Under the Surface (28 page)

Chapter Thirty

Ren

“Remember try to not look sexy when you
see her,”
Emmy says to me over the phone.

I’m sitting
in a small café
on campus. It felt like the safest place
to meet Lyla.

“I’m trying
my best. I dressed in regular clothes today, so nothing sexy here.”

“Dammit,”
Emmy mutters. “You’re regular clothes
are
sexy. Great, nice
going, Ren.”
I think she’s being funny, but I’m too nervous to hear what Lyla
has to say to be able to tell.

“Are you
messing with me?”
I ask.

She laughs
over the phone. “Yes, I am. I mean, I do think your regular clothes are sexy,
but I’m probably the only person who does.”

Now she has
me smiling. “Okay, I promise to wear jeans and T-shirts more often.”

She makes an
exaggerated groan. “Stop turning me on while I’m on my break. I’m going to go
out into the diner a horned up mess.”

I’m burning
that image into my brain.

“Oh, got to
go, Ren. Maggie just came back here and a huge rush of people just walked into
the diner. I’ll talk to you later.”

“See
ya
, Emmy.”

I put my
phone on the table and tap my fingers as I wait for Lyla. I ordered myself a
soda and nothing else. I wasn’t sure if this conversation would last through a
meal or not.

Five or so minutes
pass and Lyla is a no show. I check my phone for another text but I see nothing
but our plan to meet here at five. My battery is close to dead so I won’t have
much longer to hear if she’s cancelled or not.

After all
this effort she chooses to not show up?

Something
isn’t right.

My waiter, a
tall, blonde guy named Will, asks if I want to order anything else.

“No, I’ll
just pay for my drink. Hey, have you seen a blonde woman in here earlier? Long
hair, about five-seven, and was by herself.”

“Are you talking
about the girl who fainted?”

What?

“What do you
mean? What girl who fainted?”

“I think her
name was Lilly, or
Lianne
, or something. I don’t
remember. She was in here just a few minutes before you walked in. She passed
out at her table, but got up quickly. We offered to call an ambulance, but she
said she had a ride waiting outside who could look out for her. She left right
away, but I swear I saw her drive off. Not really sure though.”

“Was her name
Lyla?”

The waiter
points his pen at me. “Yeah, that’s it.
Lyla
.”

I pull five
dollars out of my wallet and toss it on the table. “Thanks for your help,” I
tell the waiter.

What the hell
is going on?

* *

I pull up to Lyla’s apartment. It’s in a
recently remodeled building in a nicer part of town. I assume she lives in the
same place as before, and when I spot her car in the parking lot, that confirms
it.

She lives on
the first floor and I knock on her door. Hatred from my past or not, if she’s
fainting in cafés, something is wrong.

There’s no
answer so I knock again. “Lyla,” I say through the door. I hear a faint sound,
what I think is breaking glass, but I’m not sure. I call her name again and
there’s no answer.

I wiggle the
handle and find it’s open. I go inside. In the center of her living room floor
Lyla lays face down, and she isn’t moving.

I run to her.
I slowly move her body over, trying to see if she’s conscious. There’s a
shattered glass near her head and an empty pill bottle by it.

“What did you
take?”

Lyla opens
her eyes. “Ren? You’re here?”

“Someone at
the restaurant told me you fainted there. I came here to check up on you. Did
you take this whole bottle of pills? We need to go to hospital. Now.”

“No, no,” she
sits up slowly. How is she looking so okay? I thought she just overdosed. “No
hospital. I’ll be okay. I’m so glad you’re here.” She leans forward, taking my
hand.

Lyla looks
wide awake now. The passed-out state is completely wiped from her appearance.

“I can’t
believe you came. Listen, we really need to talk. I think we should get back
together. I was—”

“Stop.” I
move her hand off mine. I cannot believe she is bringing this up. “Why are you
going on about this? I just found you face down on the floor, and now you’re
wide awake and telling me we should be getting back together. And all those pills.
You should see a doctor, especially if this is a problem for you.”

Lyla tries to
reach for me again. “I didn’t take those pills, I needed to get your attention
when I heard you were at the door. I needed you to come inside so we could
talk.”

She fucking
staged this.

“What is
wrong with you?” I nearly shout it at her. “Did you fake fainting earlier too?
All for attention?”

She nods
slowly. “I just wanted you to worry about me. I need you back, Ren. I haven’t
been able to find anyone who treated me as good as you did. This could work
between us—I won’t cheat this time. I promise.”

