Beating Heart (9 page)

“
S
hit,” Evan says. The floor of the landing is covered
with sparkling glass.

Libby opens her eyes and looks up at him. “I didn't do it,” she tells Evan in a tight, frightened voice. Then she shivers.

“Don't move. I'm going to get some shoes on.” He has to go into his room, where Carrie's going through the motions of getting dressed, but he doesn't speak to her—in seconds he's back in the hall, pulling his shirt over his head. Sockless, shoelaces flopping, he moves around the railing and comes carefully down the stairs, his feet crunching glass. “Are you all right?”

“I didn't touch it!” Libby breaks into sobs. “I didn't do anything! I wasn't going to come up, but—I heard—I heard a
noise!
”

“It's all right. You're not hurt?”

“I—I don't know.”

“Okay. Just hold still.” She doesn't look hurt. He squats down beside her and carefully starts brushing off broken glass, inspecting her for cuts. At the top of the stairs, he sees the open bedroom door shut, but he continues until all the splinters are off. Then he hoists Libby up and carries her to the top step. After he sets her down, he stops, he can't think what to do next: he's got an angry girlfriend in his room, a hopeless mess below him, and a sniffling sister clutching at his leg.

Carrie and the broken window are too overwhelming at the moment. He remembers the sound of her sucking in air—he didn't know that she couldn't breathe! And boy, she's bound to be pissed about it. He imagines he can feel her sulking fury radiating through the closed bedroom door.

He sinks down on the top step, next to Libby. And a moment later, Carrie opens the door.

She comes out calmly, completely dressed, every button buttoned. Her back is straight. She is not crying. Her face reveals nothing as she pauses beside Evan at the top of the stairs. “Is Libby all right?” she asks in an odd, flat voice.

“Yeah.” Evan can't bring himself to meet her eyes. “I think so.”

“Okay. Then I'm going to leave now. Good-bye, Evan,” she says, and starts down the stairs. She is careful not to touch the railing, and picks a hesitant path through the glass.

He watches her, feeling that he should say something, that he has not behaved particularly well, but unable to think it out just now.

She's just past the landing when he speaks.

“Carrie?”

She pauses before looking up at him. Something in that pause makes Evan feel a little of what it costs her to maintain that level calm.

He's not angry at her anymore. All he feels is sad, and somewhat ashamed. They've been together a long time. And tonight—well, he knows he didn't do things right.

“I'm sorry.” The moment he says it, he wants to cringe—he's really opened himself up now, she can let him have it for being a shithead and an asshole who dares to think that an apology even begins to make up for anything.

But for the first time today—the first time in a long time—Carrie surprises him. “You know what I was saying the other day, Evan?” she says, peering up at him. “About how I didn't know what I'd do without you?”

Evan nods.

“I guess it's time to find out, huh?”

And, with dignity, she makes her way down the glass-covered stairs and out of sight. Evan hears her footsteps across the wide, empty hall, and then the sound of the front door.

She's gone.

 

 

the front door

 

slams

 

the air is stirred

 

 

He
is the one

 

left

 

behind.

L
ibby is quieting down now, with only an occasional
sniff. She still leans against Evan; he puts an arm around her.

 

 

On the topmost step he sits,

clear and stark

his face is unfamiliar

his eyes are dark, not light,

his expression is

tired,

worried,

sad.

 

He pauses

lifts a hand

brushes one stray strand

of hair like cotton

from a small face.

 

it's not him

 

It's not.

E
van puts his head in his hands. He does not like
sitting in the silence that Carrie has left behind. For a second he feels the weight of the quiet house; to him it is full of blame, regrets, and guilt.

He never meant to hurt anybody.

He doesn't realize that he's sighed until he hears Libby's voice, tentative and worried, at his shoulder.

“Evan?”

He raises his head. Below, on the landing, the fragments are beautiful, jagged and clear, amber and gold, orange and vermilion.

 

 

Evening sun

angles through the

shattered panes

flows down the steps

 

like

 

water

 

over

 

fall

 

leaves

 

 

faded light

on

old and broken glass:

 

the end

of

a

 

day.

T
elling Libby to stay where she is, Evan collects what
he thinks is needed to clean up a large amount of glass: a broom, a dustpan, plastic bags, a trash can.

