These Gentle Wounds (15 page)

He leans over to grab my arms away from my head and I catch a whiff of alcohol. He smells like he's taken a bath in it.

I wrench my arms free. “God, what did you … You're drunk!” I've seen Kevin drink a beer or two with his friends before. But he's never drunk. Not really. Not when that was part of what made my father a monster.

He breaks into a wide grin, but there's nothing happy in it. “Whoa, baby brother. When did you get so smart? Yeah. I'm hammered. So what?”

My mind races with emotions, so quickly I can't name them all. “Does Jim know?” I ask.

Jim may not be the most involved parent in the world, but he has rules, and I'm pretty sure that messing with his liquor cabinet would be breaking one.

“Yeah, I asked him before I downed his whiskey,” Kevin says sarcastically. “No, Jim doesn't know. But that bottle was so dusty I could have written a novel on it. I don't think he's going to miss it.”

I can see it in his face now. That strange glowing darkness in his eyes and how his cheeks are flushed red. For a minute I'm really worried about him. Worried that he's so upset about me going that he's resorted to this. Worried he doesn't know how to handle it either.

Any sympathy I might feel disappears with his next words. “But maybe Sarah knows. She knows everything right? Even how to change your piss-stained sheets.”

My fists tighten around the blanket. His words make my teeth clench so hard it takes a minute before I can force anything coherent out of my mouth. “Once. Only once.”

It was during a spin, a year after That Day. It was horrible and he promised he'd never mention it again.

“I'm sure she's got her own ways of distracting you, anyhow.”

My balled-up fists fight for release. I want to hit him so badly. “Shut up. Please. Just shut up.”

Kevin stretches his legs out and places them on top of mine. They feel like they weigh about a thousand pounds. I want to push them off, but I'm afraid of making any sudden
movements. I don't know this angry, drunk kid sitting in front of me.

“You should drink with me, Gordie. I bet it would relax you,” he says, getting right in my face. His breath is sour and sweet enough to make me gag.

I pull back as far as I can on the couch, but his legs are pinning me in place. Everything in me wants to scream, but I don't want Jim coming down here. I'm afraid if I open my mouth, I won't be able to stop, so I just shake my head from side to side.

“Yeah,” Kevin says. “Didn't think you had the balls for that.”

I want to ask him what he's doing. What he wants. But I can only manage, “Why?”

Kevin reverses himself on the couch and throws an arm casually around my shoulder. Nothing makes sense. My brain says to run, to get the hell away from him as quickly as I can. But my body thinks he's still my big brother, the one who has always been there for me.

I'm at war with myself and the smell of whiskey makes my stomach flip upside down. I swallow hard, over and over, to try to keep the contents of my stomach and my emotions inside.

Don't show them you're afraid.
Yeah, right.

“I'm not angry, Gordie,” my brother says, in answer to a question I never quite asked. But I know that tone of voice. It's one that used to get him into trouble at school until he learned to control it. It's a tone that means he's ready to let everything out. In fact, he's ready to explode. “Why would I be angry? I mean, the stupid-ass judge thinks it's a great idea to send you back to that prick and really, it's okay, right?”

I know better than to answer that question, which is fine because it isn't like he gives me time to say anything.

“And why? Because Sarah is going to swoop in and save you, that's why. Because she's the one thing that will keep you from flying off that edge. Maybe I've just been wasting my time anyhow. You don't need me at all, do you?” he asks, driving a finger sharply into my chest with each word.

“What?” I choke on the word and push his hand away. “What the hell are you talking about?”

I look at him. Really look at him. I can see that his eyes are wet with spit-thick tears that he's making no effort to hide.

“I need you,” I whisper. It's admitting something I really don't want to say out loud. I think again of what Sarah said about talking in the dark, and I think about how Kevin has been the only one there for me my whole life. But I don't want to admit anything to this monster in my brother's body.

I stare at a worn spot on the wooden floor.

“But it doesn't matter,” he says, in a voice that sounds like he's chewing glass. “And it doesn't matter what I've promised you. I can't save you from this. So what kind of a loser does that make me?”

I want to reach out to him. To say something that will make him feel better, but none of the words in my head form the right response. I've never really tried to picture a life that Kevin wasn't a part of, but for the first time, the idea of not needing anyone like that, not needing him, sounds like a goal to shoot for.

The silence stretches out so long that I think I might be spinning before Kevin bends over and puts his head in his hands and lets out a sigh. “What am I going to do, Ice?”

