Nine
“Ava, wake up.” Someone rudely pokes my shoulder. Judging by the voice, it's Dad, which leaves me wondering what the hell he's doing in my room. I crack my eyes open, which requires quite a bit of effort.
“What?” My voice scratches out of my mouth.
“Your mother's not feeling well.” Part of me wants to say, so?, but I don't. Sense starts to permeate my brain. My hands inch up to see if my neck is covered. Luckily for me, I sleep with my hands clutched under my chin, and the blanket pulled over my head. I'm good.
“What's wrong?”
“Just an upset stomach. I just wanted to let you know that she's needs to rest so don't disturb her.”
“Okay.” I really want to pull the blanket back over my head and get some more sleep. The red numbers on my clock tell me I've only been asleep for a few hours. Damn, it feels like I've been hit by a truck.
“Ava, did you hear me?”
“Yes, yes.”
“I can't hear you, you're mumbling,” he says, reaching to pull back the covers. I snatch and hold onto them as hard as I can.
“Ava, what are you doing?”
“I'm tired, can you just leave me alone?” I stick part of my head out from under the blanket so he can hear me.
“Fine.” I breathe a sigh of relief as he lets go and tromps out of the room. Close freaking call.
Several hours later, I finally emerge from my room, fully-dressed and sporting my scarf. My mother is still in her room and Dad's out doing something with the lawn, so I have a chance to sneak in and see her. I ignore the fact that I have to sneak around to see my own mother and knock quietly on her door. She calls out to come in.
“Can I get you anything?” She motions to a table that normally sits next to her dresser, which someone's pushed next to the bed and piled high with anything she could need. Glasses of water and juice, bottles of pills and tissues and a bowl of oatmeal that she hasn't touched.
“No, baby, I'm fine.”
“Are you sure you're fine?” I lean on the doorway, looking her over. She's pale, but other than that she looks fine.
“Just tired. Come and sit with me?” I'm reluctant, but I can't say no to her. There's a rumble from my stomach as I sit down and she puts her arms around me. She doesn't say anything, but hands me the bowl of oatmeal. It's still warm and is studded with cranberries and raisins. I'm starving.
“This is pretty,” she says, tugging at my scarf. I grab at it, pulling it back around my neck. “I thought you didn't like it.” I glance down into the bowl of oatmeal. I'm not hungry anymore.
“I found it in my closet and thought I should wear it,” I say, trying to put it back in place, bu not fast enough. Her face changes. Cold fear drips through me.
“Ava? What's–” Her hands go to her mouth. Damn.
“It's nothing.” I put the bowl back on the table. My stupid hands are shaking again. I can't look at her.
“Who did this to you?” Her voice is sharp. She doesn't sound sick anymore.
“Don't tell Dad.” I make the mistake of peeking up at her. Her green eyes are hard as polished stone. She's sitting up straight, her spine like an iron rod. No one would call her weak now.
“Ava-Claire Sullivan, you answer me right this moment or I'm calling your father.” Each word has a point that drives into me. This is what I'm afraid of.
“It's not what you think,” I whisper. Why did I think this was going to work?
“Of course it's not,” she snaps.
“I was messing around with this guy–” No, that doesn't sound right. I try again. “I met this guy and we were wrestling and it got out of hand.” Nope. I should have come up with a better way to explain this. Her hands reach out to take mine.
“Tell me the truth. Don't stop.” She's gripping my hands tight, trying to get me to tell. I take a deep breath.
“I don't know. It was something that I asked for. I provoked him and he got fed up and it won't happen again. He's not... He's not like that. I don't know. He's kind of messed up in the head.” The words sound as awful as it feels to say them. I leave out the part where he said he'd kill me. She doesn't need to know about that.
“Ava. I want you to listen to me.” She takes my face into her hands. “No one has the right to hurt you. No matter what. I don't care who they are, or how it happened. You see that you made a mistake, and you're acknowledging it. I want you to remember this; how you feel right now and carry it with you. I never, ever want this to happen to you again. Never.” She kisses my forehead.
