Are You Mine

Chapter 16


Fox


Waking up next to Saige is nothing short of awesome. She’s a pretty sleeper, with her hair fanned out like a halo around her and her hands together, palm to palm, tucked under her chin. I let her sleep because she is too beautiful to wake. I want to kiss her before I leave, so I’m sure I’ll nudge her until she opens her eyes, but that’s in a little while.

I slip out of bed, careful to go as slow as possible so I don’t disturb her. In the bathroom, I rinse out my mouth; in the kitchen, I start the coffee; and in the living room, I stand in front of the flag from her father’s funeral.

Even if she hadn’t told me specifically about her feeling of abandonment, it’s written all over her. I can see it in the words she uses, her actions, and the way she’s always waiting for people to leave.

Behind the box is a photograph of a little girl standing with a man. It’s obviously Saige, and I assume the man is her father. He’s in military fatigues. I can tell it’s Christmas by the little bit of garland hanging over a mantel in the background. Saige is holding a book tightly to her chest. She’s got her arms wrapped around it like she’s using it to protect herself.

Her father is smiling and has an arm around her shoulders. Although Saige wears a smile, she’s not exactly smiling. Her eyes are not focused on the camera, but somewhere just to the side, and she’s not relaxed in her father’s hug, she’s tense and stiff. Her body isn’t pressed against his. She’s set off an inch or so, just enough to give me the idea that she’s shielding herself again.

It’s sad.

The picture isn’t in a frame, and the edges have curled. When I pluck it off the shelf, I notice a stack of letters behind it. They’re not my business, but I pick them up. They’re from her father, and by the postmarks, they’re in order of when he sent them with his last on top.

My curiosity pushes me to open the top letter. I scan it. The words jumble in my mind, letters everywhere in unrecognizable patterns. I just need to focus, and I’ll be able to make sense of it. It’s slow going, but as I study each arrangement of letters, I can reorganize them into patterns that make sense. I narrow my eyes as if that will help me concentrate, but I’ve never wanted to read anything as much as I want to read this private letter written by my girlfriend’s dead father.

Dear Saige,

Happy birthday. I know it’s not yet, but by the time you get this, it will be. Not too long until I get to come home to you. I know it’s been tough, and you and your grandmother aren’t getting along so well, but she loves you. Soon, I’ll be home, and we’ll start another Chapter in our lives. It’s probably difficult for you to understand why I’ve come back to this place over and over again, but one day, when you’re older, we’ll sit down together, and I’ll tell you everything.

I miss you. I miss your mother. I can see from the last picture you sent me, that you’re growing to look like her. Your eyes are the same color as hers, but you have more sadness in them. I guess that’s to be expected.

Well, baby girl, I’ll finish this. I should be able to call you on your birthday. Eleven years old! I’ve missed too many of those years, but when I come home, I’ll make up for it. Promise.

I love you and think about you every single day, almost every minute. Be good to your grandma, keep up the schoolwork, and pray for me.

I love you,

Dad

When I look up from the letter, Saige is leaning against the wall a few feet away, holding a cup of coffee. Damn. I don’t know how I didn’t hear her get up, get coffee, or come back into the living room. I flash her what I hope is an embarrassed, but charming smile, but she doesn’t return it. The little crease between her eyebrows is deeper than it usually is.

I’m just about to apologize for being a snoopy, nosey jerk when she says, “You’re going to be late for work.”

I fold the letter back up, tuck it into the envelope, replace the stack of letters and the photo on the shelf, then move to her. There’s a piece of white fuzz in her hair, so I focus on that because I’m not sure I want to see what’s in her eyes. I pick it off as I say, “Sorry, Saigey, I. . .”

“That one came four days after my birthday.”

I cup her cheek and stroke the bone beneath her eye with my thumb.

“It came two days after they informed us he was missing. Ten days after that, they confirmed he’d been killed.”

“Saige,” I whisper.

She turns her head so I’m no longer touching her and takes a step away. “It took you forever to read that, but you made it through.”

“I. . .” I don’t know what to say to her.

“Are you going to stay for coffee, or do you have to go right away?”

Saige doesn’t sound upset that I read the private letter, and there’s no way I’m leaving yet, so I take her hand and walk with her into the kitchen. When I’m holding a hot cup of coffee, I lean back against the counter and watch her watching me.

She’s like the words on the page. The meaning is hidden from me until I can unscramble and make sense of them. But unlike the words, Saige doesn’t make it easy by just showing me the strange patterns and jumbled letters. She keeps it all closed off.

“Do you miss him?” It’s a stupid question because how can a kid not miss her dad? But she shakes her head. “Your mom?”

