Learning Not to Drown (26 page)

“So . . . then Dan came out of the room, woke up Heather, and told us he needed to leave. A minute later Heather said, ‘I'd better see what kind of trouble your brother is getting into' and stumbled down the hall. She was really drunk, Clare. . . .”

Peter stops again. The box sits on the wrapping paper. He looks down, as if he's just now realizing that he was in the middle of wrapping a gift. He folds the edge, making it smooth before taping it. Then he looks up at me. “I've thought a lot, Clare, about what I could have done differently that day. I could have told Luke I wanted to go home as soon as I was bored. I could have
asked Heather for another hot chocolate, even though I didn't want one. Or maybe if I had gone back for my gloves, we would've gotten there a little bit later and Dan and whatever drugs he had would have been gone. Maybe if one thing had gone differently that day. Know what I mean?”

I nod. We sit in silence for a minute or two. He's done with the story. He can't tell me any more. But he has to. I need to know. “Peter, what happened?”

“I had to pee. So . . .” Peter pauses. My stomach is a rotten apple core. “I walked down the hall to the bathroom. Heather's door was open just a crack. I peeked in. I could see Luke and Heather lying together on the bed, facing each other. Luke was running his hand up her bare leg, and she looked like she was asleep.”

Peter pauses again. “I went the bathroom.” His eyes are watering. “On the way out I heard Heather saying no. I stopped at the door. I wanted to keep walking, not look in, but then I heard her again.” He pauses, swallowing.

“I've never heard anyone's voice so scared before.” His voice cracks. “She was begging him to stop. I put my eye up to the crack, Clare.” Another pause. “I looked in for only a second. Just a second. But it was long enough to see. He didn't stop, Clare. I know what I saw.”

Peter's nose is running, and he wipes the tears before they can stream down his cheeks. “I wonder if I could have tried to stop him. If I burst open the door, or called the police or screamed or anything. If I did anything. But I didn't.”

His voice lowers to almost a whisper. “I was so scared. Clare, I was so scared. So I went back to the couch. I sat on the couch and I turned the volume up on the TV until I almost couldn't hear anything anymore. And I stared at the screen, trying to just watch the game. But no matter how loud I put the volume, all I could hear was Heather screaming.

“After a long time Luke came out of the room, all proud of himself. I was terrified. He sat down on the couch and asked who'd won the game. I couldn't answer him. I didn't know. He tried to put his arm around me, and I jerked away. I was trying so hard not to, but when he looked at me, I started to cry.

“Then he got angry. He told me to put on my jacket because we were going home. As he flipped off the TV, I could hear Heather sobbing in the other room. Luke could hear her too.

“Right outside the front door Luke grabbed my shoulders. He got right down in my face and said, ‘What's wrong with you?'

“I shook my head. I couldn't speak. He knew, Clare. He knew I saw. And I thought he was going to kill me. He told me that Heather was a slut and liked to scream like that when she was having fun.” Peter spits the words out. “And when I cried harder, he grabbed me by the throat and said, ‘Don't you spread any lies about your brother!' Clare, he lifted me off the ground and said, ‘If you spread lies about me, I will kill you. Understand?'

“I was able to somehow say yes. And that I wouldn't say anything. He dropped me into a snowbank. And he
left me there. It was freezing and the sun was setting. Once he was out of sight, I got up and walked home. I cried the whole way.

“I told Mom and Dad that Luke and I got into a fight when we were out walking. He never came home. I was scared for weeks that he'd show up in the middle of the night and kill me. Finally he called from jail . . . and I felt safe.

“Know what's crazy? I don't think he remembers—he was so wasted. Either that or he acts like it never happened.” Peter is answering questions before I can think to ask. He takes a deep breath in. Lets it out.

I am underwater suddenly, and I can't find the way to air. My stomach turns hard; my lungs fill with liquid.

Luke is the reason women are afraid to go out at night. Luke is the reason police carry guns. Luke is the reason for guard dogs and security systems and pepper spray. Luke is the bad guy.

