Twisted (11 page)

Because even though he likes to play dress-up in Daddy’s big-

boy suits? Emotionally, he’s an adolescent. A child.

Testicle licker.

The kind no one else likes to play with. Because when a game’s

not going his way? he smashes the board to pieces.

Urinary tract infection.

And who needs that?

Not me. No, sir. I deserve more.

Vagina.

I’m going to get through this. I’m Kate Fucking Brooks.

I will succeed.

I will survive.

I will persevere.

Whoreboy.

Even if it’s just to spite him. Stubborn is my middle name.

X-tra absorbent maxi-pad
.

I was fine before Drew, and I’ll be fine after him.

Just because I’ve never been alone, doesn’t mean I can’t be.

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I. Don’t. Need. him.

Really.

Yeasty seepage.

Are you convinced?

Zithead.

Yeah.

Me neither.

I know what you’re thinking.
Why?
That’s the big question, isn’t it?

The one Nancy Kerrigan made famous. The one everyone wants

answered when tragedy strikes.

Why, why, why?

human beings like explanations. We crave reasons, something

to blame. The levees were too low, the driver was drunk, her skirt was too short—the list is endless.

The drive from Akron to Greenville takes about three hours.

That’s a lot of time to drive. And think. And I spent the whole trip thinking about
why
.

If I had it to do all over again, I would have asked him. I wish

I could say it was all some terrible mistake. A misunderstanding—

like in
Romeo and Juliet
or
West Side Story
.

But really, what are the chances of that? If I had to guess, I’d

say Drew just wasn’t ready to grow up—to take on that level of

responsibility. Of commitment.

Look at my hand. Do you see a ring? That’s not an accident.

he’s a wonderful uncle to Mackenzie. Dedicated. Nurturing.

The kind of man who would beat the hell out of another shopper

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E m m a c h a s E

for the last Tickle Me Elmo or Cabbage Patch Kids doll, two days

before Christmas. he’d do anything for her.

But being a father is different. It’s all
on
you and yet nothing is ever
about
you again. And that’s the part I think Drew couldn’t handle.

Personally, I blame Anne and Alexandra. Don’t get me wrong,

they’re good people, but . . . let me put it this way: Last summer, Alexandra had us all up to her parents’ country place for Mackenzie’s birthday. Drew and I got there late because we pulled over on a deserted road to make out.

By the way—car sex? It’s a wonderful thing. If you ever want

to feel young and uninhibited, do it in the backseat. But I digress.

So there we are, hanging out by the pool, and I get up to grab

a slice of pizza. But does Drew get up? Of course not. Because his mother has already heated him a crispy, fresh slice in the kitchen.

And his sister brought it right to his lounge chair—with a cold

beer.

Were his legs broken? Was he suffering from some early onset

Parkinson’s disease that made it impossible for him to heat up his own food? Or—God forbid—eat it cold? No. That’s just the way

they are with him, the way they’ve always been.

Coddling. Overindulgent.

And I can’t help but think that if Anne and Alexandra had let

him get his own goddamn pizza once in a while, then maybe he

would have taken the news better. Been more prepared.

In the end, it doesn’t really matter. Knowing why doesn’t

change anything. So as I passed the WELCOME TO GREENVILLE sign,

I promised myself that I wouldn’t ever ask why again. I wouldn’t

waste the energy.

But you know something? God has a sick sense of humor.

Because I would be asking why
again
in just a few short days.

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For a completely different and infinitely more devastating reason.

Sorry to be the one to tell you this, but yes—it does actually get worse.

You’ll see.

have you ever visited your high school years after you graduated?

And the desks and the windows and the walls are the same . . . yet it still looks different? Smaller somehow.

That’s what this feels like.

Driving down Main Street, coming home, it’s all exactly like

I remember it . . . but not. The red awning outside Mr. Reynold’s

hardware store is green now. Falcone Pharmacy turned into a Rite

Aid. But the gaudy pink palm tree is still in the window of Penny’s Beauty Salon where Delores and I got our nails done before prom.

The old green park bench is still there, too, outside my parents’

restaurant, where I used to chain my bike after school.

I park the car and get out, my duffel bag hanging on my shoul-

der. It’s a little after noon, and the sun is high and hot, and air smells like sand and burning tar. I cross the street and open the

door. The hum of conversation simmers down as I stand at the

entrance, and a dozen friendly, familiar faces look me over.

Most of the people in this room have known me since I was

born. To them, I’m Nate and Carol’s daughter—the small-town,

dark haired, pigtailed girl who made good. Who beat the financial

odds and did her family proud. I’m the success story the grade

school teachers tell their students about, in the hopes of inspiring them to bigger dreams than the automobile factory has to offer.

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I force my lips to smile politely, nodding and waving brief

greetings as I make my way between the tables, toward the door in

the back. See the sign?

EMPLOYEES ONLY.

I blow out a big breath. And all the anger that kept me going—

that got me here—goes out with it. Exhaustion swamps me. And

I feel drained, empty. My limbs are boneless, like I just crossed the finish line of a ten-mile uphill marathon.

I push the door open. And the first thing I see is my mother,

bent over a table, scanning a produce delivery list.

Beautiful, isn’t she? I know most daughters think their mothers

are pretty—but mine really is. her dark brown hair is pulled into a high ponytail, like mine. her skin is fair and clear, with the barest of lines around her lips and eyes. If wrinkles are hereditary, I’ve hit the genetic jackpot.

