November 9: A Novel (30 page)

He should be embarrassed.

I should help him grieve properly.

I should punch the hood of the car
for
him. And even though I know nothing good will come of this, I’m already out of my car and halfway across the road before I tell myself it’s not a good idea. But when it comes to a battle between your adrenaline and your conscience, adrenaline always wins.

I reach the car and don’t even bother looking around me to see if anyone is outside. I know they aren’t. It’s after eleven at night by now. No one is probably even awake on this street, and even if they were, I wouldn’t care.

I pick up the rag and inspect it, hoping there’s something special about it. There isn’t, but I decide to use it to open the car door. Don’t want to leave fingerprints behind if I accidentally scratch up his car.

The inside of the car is even nicer than the outside. Pristine condition. Cherry-red leather seats. Wood grain trim. There’s a pack of cigarettes and some matches on the console, and it disappoints me that my mother would love a smoker.

I look back at the house and then I look back down at the matches. Who uses matches anymore? I swear I keep finding more and more reasons to hate him.

Go back to your car, Ben. There’s been enough excitement for one day.

Adrenaline beats down my conscience yet again. I glance back at the gas can.

I wonder . . .

Would Donovan be more upset over his precious little classic car going up in flames than he was over my mother’s death?

I guess we’ll soon find out, because my adrenaline is picking up the gas can and pouring the liquid over the tire and up the side of the car. At least my conscience is still alert enough to know to set the can back right where he kicked it. I strike one and only one of the matches, and then I flick it out of my fingers—just like they do in the movies—as I walk back to my car.

The air makes a quick
whoosh
sound behind me. The night lights up like someone just turned on Christmas lights.

When I reach my car, I’m smiling. It’s the first time I’ve smiled today.

I crank my car and patiently drive away, feeling somewhat justified for what she did to herself. For what she did to me.

And finally, for the first time since finding her body this morning, a tear falls out of my eye.

And then another.

And another.

I begin to cry so hard that it’s too hard to see the road in front of me. I pull over on a hill. I lean across the steering wheel and my cries turn to sobs, because I miss her. It hasn’t even been a day and I miss her so fucking much and I have no idea why she would do this to me. It feels so personal, and I hate that I’m selfish enough to believe that it had anything to do with me, but didn’t it? I lived with her. I was the only one left still in that house. She knew I would be the one to find her. She knew what this would do to me and she still did it and I’ve never loved someone I hate so much, and I’ve never hated someone I love so much.

I cry for so long that the muscles in my stomach begin to ache. My jaw hurts from the tension. My ears hurt from the blare of the sirens as they pass.

I glance in my rearview mirror and watch as the fire truck makes its way down the hill.

I see the orange glow against the dark sky behind me and it’s much brighter than I expect it to be.

The flames are way higher than they should be.

My pulse is pounding way harder than I want it to be.

What did I do?

What have I done?

My hands are shaking so hard, I can’t get the ignition to switch back into drive. I can’t catch my breath. My foot slips on the brake.

What did I do?

I drive. I keep driving. I try to suck in air, but my lungs feel like they’re filled with thick, black smoke. I grab my phone. I want to tell Kyle that I might be having a panic attack, but I can’t calm my hand long enough to dial his number. The phone slips from my hands and lands in the floorboard.

I only have two miles left. I can make it.

I count to seventeen exactly seventeen times and then I’m pulling into my driveway.

I stumble into the house, thankful Kyle is still awake and in the kitchen. I don’t have to try to make it upstairs to his room.

He puts his hands on my shoulders and ushers me to a chair. I expect him to start panicking with me when he sees the wide-eyed, tear-filled look on my face, but instead, he gets me water. He speaks calmly to me, but I have no idea what he’s saying. He keeps telling me to focus on his eyes, focus on his eyes, focus on his eyes.

“Focus on my eyes,” he says. It’s the first sound I process.

“Breathe, Ben.”

His voice becomes louder.

“Breathe.”

