Authors: Carmen Rodrigues
I don’t know what to do to make it better, but I know that he needs me. So I wrap myself around him. And even though I told him to leave, I now tell him to stay. That we’ll be okay. His shoulders slump forward. He’s sobbing so hard he’s shaking.
A few minutes later, the sound of my mother’s car fills the driveway. Tommy stiffens. He stands, grabs his shirt from the corner, and then moves toward the window. He says in a small voice, “I’m sorry, okay. I’m sorry.”
I say, “I know,” and then I start to straighten up the bedroom. And I tell myself to forget this afternoon, to forget that we can be this way.
Let’s h
o
ld hands
and pretend t
o
gether.
BEFORE. NOVEMBER.
Ellie said, “It’s hard for me here.” It was difficult for me to understand her over the phone. Her breath was labored, so her voice shook.
I said, “What’s hard for you?” It was late, real late. I had classes the next day, but I was up. I never went to sleep before three or four in the morning. “Wait,” I said, and then I leaned across Amber—this girl I’d met a few days before in a bar near school—to turn down the music. “Okay, go on.”
She said, “I’m struggling, Jake. It’s hard for me.” I wasn’t surprised by the panic in her voice. Ellie had called religiously since I left Ohio. Some nights she sounded anxious, like she was afraid of being in that house without me. Other nights our conversations
were fueled by her manic energy. But then there were the nights when we’d sit in near silence, the conversation having the stop-and-go rhythm of a drive filled with speed bumps. But even on those nights she was reluctant to get off the phone.
Always, she asked questions.
What did you do today? Do you still hate that teacher? Is that dude on your floor still acting like a douche?
But if I tried to ask more specific questions about her life, she’d remain silent.
“Jake, I want to come live with you,” she said finally. This wasn’t a new topic for us. Ellie had been pushing this idea for months, but I was reluctant. I had found control, confidence, and security in New York. My predictable routine was comforting: eight a.m. morning alarm, nine a.m. catch up on reading, ten a.m. coffee, back-to-back classes followed by homework sessions in the library. When I was lonely, I’d venture out to a bar—some place that wouldn’t question my fake ID—to meet girls whose names I’d soon forget. For the first time in my life, I was completely selfish, and I liked it. I felt the weight of responsibility for my mother and sister lift. I felt the rising emotions that often accompany hope. I felt free. “It’s only a week until Thanksgiving break. Can we discuss it then?”
Ellie said, “Jake, I think I really need to come now.”
I turned on my side and stared at the black-and-white Jim Morrison poster Sarah had given to me the night before I left. I
thought about the inscription on the back, a loose reference to one of my favorite Doors songs:
I don’t know what’s on the other side of all this, but I hope one day you’ll take me there.
“Come on, Ellie,” I said, knowing I had already stepped to the other side and found a solitude there that could not coexist with her or my mom or Sarah.
Amber nudged me. “Who’s Ellie?”
“My sister. It’s my sister.”
She rolled onto her belly, the blanket covering her from the waist down. I traced the outline of her ribs with my index finger. She looked at me, possessively. “I didn’t know you had a sister.”
Ellie’s voice deepened an octave, which is how she always sounded when she became defensive. “Who’s that? Are you there with someone? Jake? I want to talk to you alone. Why don’t you ever fucking know how to be alone?”
I said to Amber, “Hey, can you give me a second?”
She narrowed her eyes. I nudged her with my foot.
Just a second,
I mouthed, and finally she moved, taking the outline of her ribs with her. In the bathroom, she propped open the window and lit up. She perched on the toilet seat cover, balancing effortlessly, like a bird on a wire.
“Is she gone?” Ellie asked.
“Yeah.”
“Good.” Ellie paused. “Jake, I just want to come live with you now. You don’t know what it’s like for me. How hard it can be . . . Everything is . . .”
Amber coughed. I turned to look at her. She smiled, slipped a hand down her breast and rib cage, and rested it flat across her pelvis, the fingertips pointed downward, just barely brushing her—
“Jake?” Ellie said.
Often when Ellie was drunk or high or popped too many of our mother’s prescription pills, she sounded paranoid. “Hey, when was the last time you slept?”
“Jake, come on, please don’t do that.” Her voice rose. “This is serious. I need to talk to you . . . in person.” She started to cry then, a deep shuddering cry filled with wild breaths and hiccups.
“Hey. Hey, now, tell me. Why can’t you tell me now?”
Ellie was crying too hard to answer. I glanced at Amber, struggling to keep my distance from my sister’s drama, from the request I knew was coming.
“I just can’t,” she said finally. “Not over the phone. You said if I needed you, Jake, you’d come. So come home.”
I sighed, remembering my promise. My thoughts moved to the amount of time it would take to drive home to Ohio and
what I would need to do: pack, send e-mails to teachers, rent a car. I thought about the slick roads and the snowbanks piled high from an early-November storm. Again, I thought about my mom and Sarah.
“Jake, you promised.”
“Yeah, I promised.”
“You’ll come?”
“Yeah, as soon as I can.”
“Okay, that’s good.” She stayed silent for a few minutes. Her breaths evened out, settling into a quieter rise and fall. Then the phone went silent, and I knew she was gone.
For a few minutes I sat with my cell cradled in my palm. Then I went to the closet, grabbed a few shirts and an extra pair of jeans to throw into my duffel bag. I added underwear, socks, and shoes. In the bathroom I grabbed my toothbrush. All the while, Amber watched. Still perched on the toilet. Still naked. Still smoking, her eyes glassed over.
She said, “Hey . . .”
“Hey . . .” I touched her nipple, fascinated by its walnut-like color. She smiled and took a hit from her pipe. Her other hand stroked my leg.
