Falling Further (15 page)

“Anyone want to
own up to the drugs?” DeVito asks.

“They’re mine,”
Garrick says quickly.

“What?” Conway
yelps, “Garrick, what—”

I lock eyes with
my friend, and realize that he’s going to take the fall just to keep me from
sinking deeper in the shit.

“You don’t—” I
start.

“They’re mine,”
he repeats, glaring at me to shut up.

“Fine,” DeVito
says, losing his handcuffs. “Come on, boys. Don’t make this difficult.”

And we don’t.
Garrick stands stock still as DeVito cuffs him, rattling off his rights.
Sullivan advances on me, cuffs in hand. Before he can reach me, Nadia steps
into his path. The man’s mouth twists in displeasure.

“Come on now,”
he says, “Don’t make me bring you along for the ride, too.”

“Nadia, it’s
OK,” I whisper, taking her hands in mine.

“How can you say
that?” she asks.

“Just trust me,”
I tell her, kissing her on the forehead, “You haven’t seen the last of me.
Everything’s going to be alright.”

I’m lying
through my teeth, of course, but I’d say anything to put her at ease. I avert
my eyes as Sullivan snaps the cuffs around my wrists and leads me off the
porch. DeVito has to pry Conway off Garrick before tugging him along after me.

They march us
across the frozen lawn and push us down into the backseat of their car. Garrick
and I are silent as we pull away from the Daniels’ house. I let my eyes flick
up toward the porch, where Nadia and Conway stand together. Their arms are
wrapped protectively around each other, their shoulders shake with restrained
emotion. I rest my hand against the tinted window, reaching hopelessly for the
girl I love.

It’s the best
way I have of telling her goodbye.

Sixteen

Nadia:
Another
End Of The World

I don’t know how
long Conway and I stand huddled on that porch in silence. Holding each other,
we stare off after the cop cars as if we could summon them back just by hoping.
Surely, this has just been one elaborate misunderstanding. Surely, Trace and
Garrick can’t really be gone for good.

We shrink away
as the stretcher bearing Paul’s dead body is brought of the house. I don’t feel
any sort of satisfaction, as I take in the sight of the black body bag. I don’t
feel vindicated or relieved or justified...I don’t feel anything at all.

The events of
this brutal December night defy comprehension. To think—just a few hours ago I
was happier than I’ve been since my parents died. Of course the universe
couldn’t let that stand. Of course things had to go to shit the minute that I
felt the slightest flutter of hope about the rest of my life.

I don’t know why
I imagined that I’d be allowed to have a little happiness, after everything
that’s already happened to me. Hubris, I suppose. Or downright stupidity.

“Do you girls
have someone you can call?” asks one of the EMTs as they load Paul’s body into
the ambulance. Conway and I look at each other and shrug.

“We can take
care of ourselves,” Conway tells the woman.

“Are you sure?”
she asks.

“We have each
other,” I say, realizing in the moment that tonight might be the last time I
can say that and have it be true. I pull Conway a little tighter against me.

The ambulance
drives away, its siren silent. I’ve lost track of how late its gotten, but it
must be well past midnight. Christmas Eve.

“Come on,” I say
to Conway. My voice is rough with lack of sleep.

We walk back
into the house, hand in hand. For once, the TV doesn’t blare, no music creeps
up from the basement, no arguments filter through the walls. It’s simply quiet.
Eerily quiet. Conway and I stand in the foyer, unsure of ourselves.

“I thought this
would be the place,” she says sadly, “I thought I might get to just stay in one
place until I turned eighteen. That would be the next best thing to having a
home, you know?”

“Maybe we can
ask to be put in the same house?” I suggest.

“I don’t want to
think about it,” Conway tells me, “Let’s just go to sleep, OK?”

I watch as she
disappears up the stairs, dragging her feet with every step. All her life,
Conway’s just wanted to stay in one place. To have something that comes close
to a real home. And now I’ve gone and ruined it for her again. I know that
Trace insisted that this whole thing isn’t my fault, but I can’t believe that.
If I hadn’t come here, none of this would have happened.

Though my body
is tired, my mind is nowhere near ready to sleep. I walk through the abandoned
rooms of the Daniels house, trying to scrape some contented memories together
to take with me.

I remember the
late nights in the basement, talking about everything and nothing with my three
closest friends. I remember early mornings in the kitchen, enjoying a cup of
coffee with Trace at my side. I remember Conway’s beauty lessons, and Garrick’s
sometimes revelatory taste in music, and every single smile that Trace ever
shot my way.

