Redeem Me (2 page)

August 14, Two Years Later

T
he pain in my head won’t stop. It’s a hammer pounding the sides of my skull, gutting my existence. I wrap my arms around my head, holding it tightly, trying to thwart the pain. The room is completely black, but the hammering doesn’t mind the darkness.

I rock back and forth, repeating, “Please, God, just make the pain stop. I’ll do anything if you just make it stop.”

Like a hammer that breaketh the rock in pieces…

Thanks be to God.

T
he roar of the plane about to hit my house wakes me. I roll onto my side, annoyed the sun has risen again. It’s unfortunate the plane won’t actually hit the house. The pilot will pull up just before impact and descend again on the other side. It’s deafening. I’ve heard it my whole life and know it won’t crash. It always reminds me of what World War II bombings must have sounded like. If only this crop duster would drop a bomb on my house.

The windows are open; the temperature dipped into the low seventies last night. The breeze is still present this morning and the sheers covering my windows billow out on one side of the room and are sucked in on the other. I close my eyes and roll onto my stomach as the attack continues. Fertilizer, pesticides, fungicides…whatever it is…I should go out there and open my mouth. Drink it in. It’s better than opening my eyes. My stomach churns. It’s either a response to utter despair or the mere concept of another day beginning. When will the daybreak finally break?

The house phone rings. It must be 8:00 a.m. Every morning his calls begin at eight. As usual, I don’t pick up, but the machine does.

“Annie.” My middle name on his lips cuts through me and I begin to cry again. “Please pick up the phone.” His voice is low, tormented. “I love you.” I run to the bathroom and make it to the toilet just in time to throw up, a little bit getting into my hair. I can still hear his voice, but I can’t make out the words. My back aches as I try to stand and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My reflection is horrifying—bloodshot eyes, mangy hair, and dry, cracked lips. I look like I have a serious drug problem. I shrug at the fresh idea and go to my parents’ room to search their medicine cabinet for any kind of painkiller. As I enter the hall, I hear, “Not knowing where you are is killing me. I need you. I need to talk to you. I need you here, Annie. Or there. Anywhere, please pick up.”

“Fuck you, Jason Leer!” I yell at an outdated answering machine.

No pills here. How difficult would it be to establish a drug connection? Apparently lots of people are hooked on drugs. I can probably get an addiction up and running in a few days. If I’m not going to kill myself, I’m going to need something to cope. This house is like walking around in an old photo, except my parents have been missing from the picture for the past two years.

I turn each bottle in my hand and read their names and birthdates on the prescriptions. Kathryn O’Brien…Jack O’Brien.
Where are the Percocet, Mom? Didn’t you guys ever have any pain?
I’ve always blamed the delivery truck driver for their deaths, but everything’s different now. I completely understand the desire to be out of my mind on something. Now I assume the driver discovered that his reason for living had sex with someone else, and he only knew about it because there was a baby on the way. For the first time in two years, I feel some empathy for him.

I head back to my bedroom and stare at the bed Jason spent every night in last summer. It’s still at least six inches lower on the top left corner from the time we broke the frame…yet another source of agony. I walk over to the headboard and untie the scarf he gave me last Christmas. It’s never been worn except that first night when he tied my wrists to the bedpost with it. A dull ache in my pelvic bone subsides and I put the scarf in the pile on the floor with my semiformal dress, my Oklahoma sweatshirt, and some pictures of Jason and me.

I walk to the garage and get a screwdriver. The headboard detaches more easily than I thought it would. I put it next to my mattress with the other things that need to be destroyed.

“I hate you, Jason Leer.”

This is my new daily affirmation. I should be looking in the mirror when I say it, but after that first glimpse, I can’t stand the sight of me.

I fall back on my bed and switch on my laptop; the homepage announces it’ll be sunny today with a big, happy sun.
Yippee!
It’s August 21, officially seven days since I heard the outstanding news—Jason had sex with Stephanie Harding and now she’s having his baby—and I’m still not recovering as well as my brother would like.

I shut the laptop and toss it across my bed. This is not a life. I slide off the side of the bed and wander back to the mirror in the bathroom, this time wanting to masochistically bask in the effects of loving Jason Leer.