“She was gone when I was five. My dad was deployed when I was five. Before that, his base was in North Carolina, but since my mom’s job was in the city, we didn’t live with him. So,” she says, drawing out the word as she shrugs, “I barely knew either of them.”

“But you can still miss them even if you barely knew them.”

“Well, I don’t.” Her voice isn’t exactly hard, but there’s a sharpness to it that lets me know not to push.

I decide to skip past anymore of the awkwardness we sometimes find ourselves in. I cross the room, and careful not to spill my coffee or hers, I bring her into my arms. She can say whatever she likes, but I know she misses her parents. I’ve been without my mother, too, and even if I don’t know her well—at least I don’t know my sane mother well—I miss her every day.

I’m so comfortable next to her like this, and I can feel her relax into me, even though I think she’s probably trying not to. Last night was great, but this is amazing. It’s like inch by inch she’s letting me in. “Will you read me the poems you read last night?”

“It was just one, and absolutely not,” she says and shifts out of my arms. “I’ll burn it in front of you though.”

“What? You read it in front of complete strangers but you won’t read it to me?”

“Hell, no. I don’t care what strangers think of my shitty poetry, but I—”

“Care about what I think?”

She takes a sip of coffee.

“Next time you’re at my place, I’ll let you see my sketchbook from 2007. I was thirteen and not only had I not perfected my style, but I thought about boobs way too much. I swear, it’ll lower your opinion of me by, like, ten percent.” I pause to let what I’ve just admitted sink in. “What about it? Want to trade crappy poetry for crappily rendered breasts?”

My attempt at making her laugh is successful. Saige rolls her eyes, takes my free hand, and we walk back to the living room together. The quiet is relaxed and I feel content with her sitting so close to me.

***

“You’re late, Fox.”

I nod as I quickly punch in and grab the order sheet Mr. Morgan holds out to me. “I’m sorry.”

“You need to call and explain next time. We have orders upon orders lining up for back to school in August.”

“I know,” I say. He gives me a hard look, then walks away which leaves me free to make my way to the packing area.

I’d feel bad if I hadn’t been late because of spending time with Saige. I think I’d be late every day if that meant I got to wake up with her every morning.

The day goes fast, and apart from the short talk with my boss this morning, nothing thrilling happens at the warehouse or at the Burger Joint. Of course, that might be because with the excitement of having a new girlfriend, everything else is dull and not as meaningful.

On my way to Saige’s, Alex calls to tell me about a party at Bree’s tomorrow. As fun as it sounds, I know Saige won’t want to go, so I say, “I’m going to pass on this one, bro.”

“What? You? Come on, Fox, it’s not a party unless you’re there.”

I laugh and think about asking Saige to go with me as I pull up to the curb outside her apartment. If she goes, maybe everyone would have the chance to get to know her. If she opens herself up a little, maybe she’d like my friends. “We all know you’re the life of the party, Alex,” I say. “You won’t even miss me.”

“Not likely, Fox. You’ve been MIA for weeks now, man, when you going to come out? Or are you too good for us now?”

“I’ve always been too good for you, but that’s never stopped me before.”

“So what’s stopping you now?”

“I’m seeing someone, and I’d rather—”

“That Saige chick? You are a brave, brave man, Fox.”

I’m getting tired of everyone thinking that Saige is some kind of untouchable outcast. “Not brave at all. She’s pretty and—”

“She’s alright, but it’s not her looks that scares everyone.”

“Well, she’s nice too.” Why the hell do I have to defend my relationship with her to my friends?

“She’s just not the friendliest person out there.”

“Yeah, but you know what happened to her family, right?”

Alex says, “So that gives her the right to be cold and stuck up?”

“No, that gives her the right to be distant and protect herself. I have to go.” I hang up before he has the chance to say anything else. If these people keep questioning me like this, I’m going to have to cut them loose. I like Saige, and they can either accept it or not.

I forget all about any parties or anyone else once I’m inside Saige’s apartment. We don’t even pretend we’re going to work on “Myka’s Metal Valentine.” Instead, we spend our time in her bedroom making out. It’s pretty fantastic, and I can’t help but want more. Since she took her shirt off that day, I’ve been thinking about sex with her. The lines of her body are already taking up one complete notebook.

No matter how much I’d love to have sex with her, I’m not willing to push our relationship beyond the point of comfort for either of us. We’ve got lots of time. She’s going to NYU, which means she’ll be close by. I’m not stupid, and I know college will present a lot of other opportunities to her for dating, so I want to make sure we’re solid before the fall. That doesn’t mean I want to pressure her into anything now though.

