I sit on the toilet lid and stare at the ceiling. Sounds from the party mush together and become easy to ignore. Why didn’t she leave a note? After the funeral I checked the mail every day, certain she sent a letter explaining it wasn’t my fault and offering loving advice on how to move on. Suicide really is the ultimate fuck-you.
On the morning of the day she jumped, she told me to prepare myself because it was going to be a crazy Easter weekend. I assumed she meant no one would get much sleep since Aunt Meg, Uncle Dan, and Lucy were staying at the house. Now I see it was a big joke. She must have felt powerful knowing she’d be dead before bedtime and we’d be left to realize how much she really mattered.
There’s a knock at the door. “Eve, open up. It’s John.”
I turn the lock. He lets himself in and sits on the vanity, taking a swig of the mini vodka I left on the counter. For a second I remember what it’s like to be normal. Sneaking away for a quick drink with your cool boyfriend is ordinary. But I’m not here for a flirt-filled drink, I’m here to chug as much as I can without puking because my tragic life is being advertised like a Super Bowl commercial downstairs.
“I guess you’re not into the whole prom thing this year,” he says. I nod. “Makes sense.”
“Yeah.” I run a finger under each eye to catch the tears before my eyeliner does. If John weren’t here, I’d let them slide into my mouth. I’ve come to enjoy their salty taste.
“It’s good to see you cry,” he says. “You’re supposed to be sad.”
Hopefully he isn’t saying that to be nice, because his words unlock a full sob. I am so completely alone. I run through all the life moments that are ruined. The prom is nothing. What about graduation? My wedding day? When I have children of my own?
John hops down for a hug but I push back. I find no comfort in physical touch. Everything feels fake.
“I’m so pissed.” I want to yell it, but I don’t want anyone to hear, so it comes out as an angry whisper. “I can’t take this shit. Seeing everyone here, joking, getting dressed up like it matters.”
“I know—”
I stumble backwards. “No. No. No one knows. That’s the whole thing. Freaking Lindsey asked if I thought she and Noel had a chance at winning Junior Court. I looked at her, like, does she honestly think I give a rat’s ass? She can be the damn princess or whatever you even call it.”
I’m wicked drunk. We both are. John sensed I’d be a bummer date and tucked a flask into the back suspenders of his rented tuxedo. It’s already empty. “Let’s get through this and we’ll bail on the dance,” he suggests.
I look in the mirror at my swollen eyes, puffy cheeks, and running makeup. There’s no way I can go back out there. “I want—” I pause to think what it is I want. “—to go home.” It’s a lie, but I can’t stay here, clearly, and I can’t think of anyplace else.
“Let’s leave together,” John says. “We can go to my house. My parents are at a wedding tonight.” He reaches for my hand. I stare at it. I once heard my dad describe this guy he worked with as airspace. When I asked what he meant he said, “He’s nothing to me. He’s not good. He’s not bad. He’s just there.” That’s how I feel about John now. Before Mom died, dating him was everything. We claimed we loved each other. Now he’s airspace. But he can get me out of this hellhole, so I take his hand. We walk out of the bathroom, across the foyer, and out the front door without anyone noticing.
A prison break.
Brady
“Brady Starling?”
I know the voice on the other end of the line. My breath catches. “This is.”
“I am calling from Newton-Wellesley Hospital regarding your daughter, Eve.”
I drop to the floor as though someone took a baseball bat to my legs. This can’t be happening.
“She’s here at the hospital,” the voice continues, unaware of my frantic state. “There was a car accident. She’ll be fine, but you need to bring her insurance information and pick her up, if you have a safe means to get here.”
I replay the call about Maddy. Your wife is in critical condition, the same voice said. Please find someone to drive you to the hospital immediately. “You’re lying,” I shout now. “You fed me this bullshit before, but my wife was dead. Dead. She had died instantly.”
My right hand claws at my chest, drawing blood. I feel no pain. The woman falters for a second but then insists, “Sir, calm down and listen. There are times we say that to protect people in extreme circumstances, but I promise you your daughter is fine. She needs a few stitches. That’s all.”
I hang up, get off my hands and knees, still begging, bawling, and sprint to the car.
When I got the call on Good Friday, I was at work. Meg was already at the house for Easter weekend, so she brought Eve to the hospital and I used the drive to set perimeters around what happened. Maddy and I had been lucky in life. Too lucky. Everyone pays dues at some point. I settled on the fact that Maddy had been permanently disabled. It was the maximum sentence I could conceive, and my giant ego actually believed I had the power to contain the situation. It was my turn to serve Maddy, and by the time I parked the car I was prepared to take on my new duties. I hadn’t realized how high the stakes were then, or how little say we mortals have on these matters, but I damn well know now. You only confuse hope with power once in life.
I can’t remember the drive—did I speed? stop at streetlights?—but suddenly I’m at the ER. A double-wide door opens for an exiting patient and I walk through, ready to shout Eve’s name. I stop short when I notice clumps of her hair on the floor of the first exam room. It’s the same sandy blonde as Maddy’s.
I throw the curtain aside and there she is. My daughter. Alive and looking rather bored. The front part of her hairline is shaved and covered with a bandage about an inch long. My instinct is to collect her hair off the floor, to keep every part of her together.
“What happened to you?” she asks.
I follow her stare to the bloodstain on my shirt, but don’t answer. Hearing her talk is such a relief to my senses that for the second time my legs buckle, only this time in gratitude.
“Dad, seriously, are you all right?”
I kneel by her side and grab her hand, crying into the sheets. This is the scene I was robbed of having with Maddy. I’d been directed straight to a conference room, where a doctor came in, looked at his feet, and apologized. I replied that we’d find a way to work it out, still certain the tragedy consisted of installing wheelchair ramps and accommodating physical limitations. “You don’t understand,” he said, shaking his head. “Your wife didn’t survive.”
Maddy is dead. Eve is not. For some reason that feels like breaking news.