“Peter . . . I'm so sorry.” What else can I say? There are no tears, because I am forcing them back. My head feels like it's going to explode. All of these years Peter has been carrying around this secret. While Mom and Dad and I have been welcoming Luke home with big hugs and kisses, Peter has been scared to death of what Luke might do to him. No wonder he never told any of us. Why would he? We'd probably all take Luke's side.

Santa's jolly face looks up at me from the wrapping paper. HO, HO, HO. He laughs. I want to vomit all over his stupid rosy-red cheeks.

“Clare,” Peter says. “I'm sorry. I know I was really
rough on you, growing up. Even before I saw Luke do that, he was always so violent with me. I just . . . I didn't know what to do with my anger. So I was rough on you. I'm sorry. I've owed you that apology for a long time.”

“Thanks,” I say, finding a little air in my lungs. “And for telling me. You can trust me. I won't tell your secret.” Part of me wishes I didn't know his secret still. “And, I don't know if this needs to be said . . .” My words stumble; I don't want to say anything wrong. . . . “But just so you know, I'm not letting Mom use my college fund for Luke's bail. He can stay in jail.”

Peter nods.

“So.” Peter breaks the uncomfortable air. “Can I help you wrap your gifts?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

He turns on his computer, selects a playlist, and lets the music soften the edge of his truth.

We tie a few bows, tape holiday paper closed. With the gifts all wrapped, I head to my own room. Almost as soon I shut my door, it crashes open.

“Where is it, Clare?” Mom flies at me, teeth bared. “Where is my money?”

I don't give myself time to be intimidated. “It's not yours, and it's not here.” I manage to keep my voice monotone and calm, saying exactly what I want to say.

“You will give me that money now. Luke is in a holding cell waiting for his bail. I promised him. Where is the money?”

I bite my lip, but the angry tears come out anyway.
“You can't have it.” My voice wavers but I pause and make it as firm as I can. “I saved that money for college.”

Dad pokes his head into the battle, still in his work jumpsuit. “What's going on in here?”

Where to start?

“Our selfish little daughter won't help with Luke's bail.”

Dad looks from me to Mom. He's going to side with her. He always does.

“Let's talk about it, Clare Bear. This is a great opportunity to do something for your brother,” Dad says.

“Dad, I've worked for
years
to save that money.” Please, Dad, side with me.

“You'll get it back! As soon as he shows up for his court date,” my father says. “Mom and I trust him enough that we are using our savings.”

“I saved that money for college.” I am a broken record, afraid that if I say anything else, Peter's secret will come out.

“Clare.” Mom's tone softens. “Clare, we can't leave him in jail. I . . . I didn't tell you this before, but he's been accused of a sexual crime. Do you know what they do to people who are being held for trial for that? They get beaten up. Raped. Luke is my son. He's your brother. We can't leave him in jail, not when he can be safe at home with us.”

She almost convinces me. Even knowing what Luke has done, I don't want him to be hurt. I want to protect him somehow. But the fear of Luke is strong, and that trumps everything else. I force myself to say, “I can't.”

My mother's face turns ugly. “You are so selfish, young lady,” she hisses. “If Luke gets hurt, it will be all your fault.”

I shake my head, repeating to myself, no, no, it's not my fault. It's not.

“He's your brother, Clare,” Mom says, her cajoling voice back. “It's Christmas.”

“No.” I don't have anything more to say.

“Don't bother to ask us for anything ever again.” Mom pulls Dad out the door and slams it behind them.

I stay frozen to the spot where I'm standing. Trying to process it all. To make sense of it all. Luke is a thief. An addict. An alcoholic. A sexual predator. Only a month ago he attacked Peter. And years ago he almost strangled Dad. And yet they still choose him over me. They still choose
him
. In its own way it's almost worse than hearing Peter's secret. Mom thinks Luke is innocent. She doesn't know what Luke did to Heather. But she can't deny what he's done to us. She loves Luke more, and she'll always choose him.

The next morning Mom is up early, clicking away on a website that sells and ships approved items to inmates. “I'm working on a care package for your brother,” she says. “And tomorrow I'm going to mail out his Christmas card. Do you have your letter ready for him?”

