I lay wide-eyed in bed, panting for air, as the screech of twisting metal and the smell of oily black smoke fade from my senses. My heart is still running the Kentucky Derby as I untangle myself from the sweaty sheets. I slide up and lean against the headboard, bending my knees and resting my forehead on them as I catch my breath.
My shrink said the nightmares would stop eventually. I only have them two or three times a week now instead of every night. But on nights like this, I feel it happen all over again. As I sit here in the aftermath, my ribs ache from the bruise of the seatbelt, and I feel blood trickle down my arm from the gash on my shoulder. Acid rolls through my stomach at the knowledge that not all of the blood is mine.
Other than my rasping breath, the house is quiet. The soft purr of Dad’s snoring wafts up the hall from the living room. In the background, the TV is playing something with explosions. After living in the Ford for most of the summer, I feel lucky just to be waking up in an actual bed.
But it’s not my bed. It’s not even our house.
Aunt Becky calls herself a travelling salesman. She’s really a sales rep for Tawashi Electronics. Her territory is the Pacific United States, which means she’s got a loop she travels every few months to shops up in Oregon and Washington, down the coast to San Diego, through Arizona and Las Vegas, then home again. She’s been gone most of the two months we’ve been living at her house. She left over a week ago on her current trip and she’s not due back for another two.
So Dad and I have her house to ourselves for now.
I’m trying to keep up with the mess because I don’t want her to regret taking us in. But I’m also glad she’s gone. She’s three years younger than Mom, but other than the fact Becky wears her curls loose, like me, and Mom’s were always pinned up onto her head, they could be twins. I can’t look at Aunt Becky without feeling a stabbing pain in my chest.
But other than their looks, Mom and Becky couldn’t be more different. Where my sarcasm was lost on Mom, Becky is full of it. In some ways, she gets me better than Mom ever did. But in all the ways that matter most, she’s not Mom.
When I come out of my room, it’s almost noon. Dad’s still snoring on the recliner and The Wrath of Khan is playing on the TV. It’s probably another Star Trek marathon on AMC.
Only about half of the time does Dad actually make it to his bed. I’m just thankful that I haven’t had to retrieve him from the local bar since my stint in the hospital. Twice in the week before I smashed my head, the bartender called to tell me someone needed to come for him. In a screwed up sort of way, it feels good that someone’s looking out for him. Makes me feel like it doesn’t all fall on my shoulders. But, since I technically don’t have my license, and we have only one barely-working motor vehicle, it means I have to schlep down there on foot to round him up and load him in the car when the bartender cuts him off. It’s only maybe three quarters of a mile to Sam Hill Saloon, but I haven’t felt up to the walk. My head’s still pretty fuzzy.
I shuffle to the kitchen and dump the last of the coffee into the coffee maker, then, once it’s brewing, pour a bowl of store brand Cheerios. But when I go to the fridge for milk, I remember I used the last of it yesterday. I go back to my room and pull on some warm ups, tug on a sweatshirt, slide my feet into my flip flops, then head for the door with what little cash I have.
Just as I’m pulling it open, the phone rings. It’s one of those old fashioned ones, attached to the wall in the kitchen with a cord. And it’s loud.
I glance at Dad. He stirs in his recliner and I bolt for the kitchen and snatch the phone up before it wakes him fully. Dad’s like a toddler. He’s just easier when he’s asleep.
“Hello?” I say, a little breathlessly.
I’m expecting school, or maybe my doctor, so when Marcus’s deep velvet voice says, “Hey, Addie,” my knees go soft.
I grab the table and slide into a kitchen chair. “Oh…hi. What’s up?”
“Just checking in,” he says, and there’s absolutely no reason for the goose bumps making all the hair on my body stand on end. “How’s the head?”
“Still hard, if that’s what you’re wondering.” I rub my right eye and get up to find my prescription bottle on the counter. “Though, at the moment it feels like a landmine went off in there.”
“But…everything’s okay? I mean…you’re going to be okay?”
For some reason, the fact he’s tripping over his words makes my heart race.
“Yeah,” I answer, popping open the bottle and shaking a pill into my palm. I swallow it dry. “Got this rad new hairdo and everything.”
“I saw it in the hospital,” he says. “Makes a real statement.”
At the mention of the hospital, I cringe. I don’t even know what to think about the meltdown Marcus had front row seats to.
“You know me.” I run a hand along the shaved patch of hair over my right ear, careful not to touch the bandages. “Into statements.”
Which is so a lie.
Third key to invisibility: Never make a statement.