“What? I look awesome,” I say sarcastically as I wince at my reflection. This is what safety looks like.

I am gross. My emerald-green eyes have been replaced by blood-drenched circles surrounded by black shadows. My hair, once long and lustrous, is a matted web atop my head. I think there’s a hair tie in there, but I’m no longer sure. There’s barely a trace of its former bright, blond color. Angry, selfish, and gross. No wonder he cheated on me with Stephanie. Oh yeah, and depressed. Angry, selfish, gross, and depressed. Wretched in general.

My pep talk is interrupted by a knock at the door. In keeping with my new system of communication, I ignore it completely. Whoever the hell it is can continue to lead their life without interrupting my progress through the stages of grief. I yawn and my lip cracks and starts to bleed.

I return to my computer and google “signs of dehydration.”
This is fun.
Much better than moving all my things to Oklahoma to be with the man I love.

Loved.

Hate.

Want to set on fire.

I have one more week off from work for the move. A move from a city I love and an office I love. Six months it took. Six months of working insane hours with impeccable results to sell my boss on the idea of me telecommuting from Oklahoma. Now I’ll have the pleasure of explaining why I’m still in New Jersey. First I’ll have to figure it out myself because when I can complete a thought, it’s usually,
What the hell am I doing in my hometown? Our hometown. Mine, Jason’s, and that whore Stephanie, who’s carrying his baby
. I think I’ll just quit my job and focus full-time on sleeping.

The knocking stops and I head back to bed, exhausted by Day Seven of my new life.

“Hey, it’s your brother.” Sean comes in the same way he’s come in the last eight days, without me answering the door. He follows the sunlight into my room. Yet another beautiful day. “I heard you’ve been starting fires,” he says as if this is normal. “Camping out?”

“How did you hear that?” I sneer.

“By living in Salem County, that’s how. What are you burning?”

“Old clothes.” I don’t bother to even lift my head off the pillow. From this vantage point, he looks much taller than his six-foot-one-inch height. Sean goes silent and I assume he gets the nature of the fire.

“Do you have any other old clothes to burn?”

“Am I breaking some sort of ordinance or something?” I mock.

“Actually, yes. The state of New Jersey is under a water-emergency restriction because of the drought. You can’t go around starting fires. You’ll burn the whole town down.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes because, even though I couldn’t care less how many towns burn down, I do care about Sean. He’s already lost his parents; he doesn’t need a bitch for a sister as well. I sit up in bed and my beautiful appearance registers on his face.

“Man, you look rotten.”

“Rotten or rot
ting
?” I enunciate the last syllable. “Because I think I’m both.”

“Come out to the kitchen and eat. Michelle sent soup. She’s worried sick about you.”

I lower my eyes to my blanket in guilt.

“I wish she wasn’t. I wish neither of you were,” I say, rather than
I’m sorry
, because I’m a selfish beast. I follow Sean’s bearlike self to the kitchen. His usual lighthearted expression has been replaced with one of debilitating concern.

“Eat,” he says as if he’s not leaving until I do.

The soup’s still warm and it burns the crack in my lip. The pain feels good. Maybe I’ll start hiring some of those people who will come to your house in leather and beat you.

“Look,” he starts, wringing his hands, “I have no idea how this feels, but I’m starting to grasp that it’s beyond shitty.” I nod just to help him out. “You’ve got to start showing some signs of…recovery.”

I keep eating silently.

“I’ve started researching facilities to send you to if you can’t turn this around. I don’t know what else to do. You won’t talk to anyone; you won’t take care of yourself.” Sean runs his hand through his blond hair and I become distracted, eyeing the mange that used to be my hair—it used to be the same color as his.

Angry, selfish, gross, depressed, and crazy. It’s a new low. I like it.

Sean leaves. I promise to shower every day and head back to bed as I hear the phone ringing.

T
he doorbell rings and I ignore it. I’m not receiving any visitors today. Or tomorrow. Or the next day.

I think I can make out two people talking but refuse to take my head off the pillow to utilize both ears. I hear the key in the door. Most people would be alarmed, but I still don’t care, because Jason fucked Stephanie and now she’s pregnant and because I’m not receiving any visitors today.

