Whisper to Me (40 page)

But then you smiled and handed me a beer. Our fingers touched—blazing sparks flew, invisibly.

“I don’t drink,” I said. I knew the voice would punish me if I drank the beer, even with the progress I’d made. I handed back the can.

“Oh,” you said. “That’s cool. Straight edge, huh?”

“Something like that,” I said.

“You want to come up to the apartment?” you said.

“What, now?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“My dad might come back,” I said.

“He’s on a late night, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you said he hasn’t come back early on a late night for, what, a year?”

“Yes.”

“So I think you’re safe.”

“Okay,” I said. “We can talk about what to do. About finding Paris.”

“Sure,” you said.

But we both knew that wasn’t going to happen.

I followed you up the steps and into the apartment. The place was still a dump—still the empty pizza cartons, the takeout boxes, the bottles of Coke. Still clothes hanging from every available surface, discarded menus, dust.

“You should fire your housekeeper,” I said.

“
You’re
our housekeeper, in theory anyway.”

“Yeah. And I’ve been terrible. You should fire me.”

You laughed, and then space compressed between us, some kind of freak twist of physics, and we were standing very close together. The kitchen fell away from around us, the dirt and detritus; there was only the evening light from the windows, slanting through the shutters, and the buzzing circuit formed when our hands touched.

White noise roared in my head, blocking out every other sound. You tuned the radio of my mind to a dead channel, switched off my thoughts.

It was amazing.

I shut my eyes, and we closed together neatly, like we were hinged, and you kissed me.

It felt like it lasted forever, that kiss. Like not only the kitchen fell away but the whole universe, and we were floating in a deep black abyss, where only the contact between us meant anything at all.

I don’t want to do that kind of line, like you read in books. The ones where it says, “He took off my top,” or that kind of thing. Because the undercurrent, the suggestion, becomes that you pushed me in some way, “only wanted one thing,” you get the idea. And anyway it wouldn’t be true. And it implies some kind of linearity when all I can say with confidence is that there was a moment when both our tops were on and then they were both off, and I was in my bra, which had strawberries on it, embarrassingly.

Our bodies touched. Hands moved. Fingers were outlined with electricity, dancing with it, St. Elmo’s fire; I felt like we were phosphorescent.

I half opened my eyes, and saw your hair, haloed with light. A blade of sunshine reached us from between the shutters, so sharp it looked like it would cut straight through us.

I closed my eyes again.

My head filled with static.

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“CASS?”

Huh?

“CASS.”

I opened my eyes, blinking, turning, already knowing. Already shrinking back.

And there was Dad, standing in the doorway. A dark figure against the reddish evening sunlight.

“I ran into Shane on the boardwalk,” he said. His voice was horribly, horribly calm. “He told me you were home. But you weren’t in the house.”

Silence.

“You put your shirt on and come with me right now, Cass,” he said.

His voice was cold. Cold and merciless as the sea.

I hauled on my T-shirt and as I passed Dad, he grabbed my upper arm, and pretty much pulled me down the steps.

“Dad, you’re hurting me,” I said.

He ignored me.

He dragged me all the way to the house and then pushed me away from him when we got to the den; hard. My leg slammed into the coffee table—I don’t think he meant for that to happen, but it sent a shock of pain up my hip. I stood very still, trembling.

“Again, Cass?” he said. His voice still had that quiet, dangerous tone. “I thought I made myself very clear.”

“Sorry, Dad,” I said.

“
Sorry
?
Sorry
? You know who called me today, Cass? You know why I left the restaurant early?”

I looked at him, puzzled.

“A
cop
, Cass. A ******* cop. Said you went to the police station? Something about harassing an officer of the law. Seemed to think you might get yourself into trouble.”

“I—”

“You’re not a ******* detective, Cass! I don’t know what goddamn books you’ve been reading, but you can’t solve this **** on your own and then get a ******* medal from the mayor, okay? What the ****, Cass?”

Silence.

“She was my friend,” I said eventually.

“She? Who the— Wait. You mean the ******* whore?”

“Paris.”

