Delicate Monsters (11 page)

Actually, Emerson realized, that wasn't very funny at all.

The wind whipped through the trees outside, wild and rattling, and after a glance in the rearview mirror, Emerson unscrewed the bottle top and took a furtive swallow. Then another. He didn't go crazy or anything. Just downed enough to feel a little warm and like he wasn't about to jump out of his damn skin.

After a few minutes, he drank more.

Maybe too much.

*   *   *

Emerson finally got out of the car and walked upstairs.

When he opened the front door to the apartment, the first thing he saw was a cop, a female one. She sat in the living room with her legs crossed like it was fucking high tea, talking to his mom. Another cop, this one a man, stood in the kitchen jabbering away on his phone.

At the sight of him, his mother rushed over, bringing with her a whole flurry of emotion, all tears and need. Emerson understood: the last time the cops had been here, it'd been to arrest her. He and Miles had gone to social services for three horrible weeks. Clearly his mother remembered this, too, because she wrapped her arms around Emerson and didn't let go. Dipping his knees and hugging her back, he winced at the thinness of her bones, the new streaks of gray in her hair. He prayed she couldn't smell the alcohol on his breath.

He prayed he would never disappoint her.

“This your other son?” The lady cop turned to look at him. She was different than most of the police officers Emerson had interacted with over the years, the ones with the beer guts and alimony payments who hung around the basketball games and vacillated between wanting to kiss his ass or beat some respect into him. This one looked like she didn't care about sports or rivalries or small-town pride. She was young, with steely eyes and sharp features like a fox or a weasel.

His mother stepped back and patted his arm proudly. “This is my Emerson. My eldest.”

“Where's Miles?” he asked her.

“Resting.”

“Is he okay?”

Her eyes puddled. “I should check on him.”

By the hurried way she left the room, it was clear she wouldn't be back. This was her escape.

“I'm Detective Gutierrez,” the lady cop called out.

Emerson walked over. Shook her hand. He felt jumpy, filled with the breakaway need to talk, and in a way, despite his guilt and paranoia, Emerson was grateful for the Johnnie Walker. It glossed his edges. Slowed him down.

“What happened to my brother?” he asked the cop.

“That's what we're trying to figure out.”

“How bad is he hurt?”

“He'll be okay. He's mostly shaken up. Some bruises. The burns. It's more…”

Burns?
“More what?”

“He won't tell us what happened.”

“Maybe he doesn't know.”

She frowned. “He's making it hard for us to help him.”

Sounds like Miles, Emerson wanted to say, but didn't. His glossed edges were quickly turning fuzzy.

“Can I ask you some questions, Emerson?” Detective Gutierrez asked.

About my brother?

Or about me?

“Sure,” he said evenly. “Why not?”

 

chapter twenty-one

Roman was writing on an almost daily basis now.

It was driving Sadie a little batty.

Day or night, his rambling, heartfelt messages traveled to her via airwave or satellite signal or the goddamn space-time continuum, and she was helpless to do anything about it. Sadie read his messages, though. Every single one. They seemed like a good thing to monitor, in case he started making bomb threats or referring to himself as the Minister of Death.

Only nothing that interesting had happened, unfortunately. Roman was still the same boring old Roman, and she could just picture him hunched in front of his computer, tapping out his loneliness, keystroke by dour keystroke. His overall tone had changed, though: there were no more shy pleas or bashful questions. Instead, it seemed, he was putting it all out there—converting his thoughts and existential despair into words and sending them to her, completely unedited. Sadie never responded, of course, so she really didn't understand what the point was.

Unless, of course, that
was
the point.

Tonight, however, it was after midnight, and she still hadn't heard from him. She had gotten a few texts from Wilderness Camp Chad, but those she deleted unread. When she needed him, he'd be there. That was all that mattered.

Instead of sleeping, Sadie sat cross-legged on her bed with a notebook in her lap and a fancy pen she'd stolen from her therapist's office. It was the only nice thing he had in there, and she decided it might as well be hers. After all, he was the one who'd given her this crappy therapy homework to do in the first place.

