Not After Everything (11 page)

When Henry and the mother/son dynamic duo of perfection come back out from behind the curtain, I realize it's been two whole hours. It seriously felt like twenty minutes. Maybe photo retouching will be my thing.

Henry calls Jordyn over to say good-bye and they all start talking about their loving families and everyone's plans for the holidays. I cringe. I mean, the holidays are still a month and a half off, so it hadn't crossed my mind. Now it's like whatever was holding one edge of me to the other breaks. Just fucking snaps. Having to spend the holidays alone or, worse, with my dad . . . Those goddamn tears that were plotting their escape are free. I feel one fall, then another. I keep my head down and escape to the bathroom. But it's taking everything in me to stay quiet, which really pisses me off. I want to wail and scream all of a sudden, like I did when it really hit me that Mom was dead. That wasn't until two days after. I guess I was in shock or something. It was so bad that even my dad didn't bother me. Why the hell do I have to feel like that again?

There's a soft knock.

“You okay?” Jordyn asks.

I can't speak or she'll hear me crying.

“I'm going to Panda Express for lunch. You want anything?”

I can't eat. I remain quiet, sitting on the ground in front of the door.

I can feel that she's still standing there. I don't hear Henry. He might still be talking to their client friends.

Finally Jordyn says, “I'll be back in ten. I'll lock the door so you don't have to worry about watching the front.” And then her footsteps retreat. Henry must have left for his on-location gig at three p.m.

I'm alone.

After I finally get my shit together, I pull myself up and dare to look at my reflection. I don't even look like me anymore. I've lost my football weight, probably a good thirty pounds; I'm getting dangerously close to thin. And I really can't pull off that look with my height. My eyes are sunken in. My skin looks unhealthy; it has that greasy sheen you get when you're really sick. And my hair is in serious need of a cut. Maybe I'll just shave my head.

I tongue at the cut on the inside of my lip. Man, I really went off on Brett at the game. I study my features, trying to see if there's any of my dad in me, any visual confirmation that I'm, like, turning into him. But I look exactly like my mom, she of the prominent genes. Maybe that's why Dad always hated me so much, because he might as well not have played a part in my making. And now he hates me because I'm a constant reminder of her. I find it hard to look at myself for that same reason.

I run my hands under the cold water until they're numb, then I splash the water on my face over and over again, until I feel like I've sort of snapped back into reality.

I have no idea how long I was in there. But when I fumble back through the curtain, Jordyn's finished eating and is now scribbling in her sketchpad with something that looks like chalk but isn't. My chair is now back on my side of the counter. As is a container from Panda Express with the fortune cookie on top and a can of Coke next to it.

Why is she being so nice to me?

And when I go to eat the food, it's exactly what I would have ordered: broccoli beef and orange chicken with fried rice. I can't believe she remembered.

The food's still warm-ish, so I guess I wasn't in there for that long. I finish every last bit of it, and after seriously contemplating licking the sauce from the container, I toss it and reach for the fortune cookie.

It reads: “There is no shame in asking for help.” Stupid fortune cookie.

“Thanks for this,” I mutter. “What do I owe you?”

“Don't worry about it.”

I start to protest, but then I spot that freaking fortune staring up at me and instead I thank her again.

Then I turn my chair, about to ask if there's another photo I can work on, but she turns to face me at the same time.

She speaks first. “Are you okay?”

For some reason, her tone makes me feel like answering. “Honestly, I don't know.”

She's quiet for a sec, like she's deciding whether or not to push it. “You know, Tyler, you don't fool me with this ‘screw the world' thing you've developed. I know the boy I used to be friends with is still in there somewhere.”

I'm not so sure.

I should have gone for a run after work.

This is what I think as I pull into the driveway. Next to Dad's car. On a Saturday. Perfect.

Captain greets me with his usual smile. I pat him and listen for any signs of Dad. The TV's off. There's nothing coming from the bedroom. If I didn't know better, I'd think he wasn't home. But I can still
feel
him here. Maybe he's taking a nap or hasn't woken from last night's binge.

