Another Little Piece (25 page)

“I’ll take my chances.”

My own anger rose to meet his. “Oh well, great. That’s just super for you, but maybe I don’t want to live with the memory of having ripped your face off with my fingernails.” Dex flinched, but it only made me madder. “Why can’t you get it? There’s nothing else.”

Dex shook his head. “There’s always something else.”

“Like what? Huh? Tell me, since it’s so damn easy for you.”

“What do you mean, easy for me?” Dex stepped back, crossing his arms over his chest and tucking his hands into his armpits instead of reaching them out toward me. Another barrier between us.

I threw my own hands in the air. “You know what I mean. Doing the right thing. It comes naturally to you, like you were born with a Boy Scout badge of honor.” I sounded snarky. I didn’t even know why. Dex’s goodness and honor were the best parts of him.

He turned away, as if he could no longer stand to see me.

“How can you think I always do the right thing? When I’ve told you how many times . . . Anna, I’ve done the wrong thing again and again. All the people I’ve seen die, and I just let it happen. And even when I try to do something, it’s not like I want to do it. Do you really think I want to go after child molesters? You think I get off on acting like some sort of superlame superhero? I don’t. Maybe I did once, but a few punches aimed straight at my gut quickly cured me of that.”

Dex kicked at his desk chair, sending it flying. It didn’t seem to make him feel any better.

“And you know what the worst thing is? I’m not doing it because I want to save that little girl. I’m not doing it so that she’ll die after a long, happy life. I’m doing it to get her out of my damn head. I’m doing it so I don’t ever have to see those little pink sneakers again.”

I wrapped my arms around myself. “Oh, Dex.” Wishing I could hug him, I shook my head instead. “You’ve done your best and it’s a lot better than what most people would do. But what I’ve done—”

Dex slammed a fist into the metal cabinet, making it clang loudly. “What you’ve done. What about what you will do?”

“I don’t have a choice, Dex.” I could hear the whine in my voice and hated it. Yet I couldn’t shut up. “You know it’s true. You see it.”

“So what. You’re a blank. No death scene. No nothing. That doesn’t mean you have to take this girl. Maybe it means you’ve already died and can’t die again. It doesn’t mean the choice is made. My visions change. People change.”

Dex paced the room, a whirlwind that I felt tiny and lost inside of. Still I tried to make him see, if not the vision—then me.

“You saw nothing because I’m nothing. Not dead. Not alive. Just a monster.” There. Not whining. Not making excuses. I was almost proud of myself.

For a moment he stilled, and then he came straight at me. I thought he might hit me, try and fight me the same way he had that horrible man. Except I wouldn’t fight back. I would let him do the right thing.

I was wrong again. Dex pulled me toward him, hugging me close with a tender brutality. And then he kissed me in the same way. I kissed him back, wishing it were enough to keep me from turning into something hungry and terrible. I felt tears, wet on my cheeks, salty on my lips. They weren’t mine.

That’s when I broke free. I shoved Dex away and dashed up the steps, across the lawn, and around the fence, knowing it would’ve been better for him—and maybe for me too—if I had never crossed that fence line at all.

DAUGHTER

BEING 16

I hate my life.

I hate everything.

That’s what I screamed

before running to my room

and slamming the door.

You gave me ten minutes.

I could almost see you

counting with the clock.

Then you came

and Dad too

but mostly you.

Holding me

petting my hair

while I sobbed

that I

wanted to die.

It’s not true.

I think you knew

’cause you didn’t lecture.

You just let me cry

and think how

being sixteen

—and nearly seventeen . . .

but nowhere near eighteen—

is sometimes enough

to make you

want to die.

—ARG

MOM

Walking into the house, I knew what had to be done. I’d severed ties with Dex, and now needed to do the same with the mom.

