But although those happier memories are greater in number, it’s the other, more potent memories that monopolize thoughts of my childhood.
I slip my hand between my mattress and box spring, to the small cardboard box that will fix everything.
I remember the moment my father handed it to me on my eighth birthday—how my eyes lit up as I opened the white box with the gold-lettered logo from the popular, local jewelry shop, to reveal a second, black velvet case. I reach unconsciously for the chain dangling from my neck, fingering the hand-shaped white-gold charm with the diamond eye in the center. A “hamsa,” traditional to his Jewish heritage, meant to keep away the evil eye. To bring luck.
Worthless piece of shit.
I tear it from my neck, not bothering with the clasp, and empty the current contents of the box into my palm, slipping the necklace back into its original home. I replace the cover, and slide it back under my mattress, pushing it deep, where no one will find it.
I close my hand around the forty or so small, football-shaped white pills I’ve pilfered from my mother’s medicine cabinet over the past two months, always fearful she’d notice. She never did.
I sit on the edge of my bed, and grab the water bottle off of my nightstand.
Should I leave a note? Maybe text my brother and mother that I love them? But I don’t want them to know something’s up—to give them time to thwart me. I pick up my phone. Maybe I can leave an unsent email for them to find later…
I jump as it buzzes in my hand, as if it knows what I’m planning.
Or whoever’s texting me does.
I know I shouldn’t look—that it’s probably Sammy again, worrying as usual lately. But against my better judgment, I click on the home-screen and open the text.
My heart leaps into my throat.
It’s Sammy’s friend David.
Hey kid. Thought you’d finally be out tonight. 9:51 pm
I shouldn’t respond. David is a wildcard. He makes me feel things. He always has. Things even Brian never did. But Brian returned my affections; David never could. He’s my brother’s oldest friend, after all.
Not feeling up to it I guess. 9:54 pm
I shoot back the quick reply and stare idly at the phone in my palm for a few beats, before my other hand squeezes its contents, reminding me that this is not a moment for chatting with my childhood crush. Even if once, for one fleeting moment, I thought maybe, someday, he could possibly be something more. Because I’m holding a handful of guarantees that that’ll never happen.
Buzz.
I startle again.
Again I look, despite warning myself not to. Because just the fact that he gives half a shit has me acting like a stupid, boy-crazy schoolgirl again.
Fuck that. Fuck HIM. Let me come get you. You need to roll up in here and show him you don’t give a fuck. 9:55 pm
But I do give a fuck. I give all of them.
Come on, Bea. You’ve always been too good for that dipshit. We can go somewhere else if you want. Just get out of that fucking house, okay? 9:57 pm
Bea, not kid. My chest swells and my heart races. My lips almost twist into some semblance of a smile, but I catch myself.
Because I’ve put too much thought into this to be swayed by some false hope and a pet name that once meant the world to me, and nothing to him. Story of my life.
Maybe tomorrow. 9:58
The lie comes easily enough in its digital form. Because there will be no more tomorrows. Not for me.
Another buzz from my phone, but this time I just power it off.
David. He’s the one thing causing that whisper of doubt I really don’t need right now.
I sit on the edge of my bed, and I down the pills. Every last one.