A million smart-ass comments race through my brain, most having to do with showers and sobriety.

I want to tell him that he'll go to college. That he'll be a chef and have his own restaurant and meet a girl. But I'm tired and sore and drained, and the thoughts are just clanging around inside me.

I place my hand on his back, which is spewing off heat. “Wait for me to come home. Be here.”

In trying to comfort him, I've let some weird wall down, and now all of the feelings I've dodged start ganging up on me. They're running out of my mouth before I can stop them. “I don't want to go. Don't make me. Please.”

And then I can't stop trying to tell him, to tell the universe, how badly I don't want to go to that house.

The next thing I know his arm is back around me, pulling me into his shirt, which is soaked with alcohol sweat and I don't even care. He's telling me that it will be okay. That we have a pact. That he's going to find a way to bring me home.

And because Kevin is somewhere in that body I try so hard to believe him. Harder than I've ever tried before.

Once I'm calm enough to stop talking, we sit there wra-pped in silence.

“Lord, my head hurts,” Kevin says eventually, sounding totally like my brother again.

“And you stink,” I add.

His laugh is low and quiet. “And I stink. And I remember why I don't drink that stuff. Why do people like it anyhow?”

I shrug and stand up, letting the blanket fall to the floor. I feel wobbly. Numb and prickly all over. Like when your foot falls asleep and you just start to get the feeling back.

Kevin sticks his hand out so I can pull him off the couch. I hesitate, but then stick my hand into his and pull him up.

His voice is small and hurting when he says, “Jim isn't letting me come to drop you off. I think he's afraid I'll do something stupid.”

I take my hand out of his and wrap my arm around his waist, draping his arm around my shoulders as I start to lead him toward the stairs. I try to make a joke. “You? Something stupid? Can't imagine.”

Kevin snuffles and it almost sounds like a laugh except I know it isn't. “How can I keep you safe if he doesn't let me come with you?”

Our room is quiet, with the exception of the old clock ticking away the seconds. And the sound of my heart beating in time to it. And the soft sobs of my brother as he pulls me into a whiskey-scented embrace.

Twenty-One

Jim pauses on the porch as we head to the car. I turn when I hear a window open, but have to shade my eyes against the afternoon sun. Kevin pours himself out of the window and leans on the wall.

My brother and I stand there for a minute, staring at each other like we're both wishing the Earth would open up and swallow us.

Finally, Jim tugs gently on my jacket and guides me to the car. I fold myself into the passenger seat. My hand is shaking so hard he has to fix the seat belt for me.

As we pull away, I look back. Kevin is already gone.

I'm handed over like something dirty and illegal.

I'm sure there are things said between Jim and my father, but I don't hear any of them. All I'm listening to is the roar of blood through my ears and the slight clinking sound that my keys make as my backpack shakes on my arm.

Every time my eyes skim across the surface of the house—a brick, doorknob, window frame—a thousand images flip in front of my eyes like an old movie.

Jim stands in the doorway and pushes me forward. He can't meet my eyes as he backs away.

I have no choice but to go in. My hand rests on the splintered wood of the door frame as I steady myself and the door closes behind me.

“Place hasn't changed all that much, has it?” My father actually sounds proud of the fact that he's kept things so close to the way they used to be.

My head is clouding. Words, pictures, and memories are skating around each other, tying themselves in knots, threatening to pull me down.

Focus
. Kevin's voice is also in my head, although after last night, it isn't the comfort it used to be.

My hand spasms as I clench the strap of my backpack.

My father's footsteps echo as he walks across the wooden floor.

There used to be a rug here. It was green with braided edges; Mom made it at the class at the community center. I remember Kevin and me running our toy cars over it. We built elaborate ramps that came down the side of the couch. My brother was always better at making his cars jump through the air. But I didn't care. We weren't competitive like that as little kids.

Looking around is like being in a museum.
Step right up and see where the freak lived.
My father's old hockey jersey is even still hanging in a frame over the fireplace. I have no idea why he'd want to be reminded of how he ruined another guy's life every time he looked up.

“Grab yourself a pop and come get reacquainted with your old man,” he says as he settles himself into one of the armchairs next to the couch.

I glance toward the kitchen, but my throat is dry and closed. I think I'd choke if I tried to drink anything.

I sink into the other dusty chair, holding my backpack in front of me like a bulletproof vest. It's stupid, I know. Nothing is going to stop his words from shooting toward me.