Per his instructions, she was meant to be writing down Responsible Actions She Could Take in light of what she'd caught Emerson doing at that dumb party, along with the possible consequences of those actions. Dr. CMT had said the exercise would be a way for her to understand the weight of her own decisions. He'd also used words like “sexual assault” and “serious violation” and “ethical responsibility.”

So she wrote:

I could …

• Tell the girl.

• Tell the police.

• Tell everyone.

Sadie sat back. She looked at her words and admired the backward slant of her handwriting. The thing was, the consequences of all these actions were the same: Emerson would get in trouble. Maybe even go to jail or at least get suspended and put on some kind of pervert watch list. People would see him for the creep he was, and maybe he'd stop staring at her in class in that dippy way he'd been doing, like a dim-witted dog whose bone had been stolen right out from under its nose.

Of course, it was equally possible she could tell and he
wouldn't
get in trouble. You heard about that happening on the news all the time. Guys did things to girls, worse than Emerson, and nobody cared. Sadie supposed she should feel some sort of outrage over that or a sense of righteousness, but she didn't. Being outraged about anything was a waste of time. You didn't gain anything by being mad or even by being right. Besides, most people would be outraged with her if they knew half the things she'd done in her lifetime.

Ultimately, it came down to a matter of leverage: if Sadie told, then Emerson's secret wouldn't be
hers
. It'd be useless. She'd have no power over him, and there was no damn fun in that.

So she wrote down a few other ideas:

I could …

• Make friends with the girl.

• Blackmail Emerson.

• Drive him insane.

• Get him to do
anything.

“Screw responsibility,” she whispered, and right then her phone buzzed. Sadie looked down. It was an email. From Roman. Setting pen and notebook aside, she pushed back her scalloped-edge sheets and swung her feet to the floor. For some reason, she couldn't read his words to her here, in her own room. There was only one place in the house she felt comfortable doing that, and it's where she was headed.

But first, the bathroom; Sadie needed to pee. She let her toes tap on cold tile while she sat on the toilet. When she was done, she hopped up and pulled her nightgown down. She didn't bother wiping. Sadie liked the warmth on her thighs almost as much as she liked breaking rules.

Creeping downstairs on soft feet, she found the whole house midnight dark and midnight still. There was no sign of her mom anywhere, thank God, or any of her mom's friends. That was the word her mom used to describe the people she was screwing around with behind Sadie's dad's back. Regular people and family were introduced by name, but the quick fucks and boozy gropers and pool boys with tight abs and good weed, well, those were
friends.
Hell, for all Sadie knew, the term wasn't a euphemism, and her mother actually believed banging someone and never calling them back was the true definition of friendship.

Hell, for all Sadie knew, maybe it was.

Making her way down darkened hallways and through shadowy rooms, she arrived at a closed door on the north end of the house. Sadie pushed her way in. The cool scent of rotting books filled her nostrils. All the lamps were dust-coated and in disuse, but moonlight washed through the tall windows, guiding her toward her destination—a leather armchair that was situated in the tight spot between a long-cold hearth and her father's prized gun collection. Never a hunter, he admired the craftsmanship. And power. Sadie did, too. Every once in a while, she slipped one of the old pistols from the case, loaded it, and held it in her lap. Just to know what it felt like. But tonight she didn't bother. She flopped down, gathered her legs beneath her, and pulled a camel-colored cashmere throw around her shoulders to preserve heat.

She held her phone up.

She opened Roman's message.

She read his words to her.

Hey, Sadie.

It's late, I know. Late here, anyway, and it's just … I've got a lot on my mind. Sometimes that means I'm up all night long, and other days I can't get myself out of bed. I don't know. That's odd, I guess. Like if even my depression can't be consistent, what hope is there for the rest of me?

