Under My Skin (22 page)

Decision made, I creep downstairs, grab my jacket from the coat rack in the foyer, and slip outside, rushing to the path. I don’t slow down until I’m well out of sight. I hate sneaking, but I don’t need Mum offering to come along with me. I can see her now, walking in her heels and bundled in layers of clothes, a thick coat, scarf, and a hat and gloves, taking two steps to my one.

It’s late afternoon. The sun falls steadily toward the horizon. Deep shadows claim most of the woods. It’s only a few acres of land between suburban cul-de-sacs and housing developments, but already it seems a world away from where I’ve been.

Fallen leaves and loose stones crunch under my feet. My pulse whooshes in my ears, no hitches or unnatural pauses. It matches the rhythmic brush of my breath in and out of my lungs. The farther I go, the more surrounded I am by an earthy mixture of sharp pine, bitter dirt, and rotting leaf matter.

This is what I’m looking for, isn’t it? Being in nature, witnessing the elements directly instead of through a TV or computer screen or reading it in a book.

I shiver off the descending chill as I wind my way down the sloping trail. A small pond is at the bottom. Pale tan reeds line the far side. Some are bent over, as if tired from fighting the cold. Although it isn’t officially winter, some snow has fallen (and mostly melted off again) and the nights are frosty enough to freeze the pond’s surface.

The last time I went skating my head barely reached Dad’s hip. At first, he skated behind me, holding me up by my armpits. When I got my footing, he’d let me go a few feet on my own. I fell a lot, but it didn’t matter. I craved the wind against my face and the feel of floating as I skimmed across the ice.

I close my eyes, trying hard to remember the sensation. Like the oak branches straining for the sky, I grasp at the memory, but can’t reach it. It’s from my past life. Too faint. Almost dream-like. Intangible.

Toggling my lip ring, I open my eyes.

Living means action. Living means taking chances. Living means doing stupid things and getting high on the rush.

I ease one foot onto the ice and slowly put some weight on it. It holds firm, so I add my other foot, inching forward a bit. No cracks, no pops. A smile pulls at my mouth.

Like an old man without a walker, I slide ahead and make my way across the surface. Soon, I’m standing in the middle, free and trapped all at once. Free because I’m actually doing something, by myself, without Mum’s watchful gaze, without the chance of my heart flipping into a lethal rhythm. Trapped because the only way off is to complete the trek or return the way I came.

I tip my head back to the darkening sky. What’s the hurry? I’m making my own life. I can stay here as long as I want.

Snap!

I startle, scanning the surrounding ice for a crack.

Pop!

Sure enough, there’s a fracture line extending from my right foot, forward and back.

More rattles and rumbles shudder across the pond. The vibrations tickle my feet.

My whole body tenses. I’m in trouble.

I squint into the reeds ahead. Dusk is upon me and I can’t clearly make out where the shore is among the brittle spears. I glance over my shoulder. The shore is flatter and more open there.

Okay, I’ve got two options. Make a run for it and risk stomping into a crack or inch my way in reverse and hope the ice holds out long enough for me to make it. Sudden movement seems like a bad idea.

I slide one foot toward the shore to start my retreat. That’s when the ice gives way and I plunge in. The little harmless pond instantly becomes a death trap. I gasp at the cold and suck in slimy water. Submerged in a few feet of dark water, I lose my orientation. My clothes weigh me down. I force my eyes open and flail my arms and legs.

I break the surface and spit out a mouthful of frigid algae-laden pond water. Grunting and choking, tongue and face covered in slime, I latch onto the jagged edge of ice to slide onto it, but it gives way too. Like a cutter ship breaking a path along a frozen river, I chop my way to the shore. All with a lot of splashing, gasping, groaning, and crying.

Exhausted, I roll onto the shore wheezing.

My first attempt at living life, really living life, brought me closer to death than my crappy old heart did.

The irony.

I laugh and laugh and laugh. It’s coarse at first, gravelly from the grime and dirt I choked on, then clearer and more high-pitched with every new breath.

“
Adam!
” Mum’s screech cuts through my maniacal barking.

I cough some more and roll onto my side. “Mum.”

“David, he’s over here.” Mum crashes through the woods. Her flashlight beam bounces around until it lands on me.

I squint, lifting a hand to block its piercing brightness.