This is what
she is, drama. She’s fake, insincere, and doesn’t give a fuck about anyone but
herself. I can’t believe in this moment that I was with this girl. She reminds
me of such a bad time in my life. Where I failed out of school. Where I felt
completely lost. How did I ever find comfort in her? How was I ever so blind to
her deceit?

But I’m not
blind now. My eyes are wide open and it’s time Lyla hears what I have to say.

“No.” I
stand, shaking my hands back and forth. “There is no fucking way that is
happening. I would never take you back. I’m with a girlfriend I
love
.
You were never good for me. I felt I needed love and approval after my mom
died, but getting it from you did me more harm than good.”

“Please, Ren.
No one will stay with me anymore. I’m so lonely, you have to take me back.” She
moves towards me, but I put my arm out to signal her to stop. She looks crazy.
Her long hair is a tangled mess from her staged fall, and the girl I once
thought was beautiful now looks nothing but sad and pathetic.

“You need
help, Lyla. I’m serious. This will be the last time we see each other. I’m done
for good now. You’re out of my life and anything we ever had is long into the past.
You need to figure yourself out—without my help.”

“But…but I—”

“Goodbye,
Lyla.”

I slam the
door of her apartment closed as I leave.

This
is the last time.

Chapter Thirty-One

Emmy

I flip the burner on to boil the kettle of
water. As I do so, I notice my pile of mail on the kitchen counter. I should go
through it. I have no doubt that there are plenty of bills I need to look at
and write checks for.

I pick one of
the six or so envelopes. Most of what I see is junk. I do spot one bill for my
utilities, the damage this month isn’t too bad. I put it by my purse so I’ll
remember to pay it later today.

The last
piece of mail surprises me. It’s a small, blue square envelope. I tear open the
back without looking at who it’s from. Inside is a thick piece of cream
cardstock.

Before
reading what’s on the card, I flip the envelope over to read the return
address.

I pause.

The letter
was sent from Nevada.

From my
father.

The address
itself is unfamiliar. It must be the rehab facility he’s in, but the name at
the top is most definitely his.

I can still
remember the day that I left home. My father was getting ready to go on a
business trip. He would be gone for an entire week. Normally I would relish
that time. Enjoy the days where I wouldn’t always be watching myself to make
sure I didn’t piss him off. Or sidestepping his bad moods. I told him, just
before he left that I was leaving. I had graduated high school and was going to
start school somewhere else. He brushed off my commentary, only muttering how I
didn’t have what it took to make it on my own. How I needed the roof he
provided over my head. But I knew I didn’t. I would rather be starving and
homeless than living in the hell that was his house. I packed everything after
he left. I crammed everything I could fit into my tiny old car. I was armed
with all my savings, nearly six thousand dollars. I saved every penny I could
since I had started working at the age of sixteen. I knew I would need it in
the future. I didn’t leave a note, I didn’t leave any clue as to where I was
going. All I knew was that I would eventually end up in Rhode Island, and that
would be where my life would finally begin.

A loud knock
at the door startles me. I drop the mail all over the counter and floor.
Why
am I so jumpy?
I know it’s not my dad at the door.

“
Emmy? You home?
”

It’s Ren.

I go to the
door and fling it open. I try to steady my breathing and not show that the
letter I just received shook me up. I also don’t know if I’m ready to explain
to Ren that my dad called me a while ago, and that he just sent me something.

Ren greets me
with a kiss.

“You should
probably take that off the stove,”
Ren says.

I now
register that the tea kettle is going off. The whistling sound is cutting
straight through the air, although I somehow didn’t notice it until Ren brought
it up.

“Oh, right.
I’ll take care of that.”

We walk into
my apartment. I run into the kitchen and turn off the stove. I move the kettle
to one of the unused burners.

“What is
this?”
I hear Ren ask me.

I turn and
see him holding the letter from my dad in his hand.

“Why did your
dad send you a letter? Has he been in contact with you?”

I nod once.

“What did it
say?”
Ren motions to the letter.

“
I don
’t know. I
didn’t read it. I opened it before I saw who it was from. I don’t want to read
it either.”

I can see the
rage in Ren’s face. His hand forms a fist, crumbling the envelope in his hand.
He goes to the trash and tosses it in.

“Don’t read
it. I can’t think of one thing he can say to you that will do you any good.”

I know he’s
right in that regard, but there’s a part of me, someplace deep within
myself, that
wants to read what he wrote.

“There’s
something else,”
I say, knowing he won’t be happy with what
he hears, but I can’t keep it from him any longer. “He called me the other day.
He’s in rehab. He said it was part of his treatment to reach out to me. I told
him I didn’t want to talk. He said he was sending me a letter, I’m just now
getting it. I found it right before you knocked on the door.”