I'm also not sure how to feel about this homeschooling thing. Truthfully, I feel like an oversheltered child, even though my mom's not the one teaching me. I'm teaching myself most of the time or watching videos online, so it's not like autonomy is an issue. But it's still weird. At Rothshire the school was our home, right? That was homeschooling in a way. So why do I feel like this? Maybe I've just been gone so long this place doesn't feel like home anymore. There are still leaves on the trees here in Kentucky. People in shorts, girls wearing tank tops or hanging out in those flimsy sun dresses and plastic sandals. They soak up warmth when all I want is to be cold. That's funny, too, isn't it? To want so badly what it was that almost killed me.

I wish I could explain what it was like, that night in the snow, beneath the brightest stars and the fullest moon. I was surrounded by ice, no matter where I went, no matter what I did. It was terrible and it was beautiful, and I don't remember everything—just the blood and the pain—but when I try and talk about that night, no one wants to listen. They either change the subject or ask if I'm feeling better, and it's like I'm doing the wrong thing by not wanting to hold it all inside. Should I be embarrassed? I'm not. I'm not anything, these days, if you want to know the truth. Maybe that's what's wrong with me.

Maybe that's why you did what you did.

It's one of my theories anyway. That you wanted me to die because my life isn't worth living. That you were punishing me for my weaknesses. I have a lot of theories, though, and I think I want to tell them to you. I also think you have to listen. Because unlike a science lab or a math proof or a miracle from God, there's nothing in the outside world that can tell me if I've stumbled onto the truth. Only something that lives inside of you can do that.

And only you know what that something is.

—R

 

chapter twenty-two

What were the origins of pain?

Miles's mind fluttered into wakefulness. He lay very still. He took stock of where he was. He was in his own room, pressed beneath the cool sheets of his bed. Moonlight drifted through the air, a lost traveler on a dark night, and Miles could see that Emerson's bed was empty. He was probably on the couch beneath a pile of old blankets. That was where his brother always slept when he was ill or hurting. Or when he couldn't stand Miles for reasons that were never, ever spoken out loud.

Miles tried pushing himself to sitting. He groaned and fell back. Clutched at his side.

Every part of him hurt.

So much.

He tried again. This time, he took a deep breath, braced for the pain and forced his body up, all the way, moving against the ache in his ribs and the sting of his muscles. Once on his feet, he shuffled across the room on stiff legs to the far window. There he leaned against the metal frame and stared out at the night.

Midnight silence. Nothing of interest was out there—neglected trees, old cars, small pieces of trash rolling around in the breeze—but still, something both ancient and new stirred within him. Like the sweep and turn of a compass dial, Miles felt himself teetering on the edge of some temporal horizon, that narrowing border between now and yet-to-come.

There was still a twist to the wind. There was still a slant to the sky.

Like the origin of his pain, his truth was so close.

It scratched and growled,

it slumbered and snored,

just a room away,

all while the wind knocked

and whispered

get ready for your shine, boy

get your soul good and ready

the end is coming

the truth'll be here

soon.

 

chapter twenty-three

Morning came in its inevitable way. A bright and bitter end.

Dots of gray mist and pink haze crept over the eastern hills, lighting the room and stirring Sadie from sleep. She yawned and stretched, then crawled from her father's armchair back upstairs for a shower. After she was scrubbed clean, Sadie stared at herself in the full-length mirror in her room for a few minutes, wet hair dripping all over the place. It was something she did a lot, eyeing her naked form from all different angles, wondering if she'd ever see anything different. Echoes of her father, perhaps: a hint of his warmth, his compassion.

Sadie didn't see any of that.

She never did.

Turning away from the mirror, she yawned again and rubbed her eyes. Her rest had been fitful—dreams about Roman
needing
things from her, God—and after putting on clothes and blow-drying her hair, Sadie craved coffee something bad. Making chit-chat with her mom in the kitchen while they pot-watched the French press felt unbearable, so she moved deftly to Plan B. This involved grabbing her school stuff, lifting a twenty from the pile of cash that had been set out to pay the house cleaner, and slipping from the house to her car before the sun could dry the dew-damp grass.