I’d done it before. Staging a fight with a mom before disappearing, making it look like I was a runaway. My conversation with the dad this morning gave me the perfect opening too. They had sabotaged my relationship with Dex, and because of it, he had broken up with me. Now I was broken . . . and would leave them the same way.

Taking a deep breath and two breath strips for courage, I let the performance begin. “Hello?”

“Annaliese?” The mom’s voice came floating down the stairwell. “Honey, is that you? Are you okay?” Her worry and concern, almost palpable, came directly behind.

“I’m fine,” I called back. Not the best way to start an argument, but I didn’t want the mom to get out of bed. Didn’t want her to be more hurt than she had to be when this was all over. Too late. When I reached the bottom of the stairs, she was already standing at the top, waiting.

“How did you get home? You’re supposed to be at school.”

“You’re supposed to be in bed,” I countered. It wasn’t the direction I meant to take this argument, but I was so afraid that she would tumble down the steps. I could’ve gone up there, forced her back. But I didn’t trust myself to get closer. She might hug me, and I didn’t have the strength to push her away like I had Dex.

“Annaliese Rose, I am not moving until you tell me what is going on.” The tone in the mom’s voice said she was ready to go to war in her big fuzzy robe and slipper-socks.

“I had a fight with the dad this morning. Over Dex.”

Confusion clouded the mom’s face, and I remembered that the dad hadn’t told her about the whole Dex thing. I was ready to backtrack and explain, when the mom held up a shaking hand, silencing me.

“What do you mean”—I held my breath, waiting for it—“
the
dad
? Since when do you call your father ‘the dad’?”

She didn’t care about Dex at all. The boy she had built a fence to keep away. Surprise spoiled my prepared script. “Since always. Or as long as I can remember.” I laughed bitterly, and it was frighteningly real. My improv was veering away from acting, and straight toward the truth. “He’s the dad. You’re the mom. Not my mom or my dad, because I don’t have a mom or a dad. And also, I am not your daughter.”

I couldn’t believe I said it. Watching the mom’s face crumble, I wanted to take it all back. I pushed forward instead.

“It’s all a lie. I’m not the daughter you lost, and you don’t need me anymore anyway, because you have the two new kids growing inside you. It’ll be better this way.”

That was it. I couldn’t say any more without a rush of hot tears giving me away. Spinning around, I made a run for it. Again.

Away from Eric, Dex, and now the mom, and diving toward a wave of darkness determined to drown me.

There was a loud thumping on the stairs behind me, and I hesitated, certain the mom was lying broken at the bottom of them. Except she rounded the corner like a linebacker with the ball, and before I could even think to run again, she slammed into me, dragging us both to the ground.

“Mom!” I screamed, certain she had killed the babies, and maybe herself too.

She dragged herself up, still keeping her weight on me, so that I couldn’t move away. “
Mom.
Yes, that’s right. I am your mom. And you are mine and you can never be replaced. Never. You are my daughter. And I don’t care if you don’t know me and I sometimes don’t know you. You are mine. Do you hear me, Annaliese? You are mine.”

I tried to shake my head, tried to tell her that Annaliese had been replaced, but I couldn’t. It didn’t matter what I said anyway, she would never let me go.

And I was her daughter now. After tonight she wouldn’t just lose me, I would lose her as well.

Her fingers gripped my face, making me look her in the eye. “Annaliese, I want to know that you understand me. I am not moving until you do.”

“Yes, Mom. Yes.” I was crying, and then she was too. We sat on the floor together for a long time, not saying anything. She put her hand on her belly, and I did too. Those little babies inside that I would never meet were sort of my brothers or sisters. I tried to send them a message through my fingertips. Telling them to live and be strong. Letting them know that even though we never met, I missed them.

Then I helped Mom back up the stairs and into bed. I gave her one last hug and offered to make us some tea. The chai kind we both liked with extra milk and sugar. Her hand slipped into mine and gave it a squeeze. Time flickered in front of me. Mom’s hand was holding mine the same way, but she was sitting at the kitchen table.