I don’t want to go for it too soon, especially knowing she did it with Tommy St. John when she was only fourteen. I don’t think less of her, but it does make me worry about why she would do that. Rebellion or not, he’s not worthy.

Saige’s hands under my shirt bring my mind right back to what we’re doing in her bed. Sex. I mean, not sex, but close enough to satisfy me. It’s half-past eleven when we stop. I nudge her just a bit and she rolls over to lie facing away from me. She curls into a ball as I drape my arm over her and nuzzle the back of her head with my face.

We fall asleep, but only for a few minutes because my phone rings. I blindly reach out for my cell on the nightstand. When it’s close to my face, I see it’s my dad. “What’s up, Pop?”

“Where are you?”

“Saige’s. Why? What’s wrong?”

“It’s your mom, Fox. She’s—”

“What? What’s going on? Is she—”

“Just calm down and let me finish.” Pop takes a deep breath, like he’s taking his own advice. “She’s somewhere on the grounds, but she got past the staff, and she’s out there alone in the woods.”

Just imagining my mother huddled somewhere outside is enough to get my heart thumping. “She hates trees.”

“I know, but—”

Then it hits me. My mom can be dangerous. “What if she follows the road to the closest town? What if—”

“Fox, I’m going up there now. If you want to come I’m leaving in—”

I cut my dad off. “I’ll be there in ten. Can you wait?”

“Yeah. It’ll be okay.”

I end the call and find Saige looking at me. “Ma’s missing.”

Saige bites her lip while she draws her eyebrows together. I can hardly stand to look at her expression because it’s almost exactly how I feel inside. I lean in, give her a kiss, then hop out of bed. “Got to go.”

“Let me know if—”

I don’t let her finish. “I will. Talk to you soon.”

Within ten minutes, I’m at my house. The trip up to the hospital is tense. Pop and I don’t talk. We’re both worried about Ma, but the way he clutches at the steering wheel makes me worry about him. Sometimes I wonder horrible things, like how much better his life would be if something happened to my mother. I don’t want anything to happen to her, but I’ve watched my dad kill himself at a job he doesn’t enjoy to be able to afford a decent hospital for Ma. I’ve seen how tired he is to come home from work, do all the household chores, then make a quick run up to see her before visiting hours end.

I can’t imagine how much peace it’d bring him to be free of all of that. He could go to England with me and watch Liverpool play.

But then something terrible would have to happened to Ma, and every time I think it, I get this deep ache in my chest and a pounding in my head.

When we arrive, we’re greeted by one of the night nurses I don’t typically see. With her is my mother’s doctor. His gray hair is all over the place, and he’s digging his fingers into his eyes underneath his glasses, like he’s trying to force the tired from them.

“We’ve found her,” Dr. Harrow says.

Both Pop and I let out a breath. “Can we see her?” I ask.

“Yes, but she’s in a fragile state.”

“What do you mean? Is she restrained?” My dad narrows his eyes. Neither of us like it when they have to put those cuffs on her.

“No. She’s not violent at the moment. She is distraught.”

Although distraught sounds like a horrible thing for her to be, it’s better than violent, so we agree to go up to see her. It’s not usual for us to visit her in her room, but this time we do. The little reinforced window in the heavy metal door gives us a glimpse of her.

“Where’s her bed?” Pop asks.

“And my pictures?” I ask.

“We’ve had to remove them all for the time being. She’ll get them back, but in her current state, the bed can be a weapon, the bedclothes can be instruments of suicide,” the doctor pauses to turn to me, “and we thought she may regret destroying your work.”

With his hand on the doorknob, the doctor looks at my dad. “Just one at a time, and be prepared for quick shifts in her demeanor.”

I realize he has to say that, but it’s not our first time dealing with my schizophrenic mother. It’s painful to watch through the window as Dr. Harrow and my father enter and creep toward her. Ma’s hair is matted, but wild. It’s like the beginning of dreadlocks, but not the kind that look nice; hers are like the kind that develop on long-haired dogs whose owners don’t groom them enough.

She’s in the corner of the room and glances up at my dad. I can’t hear anything except for when she starts screaming. I can hear that. It pierces through the door. I place my hand flat on the cool metal, my forehead pressed against the thick glass. All of the sudden, I feel fatigued and much too immature to handle this. I want a mom with a sane mind. I want a mom who could take care of me for once instead of the other way around.

When it’s my turn to go in, I’ll have to spend a half hour combing out her hair again, although by the looks of it, we might have to cut some of it out. My father squats down with his hands held up as if he’s showing her that he’s unarmed. How screwed up is it that he has to prove to his wife that he has no weapons and doesn’t want to hurt her?