I sit in shock. She should have yanked me down to the police station to file an assault report. She would have forced every word out of me, like water wrung from a sponge. Dad would have gotten involved and it would have been a huge mess. Instead she holds me close and whispers things in my ear that I can't make sense of.
“Knock, knock.” Dad comes in with a tray of fresh fruit he painstakingly sliced and arranged. He pauses when he sees me, but reins his anger in. Must not upset the invalid. I pull the scarf back around my neck and my mother angles herself so she's in front of me. So he doesn't see.
When I was little, the threat of telling my father about things was the one way to really terrify me into behaving. Not that she'd used it as a way to keep me in line, but when I did something wrong, she would always say, “you know, we have to tell Dad,” and my heart would freeze and the bottom would drop out of my stomach.
Telling him was always so much worse than telling her about anything. I could have stumbled in blind drunk and she would have laughed and told me I'd regret it in the morning. My father would have yelled and his face would have gotten red and I would have lost my phone, TV, and breathing privileges. She;s the kind of mother who thinks that the mistakes and the consequences are punishment enough. Nine times out of ten, she's right. Doesn't mean that I'm not terrified of telling my dad that I failed a math test.
Often, we've been partners in crime, she and I. Bonding over the shared secrets of my misdeeds, minor as they might be. A secret for just us girls. Most of the time I figure she does it because she doesn't want him to have a heart attack at forty. He's come close, and she's even tried to get him on some anxiety medication. No such luck. He's calmed down a little bit in the last few years since I've gotten older and stopped doing things like trying to fly off the porch. But since my mother's diagnosis, he'd begun his descent into crazy again.
To make up for my mistake, I'm a good girl the rest of the morning. I finish my homework, do the dishes, comb my mother's hair and make sure Dad isn't stressed because of me. I'm the model daughter.
“I put something in your purse, just in case,” my mother whispers in my ear while Dad checks his email. I give her a quizzical look, and go to check my purse. Great. I have my very own can of pepperspray and a rape whistle. I almost laugh, but then remember the look on Peter's face as he tried to choke the life out of me. Not very funny at all.
Jamie texts me and offers to take me out to lunch at Miller's Diner. I haven't see him in a while, and I feel guilty about that so I say yes. Along with offering to pay, he also picks me up. It takes more effort than normal to haul myself into the truck. He looks like he's going to say something about how shitty I look, but then thinks better of it. I silently thank him by asking how his Saturday night was.
Miller's, the closest diner to Sussex with the best reputation, was the kind of place people had been going to for sixty years and where the only thing that ever changed were the prices to match inflation. We always order something horrible and fattening, drenched in butter or sauce or fried. Jamie always says he liked a girl who knew how to eat. I can definitely put it away.
Of course it's packed with the after-church lunch crowd. There's a distinct smell of rose perfume and mothballs that emanates from a group of elderly women clustered with their husbands and families in the booths that line the restaurant. Miller's used to be a train car, so there's little room to maneuver along the aisles. Our waitress leads us to a booth in the back, one of the only left available. The seats are cracked and repaired with Duct tape that doesn't match the green fake leather. It's all part of the Miller's charm. Neither of us bother to look at the menu. We've got it tattooed on our brains. I order a grilled cheese and a salad, but make up for it by getting fries. Jamie goes for the bacon cheeseburger with a milkshake.
“You there?” he says after our waitress brings our food. I've been mostly absent from the conversation so far. I'm distracted. I'm also hoping he doesn't mention the scarf.
“Yeah, sorry.” I shake my head, trying to clear it.
“You've been out of it lately.” He squirts ketchup all over his burger and fries. He'd eat ketchup on ice cream if it were socially acceptable.
I wave my hand. “Sorry. A lot on my mind.”
“You recovered from the party?” I reclaim the ketchup from him. He drained most of what was left in the bottle.
