After the Ink Dries

by Cassie Gustafson

  And if he would’ve asked this question aloud, maybe I would have answered: Everything. Sharks have everything to do with why I’m lying in this hospital bed. Because that’s what one single memory is doing in my head: relentlessly circling my groggy thoughts, then attacking, attacking, again and again until my mind is a bloody mass in the water, being ripped to shreds from all directions.

  The scene that circles, haunts, attacks, is from Sunday morning, the worst day of my life, the scene I can’t replay aloud even though this is what Austin really wants to hear. I should tell him all this, explain my shark metaphor so that he’d understand, so he’d jot down the right notes in that folder of his instead of words I’m sure are in there like “uncooperative” or “troubled” or “deeply anxious.” But I can’t. Instead, I sit back and watch as the shark that is the worse memory of the worst day of my life moves in for the kill. And when it has completed its circle, it loops back to the beginning. Back to the nausea, gray walls, words carved in Sharpie. Back to the laughter, male voices, and frantic escape. Again and again and again.

  Inside, I burn with agitation, but I can only do what I’ve done for days. Cry.

  “I’m sorry,” I manage, because it’s what I’m supposed to say. What I’d like to say to—no, scream at—Austin is to go away and leave me the hell alone. Everyone wants something from me, tries to wring a few more drops of my energy, but I’m like the Giving Tree in that book, cut down to a stump with nothing left to offer.

  Austin’s answer comes back relaxed, like the rest of him. “Take all the time you need, Erica… right here when you’re ready.” He leans forward, chair squeaking beneath him, and places a large hand on the sheet near my elbow. I try not to flinch, turning my eyes to the clear, nearly spring day happening outside the filmy window.

  “It’s just… I don’t even know where to begin.” My voice chokes off as another wave of tears spills over my cheeks.

  “How about… very beginning?” he asks.

  A Kleenex makes its way into my hand. I rub at my wet face then count backward. Was Saturday night really only four days ago? Four days of nightmares, sharks, and losing best friends and crushes and whole worlds.

  Erica Strange, she’d tell, my mind says.

  Yeah, well, the sharks got her, too, I say back.

  Tears dot the tissue as I smooth it out against the gray-white sheets with hands that seem like they’ll never stop shaking. I fold the tissue in half, then half again, and again until I hold a tiny square in my hand. Pressing it into my palm, I clench it with everything I have.

  All the while, Austin watches me from behind a web of crow’s-feet. I wonder how he could enjoy talking to sick people day after day. People who would rather kill themselves than talk to you. Still, this is his job. He does this all the time. And he’s waiting for me to speak.

  But where do I start? How do I start?

  How about from the very beginning?

  The beginning. How far back should I search when the past few days alone feel like months on end? But I know the answer to that. I know exactly when it started: when I transferred to Bay City Prep. When I first saw Thomas.

  Thomas.

  I can recall exactly what the sun smells like on Thomas’s skin, feel the warmth of his breath against my neck, taste the lemony oil of his ChapStick.

  His name in my mind sends a thrill through my body, followed immediately by shame snarling its disgust. Because there’s no coming back from what he did. What they all did.

  But that part’s not a secret anymore since my plea to Caylee and good-bye post went public. Since being admitted here, I have no more secrets. But what Austin wants to know—what they all want to know—is if it’s true, if any of it is true. And I want it to be not true so very badly, but I can still feel the names. Every last one of them, though all traces of Sharpie have faded.

  “My anxiety didn’t do this, okay?” I snap and surprise even myself. “Everyone’s saying I’m too anxious, like me being anxious is the only reason I’m here and not what they did to me.”

  If Austin is alarmed by my outburst, he doesn’t show it. He responds slowly, carefully, “You’re right, Erica. Neither you nor your anxiety caused this, and an extreme reaction was certainly warranted here.”

  His words have caught me off-guard. But he’s not done, adding in a measured tone, “What I think they’re trying to get at is that the extreme reaction needed to come in service of yourself, not against you. Does that make sense?”

  “But they didn’t rape me. It wasn’t like that.” The words geyser up from deep inside me, and I know my thoughts are all over the map right now. But I need Austin to know that it’s not as bad as he thinks, as bad as everyone thinks. As bad as it maybe could’ve been.