But beyond her looks, my mother’s beautiful on the inside. It

sounds clichéd, but it’s true. She’s unchanging. Steady. Depend-

able. Life hasn’t always been easy for her—or kind. But she moved

forward, carried on, with dignity and grace. My mother isn’t an

optimist. She’s stoic, like a statue that’s still standing after a hur-ricane.

The door swings closed behind me and she lifts her head. her

eyes light up and she smiles big. “Kate!” She puts the list down and moves toward me.

Then she sees my face. And the corners of her smile fall like a

feather in the wind. her voice is hushed and laced with concern.

“Kate, what’s wrong?”

My arms give up, and my bag drops to the floor.

She takes another step.

“Katie? honey? What happened?”

Now, there is an excellent question. I should answer—but I

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can’t. Because my hands are covering my face. And the only sounds

that escape my lips are gasping sobs.

her arms pull me forward, strong and warm and smelling of

Downy April Freshness. And she holds me, tight and secure, like

only a mother can.

Remember the steel box? Yeah, it’s open now. And everything

that happened comes spilling out of it.

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The average human being spends a third of their life in bed.

Eight thousand, three hundred, thirty-three days. Two hun-

dred thousand hours.

Why am I telling you this? Because you should never feel

bad about spending a lot of money on decent bed linens. A good

blanket is priceless. When you’re young, it protects you from the

boogeyman. And when you’re not so young, it keeps your old

bones warm.

My mother pulls my down comforter up to my chin, tucking

me into my childhood bed, like a six-year-old during a thunder-

storm.

After my meltdown in the break room, she brought me upstairs

to the small but quaint two-bedroom apartment above the diner

where I was raised. Where my mother still lives. The home of my

youth.

She wipes at the tears that stream down my cheeks. I hiccup

and stutter, “I-I-I’m . . . s-so . . . s-s-stupid.”

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I was valedictorian of my high school class. I graduated from

harvard Law School.

Ignorance is not something I’m familiar with. So I can’t help

but feel that I should have known—should’ve seen this coming.

After all, I lived with Drew for two years. how long does it

take for a leopard to change its spots?

Oh, that’s right—they don’t.

My mother brushes my hair back from my face. “hush now,

Katie.”

My eyes are swollen and my nose is stuffed, making my voice

sound nasally and childlike. “W-w-what . . . am I . . . g-g-going to do, Mom?”

She smiles calmly, like she has all the answers. Like she has

the power to take away any hurt—even this one—as easily as she

used to kiss away the pain of my bumped shins and scraped knees.

“You’re going to sleep now. You’re so tired.”

She continues running her fingers through my hair. It’s

soothing. Relaxing. “Sleep now. . . . Go to sleep my sweet, sweet

girl.”

My father taught me to play the guitar, but I get my voice from

my mother. Lying in bed, I close my heavy eyes as she sings. It’s a Melissa Etheridge song about angels knowing that everything will

be all right. It’s the same song she sang to me the night my father died—the night she slept in this bed with me. Because she couldn’t bear to sleep in their bed alone.

With my mother’s voice in my ears, I finally let go.

And fall asleep.

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You know when you have a fever? And you lie in bed, and toss and

roll and twist the sheets around your legs? You’re not really sleeping, but you’re not really awake either. There’s moments of consciousness, when you open your eyes and realize with disoriented wonder that

it’s dark outside. But for the most part it’s just a foggy blur.

That’s what the next two days were like for me. A montage of

sunlight and moonlight, of tears and vomiting and trays of food

being taken away untouched.

The moments in that space between wakefulness and slumber

were the hardest. When I’d start to believe it was all some horrible nightmare conjured from watching too many
90210
reruns. I’d feel a pillow against my back and swear it was Drew behind me.

he gives the best wake-up calls—it’s our own little tradition. Every morning he presses up against me and whispers in my ear, worshipping me with his words and with his hands.

But then I would open my eyes and see that the pillow was just

a pillow. And it felt like a newly formed scab being torn off—I bled a little more each time.

There just aren’t words to describe how I missed him. None

that could even come close.

I physically ached for his smile, his scent, his voice.

Imagine a car’s going sixty miles an hour down a country road and

a tree falls and the car hits it.
Boom
—instant stoppage. But if the person in the driver’s seat isn’t wearing a seat belt? They’re still going sixty.

And that’s what love is like.

It doesn’t just stop. No matter how hurt or wronged or angry

you are—the love’s still there.

Sending you right through the windshield.

On the evening of the second day, I open my eyes and stare

out the window. It doesn’t rain often in Greenville, but it’s drizzling now.

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Fitting—what with the black cloud over my head and every-

thing.

Then I hear my bedroom door open. I roll over. “Mom, could

you . . .”

Only it’s not my mother standing there. My voice is quiet,

softly surprised. “Oh—hey, George.”

You remember George Reinhart, don’t you? Steven’s widower

father? he and my mom are together. They hooked up at Matthew

and Delores’s wedding.

Don’t worry—I’ve tried to block that part out too.

But they’ve been going strong about a year now. In spite of

George’s best efforts, my mother refuses to move to New York. She

says Greenville is her home, that she likes her independence. So

George comes down here pretty often to visit—weeks at a time.

And my mom reciprocates when she can.

George is a good guy. he’s kind of like Jimmy Stewart in
It’s

a Wonderful Life
—a little on the dorky side, sure, but decent. The kind of man you’d want looking after your mom.