The Last Time I Died (24 page)

—It’s my life. I . . . can do . . .

And she’s out.

The door crashes open and my father’s silhouette stands over us both. He’s too late, once again. His anger is of no use now and he releases it.

—Christian?

He scoops me up and carries me out, leaving her slumped over behind us.

The memory takes on a life of its own, filling itself in on the front and back of what I have already discovered. Flowering and blossoming of its own accord into a more detailed entry now engraved in my consciousness. I know this isn’t the first time I’ve seen her shoot up.
I know that every time she does it, it’s the scariest thing ever. I’m afraid, every time, she’s not going to wake up. I know he’s going to put me to bed. I know when I wake up in the morning he’ll still be sitting at my side. I know that she’ll still be there on the floor.

I’m eight and I’m terrified.

I’m back.

I’m out of The White and have no idea how long I’ve been out. I’m standing in the alley still holding Goose by the collar. He’s on his knees enjoying this. I am empty of all emotion except gratitude. Gratitude for this new understanding. Gratitude that I can channel rage into action. Gratitude that I still have this cocksucker in my hot little hand.

I think Arnold Rosen would agree that I’ve had a breakthrough.

My mother was a junkie. Thirty-eight years I held her up like a saint. A victim. A martyr. A role model I knew nothing about.

Nope.

She was a stone addict right in front of my eyes. Even through my anger, there’s a tinge of residual eight-year-old terror. Fuck her.

I am in control.

I look down at the blood-streaked teeth smiling back up at me. I will take what I need.

I punch Goose in his right eye as hard as I can and the whoosh comes even faster this time.

The White.

But only for a second. By the time I realize I’m here, a memory is bearing down on me.

It hits me and I’m there.

Brooklyn.

My home.

I’m eight.

This is the purse memory. My mother and father screaming at each other in the kitchen. The tension. Things have been getting worse. He’s so angry.

—I’ve had enough of your shit!

—Stop trying to control me!

He grabs her purse. She fights for it. I’m trembling.

The memory flowers like the last one and I know it’s a month after my last memory and that soon my father will disappear from my life for days because my mother will take us to a hotel to hide from him and get high. I know I’m praying to god that he’ll stop fighting and take me and Ella away to somewhere else. Anywhere else. I’ve got to get away from this place.

—I want that money!

—No!

My sister is crying, but I do nothing.

—I am done fucking around! Give it to me!

My father yanks the purse away from her, knocking my mother down. She claws after him.

—NOOOO!

My father yanks out her wallet, takes all the cash and credit cards, and heads for the back door.

She collapses.

—What about my medicine?!

She curls up in the corner and howls. I turn to see that Ella has run to her room to do the same.

My father turns around to quietly explain her situation to her for the millionth time.

—It’s not medicine. You’re not sick. You’re an addict. You promised me you’d quit and you’re worse than ever. You’re a liar and you’re disgusting.

He looks at me.

—Come on.

I’m back.

In the alley. I’m holding Goose loosely but he’s not going anywhere. Honestly, I’m kind of surprised he can muster a sneer but maybe he can’t help himself.

You’re a liar and you’re disgusting.

I’m a liar and I’m disgusting.

I’ve been disgusting for a long time.

Goose’s eyes are half closed, but he won’t take them off me.

—’Bout fucking time.

Yeah. He’s right. It is about fucking time.

I reel back and throw my clenched right fist at his nose.

The White.

The whoosh.

Another memory.

I’m home in Brooklyn.

This is the one where I watch my mother and the cop with the forearms. She looks from the cop to me and back to the cop. She’s jumpy.

—I don’t know what else to do. He’s not leaving me any choice.

As the memory flowers, I remember being told to stand here by my mother after I was promised either ice cream or not getting beaten later on. She sent Ella to her room. I’m terrified and I remember waiting here alone in the dark when my mother answered the door. She never asked who it was so she must have been expecting the man standing in the room with her now. She wanted me to meet him. Told me I would like him. He’s a nice policeman. The cop with the forearms.