Ren’s anger
turns to shock.

“You told him
you didn’t want to talk to him.”

“Yes.”

“Good. And
he’s in rehab now? That’s…well, that’s nothing. He
should
be getting
help, but it took him too fucking long to do it.”

“I wish he
would’ve done this a long time ago,”
I say quietly.

Ren rests his
hand on the counter, taking a deep breath. “Me too.”

* *

I can’t sleep, and I can’t stop checking
the clock on my phone either.

Ren left a
few hours ago. He had an early class in the morning and wanted to get plenty of
sleep. He asked me if I wanted to sleep over, but I opted for my own bed. Now
I’m regretting the decision, because instead of sleeping, all I’m doing is
thinking about the letter that’s burning a hole in my trash can.

What would my
dad want to say to me after all this time?

Would the
letter be sincere?

Would it
reflect his old harsh demeanor?

Was this all
a ploy to pass through his recovery faster? To appease his sponsor, or whoever
he was getting help from?

All these questions
floating about, and I can easily answer them. All I have to do is read the
letter.

Ren told me
not to, and I told myself that I didn’t want to, but now I’m starting to change
my mind.

I look up at
the ceiling.
Don’t read it, Emmy.

My need for answers
overpowers my good judgment. I toss my blanket off me and go to the kitchen.

I flip on the
light above the stove. I grab the crumpled up letter that rests at the top of
the trash, still exactly where Ren tossed it.

I unfold it
and rub the letter on the edge of the counter to smooth out some of the
wrinkles.

I sit on the
floor of the kitchen, too eager now to go to a comfortable place to read. With
trembling hands I open the envelope. The cardstock is thick and sturdy. There’s
no design on the front of the card, just a blank slate.

I flip it
open. In choppy, slanted handwriting are the words of my father. I imagine his
gruff voice speaking to me while I read it.

Emilie,

It took me
fourteen days to write this letter start to finish. I don’t know if that says
anything about me, but I think it speaks to how nervous I was to write to you.
We haven’t spoken in over two years. This is my fault. I don’t know where to
begin on explaining myself to you. I know you see me as a monster. That’s now
what I see when I look in the mirror every morning. I guess I can say it
started when your mother died. I was torn apart. The day my Liv passed I died
too. You were so young, only seven months old. Liv wasn’t given enough time to
enjoy being a mother. She wasn’t given the opportunity to be my wife. And I
faced the harsh reality of never seeing her again. Except I was quick to learn
that wasn’t true. I saw her in you. Not at first, but eventually I did. When I
looked at you and saw Liv, I was reminded every day that she was gone. I never
knew how to cope, so I turned to alcohol. Each day got worse and worse. The
pain that built inside of me was forced upon you. My drinking, which at the
time I thought was my escape, was only making things worse. It only drug me
deeper into the hole of my depression. I now find myself sober. I just wish I
had the strength to lead me to where I am today. I arrived here after nearly
killing myself. It was the anniversary of your mother’s death, and I drank
myself until all the pain I felt was blocked out. I woke up four days later in
the hospital. I wrapped my car around a telephone pole. It was a miracle I
didn’t kill anybody that night, and I barely made it out alive. Now I’m sitting
in a rehab facility in Reno. In my sober light I see that I’m all alone. I
pushed away the gift Liv brought into the world, and I ruined my chance at
having a daughter. I’
m getting help, Emilie. It
’s a long
road to recovery, but I wanted to reach out to you. I hurt you for so much of
your life, and I want to tell you how sorry I am. Those words can never be
enough to erase the physical and emotional hurt I caused you, but I needed to
say it. You might not even read this. Most people in your situation probably
wouldn’t. But I hope, maybe someday in your life, that you can forgive me. I’m
sorry, and I’m ashamed of the man I was. I wasn’t a father, and I wasn’t the
man you or Liv needed me to be.

-Clarke.

My tears
leave tiny drops of bleeding ink down the paper. I didn’t expect to feel the
way I do right now. I want…and it’s difficult to admit this—I want to someday
be able to forgive him.

I know that
right now I can’t. I still feel too much hurt from the pain that my dad caused
me. But for the first time, when I’m reflecting on everything that has happened
to me in my life, I don’t feel the anxiety. I’m no longer alone in this
battle—I’m fighting it with Ren. My mind isn’t running a mile a minute. I don’t
need to run to the pool or jump in a tub of water. Instead I take a deep
breath, in through my nose and out through my mouth.

I feel calm.

I feel
relaxed.

I feel okay.