“Have fun with Gwen tonight. It’s been a while since you girls had a sleepover.”

“Yeah.” I shrug. “We’ve been busy and stuff.”

“And stuff.” Mom nods wisely. “And here I thought you two had some sort of falling-out after that trip you took to Ohio.”

“Nope, no fights. We just needed a little space after that.” Another shrug, as if this small movement might be enough to remove the weight of my lies. So far it hasn’t helped.

“All right, well, if you decide to come home early, just give me a call.”

“I know, Mom.” I am impatient to get away before she sees through all my flimsy fabrications; already I can feel my fibs beginning to tear at the seams. “Can I go now? Dad’s waiting in the car.”

Mom’s hand releases mine. “Go on. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I’ll be here,” I say.

Annaliese didn’t even realize it was another lie. Her thoughts were already turning toward Logan and meeting him in the trees that night.

Releasing Mom’s hand, I told another similarly small and devastating lie.

“I’ll get the tea and come right back, okay?”

I didn’t put the kettle on, though. Instead I slipped silently out the back door, leaving my mom alone in the house to wonder forever after what had become of me. Her daughter.

FIGHT

I hold the bucket as she retches into it. Again.

Withdrawal is what Dad calls it. We’ve been through it before, he says, meaning him and Mom.

I remember it, but not well. I was nine and he told me she had the flu. Then after she got better there were four whole months when she didn’t drink. Not a drop. Later, Tommy told me she’d embarrassed Dad at some work party, and he’d said enough was enough. But then, of course, it started again.

Now, seven years later, enough is enough once more. This time, though, I am the one left holding the bag. Or the bucket.

She broke her leg, that’s what got it all started. I was the one who found her at the bottom of the basement stairs.

She’s dead. That’s what I’d thought. She lay on the concrete floor, all twisted and broken and white. Our dirty laundry that she’d been carrying had cushioned the fall. Her head rested on a pair of my father’s dirty boxer shorts. They had probably saved her.

At the time it hadn’t been funny, but now remembering it, I smile.

“What’s so funny?” she snarls. She’s been in a nasty mood all day. It’s a good sign, I guess. Before she was in too much pain to do anything but vomit and moan, then vomit again.

I tuck the smile away, knowing she hates to be laughed at, to be the butt of a joke. “Nothing,” I mutter.

She pushes the bucket away. “Get that thing out of my face. It stinks.”

Yeah, from you
. Clenching my teeth, I keep the words from coming out. As I carry the bucket to the bathroom for the hundredth time today, I remind myself how I’d begged God not to let my mother die in those first frightening moments after I found her.

“Anna!” She calls my name like a military drill sergeant, expecting me to come running.

And I do. The bucket is only half clean, but I slop the rest of the dirty water into the tub and rush to her side with it, already knowing that as distasteful as cleaning the bucket may be, it is much worse to deal with dirty blankets, sheets, rugs, and clothes.

She isn’t retching, though. Instead, she reclines back onto her pile of pillows like a queen.

“What? Are you okay?” I gasp.

“Where’s Tommy? Why do I never see my son?”

“He went back to school last week, remember?” I try to keep my voice patient, but can hear the resentment bleeding through. He’s only an hour away, close enough to come home to do his laundry every two weeks, but apparently not so close that he can check on his mom after she breaks her leg in three different places. Instead he calls. He must have a timer somewhere because the conversation always ends a bit past the fifteen-minute mark. It’s enough to make her happy. He called, he cares, and if only he wasn’t so darn busy he would love to talk with her all day.

“Of course, I remember, and please do not use that tone with me.” She gives me the imperious stare, the one that has caused stomachaches my whole life.

“Sorry,” I say, but cannot resist adding, “He’ll be home this weekend, but don’t expect to see him much. He’ll be inside Katie’s pocket the whole time I’m sure.”