My pulse gradually begins to find a rhythm again.

“Breathe.”

My lungs begin to bring in air and dispel it like they’re supposed to do.

I breathe in and out and in and out and take another sip of water and then as soon as I can speak, I want nothing more than to get this secret out of me before I explode.

“I fucked up, Kyle.” I stand up and begin pacing. I can feel the tears on my cheeks and I hear the tremor in my voice. I squeeze my head with my hands. “I didn’t mean to do it, I swear, I don’t know why I did it.”

Kyle cuts me off mid-pace. He grips my shoulders and dips his head, looking me hard in the eyes. “What did you do, Ben?”

I suck in another huge breath and I release it as I pull away from him. And then I tell him everything. I tell him about how her bloodstain looked like Gary Busey’s head and how I read all the letters Donovan wrote to her and how I just wanted to see why she cared about that man more than us and how he didn’t get angry enough when he found out she died and how I didn’t mean to catch his house on fire, I didn’t even mean to catch his
car
on fire, that’s not why I went there.

We’re sitting now. At the kitchen table. Kyle hasn’t said very many things, but the next thing he says terrifies me more than anything has ever terrified me in my life.

“Was anyone hurt, Ben?”

I want to shake my head no, but it won’t move. My answer won’t come, because I don’t know. Of course no one was hurt. Donovan was awake, he would have gotten out in time.

Right?

I gasp for another breath when I see worry in Kyle’s eyes. He quickly pushes away from the table and stalks toward the living room. I hear the TV click on and, for a second, I have the thought that this is probably the last time that TV will ever click on to the Bravo channel now that my mother won’t be watching it anymore.

And then I hear the stations change and change again. But then I hear the words “fire” and “Hyacinth Court,” and “one injured.”

Injured.
He probably tripped running out of the house and cut his finger or something. That’s not so bad. I’m sure he had house insurance.

“Ben.”

I stand up to join Kyle in the living room. I’m sure he’s summoning me to tell me it’s okay, that everything is okay and I should go to bed.

When I reach the entryway to the living room, my feet stop moving forward. There’s a picture on the TV in the top right-hand corner. A girl. She looks familiar, and I can’t place her right away, but I don’t have to because the reporter does it for me.

“Latest reports indicate that Fallon O’Neil, sixteen-year-old lead actress in the hit TV show
Gumshoe
, has been airlifted from the scene. No word as to her condition, but we’ll keep you updated as reports come in.”

Kyle doesn’t tell me it’ll be okay.

He doesn’t say anything at all.

We stand in front of the TV, soaking up news reports that break in between infomercials. At a little after one in the morning, we learn that the girl was taken to a burn center in South Bay. Ten minutes later, we learn she’s in critical condition. At one thirty in the morning, we learn she has suffered fourth-degree burns over thirty percent of her body. At one forty-five, we learn that she is expected to survive, but will undergo extensive reconstructive surgery and rehabilitation. At one fifty, reporters state that the owner of the home admitted to spilling fuel near a car parked outside his garage. Investigators state they have no reason to believe the fire was caused intentionally, but a complete investigation will follow up to corroborate the homeowner’s claims.

One reporter insinuates that the victim’s career may be put on hold indefinitely. Another says producers will have a huge decision to make when it comes to either recasting the role or putting production on hold while the victim recovers. The news reports transition from updates on the victim to how many Emmy Awards Donovan O’Neil was nominated for during the height of his career.

Kyle turns off the television at approximately 2 a.m. He sets the remote down carefully—quietly—on the arm of the couch.

“Did anyone witness what happened?” His eyes lock with mine, and I immediately shake my head.

“Did you leave behind anything? Any possible evidence?”

“No,” I whisper. I clear my throat. “He’s right. He kicked over his gas can and then went inside the house. No one saw what I did after that.”

Kyle nods and then squeezes the tension out of the back of his neck. He takes a step closer. “So
no one
knows you were there?”

“Only you.”

