Exit Wound (16 page)

I was looking at my birth certificates—plural. One that appeared to be the original had the name Brenna Seirian Rose Morrison on it with the father listed as Brennan Morrison. The other one, that appeared to be newer, had the name I knew now—Frances Beatrice Morrison. There was no father listed.

Ben looked confused. “Why, Mommy?”

“We need to forget your father,” she said simply. “Your father is gone. Frances won’t ever remember him, and it’ll be best for all of us to pretend he was never here. So when she asks, we will tell her he ran off before she was born.”

Hot tears stung my eyes, and burned a trail down my face.

“Now take your sister to your room. Mommy needs an adult drink.”

She dropped me from her lap, and the two-year-old me cried loudly as ten-year-old Ben took me to his room. Our mother opened up a bottle of her favorite liquor, and it all began to make sense.

My life was a lie. This whole time our mother had raised Ben and me to pretend that we never had a loving father. My heart was racing, and slowly but surely, I could feel it pounding in my chest. I was getting my fight back. Right then, I remembered all the horrible things. I remembered every night I went to sleep with tears in my eyes and anger in my heart belonging to a father who had no idea of who I was and who had left me with the mother who did nothing but drink herself sick.

I remembered all the nights Ben held me while I cried in fear as mother trashed our apartment or made us move in the middle of the night. I remembered all the things that followed, and most of all, I remembered him: Brennan. I remembered all the times I had been called Brenna and thought my mother was delusional, and I remembered all the nights she called out his name. His face popped in and out of this vision or that dream or whatever it was. I felt furious and filled with passion all at once.

I have to live.

“I
have
to live,” I said aloud. “I HAVE TO
LIVE!
”

Everything rushed into me. There was life and love, anger and sadness, and even joy and contentment. Everything rushed through me, and it didn’t feel like very long—though when I returned to my hospital room, I was being taken off the ventilator. Though I struggled at first to breathe on my own, my lungs started working.

Whatever my physical self was unable to do, I was unable to do in this in-between state of self. I focused on my brother and all the times he had to have wanted to tell me the truth only to lie to protect me from the hurt. I thought of all the times I had been hurt and he’d gone out of his way to protect me. I thought of every single thing he had ever done for me just from the fact that I was his baby sister, and I felt a pang in my chest.

Fading into the darkness again, I wasn’t sure where I was—though, I knew that I was traveling toward something. As I got closer I got to it, I saw it was a light much like the light at the end of a tunnel. I was determined to live, and I was going to make damned sure that I would never go through this again.

I thought of Everett and his love for me, and I thought of Mackynsie and our sisterhood that would live on despite her absence. I thought of my father, the man I never really knew that I knew. I thought of how he loved me. I thought of my brother, and of all the memories we had shared together, all the memories we had made this summer.

I wasn’t ready for it to end.

The light was getting brighter, and I was feeling warmer by the second. Senses and sensations were coming back to me; the light was shining brighter than ever, and it was expanding.

This is it
, I thought.

This was the moment of truth. Whether I lived or I died, this was it. The light grew wider and ever more blinding until it swallowed me up, and then there was nothing.

I could still hear the beeping of machines and the sound of crying nearby. I felt a hand on mine…eyelashes resting on my cheek and my heart beating slowly. I thought about my toes wiggling.

They moved!

I tried to squeeze my hands, and my grip tightened around the person holding my hand, who shouted for the doctors.

“It’s just a reflex,” one nurse said.

My eyelids fluttered, and I tried to open my eyes. My viridian green eyes with the sectoral heterochromia underneath my left iris opened, my pale cheeks flushing with color. All I could see was the ceiling above me. The lights were too bright. I blinked a couple of times to adjust, and someone shouted for Ben and for a doctor nearby. Even the nurse was paging the doctor hurriedly. No one expected me to be awake.

The doctor was flashing his little light in my eyes, and I did the silly commands he asked me to do. Follow his light, grip his fingers, and wiggle my toes.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Frances,” I croaked out.

“How old are you?”

“Eighteen,” I said with a clearer voice.

“Do you know what happened to you?”

My mind went blank.

“Frances, you were shot in the head trying to save your brother. You’re safe now.” He patted my hands and went to talk to Ben.

I tried to let everything sink into me. I was alive. I had been shot, and I survived. My brother killed a man to save both me and himself.