She looks at me and back to him.

My mother’s dress.

The mail piled up next to the front door.

Ella’s toys in the hallway.

The broken chain lock on the front door.

The four-day-old bruise on my mother’s eye.

The cop puts his hand on my mother’s shoulder.

—I understand.

He pauses for a second.

—Will he be home anytime soon?

My mother shakes her head no.

I’m terrified and I don’t know why. Where is Ella? I wish she were here so I could take care of her.

The cop turns to look my way and I recognize that face. It’s the man I am currently beating the shit out of.

—No. He’s out for the night.

Goose smiles. Practically licks his lips.

—Then I’m in for an hour.

He pulls a small baggie of white powder from his pocket and hands it to my mother without looking at her. Too focused on me.

My flowering memory tells me that in a few moments my mother will introduce him to me with the phony title of uncle.

The alley.

Goose.

I don’t waste a millisecond. I punch this fucker in his smug face before he can so much as giggle at me.

The White.

The whoosh.

Oh.

This is a new one.

Brooklyn.

I’m eight.

My bedroom.

The flowering tells me this is a week after the last memory.

I’m trembling. The door is closed and I know it is locked because I know my mother made sure to lock it. The only light in the room is the nightlight next to my dresser. My mother sits on my bed, tucking me in.

No, she’s pulling the covers back.

I recognize the burning sensation in the back of my head as a very specific type of fear. I’m clutching my favorite bedtime book. I know she’s got another baggie in her front pocket. She seems to want to get things moving.

—Mommy, I’m scared.

She slides the book I’m hugging to my chest out from my hands and holds it as if she were going to read it. She’s not.

—I know, sweetie. But everything is going to be fine. Your uncle just wants to show you how much he loves you. And this time keep quiet. You don’t want to wake your sister.

I want to cry or scream or run or hit her but I know I’ve tried those things before and they’ve only made things worse. And begging is useless. I know this is going to hurt like fuck but I have to shut down and deal with it. I wish it would end but maybe this happens in every home to every eight-year-old.

Footsteps stomp quickly down the hallway. The bedroom door bursts open, breaking the frame as it does, and light floods the room from the hallway. My father stands holding his service revolver. In this new light, I see Goose across the room, frozen in the act of taking off his pants. My father sees him as well but he doesn’t look too surprised. More like disgusted. Goose’s gun belt is laid neatly across a chair far enough away that we all know he’ll be shot dead before he gets to it.

Doesn’t matter.

My father swivels and points the gun at my mother.

—I begged you, Stephanie.

He pulls the trigger and I see my mother’s brains leave the back of her head and coat the wall where my bulletin board hangs. She falls over on top of me, arms on either side.

My father deflates. His gun drops to the floor and he stares at what he has done. Young Goose yanks his pants up, scrambles for his gun, and scurries past my father, who does nothing to stop him.

I know all of this because I heard my father’s gun hit the carpet and Goose’s belt jingle and his clothes rustle and his footsteps rush out the door and down the stairs. I can’t see anything because my mother’s body is blocking my sight and I’m too scared to move her.

The alley.

Goose lies below me, his eye swelling, blood seeping out the side of his mouth. I don’t need to punch him again to figure out what my first recovered memory meant.

My father sitting in the back of the squad car. Watching me. Knowing he gave me my life back. His actions had to have been premeditated and more importantly, he knew what would happen to him after he acted.

Thank you, I said.

—She wasn’t trying to save you. She was trying to sell your ass.

And there it is. A lifetime’s worth of guilt turned on its head. An entire ingrained subconscious behavior pattern revealed as off target. Or worse, a waste of time.

I never wrote my father back.

I never let Lisa in.

I never gave myself a chance.

—I’m trying to figure out who was the better fuck. You or your mom?

Goose sounds like he has some life left in him, but only enough to remind me that he’s still here and that I’ve got a little more work to do.