Mum drops to her knees at my side. “What are you doing?” She drops the flashlight and cups my face with both hands.

“I fell in,” is all I can manage to say.

Dad jogs up to us. He kneels next to Mum. “What the hell are you doing out here?”

Mum grips my jacket. “He’s soaked. Let’s get him inside, then we can find out what happened.”

I need their help to hold my weight on the walk back to the house. Mum wants to supervise me in the shower, but I don’t let her. Even with the water on the hottest setting, it takes a long time for me to thaw. When I finally make it downstairs, Dad has built a roaring fire in the fireplace. Mum forces me to drink a steaming mug of chicken noodle soup and two cups of tea. She checks my temperature every fifteen minutes, asking me a thousand and one times if I swallowed pond water.

While I roast by the crackling blaze covered in three blankets, she paces the room, wringing her hands. “I should ring Doctor Jervis. You may need to be checked out. Maybe we should go to the ER.”

“I don’t want to go to the ER. I’m fine.” I peek up at her, then to Dad.

He scratches his chin. “We can call the doctor tomorrow.”

“What if he has hypothermia?”

“His temperature is normal, Lisa.”

Mum stops wearing a rut into the carpet. Dad’s level-headed tone seems to calm her. She sits next to me on the ottoman. “What on earth possessed you to go out there and walk on the ice? Any fool would know it wasn’t solid enough.” She all but screeches.

Maybe I spoke too soon about the calm part. “It was pretty stupid,” I admit.

Tears well in her eyes. She brushes my hair away from my forehead. “Were you trying to kill yourself?”

My breath catches. “Wh-what?”

“It’s just … from everything Doctor Shaw was saying, to you being depressed and distant, and not talking to your friends … what am I supposed to think?”

Whatever pond scum I ingested bubbles in my stomach, spiced with Mum’s words. “I’m not suicidal.” I launch to my feet, casting off the blankets.

Dad stumbles back. Mum leans away, wide-eyed.

“I’m trying to live.”

And totally sucking at it.

Darby

I give Mom the silent treatment on the way home after session. I skip dinner too. Mom knocks on my bedroom door and announces she’s left a plate for me on the floor. I wait for her footsteps to fade away before opening the door to drag the tray in my room.

Two slices of greasy cheese pizza—definitely delivery—crowd the plate. A container of chocolate milk sits next to a bowl of homemade butterscotch pudding. Silverware is wrapped in a linen napkin tucked neatly between the plate and bowl. I balance the tray on an uneven stack of books on the floor.

While chewing on a bite of burnt cheese and gummy dough, I listen to Adam’s message. Then play it again. He trips up so many times it’s like he can’t get out of his own way. I must’ve been out of my mind to think he was cute.

I toss the pizza aside and do the same with my phone.

The painting, the first I’ve done since Daniel’s death, the one that brought me back to life, leans against my dresser. Adam’s beautiful eye—as I see it with a bold mixture of colors and brushstrokes—watches me, bright and open, but also mocking and taunting. Adam has my brother’s heart. He’s alive because Daniel is dead. The boy “muse.”

Adam’s eye calls to me. Squeezes my head. I fight the tug of anger snaking across my shoulders, down my arms, and to my hands.

My c-collar seems to close tighter around my throat. Sweat slicks my skin underneath it. So itchy. I tug at the Velcro straps, tearing them open. I drop the collar on the floor, gaze superglued to the painting.

I’m torn between swooning in the depths of the multicolored iris and shoving my fist through the pupil. Shit, why’d I have to recreate his eye so perfectly? It’s like Adam himself is staring at me through the layers of paint.

I replay his stuttering message. The softness of his accent melts me. He soothes my pain.

And, somehow, he’s also causes it.

I can’t face him again knowing a part of Daniel is inside him. I can’t. Not after he lied to me about it.

Enough!
I flip the painting over so if faces my dresser. It cuts the connection and I breathe with relief, free from my own creation.

The break won’t last. I’m in the canvas too. And some of Daniel, because he’s now a part of Adam.

We’re all anchored to one another.

I drop to the floor, empty.

I don’t know if I’ll find the strength to stand again.

* * *

A bunch of bangs at the door wakes me.

“Darby!” Mom knocks some more.

I curl onto my side and groan. Pain shoots from my hip to shoulder. Sleeping on the floor. Bad idea. “Mom.”

