The Belief in Angels (48 page)

I manage to moan through my teeth. He pulls me up and drags me into the hallway toward the bath. If I could stand, walk, feel my legs at all … I might be able to make it to the bathroom. Instead I vomit Orange Fanta all over the wooden floors of the hallway. Instead of the shame I know I should be feeling, I am admiring the blending of colors—the orange of the bile against the wood grain.

“Resplendent.”

“Huh? Yeah … real pretty.” He starts to laugh. I am laughing too.

Shame comes later, much later, during a long night in the bathroom, my head stuck down in the toilet bowl, where Orange Fanta-colored particles swim, while Timothy alternately holds a washcloth against my neck and reads the letter I’ve written to him.

“So, this is what you left me? A schlocky book and a reassurance that nothing I could have done would have stopped you?” He pauses, but doesn’t wait for an answer. He is angry now. “Did you think this would keep me from losing my mind over this? Over losing you?”

I lift my head miserably, and I realize what he’s saying is true.

“It’s a great book. One of my favorites.”

He smiles.

“This isn’t the way I thought it would go. My plan had no drama or pain.” “What about your family?

What about your friends? Did you think we weren’t going to be incredibly sad? Or pissed off? What did you take, anyway? Pills?”

He grimaces at the toilet, wrinkling his nose.

He’s right. How embarrassing. How selfish.

I’ve been so self-absorbed, so caught up in my thoughts about leaving, that I haven’t considered the effects of my actions. I haven’t cared.

I took all the responsibility for my actions in my letters, and I convinced myself I wouldn’t be causing chaos for anyone because I was absolving them.

This thought brings another wave of nausea, and while I try to bring up something to satisfy my stomach’s urges, I wave Timothy out.

“I’m fine. Wait for me outside.”

He obeys and walks out. After what seems like a long time, I can tell I have nothing left in me. I need sleep. I pull myself up and catch myself in the mirror above the sink as I’m brushing my teeth and gargling with the Listerine from the cabinet. My eyes seem sunken in my face, my pupils wide and staring. I wonder at the chemical mix I made with the meds I chose. At least the psychedelic effects are finally starting to wear off.

I have no idea what time it is, but as I open the door to the bath I can see the sun slinking its way across the hallway floors.

I find Timothy in my room. He’s sitting on the bed reading
Illusions.
As I make my way across the floor he moves against the wall and makes space for me, opening the covers for me first.

“This book is weird.”

“I know, but read it anyway. Turn away.”

“Okay, I’m not looking.” He turns his head, and I peel off my jeans and T-shirt and crawl under the sheets. I’m relieved and sleepy, and I’m smiling now as I think about Timothy actually reading
Illusions.

When I wake up he’s gone. I’m shocked to see it’s already eleven thirty. I’m supposed to be dead or on an airplane to Miami right now.

I’m showering when I’m startled by Timothy’s voice. “Hey, do you want Raisin Bran or pancakes for breakfast? I can’t find any butter or syrup in the fridge, but I could run over to my place and grab some. I called home and they haven’t figured out I didn’t sleep there last night. My grandmother thought I went to play basketball this morning.”

“Jeez, you scared me.” I turn off the shower and grab the towel hanging by the stall, wrapping it around me as I step out. I’m hit with embarrassment as I remember the details of last night.

“Sorry. I got hungry and you’ve been sleeping all morning. You must be hungry too—there can’t be anything left in your stomach. I found the empty bottle of soda. You put down a lot of Orange Fanta.”

God, did I drink it all? No wonder I got sick.

I’m embarrassed again.

“Oh my God.” I sit down on the edge of the bathtub, holding the towel around me.

“What?”

“Can’t we forget last night happened?”

He’s quiet in the doorway. Then he answers, “Well, it might be possible for you, but for me it’s going to be impossible. I nearly lost my best friend last night, and it’s not the first time I’ve known someone who wanted to check out.”

I look up, puzzled.

“My mother killed herself. I know I should have told you this a long, long time ago, but it never felt like the right time. I wanted, badly, to tell you last night, but I figured I would wait. I want you to hear this with a clear head: No matter how bad it is, it’s never going to be bad enough to make killing yourself a viable option. In my book the only people who get to check out are the ones who are on their way out anyway and want to avoid unnecessary pain.”

I’m nervous. “Well, that would be all of us,” I laugh. “We’re all on our way out …”

“Listen to me,” he says, not smiling at my joke. “This is hard enough.” He takes a long breath. “When my mother decided to end things, I thought it was because she was angry with me. Now I know she did feel angry, but not with me. She got pissed off at the world. She got pissed off she’d been sold a lie. She felt stuck in our family, stuck with a husband and two kids and a suburban nightmare she never wanted in the first place. But she left me, my brother, my father, and her
mother, everyone in her life, totally holding this angry bag of shit. She didn’t clear anything. She left us holding a shit bag while she split out the back door.”

I’m overwhelmed with his story. “The back door?” I ask.

“Yeah, she took the back door out. It’s always there for us to take, but it’s a shitty exit.”

“I’m sorry.”

“The first day I saw you it felt like I was watching myself. You were up at the elementary school. You were sitting on the swings. You weren’t even swinging. You were sitting and staring at the ground. You didn’t see me at all, but I sat on the baseball field watching you.