“
You're what? A sophomore now?” he asks as he runs a hand through his grayish hair. I can't believe he wants to play catch-up after all this time.

“Yeah,” I force myself to say as I shift around in the chair. I feel itchy, like spiders are crawling all over me.

“That lawyer of yours tells me you're a good student,” he says, tapping an unlit cigarette on the end table. “I guess you got that from me.”

I have an overwhelming urge to take a knife and cut out every bit of DNA I got from him. I hate the thought of being linked to him in any way. I look down at my bag and fiddle around with the zipper to avoid doing anything stupid.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

“Look, it's just the two of us for now, so you're going to have to carry your weight around here,” he says.

I've only started to wonder about what he means by “for now” when he reaches out and grabs my chin, turning my head toward him.

“The first rule is that you need to pull yourself together and move forward. All that stuff with your mother was a long time ago. The past is the past, do you understand?”

My eyelids flicker. It's like a spasm, only more annoying. “Yes,” I force myself to whisper through my gritted teeth as he lets go. I wonder how in the hell he expects me to move forward.

Don't show that you're afraid. Don't show that you're afraid. Don't show that you're afraid.

I let Kevin's words play over and over in my head as my father keeps talking.

“I know it isn't your fault. I blame that brother of yours. He always babied you. You're going to thank me some day for getting you away from him.”

“Leave Kevin out of this.” The words fly out of me like a swarm of bees. It doesn't matter how pissed off I am at Kevin—my father has no right to say that.

He laughs; it sounds like sandpaper rubbing at a spot on the wall. “You have something to say to me, son? Let's hear it.”

“I'm not … don't call me that.” I pull the bag even closer to my chest. I can feel my heart beating against it. Racing, racing, racing.

“You have some of your mother's spunk. That's good.” He looks me up and down. “Hopefully you didn't get any of her craziness.”

Tears sting at the back of my eyes, but I'm damned if I'm going to let him see them. “Mom wasn't … ” I start, and then catch him looking down at where my hand is beating against my leg. I guess I know what he thinks on that front too.

I bite the inside of my cheek and watch the tree limbs blow against the window. I don't know why I'm talking to him at all.

Finally he says, “Why don't you go on upstairs and un-
pack.”

I don't wait for a second invitation. I grab my backpack and suitcase and bolt up the stairs, glad to be away from him. Just like it used to, the fourth step creaks like it isn't going to hold me.

The walls of the upstairs hallway have all these dirty, rectangular faded patches on them from where Mom's photos used to be. I wonder if he just took them down, or if they've been gone all this time. I wonder what he's done with them.

The doors to all of the rooms, except the big one that the kids shared at the end, are open. Mom's room, which was my father's too when he was here, was across from it.

My room was the first at the top of the stairs.

I stand in the doorway. My old bed, desk, and dresser are there under a coat of dust. My old Wings poster is still up on the wall, but a couple of the corners have come loose and it's just hanging, waiting to fall.

I take a half-step in but can't go any farther.

The sun shines off something on the floor. I can see bits of broken glass. Some of it is tinged black-red with old blood, but I don't remember why. It makes my hand shake harder.

I continue down the hall.

Kevin's room has been stripped of everything that made it his. I used to love being in here, but it doesn't feel like my brother's anymore. He used to draw pictures of Mom, me, the kids, everything, and he'd hang them all over the room. After what happened, he stopped. I don't think he's drawn since.

I walk in and close the door behind me, checking to see if the locks are still there. My father put one on the outside to keep Kevin in. Mom let my brother put a hook lock on the inside to keep my father out. We knew it wouldn't take much strength to break through it. But we could pretend.

My father didn't like that. But it was one of the few things Mom stood her ground on. And he knew he could break it if he wanted to. It was mostly that he wanted Kevin to obey him, I think. And Kevin has never been very good at obeying anyone.

I latch the door behind me. I'm disappointed that the red corduroy bedspread doesn't smell like the laundry stuff Mom used to use. I only inhale dust when I put my nose to it. I empty my bags, shoving things into the bottom of the closet in no real order.

It isn't like I want to stay, anyhow.

Then I crawl into the closet next to my socks and jeans and T-shirts and shut the door.

My head is crowded with thoughts and memories, all scratching at me. But I can't seem to hold on to any of them for longer than a breath, so I just let them all pour out of me at their own speed.

I put my head down on my arms.

I'd rather be anywhere in the world but here.

Even in the river.

Being here makes me miss Mom a lot.