“I won't be sending him a letter,” I mumble.

Mom crinkles her brow. “You always send him a letter with our Christmas card.”

“I have homework to do and scholarships to apply for,” I say, grabbing books off the kitchen table.

“He's your brother, Clare. The least you could do is take five minutes to write him a letter.” Skeleton stands behind Mom, jaws flapping open and shut, mirroring her stance, one hand on the hip, the other dramatically thrown in the air. “Especially this time. He would be home with us if you had helped with bail.”

“Just because he's my brother doesn't mean I have to write him,” I announce, to the surprise of Mom, Skeleton, and myself.

Skeleton spins a card with the nativity scene across the desk, snapping Mom out of shock.

“It's Christmas, Clare! You will write your brother, and that is final!” She shoves the card on top of my books. “Don't bother to come out of your room until you have written something nice.”

I take the pen from Mom's hand, put my books down.

What do I write?
Dear Luke, I'm glad you're in jail, because I'm scared of you.
Or
Dear Luke, I don't want to believe you hurt that girl, but I know it's true. How could you have done that?
Or
Dear Luke, I loved and trusted you, and all you are is a sick asshole. Merry Christmas.

Or maybe I'll just do what everyone else seems to. Pretend nothing is wrong. Know he did something bad and ignore it, because maybe by ignoring it, it will fix itself.

Dear Luke,
I write.
Best wishes for a happy, healthy holiday season. Clare.

I hand her the card, hand her the pen. Push Skeleton out of my path.

In my room I try to work on my homework. But everything around me reminds me of Luke. The desk was his. The bed. The dresser. Even the carpet. Who knows what has happened in
here
? I hate my room.

I bundle up in my down jacket, beanie, scarf, boots, and gloves. I could go to Omar's. He's probably working on the same AP English assignment. But he'll ask how I'm doing. Then I'd have to lie. He doesn't want to hear the truth. None of my friends do.

My feet take me to my apple tree. After wiping off the snow, I plop down into the chair under the tree. It's freezing and my face starts to hurt, but I read through
the assigned Yeats poem, making notes for my essay. At least I'm outside, away from my parents and all the reminders of Luke. Even in the cold I'd rather analyze Shakespeare, Brontë, Keats, and Yeats than my family any day.

•  •  •

Christmas morning. Coffee and bacon. Carols are turned up the loudest Mom can get them; even a fire is blazing when I stumble down the hall still in my pj's.

“Merry Christmas! One egg or two?” Mom smiles over the stove, filling up plates. It's unnerving how cheerful she is this morning. After the last three days of angry glares and constant reminders of what a shitty daughter I am, I expected Christmas to be canceled. But the gifts are wrapped, perfectly placed under the tree, and the stockings are all stuffed, items practically spilling out over the top. Skeleton sits smoking a corncob pipe by the fire, Santa hat on, wearing a pair of old pajamas with “Luke” embroidered over the pocket. Very funny, Skeleton, very funny.

Mom takes pictures of us sitting around the table. Then takes pictures of us opening gifts, with our photograph smiles painted plainly on our faces. Dad takes pictures of her opening little gifts from each of us, including the new slippers I got her. Then she takes more pictures of us all helping with the cleanup.

Now she has all the photos she needs to prove we are the perfect family. She immediately prints them, frames them, displays them around the house.

Skeleton doesn't show up in even one of the photos.

I go along with everything, smiling when I'm supposed to, even though I'm sick of pretending it's all okay. Until the phone rings. Mom runs to get it, and I
know
it's Luke. As soon as she confirms, “Yes, I'll accept the charges,” I grab my car keys and bolt. I drive a block away and park, waiting out the call, feeling ashamed and cowardly. I know I can't run away from everything that makes me uncomfortable forever, but it's all I can think to do for now. I'm not ready to talk to Luke. I don't know if I will ever be.

My friends pick me up, we go out to dinner, and I celebrate turning eighteen by buying a lottery card. I scratch off the bags of money and find that three of a kind means I win five dollars. Lucky me.