I hoist him back up by his throat in a vice grip and squeeze with all the strength I have. His eyes bug and he sputters blood across my face with his big, arrogant mouth.

I squeeze for my dead father and for my eight-year-old self and for my thirty-three-year-old sister. I’m squeezing hard enough that I know I must be crushing his larynx beyond the help of even New York’s finest surgeons.

I squeeze like he is my mother.

The whoosh.

It’s coming closer and closer the harder I squeeze and I know if I stop squeezing this fucker’s neck, the whoosh will die so I force the muscles in my hands to contract more and more.

The whoosh grows and I realize that it’s coming from down the street. I turn around to face the alley entrance in time to see a deluge of memories funneling in toward me. But this is different. They’re not racing past me but straight at me, every single one. They hit me and I absorb them and I have room for all of them. There are so many but I can take them and understand them instantly. As if they were already there and only now waking up. I am being refilled. I am becoming whole. I’m manic with accomplishment and find that the harder I squeeze, the faster they come, so I redouble my efforts.

My third birthday party. Sitting in my second-grade class. Me as a five-year-old in front of the TV at home. Breast feeding. Learning to walk. It’s all here.

I can feel his windpipe meeting his spine.

Learning to swim at seven. Reading aloud at six. Lying in bed with my father and mother. Playing catch with my father. Watching my mother feed baby Ella.

Goose claws at my face. Too late.

Listening to my mother tell my father she quit drinking.

Walking my mother upstairs after a visit to the doctor.

Watching my mother stare out the window for hours.

Standing in a filthy apartment while my mother scored.

Seeing my parents fight, knowing my mother is lying about what she’s been doing.

Holding Ella while she sobs.

Goose is losing strength.

I have complete control over the entire collection in my library. I can fast forward, rewind, freeze frame.

Stickball in the street.

Finding my mother passed out on the kitchen floor for the first time.

Christmas morning.

I am now in possession of the title and deed to my life free and clear.

Goose stops struggling. His arms fall to his side.

The memories speed up. They’re coming so fast now they start to blend into one brilliant white light. Faster and the light grows to a brightness I can’t take. Faster until there is nothing but white. Faster until I’m consumed by a flash of blinding light that engulfs me.

And then it’s gone.

No light. No whoosh. No rushing memories. No Goose. I’m alone in the alley.

I know Goose was never here.

I know what needs to be done.

I know everything.

(Well, this complicates matters.)

The old boy has managed to complete his task of memory recoupment in the most inadvertent of manners and ahead of whatever arbitrary schedule he had set for himself.

Sadly, this freshly unearthed trove of treasure has not set him free from his self-imposed prison. Rather it has placed even more obstacles in his path. Now flush with childhood imagery and thrilling with the vigor new discoveries bring, our man is more befuddled than ever. Longstanding beliefs have been upended. Old emotions thrown into question. New wrinkles have been added to his road to reinvention.

Our man is determined to understand the significance of the events he is now aware of and arrange them in the correct and meaningful context, the Rosetta stone being the identity of the newest player in this confounding drama. Decoding the past is now predicated on unraveling the identity of the man whose neck he so recently held in his hands. This will take more time. More effort on top of what has already been so very draining.

Surely, this shift in gears is a huge mistake. But then all of this has been, hasn’t it? And to what end? To rebuild himself as a healthier version of the man he was at one time resigned to be? To reconstruct himself as the man his wife would fall in love with all over again? To reincarnate himself as someone lovable who could not be left under any circumstances? It’s too late for that, no? Far too late for that.

But try explaining to our man the realities of his situation. He’d never accept it, and, further, without his indulgent, Sisyphean mission, what has he left?

Nothing, I’m afraid.

His plan has morphed. What originally started as a quest for knowledge has interwoven itself with a pursuit of vengeance as well. And necessarily so, the delicacy of revenge serves as the irresistible temptation that a personality like his can burn as fuel for a very long time.