September Rain Bk 2, Savor The Days Series (24 page)

+ + +

24

—Angel

This whole day has been like one giant
mind job.

The two guards accompanying me back to
my cell are new, like most things in this place. I’ve been here
about a week—I was called here for the states’ convenience. My case
is unique so the review is expected to take a while and it was
probably cheaper to move me here than to put the supervisory board
up in a motel.

It’s more important now than at any
other time of my life, that I get this right. I have to give them
everything—every heart-wrenching, explicitly misconstrued
detail.

I hate her.
I think, keeping my gaze fixed on the shiny,
off-white floor and imagining Avery’s face getting smashed under my
steps. Her image is flat, moving along with me under the sheen of
tile that encases like a trap. Her arms flail the width of hall
we’re passing through. The very edges of each doorway are just
beyond her reach.

My instructions are to be
honest and not worry about what the lady with the tight bun or the
thin quiet man thinks of me.
Tara and
Darren
, I remind myself. Mister Brandon
says they don’t have to like me. They just need to know that I
don’t pose a threat to myself or others, so I need to be
forthcoming.

Yeah, that’ll help.
The sarcastic thought has me biting my
lip.

When I get to my cell, the metal door
is open. The lights are on, like always. I wait for one guard to
walk in before me. After he turns to face me, I’m nudged inside.
Behind me, the second guard directs me to turn and face him. I do,
then numbly offer my bound wrists when he directs.

The first guard watches while I’m
released from the restraints, then makes his way out the door.
After he’s back in the hall, the second guard nods and steps out
backwards, never once taking his eyes off me.

When the solid door slides shut, I
turn to the small shelf mounted in the wall at the end of my bed.
On top of it sets my dog-eared copy of The Great Gatsby. I pick it
up, plop down on my squeaking bed, and set my mind to Daisy and her
well-intentioned but destructive relationships.

I’m barely through the introduction
before the racket at the door announces dinner is sliding onto the
half-shelf just below the slot. The hard plastic tray is lime
green.

I move to the floor, considering the
food—you never know what you’re in for when they serve spaghetti
and lime jello—and trying not to think about what must be said
tomorrow.

Of all the things I’ve told
them so far, most of its been soft. It was unfiltered truth, but
it’s still only what happened
before
—that’s how life was
before
. And I don’t know
if anyone will ever truly understand what that means.

Before
. It’s a terrible word.

Now, there’s just after, which
actually means lonely.

I imagine there must have
been millions of moments when I might have seen a look and didn’t
know it. But to recognize, one must first suspect and I never
suspected. There were probably words, harsh ones, some arguments,
too, that I overlooked because I was so deep in denial. Is it
actually denial if one is wholly unaware? Part of me thinks
I
had
to be
conscious on some level, but that level must have been so deeply
buried . . .

Pain shoots through my stomach when I
think about what happened—and what I have yet to say. Out loud.
Will they think I’m stupid? Will they hate me, too?—yes, the harder
stuff begins again tomorrow. Unlucky for me, not until the
afternoon. I think the hardest part is knowing what’s coming and
having to wait until after my shift in the library tomorrow
morning. The dread runs like ice in my veins, numbing my hands like
freezing water.

The stomach ache I’ve been nursing all
day is too much. With one fist clenched against my abdomen, I lean
over my dinner tray and take a few bites of jello. The pain
subsides after a few minutes and I slip into bed.

Turning on my radio, I’m hoping the
balm of music will soothe me, but the tune echoing from my usual
station is too upbeat. I roll the dial, searching for something
more suitable for sleep. Every station is either in Spanish, only
plays country music, or in the middle of a damn commercial break,
so there’s no way to tell what type of music they’ve
got.

Finally, I stumble over and orchestral
arrangement. I’m not sure of the composer, but my nerves find it
soothing. After some listening, I recognize the piece as
Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. I turn the volume up and shut my
eyes, letting my mind slow, despite the quickening pace of the
piano.

Letting the notes build their world
behind my eyelids, I imagine a thick black line stretching across
endless white, painting the scene like a sheet of music. There’s a
wide, black note like a beanbag chair. I take my position in the
center as it begins moving in time with the melody—skating up and
down along the scales. I float with the notes, over and under,
around the arches and through the twisting paths.

The beauty of the ivories dancing
makes me relax.

+ + +

25

—
Avery

Imagine spending a day without light.
Imagine waking up in the morning to no difference in light between
the morning and the night.

No sun.

No electricity.

Try getting ready in the dark. Taking
a shower without using the light: how would you even find the soap
to wash your face? You’d probably fumble, break some shit, and hurt
yourself.

That’s what it was like for
me.

The days were blending; there was no
light, no break to separate one moment from the next. I could not
hold myself together. I was fumbling, trying to find my way in the
dark and something way more stupid: I went back to that shrink
again.

“Do it for Angel,” I’d told my
reflection in the mirror that morning. “Show that bitch you’re not
who she thinks.” I scoffed at my own stupidity, and then went
anyways; while Angel was out living her rose-colored
life.

And the session was weird.

Doctor Williams had the controlled air
set too low, which chilled me to the core. And I didn’t like the
way the shrink watched me—like I was some germ under a microscope
or a snake about to strike.

“Avery.”

“Shrink Lady.” I mocked her
monotone.

“I think it’s important to establish
mutual trust. For that to happen, we need to be honest with each
other. When I ask you questions, it’s to help you and Angel.
Alright?”