How can he just
be gone?

I save the
kitchen for last on my grand tour of this place I’ve been calling home. The
fluorescents buzz overhead, bathing the room in the most mundane sort of light.
How can these four plain walls have contained so momentous and terrible an
event? How can I be expected to hold the reality of tonight inside of me with
crumbling to pieces?

I’ve never
understood how people can be expected to bounce back from tragedy, simply shake
it off and become the people they once were. There’s no such thing as “getting
back to your old self”. When something truly terrible happens, you’re forced to
become someone else altogether.

I wonder who
I’ll be when the smoke of this imploded life begins to clear?

As I turn to
leave the kitchen behind, something catches my eye. A little square object lays
discarded on the floor, kicked into the corner of the room. At first, I guess
that it’s probably one of the EMTs’ wallets, or perhaps something the cops left
behind. Stooping down, I pick up the tiny parcel and turn it over in my hands.
My breath catches in my throat as I see the scrawled writing there one side.

“To Nadia,” it
reads, “Merry Christmas. Love, Trace”

“Are you trying
to kill me, O’Conner?” I moan, holding the little box in my trembling hands.
This is just too much to bear. Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I start
to tear at the messy scotch tape scraps that holding the plain brown paper
together. As the wrapping falls away from the gift, a small red gift box is
revealed. My curiosity gets the best of me, and I pry open the package with
reverent care. Almost at once, hot tears obscure the view of Trace’s gift to
me.

There, nestled
on a cloud of white tissue paper, is a little golden charm in the shape of a
map. My hand flies to my compass necklace as salty tears spill down my cheeks.
He remembered my fleeting story of wanting to explore the world when I was a
kid. I’ve had my compass, my guide to true north...and Trace has given me the
means of building something from my journey.