“Charlotte?” one voice yells, and its familiarity causes my eyes to flood with tears.

It’s impossible. It is absolutely not possible.

A second voice bellows, “Charlotte Anne O’Brien!”

I sit up too quickly and get a head rush. “Margo? Jenn? What are you doing here?”

They bound into my room and stop at the sight of me. They are repulsed.

“That bad?” I ask, already reading the answer in their eyes.

Yes, I am gross. My two best friends, the girls whose backpacks hung on the hooks next to mine in pre-K when I was suddenly covered in chicken pox marks, the teenagers who watched me throw up spaghetti in the back of the bus during our senior trip to Disney, the women who held my hand at my parents’ funeral,
now
think I’m gross.

“Geez, Charlotte. I knew it was bad, but you look like hell! What have you been doing?”

Embarrassed, I meekly say, “Resting. How did you guys get here?”

“Sean called,” Margo says quietly. “He’s scared to death. He flew us in last night.”

“Sean flew you in? From Hawaii and Colorado?” I ask, not quite believing her.

Understanding, Margo answers, “Yes. It’s that bad, Charlotte. Have you talked to him?”

I know she doesn’t mean Sean.

“Just long enough to beg him to stop calling me. I can’t talk to him. I can’t even say his name…” I trail off in a whisper. Margo hugs me as Jenn surveys my room. She yanks my closet door open and throws my overnight bag onto my bed. Methodically, she begins opening my drawers and pulling out clothes.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m packing your bag,” Jenn says. “It’s Labor Day weekend and we’re going to the shore.”

“No,” I answer to everything. No shore, no restaurants, no bars, no fun, no people, no living.

My protest is met with her complete disregard. “Get in the shower and shave everything. You’re turning into a woolly mammoth.”

“Is this your version of a pep talk?” I ask, and swallow hard. The thought of moving is terrifying
. I can’t live without him
.

Margo senses I’m getting upset and tries to mediate. “Look, you’ve been cooped up in here for two weeks and I’ll bet you don’t feel any better than you did the night you came home from Oklahoma. It might be good to go to the shore for the weekend.” She is tiny and merciful and somehow her confetti-blue eyes start to make sense.

We both know there’s no point in arguing with Jenn. I resign myself to a weekend at the shore and trudge into the bathroom. Jenn yells, “Brush your teeth,” and I dive into self-loathing a little deeper. In all the times we’ve been together, they’ve never had to take care of me like this. Not even when my parents died. I close the door to the sound of Margo reminding her to be gentle and that they’re here because Sean was afraid he was going to have to lock me up in the cuckoo pen.

“I can totally hear you guys!” I yell.

“Good! It’ll keep us from having to repeat ourselves, you freakin’ loon,” Jenn barks.

I hear Margo sarcastically whisper, “Much better,” and I can’t help smiling because they’re here, and besides Sean, they are the closest thing to home I have left. I wish it was for a better reason.

Teeth brushed, body shaved, bag packed. Besides the obvious mental instability, I look like a new woman. Margo opens the back door of the Volvo and I slide onto the hump spot in the back of my own car. I am a dead body they’re driving around. Jenn’s behind the wheel. She’s my height, so the seat’s already in the perfect position. Her long curly hair’s been highlighted by the Hawaiian sun and floats like an overgrown lion’s mane around her face. I open my bag to see what she selected for me and find an extra bathing suit, sundress, miniskirt, tank top, two thongs, and a hoodie. There’s also a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos, a pack of Parliament Lights, my birth control pills, and a bottle of Jack.
Aw, just like Mom used to pack.
I roll my eyes and rest my head on the seat back.

As we approach the causeway to Sea Isle City, the smell of the back bay fills my head and I feel at ease. No…I feel peace. It’s been so long I almost didn’t recognize it. Oh, how peace is underrated. I slide to the door and lower the window and ride across the bay with my head hanging out like a golden retriever’s. The salt air invades every cell of my body with tranquility. Maybe they’re right. Maybe the shore will restore me.

