Thicker Than Water

For my brother

THE BEGINNING IS THE WORD AND THE END IS SILENCE.

AND IN BETWEEN ARE ALL THE STORIES.

—Kate Atkinson,
Human Croquet

THIS IS THE TRUTH. THE WHOLE TRUTH. NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH.

I was seventeen, it was weeks from graduation, and I was crouched behind a foldout couch, crushing a pile of pizza boxes and trying not to gag from the smell. The footfalls on the basement floor were close; they stuttered to a stop, then moved in the other direction. For a moment, it was just me, the rotting pizza, and a busted-up beanbag chair leaking tiny Styrofoam beads onto the trash. Like snow, they made my surroundings feel almost clean and a little less desperate. But desperate was a state of mind I had started to get used to.

I tried to remember something beautiful.

I tried to remember something real.

Like how I used to hear my brother's name and picture a strong, healthy boy. Always bigger, always faster—like a hurricane or a tornado. I was just the breeze that followed.

Back when we were kids, the only time Cyrus and I were
ever equal was on the backyard swing set's glider. With our weight evenly distributed, our bodies aligned, we moved as one person. I'd felt delirious with the momentum, the up and down of it. Those were the times when I was just as good, just as steady as my sure-footed older brother. My arms and legs and hands were, like his, considered assets.

When Mom would call us in for lunch, it was a contest to see who'd jump off first. Whoever was left on the glider would have to slow to a wobbly stop before safely getting down. When I was my smallest self, Cyrus used to let me win. When we got older, though, he'd stick out his tongue and tumble off, leaving me airborne and stranded like someone he barely knew at all.

And lately?

Well, lately I just stared at Cyrus as though he might disappear, as though his flesh would fizzle and fade away. There were days when I wished he would.

And now he had.

Still squatting behind the couch, I waited through another minute of uncertain silence before moving to stand up. As I gripped the edge of a nearby trash can, I felt something ooze between my fingers. I think it was what was left of my heart.

“FREEZE!”

And I did, half of my body still concealed behind the couch and ankle-deep in garbage.

“Down on the ground! Now! Now!”

I fell to my knees like it was time to pray, but it was way
too late for that. Somehow the officer's handcuffs felt far less painful than the ache deep in my body.

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

Anything I said
should
be used against me in a court of law.

My brother was dead.

My brother
is
dead.

And I'm the one who killed him.

“YOU HAVE TO TALK TO ME, CECELIA.”

Jennifer, my public defender, stares at me like I'm the laundry—an undesirable task that's never really finished, but keeps needing to be done. Over and over and over again.

I know she wants to start “prepping me” for my hearing. That's what she calls it—prepping. I've asked her not to use that word, that
prepping
reminds me of pom-poms and Lady Speed Stick. She doesn't laugh. Jennifer never laughs at what I say. That's why I trust her.

Lately, when I'm unsuccessfully trying to fall asleep, I imagine I'm online. I miss computers. I can practically feel the keyboard under my fingertips. I open a search engine. I type in my name.

The same word pops up first every time.

MURDERER.

I swallow. Jennifer is staring at me, her pen pressed hard against her legal pad. I look away and start grinding my teeth.

“I
am
talking to you,” I finally mumble. I just knew there wasn't anything to say—nothing that meant anything.

She sighs, leaning back in the metal folding chair. Jennifer's tired. Tired of me, probably, but also tired of her job. I don't think she really likes being a public defender. When she caps her pen and shoves back her chair, I know she's pissed. She stands up and walks over to the wall, looking at it like it's an exit.

“There's someone I want you to meet,” she says to the wall. “She's a therapist.”

“
Another
shrink?”

I'm tempted to slam my head against the metal edge of the table. Instead, I tug on the ends of my hair. Frayed black strands fall out painlessly, and I'm sort of disappointed.

“
Shrink
is a verb, not a noun,” Jennifer says. “Besides, you've only spoken to the court-appointed psychologist. The prosecution and the defense can have you evaluated by their own experts.”

I'm not really against the idea of being evaluated. I'm
used
to being evaluated. I was a straight-A student. I scored a 5 on the AP Calc exam. I got the most strikes when I went bowling. I had the fewest strokes when I miniature-golfed.

I stare at Jennifer's back, at the place where a discreet seam runs down the center of her navy suit jacket. If bodies were divided in half, I wonder what would hold us together. I look down at my hands.