I tiptoe to the kitchen to get a glass of water before I lock myself in my room. I run the water till it gets cold and hold the glass under the stream. Out of nowhere a punch lands against my lower back and the glass falls into the sink, shattering.

“I got a call from your coach today. Said you were fighting. How stupid do you have to be?”

I don't know how he does it, but somehow I'm smaller than him when he's like this. I cower against the counter, water still running behind me and I stare at the floor waiting for the next blow.

“Fucking look at me!” He smacks my head as hard as he can. The hollow thunk rings in my ears.

When I look up, he kicks my knee and I have to grip the counter so I don't fall. Shit, it hurts.

“The fuck are you thinking? Fighting?” He's right up
in my
face, breath ripe with alcohol. I feel my adrenaline spike,
my fingers
curl. I'm afraid that if I throw a punch, I won't be able to stop until he's dead.

“I learned from the best,” I say under my breath as I turn to shut off the water.

I feel his reaction behind me—a flare of heat like from a fire that's just been doused in fuel. I brace myself, but he remains silent and still. Every hair on my body is on end, waiting. But there's nothing. What's he waiting for?

I take a breath and prepare myself to walk past him to my room. But when I turn, he slams his whole body into me, pinning me into the corner of the counter. He takes my head in his hands and slams it into the cabinet. The sound comes first, then the pain. I feel heat spread through my hair. I must be a bit stunned, because he gets in several punches to my stomach and one to my face—reopening my lip wound—before I even understand what's happening. When he goes to grab my head to bash it into the cabinet again, I react without thinking—I shove him as hard as I can. His back hits the fridge. He starts laughing even though I know it had to hurt. Then he rushes me again.

This time I clock him right in the stomach as hard as I can. He doubles over, gasping. “Ungrateful little shit,” he breathes. “Shoulda been you who died.”

I punch him in the side. “It should have been you! You're the reason she's dead, don't you know that? She couldn't take your neglect and abuse and she didn't know another way out! The wrong parent died!” I scream, and then I deliver another blow to his back.

I'm about to hit him again, but Captain barks, snapping me out of my rage. I spit at Dad doubled over against the fridge. Blood spatters across the back of his tan shirt. Then I head toward my room.

Just as I'm halfway down the stairs, Dad says, “You know? The note she left didn't say anything about me.”

I stop dead in my tracks. “There was no note,” I say, still facing away from him.

I hear him shuffle behind me. “Wasn't there?”

I turn to face him and I'm met with a full beer bottle to the eye. It knocks me back into the wall and I lose my balance and fall the rest of the way down the stairs. Damn if he doesn't have good aim. I guess I know where my athletic abilities came from.

Blood blinds one eye, throwing off my depth perception. I struggle to get the key in the lock.

I call Captain into my room, lock the door, and head to the bathroom to assess the damage. There's a cut beneath my eyebrow from where the bottle hit and it's gushing pretty bad. Probably needs stitches. Will definitely leave a scar. It's swelling right before my eyes. Then I dig through my dark hair until I find the source of most of the blood that's ruined my shirt. There's a small gash from the cabinet and it's bleeding almost as much as my eyebrow. Fucking head wounds. And my damn lip again. I spit blood into the sink. He's never gone for my face before—he never went for Mom's either. Too afraid of people asking what happened. Fucking Coach just had to tell him I was in a fight. What better news is there when you want to beat the shit out of your son without anyone questioning the damage?

I wet a small towel, trying to clean off some of the blood. Then I pull out my butterfly bandages—when you live with someone like my dad, you're prepared—and I butterfly the cut just beneath my right eyebrow. I'm not sure how to deal with my head, so I hold the towel on it so I don't keep bleeding everywhere.

I pull out the metal box and sit heavily on my bed. I feel my pulse in my skull as I spread all the pictures of Mom out in front of me.

“Did you or did you not leave a note?” I ask her.

There was so much blood when I found her. After I called 911, I held her naked, wet body and I sat there on the bathroom floor. There was nothing on the counter. Her clothes had been put neatly away because she knew she wouldn't be needing them ever again. The counter was immaculate. The entire house was immaculate, like she didn't want to leave a mess. The only thing in the bathroom besides all her blood was the little plastic box of razors.

