34 Pieces of You (18 page)

Now she sat on my bed and gave me a firm hug. She smelled
like hospital and coffee. “So the good news is, Sarah’s stabilized. The doctors say she’ll be fine eventually, but it’ll be some time. Dad’s going to stay with her overnight.”

I moved my gaze to my hand resting on the comforter. I had done my best during the day not to think about Ellie, but it was hard not to worry or imagine what was happening to her at the hospital. I had seen enough of
Grey’s Anatomy
to know they had probably pumped her stomach, given her fluids, and monitored her condition carefully. I hoped she wasn’t in a lot of pain. But whenever I started writing lectures in my head about her being more careful and dealing with whatever was stuffed into that box, I turned my attention to Mattie and Meg and the mindless DVD playing on the TV.

It wasn’t that I didn’t care—I cared to the point that I hadn’t been able to eat all day and I’d had to ask Mattie and Meg to repeat everything they said—but thinking about the aftermath made everything feel too real, and I wasn’t ready for that.

So the day had passed, the lump in my throat nearly suffocating me, but somehow I had survived.

“And the bad news?” I finally asked, my hand trembling. I looked at her. It was there in her eyes. “How?” Even though I knew, I needed to hear her say it.

“Overdose . . . accidental, probably.” She brushed my hair
behind my ears. “Are you going to be okay? I know you two weren’t very close, but still . . .”

I nodded, unable to trust my voice, the world, and everything inside it. All my worst fears were happening—I understood that—but at the same time I felt so distant from it. As if I were floating away from Mom and her words, nothing above or below to anchor me.

My voice was weak. “I just . . . can we talk about this tomorrow?”

“Okay.” She kissed my cheek before bringing me close for another tight hug.

After she left, I stared out my bedroom window, trying to hold on to any sense of reality. For a while there was only stillness inside me, an emptiness that ached. But slowly, very slowly, all the thoughts from the day and from every moment before with Ellie filled that space. That’s when the tears finally came. I couldn’t make them stop. For once, I didn’t even try.

I c
o
uld spend all day with y
o
ur head
o
n my
b
elly, y
o
ur
b
reath falling int
o
me.

AFTER. MARCH.

Days and days later, we are at the cabin, the sounds of utensils politely clicking away. Mom circles the table, refilling pitchers of tea and water, touching my dad’s shoulder to reassure herself that she isn’t alone in this chaos. Meanwhile, Dad tells us stories, cuts his meat with his manly knife, and smiles benevolently at us.

And here is Jess, sitting across from me, swirling her food around her plate, turning it into a Monet or something. And here is Meg, to my right, giggling and kicking Mattie’s foot underneath the table. And here is Mattie, to Jess’s left, with her fork perched awkwardly in her hand, her steak and potatoes drenched in ketchup. And here is Tommy, next to me, his hand
underneath the table, crawling up my skirt until it finds the edge of my panties.

And here are my parents, still chattering, still fussing, still oblivious.

And here is me, pushing Tommy’s hand away, the bubble in my chest expanding, not bursting. Waiting.

* * *

After my parents fall asleep, Tommy sneaks into the bedroom I share with Jess and hands me an unlabeled glass bottle filled with vodka. We slip out my window and head to the lake, passing the bottle back and forth in silence.

The walk is long. The water is ice cold. But still, we strip naked and slide in. Tommy grabs me, kisses me, but I’m not in the mood, so I swim as far away as I can. I float on my back, stare at the sky above dotted with stars.

This is where Tommy finds me. His face seems serious as he pulls me toward him, trying to wrap my legs around his waist. I push away and say, “Hey, I just want to swim.”

He treads water beside me, the frustration evident in his voice. “What’s your deal? You invited me here. You’re—” He points at my nakedness; his expression completes the thought.

And he’s partially right. I did invite him here. I did strip off my clothes. But that doesn’t mean I want
this
.

I splash water at him, some juvenile attempt to lighten the mood. When he doesn’t laugh, I dive under and try to force my body to come alive in these frigid waters. But I don’t get far before Tommy grabs my waist and propels us onto the muddy bank.

“Come on, Tommy . . . Why can’t we just swim?”

He tosses my clothes at me and starts pulling on his. I see he’s angry, so I move a safe distance away. After I’ve got my jeans and T-shirt back on, I say, “I just wanted to have fun. I don’t see why this is such a big deal.”

“Is this fun to you?” He looks at me, furious. “ ’Cause this isn’t fun for me.”

“Tommy.” I take a few tentative steps forward, touch his arm, but he pushes me away. “I don’t know what you want from me.” They’re the same words we always come back to.

“Fuck, Sarah, it’s not complicated. I just want to be with you, really be with you.”

But it’s complicated for me. “I don’t even know what that means” is all I can say.

“It means”—his voice is clipped—“that you’re all-in
with me.
Us in an actual relationship. Not this other bullshit where I don’t even know half the time if I’m allowed to touch you.” He waits for me to say that this is what I also want, but I don’t. “But you’re
not in.” His eyes are hard, with just a hint of sadness. “And you’re never going to be, are you?”

Maybe it’s because I’m exhausted and being with him feels even worse than being alone, but finally I tell him the truth. “No, I’m not.”

He shakes his head, a low growl deep in his throat. “I just can’t do this with you anymore. You never wanted me. You always wanted Jake. And you know what the crazy thing is?” His voice rises as he finishes yanking on his clothes, reaching down to grab the bottle of vodka. “Jake never wanted you. That’s why he never fucking called you when you were in the hospital.”

“That’s not true!” I say, but instantly I know it is.

“And he just used you. He used you, the way you used me—”

“That’s not true either, Tommy!” But again, my words ring false.

