All We Left Behind (32 page)

I need air.

I grab my shirt and pull it down over me. Abe sits on the far side of the seat with his clothes rumpled and his lips pink. Blond hair falls limp over my shoulders and I have a choice. Walk out of the creek water—

Or fall in.

Choosing to drown would be easy, slipping under the water into the silence, leaving only the light babble of the stream. No more fighting, or hiding. Drink the water and no longer breathe.

“I don't know what I was thinking,” I say quietly, and Abe doesn't look at me. None of this is fair to him. His fingers fumble with the strings from the broken buttons of his shirt and he closes the fabric over his chest. “We should go.”

He punches the remaining button of his shirt through its hole, his pinkie finger fishing it through the tiny opening before he looks up.

“Did you ever like me?”

His whisper fills the car and I can't look at him. My throat tightens with how impossible it is to answer that. How liking him, how even loving him, is not enough. How it alone cannot shield him from the razors of this secret. How caring about him doesn't mean I won't tear him to shreds.

I look out the window and the sky is black and starless. I wish there was one—just one—single star. Or maybe even an outline like the stickers on my bedroom ceiling hidden under all those layers of paint.

But the night is seamless and dark.

Yes—
I want to tell him.
Yes, I like you
.
I've always liked you.
But—

“I'm sorry,” is all I manage. It's what I really mean. There's nothing else I can say that will fix this.

Abe gets out of the car and walks to the edge of the cliff. His white shirt billows like a ghost against the seamless horizon. I can't see where the sky ends and the land begins. There's only flat surface and endless dark. No separation. No space with which to divide this. No way to blame this on him, or Kurt.

This is all me.

Everything since the creek, all the canyons of silence slung between me and Lilith, my father, Kurt, Abe—I can pretend it's them. But that's all it would be. Pretend. And all that does is leave them in the dark at the edge of this cliff, hating me.

I've
made this divide. All this silence and darkness—

Is mine.

It was me who chose to drown.

*  *  *

I drive us out of the woods, and Abe sits beside me in silence. I don't blame him. He's earned this quiet space, which is private and not for me to see.

The road bumps and I think of Kurt and the first time I was on this ridge. My body was screaming—not hot, but sobbing—because there are things it can't keep holding in.

And if I keep pushing it down it will drown me.

And I can let it.

Or I can reach for the surface—for words, for breath, for the air that can make all this silence take shape again. So I can become visible.

*  *  *

I pull up to Abe's house and my stomach turns when I see my father's car parked out front. Abe's dad is a cop. Of course he called my father when I drove off with his son.

I grip the steering wheel, but it's slippery in my hands. My front bumper hits the curb and metal scrapes against pavement.

“Jesus,” Abe curses, opening the car door before I've even stopped. I slam my foot against the brake.

“Wait,” I say, pulling the emergency gear, and he glares at me. “Wait, I'm—” I shift the car into park, but grab the wheel again, needing something to hold on to. “I wanted to
say—” I squeeze the wheel, barely able to speak. “I'm sorry. I'm awful. I didn't mean to hurt you, and I can't believe I—”

“Don't!” His voice slices out my air. “You don't get to be the victim in this.”

His words lodge in my throat.

Unswallowable.

His furious eyes bore into me, and I deserved that.

“I . . .” I whisper. “I'm—”

“Just don't.” He leaps out of the car and slams the door shut. He stomps up the lawn with his bare feet pounding into the grass. It makes me think of my broken flip-flop as I raced through the reeds, needing to get away.

Abe disappears into the house and a moment later my father replaces him on the lawn. He's angry—my father—in a rage I've never seen. Heading straight for me.

The nurses swarm us at
the emergency room. They take Josie out of my arms and put her on a gurney. They yell for wires and pumps and bags of fluid. They roll her away, behind the glass. And I can't follow.

The fluorescent lights buzz and I'm left with empty air.

With nothing.