But there wasn't a note.

I try to remember every detail of her room. Maybe I overlooked a note somewhere in there. But all I recall is that it was uncharacteristically spotless. If he found a note and has kept it from me all this time . . .

I pick up the photo of her going to school and another memory comes flooding back.

When she got home that day, Dad decided he didn't like her new holier-than-thou college attitude. He beat her so badly, I thought about stealing his car and trying to drive her to the hospital even though I didn't know how to drive.

It was Mom who stopped me from calling 911. She told me they'd take me away from her and she'd die if she didn't have me. Then, after Dad left to drink himself stupid, she had me help her to her bathroom, where she talked me through cleaning her wounds and the art of the butterfly bandage.

The prick gave her a concussion, slamming the back of her head into the wall repeatedly. She had severe bruising on her stomach and back and a broken rib or two, I'm pretty sure, though she never confirmed that with an X-ray. And her arms were black and blue with his handprints from where he held her as he slammed her into the wall and then threw her down the stairs into the family room.

He might have killed her if I hadn't stepped in. I got off with several very sore bruises on my back where I shielded her from him, but none of that mattered as long as I kept him from killing her.

She didn't want to involve any authorities. She was protecting him.

“Look what good that did.
You left
me here with him. Alone. You selfish bitch.” I scream at her smiling face before crumpling the photo in my hand and dropping the towel from my head. It's now more red than blue.

I take the razor blade between my thumb and fingers and let it catch the light. Then I turn my wrist over and remember the deep gashes that went up each forearm.

They say it doesn't hurt. That you lose so much blood so fast that you sort of just fall asleep. That doesn't sound so bad.

The pulsing in my head has pretty much stopped. I go to examine the gash again. It's not bleeding too much anymore. And since my hair is dark and thick, it's mostly just a sticky matted mess on my head. So I get in the shower.

I let the water run hot, then I sit in the tub and allow it to wash over me—I'm too tired to stand. The cuts scream their anger, but I don't flinch. After the water runs clear again I reach to the edge of the tub, where my mom's razor-sharp friend now sits.

I pick up the small silver rectangle and turn my wrist over again. I drag the blade over my skin without pressing down. Even this draws blood. And it stings. I place it on my wrist again. All I have to do is press down and it will all end.

But I can't.

I throw the razor across the bathroom and cry in silence until the water runs cold.

I slip out of the house on Monday just as the sun's coming up to avoid another encounter with Dad. I hid in my room all day yesterday. I didn't even open the door to let Captain out. Instead I pulled the screen off of one of the small windows and pushed him up the window well to do his business—not sure why I never thought of that before. And as hungry as I might have been, I figured staying alive was better than eating. Well, I could have eaten from the spare bag of dog food in my room, but I wasn't
that
hungry. So as early as it is this morning, even after hitting McDonald's, I'll get all the houses on my shit list done with time to spare.

I check my face in the rearview mirror. My eyebrow and eyelid are so swollen, I can barely open my right eye, which is a lovely shade of blackish purple. My lip isn't as swollen as it was, but the two vertical cuts, one on the side of my upper lip and one dead center on the lower, look angry and disgusting. I'm not a pretty sight. There's no way I can go to school like this. The poor guy at the drive-thru about had a heart attack when I paid, and it was still pretty dark out.

I pull myself out of the car with a stomachache from eating too much. I'm at the house with the three Great Danes—the one house that truly makes me regret this job. The dogs are pretty cool, though—after you get used to their size and realize they're not going to eat you. But they shit like horses. I'm not kidding. One would be something, but three? It's awful.

I don't know the dogs' names, but the largest of the three, a black-and-white version of Scooby-Doo, is my biggest fan. He comes loping over as soon as I enter the yard. He jumps up, lifting all paws off the ground, to lick at my face. The first time he did it, I saw my life flash before my eyes, but I've almost grown used to it. The other two, both tan, like to jump up and put their paws on my shoulders so they're looking me right in the eye. If the black-and-white one did this, he'd be several inches taller than me. But they really are cool dogs. I kind of want one. As long as someone else cleans up the shit.