“It wasn't that bad, Jamie.” I glare at him. I can't believe he's still going on about that. Compared to the rest of my week, that was one of the tamest things I'd done.
“It could have been.” He leans over the table, as if he's trying get his point across, but I'm not getting it.
“I wish you wouldn't worry about me so much.” I shift in my seat. The fact that he's so worried that I had a few too many drinks shows me just how ballistic he'll go if I actually tell him everything. Well, I just can't tell him. Ever. That totally sucks, because I hate keeping anything from him.
“Then don't give me a reason. I know you enough to know that something is up with you, and that you don't want to tell me.” I think before I answer, swirling a fry in ketchup.
“What if there is?” I say without looking him in the eye. Thing One and Thing Two.
“I want you to talk to me about it.” He hasn't touched his burger yet, which worries me more than anything else. Nothing gets in the way of Jamie and a good meal.
“What if I can't?” I pop a fry into my mouth, still not meeting his eyes.
“That's what scares me.”
“Don't be scared. I'm fine.” I smile with the fry still sticking out of my mouth and cross my eyes.
“I wish I could believe you.” He finally lifts his burger. Whew. I was getting really concerned there.
“You're not my father. You can't make my decisions for me.” It comes out harsher than I mean it to.
“I wish I could,” he snaps back. I'm glad he can't. My hand goes to the scarf for the millionth time.
“You've gone through a lot, with your mother and everything.” So has he, with his father.
“I'm fine.” Wash, rinse, repeat.
“Of course you are,” he sighs.
“What about Tex? You don't do this with her.” It is a valid point.
“Tex can take care of herself.” The truth is Tex would tell him to go to hell and mind his own business. I'm more passive. He knows he can influence me more. I hate that he knows that.
“So can I. You need to stop treating me like some delicate flower, or some lost puppy that needs a home. I'm not.” I start ripping a fry into small pieces and throwing it in the ketchup. He takes tiny bites of his burger. The problem is that I kind of want someone to take care of me. Someone to hold me and take my mind off all the crap I can't control. Jamie's just not the one who can do that, and I'll never admit out loud that I even want it. So we're both out of luck.
“I know. I know.” We eat the rest of our food in silence, and don't get dessert, even though Miller's pie is legendary. He pays after I put up a good fight for the check. Jamie always wins.
“I don't want you to think that I don't think you can take care of yourself. You're strong; I know that. Can I help it if I worry?” He holds the truck door open and holds an arm out to boost me in.
“You could try harder.” I elbow him, which is more a punishment for me because his stomach is so hard.
“I will.” He pokes my nose and I try to bite his finger, but miss.
***
The bruises are a purplish-green by Monday morning. I sigh as I wrap my scarf around my neck. I haven't been back to the cemetery. Not because of him hurting me, as much as I want to say that's what it is. Before that night, the cemetery had been a sanctuary. I go there to feel like I'm soaking up the eternal rest of everyone around me. Take my shoes off and let my feet sink into the grass and drink in the immortality around me. I've never felt that death lingers there, or sadness, only peace and remembrance. That's been broken for me, and I want it back, but I need some time to recover before I go on another suicide mission. No one can take that place away from me. Not even him.
“Hey, are you okay? I feel like we left off on weird note yesterday.” Jamie finds me by my locker. I'd gotten to school super early due to waking up and not being able to get back to sleep. I haven't been tardy in over a week. I'm on a roll.
“Not weird. I'm fine.” I'm going to say it over and over. Until it makes sense, or I start to believe it.
“Try again,” he sighs, as if I'm being difficult on purpose.
“Seriously, I'm fine. Just because I don't text you every five seconds doesn't mean there's something wrong. You don't text me either, so what's wrong with you?” I jab my finger into his chest. Ouch. He tugs his ear twice. Uh oh. That's a Jamie-tell.
“Cassie.” That one word sums up so much. This is not going to be good. He leans up against my locker and closes his eyes.
“She back again?”