  “Okay,” Austin responds, and even my damaged ears can make out the intensity in his voice. “But perhaps a… we should ask ourselves is, what is rape? The Department of Justice defines rape widely for a reason, as most any sex act without the consent of the victim, so what happened to you could very… fit under that categorization. And at the same time, we must also ask ourselves, does a devastating event require a certain definition for it to be considered world-altering to the person it happened to?”

  My eyes refuse to meet his, and I realize that my brain is trying to both scream that what they did to me is a big fucking deal while, at the same time, downplay everything, telling me even now that I’m overreacting and that others have had it worse. I have to ask Austin to repeat his next question.

  “What did they… Erica?… Ready to talk about that?”

  I take a deep breath, knowing he wants me to speak. To tell him if it’s all true so he can write it down in that fancy notebook of his, maybe even report it to the police. But doesn’t he know I’d have to take a running leap into shark-infested waters to do that, praying I can keep treading water before the sharks snag a foot, an elbow, and pull me down into a watery grave?

  I shake my head, lost for words. Not ready. Not ready. Not ready! Because there’s too much to say, to explain, to feel and relive. Because ready could never exist when you’re taking on a shiver of sharks.

  THOMAS

  I LEAP FROM MY BED, snatching Erica’s comics off the floor and rolling them into a tube. All afternoon, I’ve stared at them from my pillow, fanned out below me, wondering how to make myself read them. Now, in the rapidly fading light, I grip them like a baton and pace around my room.

  How did it come to this? Erica in the hospital, a restraining order against me, the police deposition tomorrow… And I’m supposed to tell the cops what my dad told me to say or no one will ever speak to me again. I could get in major trouble. Life-changing trouble. But if I say what we rehearsed, that’ll mean that Erica… she’ll be on her own. Again.

  My brain slams on the brakes. I can’t do this.

  I’m halfway down the stairs before I realize I’ve thrown on my hoodie still smelling of Erica and my Chucks. My hands squeeze truck keys and Erica’s comics because I’m leaving. Because there’s no right answer for tomorrow. I’m screwed any way I turn.

  The house is silent, growing darker, and I don’t see anyone. Good. I grab the doorknob.

  “Going somewhere?” a voice calls out from the corner.

  I spin.

  Michael sits on the couch, laptop in his lap, textbook open beside him.

  “Jesus, Mikey. You scared the shit out of me.”

  “Planning on skipping town, then?”

  I don’t bother asking how he knows. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

  He gives me his Really, Thomas? look, scanning me over. “Didn’t bother packing a bag, I see. So, enlighten me. What do you plan to do for money? Can’t use credit cards. Too traceable. And with no money for clothes, food, and, what, eighteen miles to the gallon in that beast of a truck, you’d make it, what, a hundred miles—two, maybe—before they caught up to you?”

  “I’ll figure something out.”

  “Sure you will.”
He closes his textbook and laptop, then pats the couch cushion next to him. “Come. Sit.”

  My fist squeezes the knob. “Mikey, you don’t understand. I can’t talk to the cops tomorrow. I can’t….”

  “Actually it’s you who doesn’t understand, so shut your mouth already.”

  His serious tone pulls me up short. So does the expression on his face. Heavy. Sad.

  “I’m going to tell you something, and I need you to listen,” he continues. “Tomorrow is not about Zac or Forest or any of your buddies. And it’s not about Dad, especially not him. It’s about you and who you want to be on the other side of this. And it’s about Erica. I’ve read her posts. You’ve taken a lot from her, agreed? Or maybe you don’t know that, and that’s what this is about. But even if you can’t fully understand, surely you realize that you at least owe her the truth about what happened and your part in it. So, go to the deposition tomorrow, Tommy. Tell the truth. You owe her that. You owe yourself that.”

  The whole time he’s talking, my anger grows. My whole body shakes. “Like you know anything about this. What it feels like to be me right now.” The keys cut into my injured hand, papers crunching in my fist. I snatch his phone from the end table and am out the door.