Irreparable
, I think as I wipe away a lone tear falling down my face. I didn’t even know I was crying.

“Where are we staying?” I ask, remembering that Jenn’s aunt has a shore house. Maybe I’ll buy a book to read and take my mind off things. I tilt my head from one shoulder to the other, stretching out my neck. It’s been weeks since I’ve moved.

“I’m working on that,” Jenn says, and I freeze. My car crawls through the streets as she examines each house.

Oh God, no. I can only guess what this means. I begin to calculate a protest when we pull up to a house with tons of cars in front of it and three full trash cans of recyclables on the curb. There are several shirtless guys leaning on the porch railing of the second floor.

“We’re home,” Jenn says as she puts the car in park.

“Do we even know these people?” I am forlorn, already weak from life, and not interested in meeting new people.

“Well, we’re not going to with that attitude,” Jenn says as if I’m ridiculous. “Margo, turn off your phone,” she adds, pulling her scheme together.

“Give me a pen.” Jenn makes the “gimme” hand motion into the backseat.

“No,” I say, already knowing my fate is sealed.

“Give. Me. A. Pen.” Her eyes bore into me.

“I can’t. The only one I have I’m going to jam into my eye.” I speak the last few words slowly, without resignation.

“Can I please use it first before you make a mess of it?”

I take a deep breath and hand her the pen.

Margo looks at me like I’m silly to argue. “You know what they say: if you can’t get out of it, get into it.”

“Nobody says that!” I spout. “Seriously! I don’t know where you heard it, but nobody fucking says that.”

“Get out of the car,” Jenn orders as she writes down the house and street address along with the name Bob.

“Get in the shower, brush your teeth, give me a pen, get out of the car. So freaking pushy. Where’s the Aloha spirit?”

Jenn calms and turns to face me. “I’m sorry.” Her blue eyes sparkle against her tanned skin. “I expected you to
not
let him kill you. I’m taking my anger at him out on you.”

Her gaze morphs into pity and I realize she’s only doing all this because she loves me. “Now get out of the car and try to be nice. You need to get out,” she reasons.

“Really? Because I’m pretty sure I need to lie in bed and cry myself to sleep. I have a routine, you know? It’s important to have some stability in times of tragedy,” I say with all the conviction of a girl who spent her college afternoons watching
Oprah
as therapy.

Jenn gets out of the car and Margo opens my door so we can follow her. As I step out, Jenn asks a guy on the porch if Bob’s here.
You know, nonexistent Bob.

“No Bob here,” Amazing Abs replies. A couple of the guys yell into the house asking if anyone knows a Bob. Jenn shyly explains to the shirtless man that she’s supposed to meet up with Bob, her coworker whom she’s not dating and has no interest in dating, at this address so we can all go to the Carousel for Happy Hour.

“We’re going to the Carousel. Grab a beer and we’ll walk over together,” he offers.

Jenn’s anxious and says she’d better call him. She makes a point of leaving a message on his cell that she thinks we’re at the wrong address and to call her back as soon as he gets this. She makes eye contact with me and sheepishly cracks open her beer.

And here we go.

As Jenn entertains the troops, Margo pulls me aside to assure me that if I want to go home—or in this case back to these strangers’ house—at any time, she’ll go with me but makes me promise to try to have a good time. My mother always said that although the three of us were nothing but a worry, we always had a good time. God I miss her. She also always said a rather sweet version of “suck it up,” so I’ll give that a try for tonight.

As we’re having our private conversation in the far corner of Amazing Abs’ deck, beers are delivered by another shirtless guy. This one seems a little buzzed already, or perhaps his sober personality is a little annoying. It’s hard to decipher halfway into Happy Hour.

Margo rushes off to use the bathroom as he opens my beer for me and says, “I’m Mike.”

Great, now I’m alone and have to communicate.

“I’m mourning,” I say without smiling.

“Well, good morning!” His enthusiasm reminds me that we’re at the shore on Labor Day weekend and all the fish in the sea are down here. It’s going to be a long night, so I take a long swig of my beer.