“Look, CeCe . . .” Jennifer's voice is closer, and I see she's moved back to her chair. Her right hand is resting on the table between us. “I know that this isn't easy for you, but I have a job to do here, and that job is to prove that the decisions you made weren't decisions at all—that they were involuntary reactions of a traumatized girl. It's the difference between acquittal and incarceration.”

I don't want to think about that. Instead, I look around at the pale walls, calm and creamy like after-dinner mints.

Jennifer was the one who came up with the Brilliant Plan that got me here. This place, the Behavioral Therapy unit, is like a hospital, but it's inside Piedmont Juvenile Correctional Facility. A group of us are housed here together with twenty-four-hour suicide surveillance and mandatory therapy. By getting me enrolled in their ninety-day program, Jennifer said she could prove to the judge that I was “seeking and receiving treatment for my dissociative tendencies and destructive behaviors.” She said I should be grateful—that I could be stuck in the general population. Here, there's less likelihood of me getting my ass kicked or my bed pissed in.

“So, then, why am I seeing this . . . therapist?” I ask her.

“Because she's different.”

For the first time in—well, ever, actually—I see the hint of a smile on Jennifer's face. It's empty, though—all mouth, no eyes.

“Trina specializes in trauma therapy. She works with kids from troubled homes—orphans, teen prostitutes, the homeless.”

“Is she a talk-show host?”

Jennifer gives me a dirty look and ignores my snarkiness. I don't know why I said it. She's just trying to help. “She uses unique methods with her patients. I think you should try some different interventions before we face a judge.”

“I'm not big on hypnosis.”

“Good, because you'll need to be awake and focused when you work with Trina.”

“Fantastic. There's nothing I like better than being conscious.”

Jennifer stands again and tucks her pen into her inside jacket pocket. I watch her scan the table, making sure she didn't leave any stray staples or paper clips that I could stab myself with.

“Just give her a chance, CeCe. Can you do that?”

I shrug. I was bluffing about the hypnosis. I'd do just about anything to escape reality. I used to be able to Etch A Sketch my life away—give myself a good shake, fall asleep at night, and the next morning things felt blank and bright, open to possibility.

Now my nights are full of anything
but
sleeping. It's like the only thing my brain knows how to do is remember.

“When is she coming?” I ask as Jennifer heads for the door. She juggles her briefcase and keys in one hand while she slides her ID card over the electronic sensor. The lock clicks and she pushes the door open with her foot before turning to look at me.

“Tomorrow, maybe? The day after? She'll come by before our next appointment.”

I nod and mumble, “Okay.”

I stand up as Tom, the security guard, comes in to get me. He's wearing Uniform #2. Tom has three uniforms that he washes and wears in rotation. You can tell which day it is by which stain is on his shirt—today it's the ketchup, still pale orange and embedded in the fibers like a scar.

“See you later, CeCe.”

Jennifer always says good-bye with her back turned, already in the process of walking away. If I were more sentimental, I'd say it's because she hates leaving me here. In reality, I know she thinks I'm exactly where I should be.

“Okay, Tom,” I grumble, “take me back to my cell.”

Everything about Tom is dark and thick—his neck, his torso, his legs. A chip right off the Mr. T block.

“We don't call them cells, CeCe. Consider this a hospital—a place to get well.”

“Sure, whatever you say.”

I have years of lockup to look forward to. Might as well start “prepping” myself for the future.

I've learned that when you squint, everything looks the same no matter where you are. You can pretend you're going blind or popping muscle relaxers—anything that blurs your vision enough to make things seem hazy and acceptable. So that's what I've been doing since I got to Piedmont—longer than that, if I'm being honest. It also explains some of my
bruises; I keep running into door jambs and shelving units. I'm peering down at a tender purple splotch on my arm when Aarti gets back from therapy.

Aarti is a lot of things. She's my roommate. She's Indian. She's beautiful. She was married to a hippie psychology professor she met in Calcutta when she was seventeen. But when she moved with him to the States, she learned what being married to him really entailed.

First, her husband demanded that she pose naked for one of his Human Sexuality classes. After that, he started “lending her out” to friends, like a movie everyone has to see. Like a carpet steamer. Like a whore. Which is probably why she shot him. It's too bad he survived, if you ask me.

