Somehow, saying these words doesn’t make me feel better. Not even slightly. So I shut up for the remainder of the drive. It takes exactly fifty-eight minutes to reach Kacey’s house, and I do it with the heat blasting and the radio silent, and holding Kacey Cleary’s limp hand within mine.
She lives in a modest brick bungalow, with small, weathered windows and concrete steps leading up to a two-person porch. A dim light flickers, providing poor lighting for anyone coming home this late at night. The roof’s been replaced and there’s a new blue Camry parked in the driveway.
I let go of Kacey’s hand to shake her shoulder gently. But she’s not waking up. With a sigh, I pull forward until I’m two houses down.
And simply stare at this unconscious girl in my car. How am I going to keep track of her? How can I know this won’t happen again? Right now, I wish I lived in Lansing. I’m too far away from her. Too far away to witness her deteriorate.
Before I can stop myself, and with careful hands, I search her pockets until my fingers wrap around her phone. No password to lock it down. I guess she doesn’t care about someone stealing it. Or some creep invading her privacy.
Like I’m doing right now.
I quickly scroll through her screens, copying down her phone number.
The little email icon stares back at me. I scribble her email address down, too—just in case—and then I tuck her phone back into her pocket.
Scooping her up, I carry her up the sidewalk, up the worn pathway, up the stairs, to the tiny porch, watching for any late-night witnesses. Though no one’s out at this time of night in the middle of winter.
“I’m going to put you down here,” I whisper, setting her down on the concrete floor with reluctance, leaning her up against the brick wall. She hasn’t stirred, hasn’t moaned, hasn’t cracked an eyelid. I wonder what the hell she’s on.
And then I remember that I’m on her front porch, and the last thing I want is for her family to catch me here and begin asking questions. So I ring the doorbell and cross my fingers, my heart pounding the entire time.
Footsteps approach from inside about thirty seconds later. I leap over the railing to duck behind a tree about ten feet away, making it just as the storm door creaks open and her little sister appears, shielding her eyes against the bright light. “Kacey.” She sighs. I was expecting a shriek, a cry. Something to tell me that this isn’t common. “Why do you keep doing this to yourself?” The pain within the whisper is unmistakable. She bends down and places two fingers against her sister’s wrist.
Because that’s what it has come to for this thirteen-year-old.
Their aunt’s head pops out—full of curlers, like you’d imagine seeing on an elderly woman. “How did she get here?” She squints into the darkness, searching, and I instinctively shrink back.
Livie’s head is shaking before the words come out. “Can you help me with her?”
I have to root my feet to the ground to keep from stepping out from the shadows and carrying her in. No good will come of me storming into Kacey’s life like this.
So, I watch a girl in Snoopy pajamas and a petite woman nearing her fifties try to drag a comatose Kacey into the house. It’s futile. As slender as she is, she’s pure muscle. Finally, after a few minutes, a groggy uncle in plaid flannel steps out and lifts her up.
“Come inside, Livie. It’s freezing,” the aunt calls out.
“In a minute,” Livie says over her shoulder as the storm door shuts. Wrapping her arms tight around her body, she drops her head back and gazes at the stars in the clear night sky. It’s dead quiet—so quiet that I’m afraid to move a muscle. “Please don’t let me lose her too,” she whispers to no one. Or maybe to someone. To two people she’s already lost. She brushes her hand against her cheeks, wiping away the tears that have begun falling.
And the weight of what I’ve done to these girls truly hits me.
Kacey’s spiraling. Just like me.
Chapter 12
April 2010
The streetlights flicker on and off as I wait, huddled in the cold. I’ve been parked out on the street for hours, slouched over in my seat, wary of her neighbors. The last thing I need is a call in to the cops about a strange guy lurking.
In that time, I’ve seen the aunt, a mousy woman with black hair and a buttoned-up blouse, come home from grocery shopping. I’ve seen Livie stroll past my car with a book bag slung off her shoulder and trudge up the stairs. I’ve seen the uncle drag his feet up the steps as if his construction boots are made of bricks, a brown liquor bag in hand.
But I haven’t seen Kacey yet.
And it’s eleven o’clock at night.
Granted she’s eighteen, but still.
Two hours later, when the porch light is shut off and I start to think she may not have left the house to begin with, a red Dodge Spirit pulls up to the curb. The sight of her long, fiery red hair as she climbs out of the passenger side lightning-fast, like she couldn’t wait to get out of the car, has me hunching into my seat.
She takes long, even strides toward the path up to her house, the hems of her jeans just barely dragging the ground.
“Hey!” a guy calls out.
Thanks to my cracked window, I hear her mutter a “fuck off.”
A guy in ripped jeans and a chain hanging from his pocket steps out of the driver’s side. “Hey!” he hollers again.
I hold my breath as she spins on the heels of her Converse sneakers and snaps, “What?”
He lifts his arm, a jacket and a plain black backpack dangling from his fingertips. “You forgot your stuff.”
She wanders back reluctantly, holding her arms out. The streetlight casts just the right amount of light to show the white lines running along her toned arm. And the vacant stare in her watery blue eyes.
The sparkle is long gone.
“You just wanted to see me again, didn’t you?” I can only see the guy’s profile, but I don’t like the leery smile that he’s showing her. He probably has no clue that the sparkle is gone. He probably doesn’t even care.
Snatching her bag and jacket from his grip, she blows a strand of fallen hair from her face. “Look . . . what was your name again? Rick? . . . Dick?”
“Mick,” he answers dryly.
“Right, Mick. Well, clearly you were memorable.” She oozes sarcasm. With that, she turns away.
He throws his hands up. “Seriously? Is that it?”
“What! We burned through a couple of lines and a couple of condoms. To be honest, the former was more enjoyable.”
The guy honestly looks stunned. “You’re a bitch.”
My hands tighten around my steering wheel and I have to remind myself that I’m not supposed to be here.
If she’s bothered by his words, she doesn’t let on, plastering a fake, sickly sweet smile onto her lips. “Oh, I’m sorry. Are you in love with me now? Do you want to hold hands and talk about our future? Should we meet your parents? You can’t meet mine, sorry. Though I’m sure they wouldn’t approve of you, anyways. How about china patterns for the wedding?”
The guy stares at her like she’s lost her mind.
“You should probably get in your car and drive away now.” She turns toward the house again.
“I know what happened to you.”
“You don’t know shit,” she throws back.
“Look, I’m sorry. Maybe next time we can go out and, I don’t know . . .” He scratches the back of his head. “See a movie or something.” I don’t know if the guy’s an asshole or not. If he’s doing lines and then screwing around with her, he’s definitely not a real catch. But right now he seems to be trying to appeal to her softer side.
“I’m not interested in movies or dinner or long walks on the beach. I’m not interested in friends. I’m not interested in getting to know you, or anyone else. And I sure as hell don’t want to talk. So do me a favor, and get into your little car and drive away. Forget about me. I’ve already forgotten about you.” She disappears into the house, the storm door slapping noisily against the frame.