Everything was slowly coming back to me. Ben sat down and held my hand, laying his head in my lap and sobbing with relief. I let go of his hand and ran mine through his hair in a motherly fashion.

“I made you a promise,” I said. My voice was still slightly hoarse—though, I could feel it getting better. A nurse came by and gave me a cup of water, and I drank it slowly while I gave my brother time to process.

“Frances, I can’t bear to lose you again.”

I didn’t know what he meant by that, yet I looked to him and smiled weakly.

“I made you a promise, Ben. A silent one, but a promise nonetheless.”

He looked up at me in confusion. “What are you saying, Frances?”

“I promised I’d always be in your heart, and you promised me the same. You promised you’d keep the faith, and you did—because I’m okay.” It was my turn to let the tears flow, and when they started, I couldn’t stop.

I cried for hours with my brother by my side, and when I was ready, I looked up to him.

“You said you had a lot to tell me still,” I told him. “Well, I think I know most of it.”

He looked at me with astonishment, and I laughed.

“I could hear you when you talked to me. When I wasn’t hearing you, I was remembering things on my own.”

“What did you remember, Frances?”

I sighed heavily and wiped my face with the cheap hospital-issued tissue paper.

“I remembered everything, Ben.”

He looked at me with more fear in his eyes than I had ever seen.

“Frances—”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why not? It’s your name.”

I never had a chance to respond. Soon enough, doctors flooded the room as did our friends. It was a time for celebration on behalf of my miraculous recovery. The doctors told me there would be more to living now that I had a brain injury even if it was minor. I had to wait and hope that Ben would loosen his grip on the lie I knew he was telling. No matter what it was that I had experienced, I knew something, and that something was that I had no idea who I really was anymore.

EPILOUGE

After a day full of celebration and appointment-making, phone calls, and final arrangements, I was moved to a private room, and I finally got Ben to myself. He was sitting quietly in the far corner, avoiding my gaze. We both knew what was going to be our next topic of conversation. I wanted him to bring it up though it was obvious he would rather I give the first fatal blow.

“Ben?”

He looked up as if he had been sleeping. He was distraught, and he didn’t know what to expect next.

“Yes, Bea?”

“Please don’t call me that.”

“What do you want to be called?”

I didn’t know what I wanted to be called. I didn’t know my options anymore. My entire life it was Frances or Bea, but never Beatrice. Now I had to cut straight to the chase and figure out what truth my near-death experience had to the life I’ve lead. I took a deep breath and readied myself for the emotional conversation for which we were long overdue.

“I think it’s time we talk about our dad, Ben.”

He looked confused and worried all at once. I didn’t want to look at him after that. It was too hard to watch his emotions spread across his face.

“Why do you want to talk about him?” he asked.

“He never left us, did he?”

His eyes widened with the obvious fear of my newfound knowledge.

“He never left, not in the way I had been told, did he, Ben?”

“Bea, there’s a lot that has happened…maybe you’re confused.”

“I am
not
confused!”

I knew he was lying. It showed across his face. There was guilt, and there was sadness and remorse.

“Tell me the truth, Ben. The real truth.”

He shook his head. “I can’t do it, Frances. I don’t want to lose you.”

“You keep saying that, and I don’t know why. Please tell me something to help me understand.” I was begging now, tears streaming down my face. “Ben, I saw things. I don’t know if it was the in-between or limbo or what, but I saw things. I won’t know how true they are or if they are real memories until you tell me the truth. The whole truth.”

“Brenna, don’t do this to—”

He said exactly what I had needed him to. I’d caught him in the middle of a sixteen-year-old lie.

“Who is Brenna?”

Ben stood abruptly, knocking his chair loudly to the tiled floor.

“Tell me the truth, Ben!” I shouted.

“I’m not doing this! I’m in too deep—it’s too late to change anything.” He was pacing back and forth, running his hands up and down his face and through his hair. He was a mess.

“Change what?”

“You want the truth? I lied. Mom lied. We lied together. We had a father, and he loved us. You especially,” he laughed bitterly. “You were the most perfect daughter he could ever want. When you were born, you were all he wanted. It was as if I didn’t exist anymore.”

“What happened to him?”

Ben kicked the chair back up and sat down in it, spreading his legs and propping his elbows up on his knees. “He died.” He laughed again. “Our parents were living in separate places. They shared us like we shared toys. He was dropping us off from the beach, and you didn’t want him to leave.”