With Libby seated on the top step, watching, he sweeps up the mess.

Much later, after he has duct-taped black garbage bags into the window frame, Evan and Libby go into the TV room and he lets her pick the show. She wants to finish
The Lion King
. He's glad it isn't
Cinderella
or
Sleeping Beauty
or one of those fairy-tale romances.

On the couch, Libby leans against Evan's arm. He doesn't pull away, but lets her. She's holding one of her stuffed animals.

They're watching the part where the Lion King's father dies trying to rescue his son. Evan has always thought this part was pretty horrific for a kid, but Libby has never seemed to mind.

But tonight, when Simba is looking around the ravine for his missing parent, Libby asks a question.

“Evan,” she says, “why doesn't Dad come see me?”

It's out of the blue. Evan has to think for a moment, to figure out how he can put it. “I think he's just kind of busy right now,” he tells her. “Busy and mixed-up,” he adds.

“What's he mixed-up about?”

“I don't know.” Evan shifts uneasily on the couch. He wishes Libby had asked Mom about this, not him.

But Mom's not here.
He's
here, and he's the one who's got to sort it out.

“Sometimes,” he tells Libby, “when people get mixed-up, they accidentally hurt other people's feelings.” He has never really thought about this before, but now that he's said it, he feels he got it right, that what he said is real and true.

“But what do they get mixed-up about?”

He thinks again, picking his way carefully among the words. “About what they want,” he finally tells her with certainty. “And what other people want.”

Libby's frowning, unconvinced.

“Look,” Evan says. “Lib. It's not your fault. You didn't do anything wrong. And you don't need to be the one stuck here feeling bad.”

Her face clears—not completely, but a little. At any rate, she lets it go after that. They watch Simba heading into the desert alone, and are still watching TV when Mom comes home.

“Did Carrie come over?” she asks Evan.

“Yeah.” Evan doesn't take his eyes off the TV.

“She didn't stay very long. Did she have to be somewhere?”

“Uh-huh.” Evan's answers are noncommittal. He knows without looking that Mom has a sneaking suspicion something's not quite right, but can't put her finger on it.

“Did you have a nice visit?” she asks.

“Yeah,” Evan lies. “It was good.”

She nods and heads to her office to put her purse away. Any second, Evan knows, she's going to look up and see that one of her precious windows is gone. He waits, knowing that he's only got a few more seconds
of quiet before another drama starts.

Mom's dismayed shriek cuts the air. He sighs.
Women
.

 

The evening winds down, with Evan, Libby, and a still-
distressed Mom all going quietly about their business.

In his room at bedtime, Evan puts all the scattered papers back into the metal box. He doesn't bother to look at them. He vaguely feels that something is different, but it isn't till he's stowing the box on a closet shelf that he figures out that the hazy feeling of dread left over from his dreams has finally faded.

He shuts the closet door and looks around at the few beloved posters on the white walls, at the familiar windows now dark with night. The room doesn't seem strange or foreign anymore. He's been here long enough, he guesses, that it has finally become
his
.

He changes clothes, and as he climbs into bed, he thinks it's weird how he doesn't miss Carrie yet. He's pretty tired, but—at this moment—he doesn't feel sad, or lonely, or desperate, or guilty.

Right now, what he feels is
peaceful
.

I watch this one

slide slowly into sleep

bare, muscled shoulders

 

chest rises and falls

 

his breath

is shallow

 

quick

 

 

I never felt the knots

till they

unraveled

 

never saw the ties

till they

dropped loose

 

never knew that I was

clinging to debris

in someone else's wake.

 

 

He
has

gone.

 

He
left

long

ago.

 

 

This house

 

is

 

glass, wood, plaster,

 

tile, paper, concrete, iron

 

 

while

 

I

 

am only

a

whisper

 

and

 

an

echo.

 

 

And

 

all I ever had to do was

 

let

 

go.

 

 

I watch

this one's breathing grow

relaxed, deep

 

safe.

 

 

Night

becomes

dawn

becomes

day.

 

 

The front door

opens.

The air stirs.

 

 

I

roll like a wave

rise

to a crest

 

then

spread freely

dissolve around the edges

 

unfurl

 

into

 

the

light.

Cover photograph © 2009 by Jan Bickerton/Trevillion Images

Cover design by Kristina Albertson