She said, “You gotta go? Already?”
“Yeah, I should.”
She said, “Now? Tonight?”
“Yeah, I really should. It’s a long drive, about eleven hours to Ohio, and I have to rent a car . . .”
Her hand stroked higher.
“Tonight? Really? It’s too late to drive tonight.”
“Yeah, but I should go.”
She put her pipe down and said, “Not tonight. There’s too much ice on the roads.” And then she stopped talking, her breath suddenly warm against my thigh. Her glossy black hair swung back and forth like a curtain ruffled by a fan. “Besides, you’ll never find a rental place open this late. No,” she repeated, “not tonight.”
A few seconds later her breath was still warm against my thigh, and I said, “It’d be crazy to drive in the dark.” And then, a few more seconds after that, “I’ll leave tomorrow, after classes.”
She turned her head upward, running her tongue across her lips. Her dark brown eyes reminded me of Sarah’s, but I chased those thoughts away. I didn’t want to think about Sarah or Tommy or going back there. I just wanted to get lost in Amber and the moment. She said, “Tomorrow night is best.”
She was right. The roads were icy. And what good would I be to Ellie if I got into a car wreck? And I told myself,
Ellie is tough.
Ellie can make it one more day. Sarah and Tommy will watch over her. She’ll be okay.
And then I said, “Yeah, tomorrow night.”
She led the way back to bed, her glossy black hair skimming her olive-colored butt. She reached for the light, but I pushed her hand away. I wanted to see everything. She smiled at me. I thought,
One more day won’t matter
.
She’ll be fine.
Amber climbed on top of me, and when she did, I didn’t think about Ellie anymore.
In the
b
athr
oo
m, with my hair s
t
ill dripping wet, I’d devise a plan. First, t
o
weldry quickly. Sec
o
nd, put
o
n underwear and declare that place safe. Next, tank t
o
p, s
o
cks, then pj’s. Declare th
o
se places safe t
oo
. And then tipt
o
e t
o
the
b
edr
oo
m, l
o
ck
t
he d
oo
r
b
ehind me, declare my r
oo
m safe.
In the m
o
rning, try n
o
t t
o
remem
b
er why.
AFTER. JANUARY.
After Lola leaves, I sit on my bed and stare at the wall until I notice the tiniest sliver of paint flaking off. It’s the smallest imperfection, but for some reason it breaks my heart.
We painted this room five years ago, just a few short months after moving to Smith. Sarah picked midnight blue for the walls. I picked silver for the door. Mom did most of the painting, her hips swaying to some old music by some old lady.
Later that night, the smell of paint lingered in the air. Sarah rolled onto her side, pulled her brown hair into a ponytail, and said, with serious eyes, “Mom was so weird today, but in, like, a good way. Like all that dancing? She seemed almost . . .” She didn’t say “happy” or “relaxed”—although either of those words
would have been right—because back then we didn’t think about our parents’ inner lives. But when their behavior was unusual, we noticed.
“What kind of necklace was she was wearing?” I thought back to the bright blue stone resting against her collarbone, a recent gift from my dad. The color was nearly the same as her eyes, and it made them appear even brighter.
“Turquoise,” Sarah murmured. And then, because she had a habit of repeating words she liked, she said it again, only with less force. I followed her lead, repeating the word twice, the second time a perfect imitation of her.
“Do you want to play glamour dolls tomorrow?” Sarah asked. Before she met Ellie and became popular, Sarah spent hours hiding behind her bed, building a glamour-doll city. I preferred daydreaming or reading books that were a bit too advanced for me, like
Forever
by Judy Blume. I’d found a worn copy in Mom’s memory chest, read it as fast as I could, and felt sad for weeks after because it taught me that boys were gross and first love didn’t last forever.
“I don’t know.” I pretended to consider the question, enjoying her having to ask me for something for a change.
“Please. It’s fun.”
And sometimes it was, but sometimes it felt oddly routine. The story lines were always about some popular girl struck by
tragedy. Her father disappears. Sister gets kidnapped. Mom up and runs away. There were rarely happy endings.
I told Ellie about this a month before she died. It was October. The fireflies had already burrowed their blinking bodies away for a long winter, but inside Ellie’s bedroom it was nice and warm. “Makes sense to me,” she said. “Where’d her real dad go, anyways?”
Maybe this connection should have been obvious to me. I was always looking for connections, always searching for answers, always wondering why.
Like, why do fireflies have lights that blink on and off?
Answer: They’re trying to attract a mate.
But just as I had never questioned my mother’s happiness, I had never thought to question Sarah’s place in our family or wonder if that somehow made her feel different.
I didn’t want us to be anything less than we were, but the truth of what Ellie said was hard to ignore. Sarah’s brown eyes and olive skin were a sharp contrast to our blue eyes and milky complexions. Sarah could effortlessly reach the upper shelves in the kitchen, while the rest of us, Dad excluded, needed to climb onto the counters. The dividing lines, which had always existed, were suddenly filled in. She was my half sister, but I didn’t want her to be that. I didn’t want her to be anything but whole.
* * *
At school Lola grips my arm tightly and guides me slowly through the crowded halls. When we pass a shy alternative girl with green streaks in her hair, Lola says loudly, “That is so not a good look for you.” Then turns to me and adds, “Oh my God. Did you see that? That girl’s a freak show.”
Ever since Lola’s parents split last February, she’s been getting worse. That’s when her mom started saying things like,
How many times do I have to tell you to turn off the lights? God, Lola, is anyone home in there?
And her dad stopped coming around. And her older brother had moved out because he couldn’t take their parents fighting. And now Lola is a lot meaner to everybody. Like right now, when I actually bump into something, she snaps, “How many times do I have to tell you? Nobody’s staring at you!”