As he was saying this, I could see it in my head. I remember the same bathing suit I saw in the memory from the in-between and from the photographs I found of Ben and me together when I was cleaning out my room.

“You ran out into the street, and a driver was coming through over the speed limit.”

My mouth hung open, and I covered it with my hand. I could remember it now. It was coming back. It was another lightning bolt, and it tore right through me.

“Our father, Brennan, he loved you so much he named you after him. He pushed you out of the way and was hit by the car himself. It was a fatal crash. The car ran straight over him, and he didn’t survive the hit-and-run.”

Breathing erratically, I was crying horribly with what felt like little screams trying to come out of my throat.

“Why did you lie, Ben? Why did you—?”

“Because Mother was in love with him despite all the crap even though she was crazy. If she couldn’t have him, neither could we. She began drinking more than her daily sacrament wine, she changed your name, and all due to the fact that it reminded her of him too much. The alcohol was the only thing to fill the hole in her heart, and your name had more of him than anything else.”

I didn’t really know who I was anymore. Who was Brenna? She was just a girl in pictures I always assumed was named Bea. But who was Bea? She had changed so much in such a short time—it was hard to tell who was really who. What made them different? What made them the same?
Were
they different?
Were
they the same?

“Who am I, Ben?” I asked tearfully.

“You were born Brenna Seirian Rose Morrison. Mother changed your name to Frances Beatrice Morrison the week of our father’s funeral.”

“But, Ben, who
am
I?”

“I just told you—”

“I know the names I’ve been given.
Who am I
? Am I Frances, or am I Brenna?”

“I don’t know. That’s all up to you now. Who do you think you are?”

I had to really think, and the more I thought, the more lost I was. As far as I was concerned, I was no one. Maybe I wasn’t anyone at all.

Ben had to leave when visiting hours were over, and now, my room was silent. There would be no real answer to my question anytime soon. I knew I could try and persuade him to give me the answers about Brennan, our father, that I wanted—though as days passed and he would come visit, I found it was too much to bear. Ben and I argued so often for so long, and some days, I’d forget entirely what we had been arguing about until Splinter mentioned it to me.

“So this is it then. You won’t tell me a single thing?” I asked him.

“Not right now, Bea.”

“Please don’t call me that.”

“It’s your name!”

“And apparently so is Brenna!”

Silence came over us, and he sighed.

“Look, I need to head to New Hampshire to make sure everything is in order. You’ll be alone for a week, but I’m sure you’ll be fine.

“Maybe you’ll be able to let this go in that time. I’ll see you when you get back.” He pressed a kiss to my head, and once he left and the nurse returned, she asked me a question.

“Are you sure you’ve made your mind?” Looking to her, I nodded

“Yes, I don’t want any visitors. Not my brother, not my friends or his bandmates, no one.”

“You’ll do much better if you—”

“I know what I’m doing. Please just give me the proper paperwork so we can get this over with.”

When Ben came back the next week, he was surprised to find out I asked for no visitors. He came back every day, and every day, he became angrier and more demanding. He only wanted to see me, and I refused to see him. I can’t remember when he stopped coming, but I knew I had to do this by myself. If he couldn’t tell me who I was; I needed to figure it out for myself…even if that meant reopening every single scar until it bled the truth for me. Because the exit wound that was left behind from this summer was one I’d never forget, and I needed to gain every ounce of strength I had in order to fight the demons that were living inside my head. I wasn’t going to lose this fight; I needed a reason to fight back, and through all the rehab and physical therapy, I discovered the reason to fight back was so I could prove that I was not in ruins. I know what can be done to destroy a city, to destroy a populous or even a single person, and now I knew the warning signs of someone who was out to destroy me. I wouldn’t let it happen again.

With camera people coming in and out constantly and social media outlets questioning everything about who I was and what I was doing, I needed to be prepared. I couldn’t back out of the spotlight anymore; I was no longer my brother’s secret. I was open, naked, and vulnerable to the whole world.

I refused to let them see me that way. I fought, and I fought until I thought I had dealt with everything. Then I’d wake up from seeing Everett’s bloody shirt or Mackynsie’s mangled face, and I’d do it all over again. It wasn’t a matter of doing it just to get better anymore. It was a matter of doing it so I could look back and say I survived even if it didn’t matter anymore. This wasn’t my ending. I was determined to get my life back. This was only the prologue.