“Yes, it
is
.” He turns and glares at me. “And I guess that’s what we all fucking do. We use each other.”

It’s like he’s throwing knives at me, each word slicing me into smaller and smaller pieces. All I can do is watch myself bleed, but then, as if it’s an instinct, I turn all of this ugliness back on him. I say quietly, “Is that what you did to Ellie? Used her?”

The question is as honest as his accusations, but it’s also vindictive and filled with enough implication to silence him.
From the way he stares at me, I can tell I flung that knife so hard it hit bone. His voice shakes when he finally speaks. “Fuck you, Sarah. Okay?
Fuck you.
I know what you’re saying, you
fucking
coward. You were there that night.
Not me.
Don’t you dare put that on me.”

He charges toward me, his arm raised. I close my eyes, preparing for the inevitable blow. But it never comes. Instead there is a whooshing to my right, followed by a loud
pop
. I reopen my eyes. Tommy is gone, the bottle of vodka shattered beside me.

Alone, I collapse onto the earth—the certainty of Tommy’s words cutting me over and over again.

I never meant t
o
hurt y
o
u. Did y
o
u mean t
o
hurt me?

AFTER. APRIL.

It’s spring already, but the cold and drizzle continue. Tonight seems even colder and wetter than last night. I pull my scarf up over my chin and wait a few minutes. Then I pick up another stone and throw it at Sarah’s window.

A light goes on, but when the window slides open, it’s Jess’s face pressed against the screen. She looks down at me in confusion. I don’t know if she recognizes me, so I step into a circle of floodlight from the garage, tilt my head up, and pull off my cap.

She closes the window. The light goes off, and seconds later, downstairs, another turns on. A window opens. Jess sticks half her body out through the square, her blue eyes swimming in her gaunt face. She says, “Come on, I’ll pull you in.”

It’s a ridiculous offer. “Why can’t you open the kitchen door?” I ask.

“My mom locked it with a key, and she’s sleeping.” She juts out her hand. “Come on.”

“Jess, there’s no way. Move back.”

I jump, pulling myself across the wet surface with barely any struggle. The house is warm. I take off my gear and look around. I’m standing in their den.

Jess leaves the room and returns with a kitchen towel. She bends down and starts to wipe up the puddle that’s forming beneath my feet. She wears a thin sweater. As she works, her shoulder blades protrude from underneath. Without looking up, she says, “Sarah’s in the basement. She’s been there since Mom went to bed.”

I step to the left so I’m out of her way. “Why?”

“I don’t know. When I went to check on her, she told me to leave her alone.” She takes one last swipe at the floor and stands. Her eyes are worried.

“Is she okay?”

She shakes her head. “Last night Mr. Lumpnick was walking his dog, and he found her just sitting in the middle of his sidewalk with nothing but her pj’s on. She was freezing, and her arm was bleeding. . . . She said she must have cut it on a branch
or something. That’s why Mom changed the locks.” She looks away. “Just go ahead. You’ll see. Be quiet, though, or you’ll wake my mom.”

The basement door is slightly ajar, and I follow the light until I’m standing at the base of the stairs. The space is just as I remember—sofa, lounge chairs, and foosball table—but no Sarah. I move toward the light, calling her name, but I get no response. Dozens of thoughts race through my head. W
hy did I never call her?
W
hy didn’t I let Ellie hold my hand when we were little?
W
hy have I never told Sarah that I love her?

I spin around. The laundry-room door is cracked. I move closer, push it open entirely. There she is, wearing only a slip, her hair falling in knots around her face. She raises a bandaged arm to shield her eyes from the light, and I see that her skin is pale, her lips chapped.

The sight of her is more than I can bear, but still I manage a shaky smile. I crouch before her. “Hey . . .”

She stares at me for a long while, her eyes filled with uncertainty. “Jake?”

“Hey, Sarah . . .” She resists, but I manage to gather her into my arms. The basement is so cold, but her skin feels like fire against mine.

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

“I—I needed to see you.”

“But why . . .” She tries to pull away, but she’s weak and her attempts feel more like a shudder. I hold her tighter until she gives in. “I thought . . . and you never called . . . and I waited for you all this time—”

“I know, Sarah—”

“Just tell me . . . Just tell me why . . . ,” she whispers.

This is what she always does, looks for reasons to forgive me. But there isn’t one. I ran because I was too afraid to face her. Too afraid to face myself. I thought it’d be easier to leave all this behind, to find a new home. But here with her, I realize that home is the place you return to when you can’t run anymore.

Y
o
u make lists t
o
c
o
nnect the spaces
b
etween me and y
o
u. Y
o
u think I’m g
oo
d.
B
ut I’m n
o
t.

AFTER. APRIL.

“When did she start sleeping in here?” Jake guides Sarah to the bed and covers her with blankets. He glances around the room with swollen eyes, and if I didn’t know him—the little that I do—I might think he spent the last twenty minutes downstairs crying.

“Mom thought she might want some privacy,” I explain.

“That’s the last thing she needs. She was practically naked when I got down there. She says she’s cold, but she feels warm.” He looks up at me like this is my fault. But it’s not. It’s just a ball that keeps rolling because nobody knows how to make it stop. “Doesn’t your mom see what’s going on?” His shoulders are tense, his hands balled at his sides.

“Jake, it’s not her fault,” Sarah says.

I stare down at her, so small beneath the blankets he’s piled on top of her. Just like he said, she’s shivering, but her face is wet with sweat. “Mom’s seeing her doctor tomorrow and then they’ll decide,” I tell him, repeating nearly verbatim what my mom told me today. “Do you feel okay?” I ask. I touch her forehead. “You’ve got a fever. Maybe I should wake Mom.”