Identical (40 page)

From the party, crawled away

somewhere to sulk and cry.

Not me. Fuck it. The more

Mom’s gone, the less the stress.

Always plenty of that, nibbling

away at us. Who needs more?

And hey, now that this election

is over, no more good behavior.

Ha! Like I’ve behaved so well

over the past eleven months.

And, really, with elections every two

years, I’ve only got a year to be bad.

But incumbents generally have

the upper hand, so no worries.

Shit, if I don’t quit conversing with

myself, they’ll institutionalize me.

I’m not conversing with myself out loud,

am I? Okay, where’s the champagne?

Off to bed

around two.

No school

tomorrow,

I figure.

We’ll still

be celebrating.

At least Mom

definitely will.

I’m celebrating

pretty good

right now, on

two Oxy and

enough bubbly

to give me

hiccups for days.

Oh yeah, I’m

floating, okay.

But I don’t like

how it feels. I

desperately want

solid ground.

Like I’ve ever

even once in

my life stood

on solid ground.

It has rung incessantly, but not

enough, it seems, to wake Mom

and Daddy, who partied well

into the wee hours of morning.

Their phones are likely unplugged.

I drag myself from beneath

the covers, head pounding.

“Coming, damn it,” I call.

Fighting an amazing hangover,

I reach the idiotic phone. “Hello?”

A very long pause precedes,

Hello. This is your grandmother.

Another very long pause.

Long enough for anger to

blossom inside my traitor head.

“Oh, really? Well, it’s a little

late now, don’t you think?”

Come on, you old bitch…

Excuse me? A little late for

what, exactly? Who is this?

I can’t believe I’m rising like this.

Who cares, anyway? Loyalty

to my parents? Definitely not me.

Still, I continue, “A little late to ask

for money. The election’s over.”

Yes, I realize that. But why on

earth would I ask for money?

Who told you that, anyway?

“Your ex-husband. He told us

you wanted hush money.”

My ex-husband? Ted? But

why…? W-well, young lady…

A voice, heavy and masculine,

falls over my shoulder.
Who

is that?
Daddy. Of course.

I turn to face him, and what I see

in his eyes chills me to my core.

Don’t dare lie. “It’s your mother.”

Out of my hand, and his intensity

makes me back quickly away.

If he lashes out, I don’t want

to be standing in his path.

But no, he’s relatively collected.

This is Raymond. May I ask

exactly why you’ve been

bothering my family with calls?

I can’t hear her response, but

Daddy’s posture goes from

wood to pulp. It’s like he

shrunk sizes. Shrunk years.

He’s a small boy, and he’s found

his mommy again, only he doesn’t

like the idea.
Everyone is just fine.

Thanks for your misplaced concern.

Whatever she’s saying now hits

like hammer blows. His breath

comes in short, stuttered bursts,

and his teeth crunch together.

I couldn’t care less about your

“programs.” I will never forgive

you, and you will never be welcome

in this house. Good-bye, Mother.

What he’ll do next, I start to

retreat toward the kitchen.

Daddy pounces, fists clenched.

Why did you answer that?

If he weren’t so angry, I’d have

a smart-ass comeback. But as it

is, I play humble. “It kept ringing,

so I thought it might be important.”

He draws right up against me.

What did she say to you?

“Nothing. Only that she wasn’t

calling to ask for money.”

His muscles relax, but only

a little.
Are you sure that’s all?

“Yes, Daddy, that’s all.” I finally

chance looking into his eyes,

and this time what I find isn’t

anger. It’s—can this be right?

Yes, I’m right. It’s fear.

Is it requires a reaction. Some hide.

Some cry. But, like a dog condemned

to a walled yard with no hope

of escape or affection, some learn

to bite. Daddy is a fear biter.

Lucky for me, Mom seems to sense

the approaching maul and comes to

my rescue.
Good morning.
Much too

cheerful. Her head rocks back and

forth between us.
What’s going on?

Daddy snaps out of his fugue,

into the moment.
Seems my

prodigal mother managed to get

one of her calls answered this

morning. I took care of it, though.

The congresswoman-elect

searches my face for some

kind of sign.
Are you okay?

At my nod, she detours Daddy.

May I speak with you for a moment?

They withdraw to the bedroom

and I hustle into the bathroom,

determined to reach there before

last night’s champagne and this

morning’s turmoil escape my belly.

Esophagus acid-etched,

I’m ready to face the day.

Not.

Despite the insulation

of two closed doors and

a hallway,

I can hear Mom and Daddy

screaming insults at each

other.

I want her to leave now,

leave us within the solace

of silence.

I so need to get high. But Mick,

I’m guessing, is no longer

an option.

And that basically leaves one

person I can ask for a buzz.

Ty.

Get only his voice mail.

Leave a subtle message.

“Please call back as soon

as you get this. I so need

to hook up with you.”

Sounded a bit desperate

there. And guess what?

I am. Downers are okay,

I guess, but it’s not like

you really enjoy the buzz.

Mostly, you sleep through

it. What fun is that?

Besides, I need to feel

desirable, not like a piece

of furniture, something

you can sit on. Something

that belongs to my mom

or my daddy. I need to feel

like somebody wants me,

even if he wants me for

all the wrong reasons.

Mostly, I just need to feel.

He’s playing hard to get.

Hours pass without a word. I

almost wish I would have

gone to school. I wish Mom

or Daddy would have asked

why

I didn’t go, but apparently

they’re both so wrapped up

in themselves (and wrapped

around each other’s throats),

it was too much effort to even

notice.

All I can think about are two

things. One: Ty calling to say

he’s on his way to pick me up,

take me home, and spend

hours doing crazy things with

me,

insane things that will carry

us all the way down into hell,

and maybe, just maybe, back up

again. And two: this morning’s

phone call. If not for money, why

did my grandmother bother to call

at all?