“Open the door or so help me, I’ll rip off the lock.”

I clear my throat. God, my neck feels like a loose rubber band. “Give me a minute.”

“
Now
, Darby.”

Mini shocks bite at my fingertips as I push off the floor to sit up. I use the bed to climb to my feet. The c-collar lies next to me. I stumble to it and put it on before opening the door. Mom already has enough reasons to be pissed at me. I don’t want her to freak out about not wearing the damn thing. “What?”

Mom’s lowered brows and thinned lips switch into a wide-eyed, wrinkled-forehead mask of concern. “You look awful.”

“Thanks.” I tug on the hem of my shirt.

She exhales through her nose. “You’re going to be late for school.”

“I’m not going.” I swing the door to close it.

Mom blocks me with her toe. “Yes, you are. Get washed up, or at least change out of those clothes. Weren’t you wearing them yesterday?”

“So?”

“You have ten minutes. I’ll meet you in the car.”

“Whatever.” I slam the door.

Doesn’t take long for muffled shouts start downstairs. Mom’s high-pitched whine mixes with Dad’s deeper barks. Soon after, heavy footsteps pound up the stairs.

I sit on my bed, waiting for the tornado to hit.

Dad bursts into my room, chest-puffed out and face red. “What’s this about you not going to school?”

“It’s simple. I’m staying home.”

“You need to catch up.”

“I missed over two weeks, so what’s the difference?” I cross my leg and swing my foot back and forth.

“The difference is you were in the hospital and now you’re not. Skipping will only get you further behind.” He straightens the knot of his tie, even though it’s already centered.

“I don’t care.” I crawl to the head of the bed and hug Daniel’s plush basketball.

Dad strokes his shaved chin. “Is there anything you
do
care about?”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “Go away.”

A shadow creeps over me. I open my eyes to Dad looming over me.

He grabs my arm and hauls me off the bed. “You’re going to school, even if I have to drag you kicking and screaming.”

I squirm, but he’s at least twice my size and three times as strong. My arms throb from his iron grip. Tears scald my eyes. “Let go. You’re hurting me. Dad!”

He releases me. “I’m sorry.”

I stumble backward, rubbing my upper arms. “No you’re not,”

“Can’t make it easy, can you?”

“
Easy
. You think losing my brother is easy, or wearing this fucking neck brace is easy, or that being in this house, knowing you and Mom would rather have Daniel here, is easy? No, it’s not.”

He huffs and puffs like the wolf in
Red Riding Hood
. “You don’t know the half of it, little girl. You’re not the only one who’s lost someone. My son is dead, my wife is so riddled with grief I don’t know how to make her feel better, and my daughter is circling around the drain. So it’d be wise of you to realize you’re not the only one suffering here.”

“It’s hard to tell.”

He squares his jaw. His fisted hands shake. “When will you realize we love you?” He spins on his heel and walks out of my room.

The blaze from Dad’s anger remains after he leaves. It burns the walls. Creates smoke. The air is heavy and hot. Suffocating.

I stuff my feet in a pair of ballet flats and flee.

In the foyer, Mom is twisting her hair into a bun. Her wool coat hangs open and her crocheted bag drapes limply over her shoulder.

“Will you drop me off at school?” I ask.

Mom freezes. “Uh … s-sure.”

I follow her outside.

We’re both quiet for the entire ride. I don’t mind.

After pulling up to the school’s main entrance, she unlocks the doors, then grips the steering wheel like she’s choking it. Instead of saying goodbye or wishing me good luck, she stares straight ahead at the bus parked in front of us.

I leave everything I want to say unsaid in the car seat and I don’t look back. Mom can eat the conversation we didn’t have all the way to work. It can get stuck in her teeth, scrape down her throat, and upset her stomach, just like it’s doing to me.

With a hand pressed to my belly, I head toward the art room. The idea of sitting in homeroom, going to classes, fake listening, and acting like everything is normal sounds like Hell.

Since art class is only offered in the afternoon (the teacher works part-time here and at another school), I have the place to myself. The room is dark. I flip on the lights and stride to my stack of canvases. A cloth with my name painted across the surface covers them. I drag it off the pile and fold it. The ritual calms me. So does organizing my drawer of brushes and pigments.