  He’s off the couch in an instant and chasing me down the porch, calling my name. I try to pull open my truck door, but he blocks me. “Tommy, stop for a sec. Listen.”

  I dodge his waving arms and run. He’s bigger than me, but I’ve always been faster. At a full sprint, it takes me three blocks to lose him, but finally I do. I run and I run, pumping my hands that are full of keys, and a stolen phone, and a dying girl’s final thoughts. A strange girl that I liked so much.

  I sprint—five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen, past trees and fire hydrants and green lawns—until my muscles start to seize and my lungs feel like they’re sucking in splinters instead of air. In the middle of the sidewalk, I stop and double over, fists on knees, prepared to lose whatever stomach contents I have. Meanwhile the phone in my hand buzzes and buzzes: HOME. I don’t answer.

  Minutes pass. Birds sing from the trees. Cars whiz by.

  Finally, I look around me at a quiet street in a quiet neighborhood I’ve never seen before.

  There’s a park with a playground full of colorful plastic tubes.

  I make my way toward it like I’m swimming and the plastic tubes are the rescue boat.

  Rubber bark squishes under my shoes, but my eyes are on the purple slide. Erica’s favorite color. I sit at the scooped-out base, the one that helps kids not fly out too fast, and look down at my hands, one bandaged, one not. Several Band-Aids have worked their way off, exposing wrinkly skin. Deep scratches run across Michael’s phone where the keys gouged it during my run. It buzzes again: HOME. I sit and watch it vibrate.

  Dropping the phone and keys, I unroll the pages of Erica’s drawings. Flipping through them, I start to see an order, from when she transferred to Bay City till she took the pills, then I return to the first page. The title blares: “Bay City Day Two: A Wild Whimsical Success Involving Too Hot a Boy and Too Little Caffeine!”

  There she is, exactly as I would’ve drawn her if I had any art skills. Beautiful green eyes. Warm, the way a fire is unless you get too close, wearing purple pants Prince would’ve been proud of, and that smile like burning embers that knocked me on my ass the first time I saw it. And she had been looking—really looking—at the dorky guy leaning against the picnic table, listening to music, and staring back at her like he saw her, really saw her. Like she mattered.

  Blinking hard, I take a deep breath and start to read.

  ERICA

  I SLEEP WELL INTO THE day, interrupted every few hours by either Mom or another nurse checking in or taking more blood for labs. At some point, Mom prods me awake, holding a cup of broth, the only “food” I’m allowed since my stomach definitely couldn’t handle anything else. Not that I’m hungry anyway. My guts still hurt like I drank bleach, and part of me wonders if they’ll ever be normal again.

  “Drink up, Bug,” Mom says, handing me the lukewarm broth. Though not crystal clear, they are the first words since I arrived here that don’t sound like they were said completely underwater, and I realize the steady whine has quieted a bit too. Then the doctor who comes in later to do a sound test tells me my hearing has improved and may continue to do so, though only time will tell. And even though it’s still a far cry from normal, my relief overwhelms me.

  Around two I can’t sleep anymore, so Mom and I start a Scrabble game balanced on my tray table. Valerie brought it from home along with my favorite illustrated novels—The Graveyard Book, Anya’s Ghost, and A Monster Calls—though, without a word to me, Mom tucked those away in her purse. Apparently murder and death aren’t things Mom wants me reading about right now.

  I’m playing “jest” for fifty-four points when Nurse Sabaa walks in, hovering in the door and saying something I don’t catch. Both turn to me. Mom repeats loudly, face full of concern, “You have a visitor.”

  “Who?” I ask.

  Mom and Sabaa exchange words. “One of your girlfriends from school.”

  Caylee?

  “You up for it, Bug?” Mom asks.

  Even though I’m not sure, I nod. Mom passes the nod to Sabaa, who leaves.

  I pull the sheets up farther, disrupting the Scrabble board on the tray. It nearly topples, though Mom saves it in time.

  But when the door opens again, it’s not Caylee who steps through.

  As she comes into the room, I see a flash of red first, though Amber’s hair looks almost orange under these yellowish lights.

  I give her a small smile, my voice tiny. “Hi.”