“I knew you were David’s sister. I even knew your story—I mean, about Moses and everything.

“I watched you push up off the swing, leave your books, and walk away. I knew you were kind of sleepwalking, like I’d been for years, and I wondered if you thought it might be your fault your brother drowned, like I thought it was my fault my mother offed herself. But then I realized how crazy that thinking is. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t my fault. People do stupid things. Selfish things. They do things because they can’t see any other way to handle things. Or they make bad choices. And there’s not much we can do to stop them most of the time. Ultimately, bad choices are the responsibility of the person who makes those bad choices.

“So I put down the angry bag of shit I’d been carrying since I was seven, and I left it in the field at the elementary school. I picked up your books, ran here, and put them on your steps so you wouldn’t see me. I wanted you to believe someone might be out there watching over you. I think I wanted you to believe in something magical … something transcendent. You know? Like the belief in angels? People don’t know, don’t really know, if things like angels exist, but they believe and hope and the hope keeps them going.”

He takes a breath. “I care about you, and it would have sucked if you’d managed to kill yourself last night. I would be wicked, wicked pissed at you for doing that—but I wouldn’t feel guilty about it, or like I should have done something to stop you. It would have been your bad choice.”

“Thanks.”

“Listen, I’m not saying I’m not glad I called and came over … I think you would have barfed up all the pills eventually on your own, though. What the hell did you take, anyway?”

“I don’t know. I think I may have taken a mix of sleeping pills and acid.”

Timothy’s eyes are huge, and I worry he might think I’m an idiot.

“Promise me you won’t ever do it again.”

I’m hesitant to answer. Promises are important to me. “I promise I won’t ever try that again.”

It’s the truth. It’s my right to end my life if I want to, but I know I’ll never try to do it
that way
again. If I need to check out I’m not ever going to do it like that. I’ll do it much more mysteriously. No one will ever know that’s what I had in mind. No one will ever have to hold my shit bag.

He stares at me like he can tell what I’m thinking. He seems like he knows I’ve only told part of the truth. Like he realizes he can’t ask a person to make that promise.

“My brother saw you drop the books,” I say.

“Oh.”

I laugh. “I used to believe in angels. I’m not sure anymore. But something told you to call and bother me in the middle of the night, right? Maybe
you’re
an angel, and you saved me from my death.” I smile at him.

I remember the ship masthead from the Little Corporal. The wooden woman. This crystal memory pops in my head about the time I thought she spoke to me.

Think of me as an angel. Everything will be all right
.

You are loved and I’ll always be with you
.

Icy prickles shudder through me. Then sudden, calming warmth.

“When you stopped returning my calls I thought you were busy with school and new friends. I missed you so much but I felt stupid bugging you,” he says. “I thought maybe you had a boyfriend. I almost called Leigh to ask her what was up, but Leigh and I haven’t talked since the day you guys brought me up to start school.”

I smile at him sadly. “No, no boyfriends. No new friends. Leigh and I don’t even talk. I’m not sure why anymore. I didn’t take your calls because you sounded so lighthearted, and I didn’t want you to know how depressed I’ve been. I didn’t want you to worry about me when you should be focusing on your own stuff.”

“You are part of my stuff,” he says quietly. “You’re my best friend, and I love you.” He’s practically whispering this.

I’m frozen.

Before I can answer, he says, “So, do you want syrup and butter on your pancakes?”

I go over to him and give him a huge hug. I press my head against his chest and speak my words into his green, ivory soap-scented sweater: “I love you, too.”

I feel like crying, but my tears are frozen, so I keep hugging him until he pulls away.

“I’ll be right back,” he says. He smiles and turns to walk downstairs. Then he calls over his shoulder, “Your towel is falling off.”

My towel has fallen down to my waist.

Much later—long after the pancakes and Wendy’s angry call from the Palm Beach airport and my excuse about oversleeping and deciding to stay in Withensea over the holidays with Timothy and his family—when I think about it, the moment in the bathroom with Timothy, I think how, in a movie, we might have kissed and made out and maybe had sex. But we didn’t. I didn’t even think about the possibility. I mean, it never crossed my mind. I had absolutely no physical urge to kiss him. It felt nice hugging him, but that’s all I wanted or needed from him.

I figure he probably felt the same, but part of me wonders if maybe he took off for the maple syrup right then because he got a stiffy when I hugged him half-naked. Maybe he didn’t feel like he should have sex with me after my suicide attempt because that might be behavior modification in a bad way. Or something.

But I know the experience held more importance than sex, even though I haven’t had it so I can’t really compare.

I feel like after this, Timothy has become a person who’ll be a part of my story whether he stays involved in my life later or not. He lives in my skin now.

Something else happened to me because of this too.

A hole in my chest opened, and all the tiny silver daggers spilled out.

Jules, 17 years | March, 1979

TRUTHS AND LIES

IT’S SPRING BREAK. Graduation comes in a few months.

I’ve been accepted by two of the three colleges where I applied, and I’ve made up my mind to attend the Boston School of the Arts if they accept me. Ms. Wheaton helped me with my submissions portfolio. I’ve already been there to do my entrance interview, and I’ve practically grown an ulcer waiting to hear about my acceptance status.