I trudge
upstairs and sink into Conway’s twin bed. We curl up together among the pink
sheets, and finally, at long last, cry ourselves to sleep.

~~~

The inevitable
knock on the door comes earlier than we might have expected. The sun has barely
begun to light the world when Conway and I are roused from our long-awaited
sleep. For a moment, we try and ignore the persistent knocking, wrapping our
arms around each other and waiting for the world to leave us alone. But there’s
nothing we can do to stave off the inevitable, not really. I brush Conway’s
blonde hair out of her eyes and smile weakly.

“Yours or mine,
do you think?” I ask.

“Probably
yours,” she says, “Mine’s kind of a deadbeat. Shocker.”

We roll out of
the narrow twin bed and slowly descent the staircase. I pull open the front
door, letting in a gust of freezing air. A very familiar face waits for me
across the threshold.

“Merry
Christmas, Miss MacCoy,” I say flatly.

“Nadia...” she says,
taking a step toward me.

“I’m fine,” I
tell her, but my voice breaks, betraying me. I dissolve into bitter tears once
more and feel my social worker’s arms circle me.

“It’s going to
be OK,” she whispers, smoothing down my thick hair, “You’re a trooper, Nadia.
You always land on your feet.”

“Oh, sure,” I
laugh hollowly, “That’s me. The star foster kid, every time.”

“I didn’t
mean...I’m sorry,” Miss MacCoy says, leaving the front door open, “I can’t
imagine what you’re feeling right now.”

“That makes two
of us,” I say. “So, are you here to whisk me away?”

“I am,” she says
sadly, “Do you have your things packed up?”

“I’m not
bringing anything,” I tell her, “I don’t want anything that’s ever been inside
of this house. I mean it—clean slate. I want to start over from scratch.”

“That’s fair,”
Miss MacCoy tells me, “I’ll just wait outside for you, OK? Take your time.”

She excuses
herself out onto the porch, leaving me alone with Conway. We take each other in
across the space of the foyer, searching in vain for the right words.

“Take care of
yourself, I guess,” I tell her.

“I always do,”
she says, “You do the same.”

“Conway,” I say,
“Do you think Trace and Garrick...?”

“They’re not
going to let them go, Nadia,” she tells me softly, “That’s just not how it goes
for kids like us. But hey...at least they’re not eighteen, right?”

“Is that what
you call a silver lining?” I ask.

“Sterling
silver, maybe,” she shrugs, “That’s kind of the best we can hope for.”

“I’m going to
miss you,” I tell her.

“Of course you
will,” she says, “I’m the best housemate you’ll ever have.”

“It’s more than
that,” I say, stepping toward her, “I’ve had a lot of foster sisters, Con. But
you’re the only real sister I’ve ever had.”

“What the hell
is the matter with you?” she asks, her eyes welling up with tears, “Are you
trying to turn me into a stick of goddamn jerky? I don’t have any more tears to
spare.”

“I just wanted
you to know,” I smile, taking her hand in mine. “I’ll see you around, OK?”

“You probably
won’t,” she tells me, “But I appreciate it, all the same.”

I turn from her
and leave without looking back. Walking into this house felt like being
condemned to prison, but leaving doesn’t feel like being released. I don’t know
if I’ll ever be free of all the pain and guilt that I gathered up, here. Part
of me suspects that I’ll drag the baggage of this place behind me for the rest
of my life.

Miss McCoy puts
her arm around my shoulder and leads me down to her car. I’d know that old
Honda Civic anywhere. Time and again, this car has carried me to some foreign,
unknowable place to survive among the hostile natives. I laugh humorlessly to
myself—I’m sure that Columbus and Magellan never felt so bitterly toward their
vessels. Maybe that’s been my problem this whole time...I’ve just needed a better
ship.

“You OK spending
the day with me?” Miss MacCoy asks, “I don’t want to leave you alone on
Christmas Eve, but no one else is really around to—”

“It’s fine,” I
tell her.

We drive along
in silence, for a spell. The Daniels’ rundown house disappears around the
corner for the last time. I think of all the homes I’ve left behind so far in
my life. I’ve said goodbye to my parents’ home, the place where I spent the
earliest and best years of my life.

I’ve left the
rowdy Goldstein’s place behind, with all its memories of truncated childhood.
I’ve been snatched from the jealous Cheryl’s apartment, and taken out of Mrs.
Tyson’s would-be convent. But never before has a goodbye seemed so final as
this one.

“I just don’t
understand, Nadia,” Miss MacCoy begins. “If things were so terrible with the
Daniels, why didn’t you just tell me? You’ve always been so honest with me
about your foster families.”

“I guess things
weren’t always so terrible,” I shrug, as Trace’s gorgeous green eyes float up
to the forefront of my memory.

“The police told
me everything you guys said. Is it true that Paul and Nancy were drinking? That
they hit the boys?”

“Yes,” I admit
softly, “Yes, that’s all true.”

“Well Christ,
Nadia, don’t you think that’s information I might need to have?” Miss MacCoy
asks, exasperated. “You could have gotten seriously hurt. If what you’re saying
about last night is true, then—”

“What, you think
I’m lying?” I ask, more hurt than angry.

“No, of course
not,” Miss MacCoy says quickly. “I just...I don’t get it, Nadia. I could have
gotten you out of there. Why did you just sit silently by while all of this was
going on?”

“I...I didn’t
want to leave,” I say, realizing that it’s the truth.

“How can that
be?” Miss MacCoy asks.

“I had good
company,” I tell her. “Conway, and Garrick, and...Trace.”

My social worker
looks over at me, suddenly comprehending. “Trace,” she says, “I see.”

“Yeah.”

“Is that why
he...? You two had a thing together?”

“It wasn’t a
thing,” I tell her, “It was...We just cared about each other. He cared about
me. He understood me.”

“So he was
trying to save you, last night,” Miss MacCoy says.

“He did save
me,” I say, “And now he’s going to end up in juvie, all because of me.”

“He will
probably go to jail,” Miss MacCoy says, her voice pained, “But not because of
you. He made his own choice, Nadia.”

“But Paul would
have raped me,” I say, pleading with her to see the injustice, “Doesn’t that
mean anything? Doesn’t Trace get a little credit for getting that fucking
monster away from me?”

“With his past
charges and the drugs they found in the house?” Miss MacCoy says, “No.
Probably, it won’t count for much. He might be able to get a lesser sentence
than murder, but it’s not like his record is clean, Nadia. Whatever happens to
Trace has been in the works for far longer than you’ve known him.”

“That doesn’t
make me feel any better,” I say.

“You’ll see,”
Miss MacCoy tells me, “When you get a little distance, you’ll see how much was
already stacked against him. The best thing you could have done to him was be a
friend, and you did. I’m sure that will always mean a lot to him.”

“Great,” I
mutter, closing my fingers around my necklace. I slide Trace’s map along the
chain, letting it fall against my compass. By the time we both come down from
this, I might need a map if I’m ever going to find him again. But probably,
that won’t be necessary.