I unsuccessfully try to lose Mike most of the night. Even in this crowded bar it’s impossible. Eventually I discover he works for a collection agency, so that at least explains his tenacity. I introduce him to any girl I can get the name of, but by now he’s pretty sloppy and most seem uninterested. He’s actually growing on me. He’s twenty-six and living in his hometown, Warminster, Pennsylvania. He’s moved out of his parents’ house but shamelessly admits he still goes there for laundry and most meals. While he’s not the independent man most girls seek, it endears him to me a little. I still miss my parents beyond comprehension. Mike tells me about his ex-girlfriend, who, in my opinion, he still loves. I’m actually starting to feel bad for him when—

“You look just like her, you know?” he says.

How the hell would I know that?

“I do?” I ask, repulsed, as Mike pulls out a picture of him and her at some type of formal.
Why, God? Why?

“Do you want to get out of here?” he asks, slurring slightly.

Oh, what to say?
Yes, but not with you
. Or perhaps,
No, I’m not leaving this bar until I’m sure you’ve passed out at home
. I can tell he’s going to turn into a weepy fool by the end of the night.

I’ve got nothing for you, Mike.

“Okay, I’m just going to lay it out for you. I’m not interested in hearing about your ex-girlfriend, in starting a relationship, or in seeing you after this weekend. If you want to go back and have sex, we can, but I’m going to need your best effort because I’m kind of in a bad place myself lately.”

Mike is stunned, then bewildered, then almost frightened. It’s becoming difficult to predict my own actions, let alone Warminster Mike’s. Either way, I’m losing my patience with him, this bar, and this night. If having sex with him is going to end it, then that’s the plan.

“Wow, Morning.” I consider interrupting him and telling him my name is Charlotte, but why bother. “That’s hot.”

Funny, because in my head it was the exact opposite of hot. He takes my hand and starts to lead me out of the bar. I pass Margo as Jenn grabs my arm.

“Charlotte,” she says, and looks at Mike holding my hand. “Where are you guys going?”

I lean into Jenn’s ear. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to murder him. I’m just tired and want to go to sleep.”

“Does he know that?” she asks, surveying his sloppy posture.

I help Mike negotiate the stairs into the house and am relieved to find he has his own room with a queen-size bed. There’s an air mattress on the floor, but no overnight bag near it.

Noticing me staring at it, Mike says, “That’s another guy’s bed. He’s not coming down this weekend.”

“Oh.” I watch Mike stumble onto his bed. I climb in, too, and give him a short kiss on the lips. When I pull away, he’s smiling, but his eyes are still closed. Mike appears to be on his last leg.

“I’ll be right back,” I whisper.

He gently grabs my arm. “Where are you going?”

“I’m just getting a glass of water. Would you like one?”

“Oh yes. Thanks, Morning. You’re a sweetheart.”

Wrong again, Mike.

The house is empty. I turn on the radio and begin inventorying the kitchen. The refrigerator’s packed and there are bags of food on the counter no one even bothered to put away. There are two coolers stationed under the double windows in the dining room. One has Miller and Corona Light in it, and the other has Blue Moon and Harp. I help myself to a Harp. It’s 2:30 a.m. and the rest of the house will be home soon.

I slip onto the quiet balcony and inhale the ocean air. The almost-full moon drags my eyes up to appreciate it. It’s been twenty days since I’ve noticed the sky, my world consumed by darkness. I’m disgusted; the sky has betrayed me, too. My glare retreats to the end of the block and I see Jenn and Ray kissing. I can’t seem to turn my head and just give in to staring at them.

God, I hate you, Jason Leer. That could be us right now. I hope your kid is born with three heads.

A tear runs down my cheek and I wipe it away with my free hand, willing myself to move toward the door.

I am so going to hell.

I stealth back into the house and up to Mike’s room. I curl up in his absent roommate’s bed and cry myself to sleep as silently as possible.

He yanks my wrist away and my body remembers how Jason Leer touches me. He is rough and it triggers something deep inside me that is slowly erupting, escaping my control. He kisses the tips of each of my fingers as I watch and swallow to keep from drowning. The last one he takes between his teeth and bites it until I should cry out, but the pain is too perfect to stop him. I can’t take my eyes off his lips.