“Yeah.” Quickly, he looks around, making sure no one's eavesdropping. The hallway's empty since it's so early. “She's pregnant,” he whispers, leaning down so far I can smell his aftershave.
“Pregnant!” I slap my hand over my mouth like I've just said fuck. Not what I was expecting. It isn't out of left field, but still. No wonder he looks messed up. Cassie is Jamie's older screw-up of a sister who'd gotten kicked out of school and arrested. Twice.
“Don't say that so loud. She hasn't told my parents.” His eyes flick around to make sure no one overheard. We're good.
“She told you?” We're both leaning in, as if we're sharing a delicious piece of gossip. Not so much.
“I guessed.”
“How?”
“I could, you know... see it.” He gestures to his middle, as if he's tracing a basketball stuffed under his shirt.
“Who's the daddy?” It's really none of my business, but I kinda want to know.
“She doesn't know.” He tugs his ear again.
“Awesome.” I see his face and try to curb my sarcasm. I should be more sensitive.
“Just – don't tell anyone.”
“You've got my word of honor.” I put my hand over my heart.
“Thanks, Ave. I can always count on you.” He pulls me in for a hug. One of the things I love about Jamie is he's such a good hugger. He isn't afraid to touch me. He doesn't try to scoop me up like a child. He just folds himself around me, pulling me into his chest where I can hear his heart. It's just not enough. I wish it was.
“I'm here. If you need anything.” I should have said this earlier, but at least I remember to say it at all.
“I know. Same goes for you,” he says in my ear.
“I know.” The words thrash behind my lips, and I clamp my mouth shut, biting my lips to keep them in. I can't let them out. I can't tell anyone else. My mother is going to die.
“You sure you're okay?”
“Yup.” Another smile. My fingers twist together, as tangled as my thoughts.
“I like your scarf. I meant to tell you yesterday.” He flicks it with one finger. I try not to look freaked out when he does it.
“Thanks, my aunt gave it to me.” I make sure it's covering everything it needs to cover. It's like a nervous tick now. Along with looking around every corner, expecting to see Peter.
Jamie's not the only one to notice the scarf. Tex grabs me on the way to lunch.
“What is with that scarf?” I jump back as she tries to take it off.
“What do you mean?” Her eyes narrow. Tex is always suspicious.
“You're not a scarf kind of girl. What's the story?”
“Aj gave it to me, and I haven't worn it. So I thought I would.” Simple enough. She studies me a second longer, and then relaxes. So do I.
“Copy that. At least she has amazing taste. My mother is always trying to get me into these weird beige things that I wouldn't be caught dead in. Speaking of her, when are we going shopping?” She picks at her neon green nail polish. Why she bothers, I've never understood, but I haven't seen her with nude nails in five years. Two seconds after she paints her nails, she's already smudged one, and she starts chewing a minute after that.
“Don't know. She's really busy with work.” Aj adopted Tex as a surrogate niece. Sometimes I wonder if she likes Tex more than she likes me.
We both get into line and I buy a salad. Tex goes for the greasy-dripping pepperoni pizza. It looks disgusting, making me feel even more secure in the decision to be a vegetarian that I'd made when I was ten after a school trip to a pig farm.
“Have you talked to Jamie?” I say as we find an empty table in the back corner behind a rusty pipe. I'm fishing to see if he's told her. I'm not sure I want to be the only one who knows about the Cassie situation. I've got too many secrets already.
“No, why?” Damn. Now I'm in trouble. I should have kept my mouth shut.
“Oh, no reason,” I say, poking at my salad. She tries to smack me in the arm, but I duck aside.
“You whore! Now you have to tell me.”
“It's nothing. Just forget I said anything.”
“Oh, believe me, I won't.” She's already on her phone, furiously texting. Maybe it's sick, but I want them both distracted until my bruises fade. My stomach twists, and my conscience screams, but I ignore them both. Distracting my friends from my issues is so minor, it hardly matters.