A lady behind the counter waves paperwork at me. She asks for my name. Josie's name. Insurance numbers. For my parents. They ask if I know what kind of drugs she was on, and Conner tells her whatever he can answer.

I can't breathe.

There are other people in the room. Watching us. Sitting in plastic chairs bolted to the floor. Waiting, like us, for whoever they have behind the glass. And it's quiet. Too quiet. Especially after the yelling and commotion and strapping her down. I try to breathe but—

Oh God, what if I lose—

I swallow. Press myself into the counter and try to get my legs to remember how to hold me up.

“And where did you find her?” the lady behind the counter asks as I suck down the sterile air that tastes like vinegar. Her pen stops writing and she looks from Conner to me.

“A friend's house,” I say finally, my voice hoarse. “She needed to see her friend Tina. That's where she was. Tina's house.”

“You're kidding me, right?” The lady gives us a smug look, and I want to knock out her teeth.

“No, he's not kidding,” Conner snaps, and she cuts him a look.

“You
do
know that Tina's the street word for methamphetamine, right?”

My knees go out.

Conner tries to catch me, but I'm on the floor.

“Wow, okay,” I hear the lady say. I think she picks up the phone to call a doctor or someone but “He can't be on the floor” is all I catch.

“He needs air,” Conner says, trying to get under my weight and help me to my feet. But I don't want to get up. I don't need air. I don't want air ever again.

*  *  *

Conner sits next to me on the curb, and we wait for my dad. Light from the emergency room glows behind us, and I hang my head between my knees. Somehow, through snot and spit, I breathe.

“I messed up,” I say, my voice ragged. “I messed up.”

Conner takes off his coat and drapes it over me. His hand stays with the coat, against my back.

“I thought Tina was a person,” I say, and Conner nods.

“Of course you did. Who knows a thing like that?”

There's a crack in the asphalt under me. A hairline crack that's so thin it's almost not there. It's the kind of thing you can pretend not to notice, until it guts you in half.

I raise my head and feel dizzy. The blood draining. I look at Conner and I know there's snot and vomit all over me, but he doesn't look away. He's always been here. Right here. Next to me. No matter what. It hits me that he's doing exactly what I did for Mom. Being here. Seeing. Not looking away or judging. Just picking me up. There are things you're not meant to carry by yourself.

“Con, I've been a shitty friend,” I say, adjusting my leg, which is still throbbing, and he shakes his head. Pats me on the back.

“Don't worry about it. It's fine.”

I look up at the sky, not sure if Mom's up there. Not sure if Josie's on her way to follow.

“It's not fine,” I say. “None of this is fine.”

There's water on my face. Dripping down over my chin and hitting the pavement. Finding those hairline cracks.

“I'm sorry,” I whisper, and he rubs my back. Lets the tears fall.

“I know,” he says, and we sit there. Him and me. No matter what.

*  *  *

My father storms into the ER sucking on a cigarette and stomping so loud everyone turns to look. I get up from my plastic chair, but he doesn't see me.

“Medford, Josie,” he barks at the attendant behind the desk. “Where is my daughter?”

“You can't smoke in here, sir,” the attendant says, and he curses at her, looking for a place to stab the thing out.

“You got a trash?”

The attendant points outside. “There's a receptacle by the—”

“Screw your receptacle! Where's my daughter?”

“Dad.” I walk toward him and he turns violently. Ash litters the floor. “They don't know anything yet.”

Two steps and he's on me. Clutching my shirt. Teeth in my face.

“What the hell did you do?” he spits. “I leave the house for three hours and—”

“Sir!” The attendant's voice is sharp. “Do I need to call security?”

He lets go of me.

“No,
you
need to find out what's going on with my daughter!” He points behind the glass.

“Sir, I don't appreciate your—”

“I don't care!” He glares at her. “I'll be waiting out by the
receptacle
when you have an answer.” He grabs my shoulder and pushes me toward the door. Conner gets to his feet and the attendant picks up the phone, both of them eyeing me. I wave them off.