I tried not to fidget in the chair in
front of her desk. The soft sounds of sea birds echoed from a boom
box placed somewhere in the room. Did she know I liked birds? Had I
told her that? Did Angel?

Doctor Williams pressed her glasses up
the slope of her nose with one finger. “I would like to talk to you
about family.”

“My mom is around, but she’s an absent
parent. I don’t know my dad.”

She sighed and waited. When I said
nothing more, she started again. “When is your
birthday?”

That question was too stupid to
consider. I crossed my legs, feeling overexposed.

Doctor Williams sighed.

Then it was me who sighed.

“Okay.” Doctor Williams nodded at her
notes then looked up. “Avery, I would like you to draw a picture
for me.” She pushed a blank sheet of paper and a pencil across the
desk. “A self-portrait.”

I felt the tug of a frown pulling at
the corners of my mouth. I couldn’t remember why I thought this was
a good idea. I didn’t want to give her anything. It would end
badly, I could feel it. But I made the little drawing like she
asked. I penciled my oval face, my black dash eyebrows, my thin
lips and nose. I even asked for a green crayon for my eyes—which
she didn’t have.

As I passed the drawing, a surge
indignation drew me to my feet. I locked my gaze on her. “I won’t
be coming back.”

2
6

—Avery

Part of the problem was I had been
clinging to Angel—aiming to make myself whole by sticking to my
friend. That’s what they’re for, right? I often wished for a way to
fold Angel up and stuff her inside my chest, sure her fluffy soul
could pad my bared walls and alleviate the throbbing.

Angels’ presence was a lively,
contagious thing that held the ones she loved upon a pedestal. A
high place where I enjoyed sitting, looking down at the emptiness
that could not touch me. A place where I could relax. But I was
hardly there anymore—on her pedestal. It seemed that Jake was the
only one allowed up there.

+++

One night, we were to the hilltop
overlooking the schools stadium. It had a decent view and there was
no one around for miles. It was kind of our thing. But that night,
the one place Angel and I could always go and relax felt like the
sharp lip of an abyss. I had a feeling that my feet would slip at
any moment, send me plummeting. More aptly, the hilltop was the
point of a knife. One wrong move could thrust it into my
belly.

When I was with Angel and we were full
of liquor, standing on the hill, I could forget everything. But not
that day, because of what I did at the clinic. I kept that secret
to myself because I knew she would never understand. Especially
about stupid-ass Troy.

So, I stood on the hilltop, pretending
everything was fine, staring out at the schools’ stadium that would
be packed with the junior varsity team in less than twenty-four
hours. The stands would be filled. Then, when the seniors played on
Friday night the occupancy would double. The whole town would shut
down for that game.

What would it be like to be one of
them—the Troy’s of the world—the ones everyone came to see? I
wondered if it would be as satisfying as it sounded.

For nearly a week, Angel had been
upset with Jake. Of course he had no idea because he was an idiot
who thought when a girl said she was fine, she meant it. I
understood her insecurity better than anyone, but also knew Angel
stressed too much, in general, and even more so over all things
Jake. She had nothing to worry about there. Angel had nearly a
years’ worth of a solid relationship over a girl who wasn’t even an
official band member. I told my girl not to worry, that if it
actually came down to that chick being in Jakes’ band, all she had
to do was talk to her and lay down the boundaries.

It had been days since that
conversation, and there we were: Angel perched on a small patch of
dried grass, curling her knees into her chest, staring at her
hands. I watched from the corner of my eye as she crushed her bent
knees in, tighter and tighter. Almost like she was trying to
shrink.

“How’s Jake?” There was not a doubt in
my mind that he was the issue.

Angel shrugged. “I’m surprised you
remember.” She’d been a little short with me the past few days and
I could hardly blame her.

“It’s on my list. And I remember
everything.”

If I thought hard enough I could
probably remember my own conception or a past life if I wanted to.
I didn’t, though, because the life I was living was more than
enough.

Most days I wished to
forget.

My earliest memories were vivid. Not
that I told Doctor Williams any of them. It was none of her damned
business. Besides, those memories were hard to articulate. There
was no color or sound, only strong feelings and bodies without
faces, but I was short and spent most of my early years staring at
the ground.

What I remembered most were long legs
covered in denim and a pair of big hands that used to grab my
waist. They held on so tight, I could never get away. It seemed to
happen a lot in those first years, whenever my mother was away—at
least I assumed, because no one ever came when I called
out.

Every time I went to the bathroom
denim clad legs would appear in the doorway. I’d see those big
hands . . . And then, the room blurred. I was never sure if it was
the lighting or my eyes, but when the room would come back into
focus, I always felt like a gutted fish. I could never remember my
face or my own hands, or even my clothes when the hands touched me,
so I couldn’t say how old I was when it happened or long it went
on, or even who did it. But looking back, it seems like it happened
all the time.

I was too small. Fighting was useless.
Crying for help did nothing. So I figured I had to guard myself; I
stopped drinking to avoid using the bathroom, where it always
happened.

I used to get stomach aches whenever I
looked at a glass of water. It didn’t matter how thirsty I was—if I
drank, I’d have to go and I would have gladly died rather than went
willingly into a bathroom. No matter if I felt sick, if the sides
of my throat were stuck together, I would pass it by.

Maybe I was in second grade, because I
remember being in music class at my elementary school. All us kids
were sitting on the big blue carpet. It was a special place the
teacher reserved for group singing. The whole class was in a
circle, chirping the words to it bitsy spider or something equally
lame while the teacher demonstrated the hand motions to the song.
Suddenly, the room tilted.