When I was sixteen, Mom got sick. “Be brave for her,” he told us. We did our best while he focused on earnestly ending short-lived sobriety. At the funeral, I held Lola while she cried. He sat in the back of the church and sobbed. My cheeks felt like raw hamburger.
The last time I saw Dad, I was standing in this yard. I can still see the look on his face when he begged me to take Lola. He was standing in front of me and my sixteen-year-old, pregnant, hysterical sister was behind me. Both of them saying variations of “You’re a disappointment,” and “You never loved me,” and “I never want to see you again.” Lola’s words were directed at him. So were his. He didn’t tell me to be brave; his lifeless eyes left no doubt I had to be. I could only save one of them that day, and I chose her.
Standing here now, only a few years younger than he was at the time, the guilt is immense. I spent so many years resenting him, while simultaneously trying to meet the expectations of his ghost. I hate him for leaving us. But I hate myself more for not stopping it. Some days, I miss him so much it hurts. And other days, I hurt because I don’t miss him at all. I wish he’d been a better parent. And I wonder if he wished we’d been better kids. I regret not telling him I loved him. Even though he never told us.
When the familiar metallic tang hits my tongue, I decide it’s time to turn around and go home.
Ever’s sitting on the front porch steps but stands when I approach.
He doesn’t say anything, but when he opens his arms and I walk into them, I unclench my jaw and turn myself inside out. The sob that erupts begins in my belly and claws its way out like it’s been exorcised. The tension in my muscles is painful. I can’t catch my breath, and my tears soak his T-shirt. I’ve heard people describe crying as cathartic; this feels like drowning. This is why I don’t cry. I’ve lost all control.
The harder I cry, the harder he hugs me.
“Breathe. I’m here. You’re not alone. Whatever it is, I’ve got you. Just breathe, baby. Please, breathe, and talk to me.” It’s not the calm voice he used when he coached Benji earlier. He’s trying, but he sounds scared.
twenty-eight
I manageto get her inside and drink a glass of water. She’s sitting across from me, eyes red and puffy, and the air of uncertainty’s ratcheting up my anxiety.
She gestures to her face and sniffs. “Unresolved abandonment issues. Obviously, I need to call my therapist and get in to see her again.” She swallows hard and takes a deep breath. “I’ll be okay. But we need to talk about this.”
When she slides her cell across the table, a video is playing. It’s me yelling at Ben the other night. Followed by me on stage, clad in my mask, performing with Treachery’s Riot.
I may as well be strapped into a roller coaster that’s crested the hill and dropped into a neck-snapping descent, because my stomach is in my throat.
Pressing my steepled fingers to my mouth, I mutter the word that’s repeating in my head, “Shit.” And then I close my eyes, drop my hands to the tabletop, and repeat, “Shit.”
So many thoughts are bombarding me.You knew this would happen eventually. This is your fault for getting involved withJess. You managed to pull Soph and Jess into this, and now it’s going to affect them too. Life as you know it is over.
When I open my eyes, she taps the phone to silence it. “It’s true?” she whispers. She doesn’t sound surprised, and that surprises me. She’s eerily calm now.
I rub the stubble on my chin, but my eyes remain locked with hers. “Yeah.”
“Shit,” she mumbles, but there’s no panic or anger or any of the emotions I would expect. She pushes back her chair and rises. “I’m going to shower because I need a few minutes to wrap my head around this, and it looks like you do too. I can’t promise I’ll be able to put together coherent thoughts or questions when I get back, but I promise to listen and help and, Jesus…” she shakes her head and tries to complete the sentence, but can’t, “I don’t know,” before kissing me soundly and walking to her bathroom.
When she returnsten minutes later, I’m still sitting in the same spot. Locked in place.
She walks to the big window that looks out on the front yard, with her hands on her hips and her back to me, and asks, “Do you want to go first, or should I?”
“You go first.” Because I still don’t know what to say.
“Why didn’t you guys tell me, Ev?”
The hurt in her voice makes me realize she thinks Jess and I have been hiding this from her. “Jess doesn’t know.”
She spins on her heel, hands still on hips, and shakes her head defiantly. “Am I seriously supposed to believe that? He’s your brother.”
I was never going to be prepared for this moment, but it’s here. Best to not dodge the land mines. Blow this up and see where it all lands.
Standing, I walk to the staircase and call down, “Jess, can you come up here, please? I need to talk to you.”
He’s watching a movie with Lola and Benji. Walking up the stairs, he’s laughing and still in the middle of a conversation. “I accept that challenge. Start stretching now, because when I get back, the leg wrestling commences.”
“I’m undefeated. You’re the one who better start stretching, because you’re about to get your ass handed to you,” Lola taunts.
He laughs, but when he sees my serious face, he stops, and his eyes dart to Soph. His lips barely move when he asks, “What the fuck is going on?”
Looking at Soph, I urge her. “Ask him.”