This is between Dad and me.

Out by the trash can, Dad takes three long drags of his cigarette and starts to pace.

“You better start talking,” he says, flicking his ash. “You better start telling me why my only daughter is in the ER, ODing on some shit she isn't supposed to have!”

“Because she's a meth-head, Dad!” I kick the trash can and pain splinters through my leg. White flashes in my vision and I have to grab the can to keep from falling over. It's the same leg that Cigarette Guy smashed.

Dad flinches but he doesn't offer a hand.

“I fucked up,” I say through the pain.

“You're damn right, you fucked up.” He points his cigarette at me and I grip the can, wanting to pull it off its bolts and chuck it at him.

“
And
she's a meth-head!” I say, glaring at him. “She just wanted more. I didn't know that, but that's what it was! That's all it ever is.”

His face is stone. He doesn't want to hear it.

“She's
Mom
!” I yell. “She's just like Mom.”

He's on me then, grabbing my shirt. Smoke in his nostrils. My leg throbs and I can barely stand. I lean into him, shaking my head.

“I dump it out. I try to keep her away from it. But she still goes out looking for more. That's it. She's Mom.”

“Don't disrespect your mother like—”

“Mom was a drunk!”

His knuckles press into my chest.

“And Josie's a meth-head! And they
both
just wanted more.”

He yanks me close and I taste the ash on his breath. “Your sister is—”

“Why didn't
you
stop Mom?” I interrupt, razors scraping up my leg. It hurts so much I can't see straight. Fire at the edge of my vision. “
You
were her husband. Why was
I
the one pulling vomit out of her hair and dumping the bottles down sink? What did
you
do?”

He's grips me so hard, I think I stop breathing, and I can't see his eyes. For a second I think he might be holding me up, because I can't possibly be standing on this leg.

And I see it all now. How it isn't one thing I could have done, but a hundred little things. Looking left instead of right. Knocking on my sister's door. Asking Mom to talk to me instead of playing our guitars. Maybe it's as simple as watching a movie with Dad and learning to stand in each other's presence. We might be able to make it if we did that. If we could all be like Marion with her hand on my shoulder in the rain, listening, seeing, despite how uncomfortable it is.

Uncomfortable but
choosing
to stay.

“I fucked up,” I whisper to Dad. “With Josie, yeah,
you're right, I made a bad decision. But
you
fucked up too. Where were you? Where have you been the last four years? It's like both of you died when she got in that truck. I don't know how to carry this by myself. Yes, I fucked up, Dad, but
you
fucked up too!”

He pushes me away and I have to grab the trash can to keep my balance. It doesn't matter; I hit the cement anyway. Pain streaks up to my groin and I see him stalk away to his truck. The cigarette falls out of his hand. Red embers on the pavement.

Burning out.

He unhooks his tailgate and then slams it shut again. At least that's what it sounds like he does. He's too far away for me to really see what he's doing. I rub my eyes and think maybe he's just standing there. Gripping the back of the truck. Fuming. He stands there for way too long and I'm sure he's going to get in that truck and drive away. Sure he's going to leave me alone with this mess.

Again.

I get up.

There's fire in my fucking leg, but I get up.

I limp over to him and it takes forever with the bones twisted wrong and scraping against each other. But I walk.

I put my hand on his shoulder and he's shaking. Shaking like he might never stop.

“I don't care that you fucked up,” I say. “I care that you stay.”

He rams the butt of his palm into the tailgate. It slams like a gunshot. He rams his hand into the metal again—

And again—

And I wait there with him, until he stops.

“Josie and me,” I say. “We won't make it without you.”

My father is furious. He
races toward me with the light of Abe's house blazing behind him.

“That man is a cop,” he growls, throwing a finger toward Abe's house. “You think I like cops calling me in the middle of the night? What the
hell
were you doing?”