She clucks her tongue at me. “Oh, Anna, don’t be so small. You act like he stole your best friend.”

Actually it was more like my former best friend stole my brother. After a lifetime of benignly ignoring Katie, suddenly it was like he’d been hit on the head with something. He was all googly-eyed and glazed over when he looked at her, the same way she’d always been toward him. And she looked so satisfied with herself.

I hate them both.

Even worse, I can’t shake the terrible feeling that maybe I am the one who pushed them together at last. My fault. And Franky’s too, with his stupid games involving blood oaths and promises that chill the blood.

But I don’t tell Mom any of this.

“Whatever, I don’t care,” I only say. “In a year, I’m outta here anyway.”

“Outta here?” She hates lazy language, and repeats my words with disdain. “And what exactly does that mean?”

Too late, I realize my mistake. Disappointed by my poor grades, my parents have decided that a college education will not be a good investment for me. Mom wants me to go to secretarial school like she did. Then she’d gotten a job, and then she’d met my dad. And look how happy her life turned out. Still, I pretend to go along with it, even as I become more set on a one-way bus ticket out of town.

“Nothing,” I stutter now. “Just, you know, I’ll be eighteen. Not in high school and stuff.”

Her eyes narrow. “But you’ll still be living under this roof.”

“Yeah?” Somehow the word comes out as a question.

She eyes me in a way that makes me squirm, and I bite down on my tongue, resisting the urge to say something, to try and fix it. If I stay quiet, there is a 50 percent chance that she’ll go the other way. It happens all the time: the death stare is fixed on me and I am writing my eulogy, when suddenly she is so sorry, she loves me more than anything, she doesn’t know what got into her, and can I please please forgive her. And I always do. This is the good mom, the one who makes me think that maybe I should stay and become a secretary.

Then there is the other 50 percent.

“Why don’t you pack your bags now, Anna? Nothing is stopping you from walking out that door right this instant if you hate it here so much.”

“No.” I shake my head, afraid of how serious she looks.

“No? Does that mean, no you don’t hate it here? No, you don’t hate me?” Sitting up, she flings a pillow at me. “Is that why you were smiling before? Were you thinking about how you were going to leave us all behind? Was that it, you selfish, horrible girl? Is getting away all you think about?”

She throws another pillow and I dodge it, but I am not ready for the glass on her bedside table. It thunks against the side of my head. And that’s when I break.

“I hate you!” I scream the words, emphasizing and feeling each one. God, I hate her. I hate her, I hate her. I can’t imagine hating anyone this way, as if my hate is enough to push them down the stairs to a concrete floor below. The bucket is still in my hand, and I fling it at her, watching the leftover dirty puke water splash across her and the bed.

She hobbles out of the bed, grabbing for the crutches that she’s refused to even consider before now. One of the crutches she uses to stabilize herself, but the other she brandishes like a cattle prod as she thumps toward me. “Get out,” she says. Using the crutch, she pushes me toward the door. “Get out!”

“Fine,” I yell back, but I retreat slowly, and wouldn’t move at all if she didn’t jab at me, steering me through the hallway, until the stairs are at my back.

“What are you waiting for? You need me to show you where the door is? Go!” The crutch comes up over her head, as if she is about to bring it down on me.

Turning, I flee. I can feel myself wanting to cry, but in a distant way. Mostly, I wonder if this is really happening. I open the door and feel the fresh autumn air on my face. The leaves are just starting to change. Stepping out, I close the door behind me. This is happening. The tears start to fall.

“Anna!” I think I hear her calling for me as I stumble down the driveway. She doesn’t sound like the drill sergeant. This time she sounds like the good mom, trying to say “I’m sorry.”

I keep walking. I can’t trust that version of her.

I turn left toward Franky’s house. I’ll stay there until I’m sure that Daddy has returned home from work. Then I’ll slip back home and into bed, pretending nothing ever happened. She’ll do the same. And on the surface everything will be okay.