  Amber exclaims something, then, to my enormous surprise, beelines for the bed and gives me a tight squeeze before taking a step back. I hear almost every word because she’s so close: “Sorry… wasn’t hurting you, was I? And you must… Erica’s mom. Hi. Amber.”

  Mom gives her a tired smile. “You have to speak loudly and articulate so Erica can hear you,” Mom says, demonstrating. “Her ears have some damage.”

  Amber’s eyes grow wide, though she doesn’t comment. Instead, she takes in my IV drip, then drags a chair beside Mom’s, a few feet from me. “How you feeling?” she asks, voice raised.

  I shrug, because any time someone asks me that and I answer with actual words, tears usually follow.

  “Shitty, I bet. It’s a stupid question. I don’t know why I…” Pause. “So, I would have come sooner, but they weren’t letting in visitors.”

  To her credit, Mom doesn’t bat an eye about Amber saying “shitty.”

  I smile through my exhaustion. “It’s fine. Thanks for coming.” And I mean it. Amber’s the only one who’s shown up, as far as I know, even though I’d kind of hoped it’d be Caylee.

  There’s a long pause before I get up the nerve to ask, “Where’s Caylee?”

  Amber’s silent for a moment. She mutters something then catches herself and raises her voice. “She didn’t want to come.”

  Maybe I already knew. Still, it cuts.

  “Sorry to be so blunt,” she says, and she does look sorry. “But forget about Caylee. She’s not a real friend. Because no real friend would treat you like that or blame you for what her disgusting pervert boyfriend did, you know?”

  When I don’t say anything, she rushes on. “I mean, she and I go way back, to our Girl Scout cookie-selling days, if you can believe it. And I’ve always felt like a protective big sister to her, but honestly, she’s changed so much since Zac entered the picture that it’s like I don’t even know her anymore.” Amber huffs, then grows quiet, her eyes distant. “I guess I expected her to snap out of it soon, wake the hell up and see him for who he really is, you know? I didn’t want to just abandon her when she clearly seems lost, so I stuck around, thinking she’d need me after Zac inevitably dumped her and moved on. But for her to still be with him after everything…” Amber shakes her head, then stares up at me.

&
nbsp; When I don’t speak, she continues, “Anyway, I never got to say this fully on Monday, but in case you had any doubt, I want you to know I believe you. About Zac. About all of it—all of them—okay?”

  Tears squeeze from my eyes as I nod.

  “After you left school… Well, Caylee and I got in a huge fight. I told her again what a pervy dick Zac is, but of course she didn’t want to hear it from me, either. Surprise, surprise. Guess that means she and I are done.” Standing up, Amber surprises me with another hug, carefully navigating my tubes and wires this time, and doesn’t let go. I realize she’s much better at handling tears, or any hard emotion for that matter, than Caylee ever was. “Plus, once I saw your blog post, I knew I had to report that also,” Amber finishes.

  My brain feels too numb to reply.

  “I’m not sorry I did it,” Amber says into my pillow before releasing me from the hug and sitting back down. “Or for telling Ms. Adams. I’d do it again. It all just… sucked to witness, you know? First they hurt you. Then you hurt you…”

  Shame floods me as I relive Mom cupping my face in her hands last night, near hysterics, her scrubs crumpled and her expression a cracked desert of worry lines. “Tell me you’re okay,” she’d pleaded. “Tell me you’re okay.”

  Now, picking at the greenish lint from the sheets, I avoid looking at Mom as I tell Amber, “I’m sorry I told you I’d come with you after talking to Caylee. I’m sorry I lied.”

  “And that nothing had happened at the party and that Thomas wasn’t involved,” she ticks off on her fingers.

  “That too.”

  She shrugs. “Well, since that’s your one freebie lie in our friendship, I guess you really made it count, huh? Just… don’t let it happen again, okay?”

  I nod.

  “But, Erica? There’s something I have to ask you.”

  The seriousness of Amber’s voice pulls my eyes to her.

  “Why’d you do it?”

  I stare at her, confused. “Do what?”

  “Give away your power—to Thomas, to Caylee? Let them tell you who you were. You never needed them, you know.”