“
Paris
. Jesus H. ******* Christ. I knew that girl was trouble when I saw her at the hospital.”

“She’s probably dead,” I said.

“YES, AND YOU’RE NOT! Not yet anyway.”

“I’m not going to die.”

“You sure about that? You’re sick, Cass. You’re sick, and you shouldn’t be running around playing Sherlock.”

I didn’t say anything.

“I can’t believe anything that comes out of your mouth, can I?” he said. “My own daughter.”

“Yes, you can.”

“Like when you said you wouldn’t hang out with that boy? I
told
you about him. He’s a college freshman, Cass.”

“He’s not. He’s starting in the fall.”

“And have you even told him about your problem?” he said. “I’m thinking of his protection too here. I mean, does he know? About the voice?”

Me (in a low voice): No.

“And you don’t think that’s unwise? You don’t think that’s dangerous? You’re hooking up with this boy, or whatever you call it, and he doesn’t even know you’re mentally ill.”

“I’m not mentally ill,” I said.

“Sure,” said Dad. “You’re perfectly fine.” He scrubbed his face with his hands, scoured it. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do to me, Cass,” he said. “It’s like you’re doing this **** deliberately.”

“I don’t mean to—”

“It’s like you
want
to break this family apart. What’s left of it anyway.”

I started to cry then. My arm and my leg were stinging; my eyes were prickling, like I’d rubbed salt in them. “I don’t … I … That’s not …” I took a breath. “What do you want from me?”

“I want you to keep away from that boy. I want you to stay in the house when I’m out. Keep meeting Dr. Rezwari. Keep taking your meds. Will you do those things, Cassie?”

I did not see the trap coming.

Stupid me.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes,” I said. “Yes, I’ll do those things.”

He took a step forward, fast as a snake, and I staggered back, thought he was about to hit me, went down on the coffee table—luckily it was wood, not glass, but my butt hit it hard, and I skinned the backs of my calves; my hands went behind me to try to stop my fall, and my right hand struck the side of the table, twisting my wrist.

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

Something had sucked all the air out of the house; we were standing in a vacuum, in absolute stillness.

“Jesus, Cass,” he said. “Are you okay?”

“I thought …”

He must have seen it in my eyes. “Jesus, Cass.” He took a step forward and reached down for my hand, then helped me up. “I wasn’t going to
hurt
you.”

“I …”

He put his head in his hands. “I don’t know how to deal with this ****. I really don’t. I don’t know how to deal with your lies.”

“What?”

“You said you’re taking your meds?”

Now
I saw the trap. Oh no. But what could I do?

“Uh … yes.”

“Liar,” he said quietly.

He went out of the room.

When he came back in, he was carrying my nightstand in one hand—you remember when I said he would carry full trash cans to the street? He had my nightstand in one hand, and he swung up his other hand to catch the front of it, then he upturned it, so that the drawers fell out in a
shwoosh
and hit the floor.

Blister packs of drugs spilled all over the carpet.

For the longest time we both just stood there looking at the drugs on the floor.

“Dad, I can explain, I—”

“No,” said Dad. “Not now.”

I remembered Dr. Lewis, telling me to speak to Dr. Rezwari. To follow her instructions. And I had lied to her instead. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“I’ve been good, Dad, I’ve been hearing the voice but it’s
helping
me now, it’s not hurting me anymore. I’ve—”

“It’s
helping
you?” he said. “The invisible voice in your head is
helping
you?”

“Yes.”

He sighed. “Tomorrow morning, we’re going to see the doctor. And you’re going to do whatever she says, okay?”

“Okay.”

“And that boy. This is because of him, isn’t it? Not taking your meds?”

“What? No.”

“Of course it is. You think because you’ve got a crush, you don’t need the drugs anymore. But you’re
hearing voices
, Cass.”

“One voice.”

He glared at me. “Yeah, like that makes a difference. Anyway, he’s out of here. He can find somewhere else to live.”

“Dad! You can’t kick him out.”

“Yes, I can.”

THE VOICE: “Yes, he can.”

“Whatever.”