It's easy, in here, to pretend she's sitting next to me, holding me and reading to me.

But it doesn't help.

I need Kevin to tell me that everything will be okay. I wonder when I'll see him again.

I wonder if he'll be okay, or if the monster that came out last night will come back.

I'm pretty sure my father has to let me go to school on Monday. I mean, it's the law or something.

I want someone to tell me that I'm not drowning.

I'm scared.

I know I'm chewing on my sleeve, which I shouldn't do. I didn't bring that many clothes with me. And I love this shirt. It's the one I was wearing when Sarah talked to me in class the first time.

I wish Kevin were here to tell me to stop.

Dark things at the edges of my mind claw at me. I don't care about fighting them off. I offer myself up to them. To be food for nightmares.

Somewhere far away, I hear pounding.

Let him break the door down. I don't care.

I don't care.

I run out of memories.

Or they just get tired of me.

My muscles are sore from sitting, cramped in the same position.

At some point I realize that I'm me again, instead of just someplace for all the memories to hide.

I stand up slowly and stretch. First one side, then the other.

I open the closet door and step into the dark room. I flip on the light, which makes my eyes hurt, and look at my watch. Three hours. He let me stay up here three hours. I'm not sure if I'm happy about that, upset, or just surprised.

Listening at the door is like holding up a shell to hear the ocean. But I only hear silence.

I run my hands through my hair and pull on my sleeves. The right one is still damp, but I can't change. I don't want to run out of clothes. I'm not sure if there's even still a washer in the house. I almost wish I could go check. I'm afraid that if I stay in this room, I'm just going to lose my mind and spin for the rest of my life.

I try to figure out what Kevin would tell me to do, but I come up short. I try not to worry about him, but I still can't shake how he looked last night.

I don't want Kevin to be crazy like me.

I don't know what I'd do if he was.

As I stand near the door, I hear the creak of the staircase, of the fourth stair he's never learned to avoid. Like he expects it to listen to him and not creak just because he tells it not to.

I take a step backward as he tries the knob.

“Open the door, son.”

The latch won't keep him out anyway, so I do what he says.

My hand starts to shake and I pull it up into my sleeve, wrapping my fingers around the damp cuff.

“Come on downstairs.” He turns around before I have the chance to respond.

My feet follow my father's trail down the stairs. It's always been a fault of mine, Kevin says, that, unlike him, I can't help but follow a direct order.

He settles back into the same old ratty chair. I hold my breath, hoping it will keep me from pacing, because all I want to do is to keep moving.

“Sit down,” he demands.

I sit as far as I can get from him. I shove my hand under my leg and try to figure out where to look. I don't want to look at him, but everything else in the room has a million memories attached and I don't want to get sucked down by them either.

I rub my eyes and wait for the next set of instructions.

My father pulls out a pack of cigarette and offers me one, like everyone gives their kids smokes. I try to shake my head, but I don't think I actually move.

He lights one and takes a long inhale. The smoke circles around me and threatens to rip my stomach out through my nose. I part my lips to breathe through my mouth.

“You're fifteen now,” he says, like it's some revelation.

I nod, trying to think about what milestone might be set at fifteen that he would care about.

“Almost a man.” He leans back in the leather chair and watches the smoke rise.

I hold tight to the undersides of the couch cushions, hoping I can keep still.

He taps the cigarette on the edge of the heavy glass ashtray and the ash falls onto the table. Mom always hated when he did that.

“You have a girlfriend?” he asks.

I bite my lip. I don't know if Sarah is my girlfriend, and I don't want to talk about her anyhow. I don't want him even knowing about her. But it seems unfair to her to say she doesn't exist, so I don't answer. I just let my eyes dart around the room, hoping that nothing will have time to send its memory into my head.

“It's Friday night. We could go catch a movie or something. I'm afraid I'm not much of a cook.”

A movie? Is he serious?

“Or … is there something else that you want to do?”

“Go home,” I say before I can think better of it.

He narrows his eyes and takes a long drag on his cigarette. “It's good that Jim took you in and gave you somewhere to live. But it's been a long time and we're family. Let's just see if we can't make this work.”

I get up and go to the window. I feel so trapped in here. I can't even imagine how insane he must be to think there's any chance of anything “working” between us.

“That isn't going to happen,” I say into the window.

“I understand you're angry with me for not being here. But I'm back now. Boys need their dads.”

My legs quiver and I lock my knees to steady them. And then I turn around and shove my hands into the pockets of my jeans.