Ma looks up for just a second before becoming a blur of motion. Pop falls back and scrambles away as the doctor moves forward. The nurse pushes me to the side to gain access to the room. As she goes in, my father is able to get out.

One side of his face is red from her fist, the other side is scratched all to hell. He looks at me. I look back. My mother yells and screams inside the room, but we don’t lose eye contact.

“It’s a good thing I have some vacation left,” my dad says, trying to smile as he motions to his fresh wounds.

Just the sound of his voice guts me, but it’s the way he tries to lighten the hopelessness we both feel that takes the bottom out from under me. My eyes burn and even though I tighten the muscles in my face, I can feel my chin tremble as the tears threaten to fall.

I don’t make a conscious choice to do it, but somehow my arms wrap around Pop and his curve around my body. The tears fall now. As they soak his shirt, I’m powerless to stop them. He just tightens his arms around me. “It’ll be okay,” he says. “She’ll be okay.”

It’s the same lie he’s been telling me since I was six years old. I want to believe it, but I know I can’t.

***

Hours and hours after leaving, I arrive back at Saige’s. I hate that I’ve woken her up, but I love that she stands in front of me with bed-hair and blurry eyes. We say nothing to each other as she leads me to the bedroom and pulls me down onto the bed next to her.

It doesn’t take me nearly as long as I thought it would to fall asleep.

I flip out once I wake up because I have to go to work, and I know I’m going to be late. It’s a bit disorienting to wake up in Saige’s room, especially since she’s not in here. As I roll out of bed, stumble through the living room, I try to figure out how I can get from here to my house to shower and change, and still make it to work on time.

Saige isn’t anywhere to be seen, but after I come out of the bathroom, I poke my head into the kitchen and there she is, sitting at the little two-top table. She has brewed coffee and placed croissants and muffins on the table in front of her.

“I went out and got breakfast.” Saige points to the other chair. “Sit.”

I study the display of goodness, then glance down the hall to the foyer. “I really, really want to eat all that, but I’m completely late and—”

She holds up my phone. “I texted your friend Jason. He was off and is covering for you now.”

I relax a bit and take a step into the kitchen. “Really?”

“Yep.”

When I’m seated, she gets up and pours me a cup of coffee. “How’d you know I work in the warehouse with him?”

She places the cup down in front of me and shrugs. Her cheeks are pink as she says, “I snooped on your phone. His last text said, This warehouse is killing me. Good thing I have tomorrow off. And his name in your phone is Warehouse Jason. Wasn’t too hard to figure out”

A grin curves my lips as I grab a muffin and start to peel the paper down. I don’t even remember getting that text. “You’re awesome.”

“You’re not pissed I snooped?”

“Nope,” I say. “If you didn’t, I’d be late for work, and since you did, I get to spend all day with you.” I wag a finger at her. “Didn’t know you’d be stuck with me for the whole day, did you? Bet you wouldn’t have texted Jason if you knew.”

Saige rolls her eyes and takes a bite of her croissant. “Shows how much you know. I totally knew you’d hang here all day, that’s exactly why I snooped, thank you very much.”

“Ah ha!” I exclaim so loudly she jerks her hand on the table and nearly spills her coffee. “So you do like me.” Her cheeks redden even more, and I don’t give her a chance to answer. “You’re cute in the morning.”

“Are you okay?” she asks.

It takes me a minute to understand why she’s asking, because I’m smiling and we’re having fun, but then last night comes back to me.

“Is your mom okay?”

Although I’m hungry, I set the muffin down. “I don’t think my mom will ever be okay.”

“But she’s—”

“Safe.” I raise my eyes to hers when she reaches over the small table and puts her hand on mine. “My dad’s beat up though.” I can see the question brewing a mile away, so I don’t give her the chance to ask it. “She hit him a couple times and scratched up his face pretty bad.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything.”

Saige squeezes my hand, then lets go. “No, but that doesn’t mean I can’t express remorse for what you have to go through every day.”

Why does she have to be so formal about it? Can’t she just say I have a suck life sometimes and move on? There’s something in the formality of how she says express remorse that makes this whole thing even more painful. I don’t typically spend my days depressed and crying, but this morning is shaping up to be a miserable morning, and I can already feel the urge to run away from it. As my eyes burn with tears, my fingers itch for a paintbrush, pencil, or chalk.

“Let’s work on ‘Myka’s Metal Valentine’ today. We might be able to finish it soon if we push ourselves.”

“What if I don’t want to finish it soon?”

I pick up my muffin again. “Why wouldn’t you?”

“Because then we’re finished with it.”

“Well, that’s the point right?” I ask with a mouthful of blueberry muffin.

“But then the glue of us is gone.”