I sat down heavily on the couch. I wanted time to rewind, so I could leave the apartment before Dad got home. But then I guess the cop would still have called him. Would it have been Brian? I guessed so. ******* Brian. Selling me out to my dad.

“But he’s … he makes me feel …”

Dad kicked over the coffee table; it flipped with a crash. “I don’t give a ******** **** how he makes you feel, Cass.”

I told you: my dad’s anger, it swims under the surface, and you don’t see it, but then it bursts up like a killer whale flinging itself into the air, gleaming blackly.

“He makes the voice go away,” I said eventually.

“The
drugs
make the voice go away. He’s out of here.”

“No!”

“Yes. Because I … I cannot. Lose. My. Daughter. Too.”

“You’re not losing me!”

“Oh yeah?” He kicked the pile of drugs so that blister packs skittered over the floor, loose pills, the meds jumbling together.

THE VOICE: “He’s right. You’re already lost. You’re a slut. That’s why this is happening.”

I put my head in my hands. “I hate you,” I said, to both of them.

Dad shrugged.

“He’s just a
boy
,” I said. “He doesn’t have anywhere else to stay. He’s just—”

Dad closed the distance between us and leaned in close, the anger seeming to bake off him, shimmer in the air, like desert heat. “He’s
eighteen
,” he said. “He’s a man. And you’re a girl, with a ******* mental illness, which you have not even told him about so that he can make a responsible decision, and which you’re NOT TAKING YOUR DRUGS FOR. Seriously, Cass, I don’t know what else to do here. You’re giving me no choice. I’ve tried setting rules, and you’ve broken them, over and over.”

I felt like I didn’t know who he was anymore. Punishing you for
my
mistake. “If Mom were here, she would—”

“Don’t you dare talk about your mother,” said Dad, practically spitting the words. “If it weren’t for you, she wouldn’t—”

Then he stopped.

He held himself very still, his eyes strange and wide, shocked by his own words. He actually took a step backward, like he was trying to physically reverse from what he had just said.

And something in me snapped.

I mean, those things happened at the same time. Dad started saying that sentence, and something in me snapped. But I can’t put them side by side on the page.

Anyway.

I have learned that when people snap, it can be very quick.

“If it weren’t for me, she wouldn’t be dead, right?” I said. “That’s what you were saying.”

“No. No … I …”

“That’s what you were going to say. That it’s my fault she’s dead.”

“What? N-n-no,” he stammered. “****, Cass. I was going to say—”

“But it’s WHAT YOU THINK,” I shouted. “It’s what you think, so why don’t you say it?”

“What do I think? What are you talking about?”

“You think because I moved her, she died. Because I lifted her head.”

Silence.

“I don’t think that.”

“Yeah? Then why did you wait so long before saying anything?”

“I don’t think that, Cass.”

“Oh please,” I said. “It was a head injury. You don’t move someone with a head injury. EVERYONE KNOWS THAT. That’s why you hate me so much.”

“I don’t hate you,” he said wearily.

“You do.”

“Cass, seriously, I’m warning you—”

“YOU HATE ME AND I DESERVE IT.”

“I don’t—”

“It was my fault. Admit it. It was—”

And then it was his turn to snap. I said that it can happen very suddenly.

“I don’t ******* know, Cass!” he shouted. “I don’t know. One of us was there and one of wasn’t, okay?”

“What are you saying? You’re saying because I was there and you weren’t, that’s why she died? Right?”

“I don’t know what I’m saying,” he said.

We looked at each other.

“Go to your room, Cass,” he said.

And then he walked out.

Here are some things that happened after that:

        1.    I had to go and see Dr. Rezwari, and she went kind of ape**** by her standards, which actually just means that she raised her voice a tiny bit, and she asked me a load of questions and said that I had “taken my treatment into my own hands” and it was incredibly dangerous.

        2.    She made me stay in the hospital for two days. They gave me drugs; they made me take part in group and make a jewelry box out of wood. I don’t have any jewelry, but whatever.

        3.    The voice went away.

        4.    Paris and her dad and the whole alibi thing went to the back of my mind.

        5.    Dad kicked you and Shane out. Made up some bull**** about needing the apartment for a relative who was coming to stay.