us before… before everything.

  But Erica’s alive. She’s going to be okay.

  Head in my hands, I break down. Waves of relief crash over me, but it’s the crushing weight of guilt that pulls me under.

  ERICA

  VALERIE HAS TOSSED THE COFFEE cup full of my vomit and replaced it with a small basin and glass of water.

  Now I stare at her whiteboard, watching as she resettles and writes: I’m going to wake your mom soon—

  I nod, head pounding.

  —but first you need to know some things.

  My eyes stay glued to the tip of her pen.

  Tests came back. The pen hovers. Levels indicating proper liver and kidney function were—

  What? They were what?

  —abnormal.

  The air’s punched from my lungs.

  Meaning the drugs you took affected your organs.

  “What does that mean?” My voice must be small—it’s lost in the ringing in my head—but her nodding lets me know she’s heard me.

  Not sure of the extent of damage just yet. Further tests are needed.

  I see the written words—extent of damage. Further tests—but I can’t understand them.

  Do you remember what you took/drank? Her eyes brim with tears, and she takes a deep breath before writing: You stopped breathing on the way here.

>   Stopped breathing?

  Because of the vodka, the pills? 56. 149. 20.

  Like a locker combination: 56-149-20. Like a game of numbers and colors: 56 blue, 149 brown, 20 white. A game that mutes the world, guts your body, sucks all the breath from your lungs.

  Until Valerie wraps her arms around me, I don’t realize I’m crying too. It’s an empty crying in a hollow place. But her arms are warm and squishy and familiar around me, and I realize I would’ve given anything for this hug yesterday. And today, it means everything. She holds me for a long time before breaking away to write. Erica, I’m so sorry. I thought you were hungover. Not this.

  It takes my sluggish brain a minute to realize she’s talking about the morning after, when she saw me on the bathroom floor. Her face looks so sad now, so guilty, like any of this could possibly be her fault. Before I can think of a response, she writes: Your blog—is everything you wrote true?

  My blog? She must read the question on my face.

  The police have a copy, brought it by this morning.

  I stare at her with dawning horror. She means my webcomic. They found my webcomic. The illustrations. The posts to Caylee. The good-bye letter. But how?

  She knows.

  Everyone knows.

  I’m still here and they all know.

  They know everything.

  Everything they did to me.

  My breath catches mid-inhale. Valerie’s brown face hovers in front of mine.

  They know.

  I can’t breathe.

  Dizzy, I try to pull air into my lungs—it won’t come. I tear at the heart monitors, try to rip them from my chest. I am back in my room at home, airless, helpless, choking, falling.

  I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.

  Heart monitor stickers pop loose. My chest rises in quick spurts, but no air comes.

  I can’t breathe I can’t breathe I can’t breathe.