Again, it takes me a second to work out what she’s really saying, but when I do, I have to put the damned muffin down again. I guess this will just be an overly emotional day for me. There’s a part of me that wants to pump my fist in the air because the acknowledgement from her that there is an us—even if she’s admitted it before—feels like such a huge victory. But I don’t do anything except say, “There’s always the next book.”

There’s a light in her eyes I can’t get enough of as we finish our breakfast and talk about my gods and demons graphic novel. As the day passes and we busy ourselves with “Myka’s Metal Valentine,” I feel better, except for when I don’t. Throughout the day, the memories of my mother and the cold fact of her illness slam into me, and I’m pushed down into murky emotions about it all.

Around three in the afternoon, I sit back on her couch and let some of it wash over me. To her credit, she lets me have these moments. But when I linger in this mood too much, Saige looks at her laptop and asks, “So why doesn’t the shrimp share his treasure?”

I know the answer. She’s probably reading it at the same joke website I’ve visited since I was a kid, but jokes aren’t fun when the other person knows the answer, so I ask, “Why?”

“Because he’s a little shellfish.”

“Very nice.”

She studies me with worry on her face, and I can tell I’m dwelling in the lowlands of depression a little too long. It’s probably time for me to force myself to feel something beyond what I do.

But I just sit. Saige gets up and changes the music, comes back and pulls me off the couch. “My mom was a major Ani DiFranco fan” She points to the flag on the shelf. “At least that’s what my dad told me in a letter. This song was one of her favorites, and we’re going to dance to it.”

I’m amazed at Saige. She’s not the just start dancing type, but here she is, bringing my mood up by getting me to focus on the song, the beat, her body. She looks great dancing. Even though she likes to keep to herself, Saige can move. It’s not the first time I’ve seen her dance, but it’s the first time I pay attention to the actual dancing.

“You’re a good dancer,” I say.

“Lessons when I was kid. Gramma thought keeping me busy would make not having parents better. I also know how to ride horses, cross-stitch, swim, flip around on uneven bars, and if you piss me off, I might kick you in the solar plexus with my Taekwondo moves.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah, I’m totally awesome.”

I know she means it as a joke, but I’m serious when I say, “Yes, you are.”

“And as a side note, knowing how to do all those things doesn’t make being an orphan suck less.”

Once the song ends, I pull her to me. “Your grandma was probably just trying to take your mind off it in the moment.”

“I know,” she says.

I don’t want to be depressed anymore. “Bree Howerton’s having a party.”

I tilt my head down as she tilts hers up.

She’s unimpressed. “So?”

“So, let’s go to it. We’ll have fun, and I want my friends to know you.”

“They know me,” she says as she pulls out of my arms.

“No. They know the closed-off version of you. You can let them see how funny and awesome you are.”

“They won’t care.”

“You don’t know them either. You can see how cool they are and—”

“I know how cool they are. I’ve lived all my life knowing how cool they are.”

“I meant how fun they are, too. They’re good people if you just give them the opportunity to be.”

Saige shakes her head. “I’m not a party person.”

“Please?” I lower myself to one knee and take her hand in mine. “Please? For me?”

There’s a moment when she fixes her gaze onto my eyes. It’s like I can see her mind moving, arguing back and forth on if she wants to do this or not; if she’s willing to give this to me.

“Fine,” she says finally.

I’m thrilled that she’s agreed to go, and the afternoon lightens again. We’re leaving for the party at seven, but at six-forty-five, I find her breaking up some marijuana and shoving it into a glass pipe. Before she can light it, I pluck it from between her fingers and say, “Nope to dope, Saigey. Try this party sober.”

She looks a little pissed that I’ve taken her pot away, but I intentionally don’t acknowledge it.

“Why?” Saige asks.

“Because you’re so fun and nice when you’re sober.”

She says nothing while she flicks her fingers over the knees of her jeans. I hope she doesn’t get too upset, but it’s true. That night at the graduation party, she was mean and surly, but when she’s not intoxicated, she’s very pleasant.

“So that means no alcohol, too?” she asks after a bit.

“Yeah. I mean, it’s your life, but I think you’ll have a good time without getting wasted.

“You think I’m a horrible person when I—”

I don’t even let her finish. “No. I don’t think you’re horrible ever, but. . .” The words hang there between us because I don’t think she’ll be happy if I tell her I like her more when she’s sober.

Saige takes the pipe back from me, replaces it in the wooden box, and shoves it under her couch. “Fine,” she says again, “but if this party sucks, I’m bailing.”

“If this party sucks or you hate it, we’ll both leave. Just promise me you’ll have an open mind.”

“You ask for the world, Fox.”