He then closes the distance between us. I think he might want to hit me. I don’t know for sure, but the anger in the set of his jaw indicates he might want to. I wouldn’t blame him.

“I want you to listen to me, Ben.” His voice is low and firm. I nod. “Take off every item of clothing you’re wearing right now and put them in the washing machine. Go take a shower. And then you’re going to go to bed and forget this happened, okay?”

I nod again. I might be sick in a second, I’m not sure.

“You are never to leave the slightest traceable connection to what happened tonight. Never look those people up online. Never drive by their house again. Stay away from anything that can trace you to them. And never, ever speak another word of this. Not to me . . . not to Ian . . . not to anyone. Do you hear me?”

I’m definitely about to be sick, but I still manage to nod.

He studies my face for a minute, making sure he can trust me. I don’t dare move. I want him to know he can trust me.

“We have a lot to do tomorrow to prepare for her funeral. Try to get some sleep.”

I don’t nod again, because he walks away, turning out the lights as he goes.

I stand in the dark for several minutes. Quiet . . . still . . . alone.

I should probably be worried that I’ll get caught. I should probably be upset that from this point forward, I’ll always feel a sense of guilt whenever Kyle looks at me. I should probably be worried that this night—coupled with this morning and finding my mother—will screw me up in some way. If maybe I’ll suffer from PTSD or depression.

But none of that matters.

Because as I run up the stairs, swing open my bathroom door and expel all the contents of my stomach into the toilet, the only thing my thoughts surround is that girl and how I’ve just completely ruined her life.

I drop my forehead to my arm as I sit here with a death grip on porcelain.

I don’t deserve to live.

I don’t deserve to live.

I wonder if my bloodstain will look like Gary Busey.

I barely make it to the toilet before I throw up.

Beads of sweat trickle down my forehead.

I can’t do this.

I can’t read anymore.

There’s too much. Too much and it’s too hard and I’m too sick now to keep reading.

I somehow pull myself off the floor and make it to the sink. I wash my hands. I cup them under the stream of water and bring my hands to my mouth, swishing the water around. I do this several times, washing the taste of bile out of my mouth.

I look in the mirror at the scars that run from my cheek to my neck. I pull my shirt off and look at the scars on my arm, my breast, my waist. I run the fingers of my right hand up my arm and neck, over my cheek, and back down again. I run them over my breast and down my waist.

I lean forward until I’m flush against the counter . . . as close to the mirror as I can get. And I really look at them. I look at them with more concentration than I’ve ever looked at them before, because what I’m feeling is confusing me.

It’s the first time I’ve ever looked at them without at least a trace of anger following close behind.

Until I read Ben’s words, I never knew how much I blamed my father for what happened to me. For so long, I’ve hated him. I made it difficult for him to grieve with me over what happened. I found fault in everything he said. Every conversation we had turned into a fight.

I’m not excusing that he can be an insensitive jerk. He’s
always
been an insensitive jerk. But he’s also always loved me, and now that I have a clearer picture of what happened that night, I shouldn’t blame him for forgetting about me anymore.

I only stayed at his house once a week, and he had just found out someone he loved had died. His mind must have been wrecked. And then for me to expect him to react with perfect precision when he sees his house is on fire is way more than I should expect of him. In a matter of minutes, he was grieving and then angry and then panicking because of the fire. To expect him to immediately remember that I had texted him twelve hours earlier to let him know I was sleeping at his house that night is completely unrealistic. I didn’t live there. It wasn’t like living at home with my mom and me being the first thing she would think about in a panic. My father’s situation was completely different, and I should treat it as such. And even though we’ve kept in touch over the past few years, our relationship isn’t what it used to be. I take half the blame for that. We don’t get to choose our parents, and parents don’t get to choose their children. But we do get to choose how hard we’re willing to work in order to make the best of what we’re given.

I pull my cell phone out of my pocket and open a text to my father.

Me: Hey, Dad. Want to have breakfast tomorrow? Miss you
.