After they finally calm down, I get to work. One of the three had diarrhea. Fun stuff. Once I've finished the scooping, I use the hose to rinse off the scooper. The owner of the giant dogs, a tiny little old lady, pops her head out to call them in for breakfast and cringes at the sight of my face. As soon as the dogs are inside, she slams, then locks, the door, and then she's immediately on the phone. That can't be good.

I load my still dripping, but free of shit, tools into the trunk and head to the next address.

This is an easy one compared to the first. I've never seen the dog that lives here, but it's relatively small. And it always uses the same corner of the yard to do its business. I'd like to know how the owner accomplished that. I'd love to teach Captain that trick.

After rinsing off my tools, I head back to my car to find Rick peeling the “Sh*t, Richie!” decal off the driver's side.

He does not look happy.

“I'm running a legitimate business. I can't have people who look up to no good letting themselves into respectable people's yards.” He gestures at me with his magnetic decals.

I open my mouth to explain, but he raises his hand. “I don't care. You're done.” Then he comes over to snatch the tools from my hand. “I won't be needing your services anymore.”

He slaps two twenties in my palm even though I've only earned $35 so far this morning. Does he expect me to give him change?

“You know you shovel shit, right?” I say as I pocket the cash.

He glares at me as he gets into his car. Then he revs his engine to emphasize how pissed he is. His window's down, so I say, “I guess it doesn't matter to you that my prick father is responsible for my beautiful face.” His expression turns to one of “Oh, shit” and I immediately wish I hadn't said it. I don't even know
why
I said it. It's kind of a relief, but I'm also terrified. What if he calls the authorities? Dad might actually try to kill me, or I'd end up killing him. Either way, one of us would be dead and the other would be fucked for life.

Rick starts to say something but I cut him off.

“Don't bother. You can take your shitty job.”

I get in my car and crank up my stereo so I'm not tempted to hear his apology. Then I throw it into gear and race up the street.

Well, shit. I really needed that money. As soon as my face heals, I'll have to go looking for another second job. With hours that don't conflict with my primary job or school. Right. Screw that Great Dane lady. I'm tempted to leave Captain's shit in a flaming bag on her doorstep, but then I'm worried that one of the Great Danes will run at it and get burned in the process. They don't strike me as particularly smart dogs.

• • •

My phone wakes me just after five p.m. I don't even remember falling asleep. Thank god someone woke me up before Dad came home because A) I'm on the couch, B) my bedroom door is wide open, and C) from the pile of junk food wrappers and empty soda cans on the coffee table, it's pretty obvious that I didn't go to school today.

“Hello?” The number is one I don't recognize.

“Hey.” The voice sounds worried. “It's Jordyn.”

Long pause.

“I got your number from your paperwork,” she says. “When you didn't come to school . . . I . . .” She exhales heavily. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay. So, are you?”

“I've been better,” I say. “I probably won't be there tomorrow, or maybe for the rest of the week.”

“Because of your former football friends?”

“N— Um, not entirely.”

“You don't . . . um . . . You want me to let you go?” Jordyn asks.

I sigh. I'm not sure. It is kind of nice to talk to someone. “I got fired today.”

“Fired? From the dog shit thing?”

“Yep.”

“How does one get fired from picking up dog shit?”

“One would have noticeable bruising from fighting and look, and I quote, ‘up to no good.'”

“You're kidding.”

“I never kid about dog shit.”

She laughs. “Well, we can carpool again. You know, so you don't have to spend money on gas and stuff. If you want.”

“So, what? Are we, like, friends now?”

“I'll have to get back to you.” I can hear her smile. It almost makes me smile myself. But then I hear a car outside and jump off the couch.

“I gotta go,” I say, hanging up. “Captain!” I quickly gather my trash and stand at the door leading down to the basement, frantically signaling with my free hand for the damn dog to move faster. As soon as he's in, I lock the door. Just as the front door slams. Now I'm trapped for the night. And goddamn it if I'm not starving. I wonder if I'd fit through Captain's new window exit. With my luck I'd probably get stuck.