I know this for the same reason everyone else does—because of group therapy. If it's your first time, you have to talk. At least, you're supposed to. Aarti was surprisingly forthcoming. It took me a few sessions to be honest, and even then I said only what I had to.

“Yes, I'm here until my hearing.”

“Yes, I'm facing serious charges.”

“No, I'm not ready to talk about it.”

Aarti's hair isn't as black as mine, but it must have been once. Now it's almost burgundy—the color of someone's lipstick or nail polish. I wonder if that's something she wanted to do or if it was her husband's idea.

“Do you want lunch?” she asks me, unfolding a cardigan sweater and pulling it on over her blouse and slacks. We get to keep our street clothes in Behavioral Therapy, but
that isn't doing Aarti any favors. She dresses like someone's mom—librarian chic.

“I'm not hungry.”

She nods, pushing up her sleeves. The material bunches around her elbows.

“Do you want me to sneak something back for you?”

I shake my head and watch her tie her shoes, one sleeve of her sweater beginning to slip back down her arm. I bet she pushes it back up again. I'll bet she does it a dozen times before giving up, before letting the sweater win. I want to stop her, to tell her everything comes undone eventually. Sometimes it takes only a matter of seconds for your whole life to unravel.

Then I remember why she's here and I figure it's a lesson she's already learned.

“Actually . . .” I trail off when Aarti turns back around to look at me. Then I look down at my hands. “Maybe you could bring me an apple or a banana or something? For later?”

She shrugs. “Sure—no problem.”

Her amenable nature feels like a gift. I wish I could let myself get closer to her. We've been sharing this space for weeks and I've barely been able to hold a normal conversation with my own roommate. Then again, it's not like this shit is college. And it's not like she owes me gossip sessions or lecture notes. We're both here as a means to an end. I wonder if her potential end feels as impossibly empty as mine.

Once the door shuts behind her, I lie back on the twin
bed and look at the textured ceiling. I've spent hundreds of hours looking at every different surface in this room: above me where the plaster swirls in cake-icing peaks, minus the sugary sweetness; below my feet at the linoleum peel-n-stick tile that I'm pretty sure is covering another, even uglier layer of flooring; and the walls, evenly coated in a pale green color that I assume is supposed to be calming.

I like the walls best; the surface ripples and flattens at points where fists or feet or foreheads slammed into the drywall, then were filled back in with plaster. All those spots are strangely smooth, like a useless, obvious cover-up, just a Band-Aid over a bullet hole.

For a long moment, I consider following Aarti, going to eat and being social and not “isolating myself within the confines of my thoughts,” or whatever Dr. Barnes likes to accuse me of doing when I stay in my room for too long. I just don't want to sit there at dinner and listen to everyone chatter on like there's real hope in their future. I don't want to watch them bite and chew and swallow their food like they're fueling something when my only impulse is to abstain. The truth is that I'm never hungry anymore and I don't miss the sensation. I don't miss a lot of things, considering what's waiting for me out in the world. Or what isn't waiting for me, really. In fact, the only things I wish I had more of were books. Like a hotel room, our nightstand is stocked with a paperback King James edition of the Bible. I've yet to figure out the ethics of this; I can't imagine the Bible-thumpers look too kindly on convicts. Honestly,
though, it's kind of nice to have access to words, however difficult they may be to swallow.

I've been mingling in Psalms for a few days. At first, they put me to sleep. I'd see patterns in the sentences, a rhythm that made my eyes droop. But yesterday I came across a quote I keep rehashing.

Stand in awe and sin not: commune with your own heart upon your bed, and be still.

I like it—it gives me an excuse to sit here, motionless, and consider it a part of my healing process. You can't really be doing the wrong thing when you're hardly doing anything at all. Of course, I don't think God would be too thrilled that I ripped out the page and stuffed it under my mattress. Just one more strike against me, I guess.

I pull it out now and start folding between the sections. I remember how, in Geometry, we'd make these paper triangles, isosceles and equilateral, and color them with markers. Which reminds me of another thing I miss—bright colors. Colors that commit to a hue that isn't muted or toned down or a watery, weak version of its former self.

I crease the page along the margins; the paper is almost too thin to tuck into itself without sliding back apart. Once I've finished folding, I admire the three corners, perfect and crisp. I like when things are even—equal angles, symmetrical sides. It makes me feel like there's still such a thing as order in my life, as though I still have some control in this new world I never expected to live in.