Page 18 of Identical


  Guess I’ll make myself something

  to eat. Something substantial.

  I’m starving. Too bad the pantry

  looks like a raiding party came

  through. Manuela usually handles

  grocery store duty, but she had

  an asthma attack and wound up

  in the hospital. Wonder if Hannah

  took care of her in the ER. Wonder

  if Hannah will do the shopping

  this week. Wonder if I can make

  spaghetti with tomato soup and

  ramen noodles. Sounds disgusting,

  but beggars cannot be choosers. Oh,

  wait. Two boxes of mac and cheese.

  At least it’s the kind with the cheese

  in a can, not the stuff with fluorescent

  orange chem cheese powder. I make

  both boxes, because two is always

  better than one. That’s my motto.

  Double the Pleasure

  I polish off every bite of both

  boxes. Enough, according to

  the label, to feed a family of

  four. Twice. Not a very hungry

  family, if you ask me.

  Double the pleasure. Now I

  feel the need for liquid fun.

  Tucked away in a low cabinet

  is my parents’ liquor stash.

  Can’t touch the Turkey.

  The smell gags me and anyway,

  Daddy would notice it missing.

  The Chopin vodka, stashed in

  the freezer, is a different

  song, and I’m so ready

  to drink that slushy tune.

  I’ll never sleep without it.

  Too many conflicts, volleying

  inside my head, bouncing

  off the interior of my skull.

  I don’t really like the taste

  of vodka, but they say you

  can’t smell it on the breath.

  Not sure if that’s true, or

  if it matters. Even if Daddy

  did wake up, he couldn’t smell

  the vodka for the Turkey.

  Double the Fun

  I poke my head into the living

  room. Daddy hasn’t so much

  as twitched, at least that’s my guess.

  The rest of the house is quiet

  as death. Think I’m safe.

  I fill a juice glass half full

  of fermented potato juice, try

  not to think about such ingredients

  as I down the clear, hot-and-cold

  liquid. Cold, as in not-quite frozen.

  Hot, as in its burn down the throat.

  Frozen smolder, a popular combo.

  Phew! Chopin is definitely

  not cabernet. Still, while I feel

  it on my tongue, I don’t feel it

  in my brain. Probably the mega

  macaroni meal. This time

  I fill the four-ounce glass

  almost to the brim, think

  about adding some water

  to the bottle before I put it away,

  decide against it. I doubt

  anyone will miss it, and I might

  want an encore performance.

  Clutching the glass like

  a baby holds a bottle,

  I pad softly down the hall,

  to my room. I try sipping

  the vodka, but gulping

  it is easier, and very quickly,

  the glass is empty again.

  Shouldn’t I feel inebriated?

  Ha. Funny word. Inebri…

  ineb…whoa. Wouldn’t

  want to have to spell it!

  I-n-i…er, inebre…okay,

  so maybe the Chopin

  is singing a little ditty

  after all. I’m usually

  a really good speller.

  I Start to Feel

  A little fuzzy at the edges,

  and warm behind my eyes.

  Fuzzy and warm. That makes

  me think of Ian. I glance

  at the clock. Not quite nine.

  I think I can get away with

  a quick phone call. One ring,

  two ringies…three ringy

  dingies…C’mon, Ian. Pick up.

  Finally, Hello? Kaeleigh?

  What’s wrong? He waits

  patiently for me to explain

  just why I’m actually calling

  him. This is something rare.

  “Nu…nothing. I just wanted

  t-to say…uh…” What did

  I want to say again? Oh, yeah.

  I remember. “Uh…um…”

  I can’t finish it, and his

  patience comes unraveled.

  Have you been drinking?

  I could lie, but he’d know

  I was lying. “Uh, maybe

  a little…” Ball’s in his court.

  He rallies. I don’t get it,

  Kaeleigh. Why tonight?

  Wasn’t today good for you?

  I think back. Good. Good.

  Sorta good. Not so good.

  Better now. Or is it really?

  Don’t say any of that! “It

  was wonderful. That’s

  why I called. To tell you…”

  Grow a pair, Kaeleigh. Tell

  him. He needs to hear it

  right now. “I lu…love you.”

  Pregnant pause. About nine

  months pregnant. I love you, too.

  But love doesn’t make me drink.

  What Does Make Him Drink?

  I wonder, trying my damnedest

  not to giggle. My entire core

  knows laughing will make

  him turn his back forever.

  So why do I really need to laugh?

  (Oh girl, too many reasons to

  mention!) “S-so-sorry, Prince

  P-p-p-perfect. I guess th-that means…”

  Brother! Why won’t my mouth

  work? Straighten up and say it.

  “Guess that means you never

  found out your dad is s-scr…”

  I swallow any sort of apology.

  “Screwing your neighbor.”

  There. Said it. React, okay?

  Pregnant pause becomes three

  weeks overdue. Four weeks.

  Time for a C-section. What?

  Oh, Kaeleigh, I’m so sorry.

  Are you sure…?

  Spoken like a true guy. Even

  if I’m not sure, I say, “Of course

  I’m damn well sure. Do you think

  I drink for the fun of it?”

  I Regret Everything Immediately

  The confession. The out-and-out

  meanness. That I called at all,

  considering the state I’m in.

  “I’m s-sh-sorry, Ian. I just didn’t

  know who I could t-t-talk to,

  except for you. I’ll go now, ’kay?”

  Wait. Are you sure you’re okay?

  Do you want me to pick you

  up in the morning?

  I’m not okay at all, but I never

  will be. The thought pierces

  me. How can he ever love me?

  I struggle to talk without slurring.

  “I…I’m okay. No, don’t pick me

  up. I’ll sh-see you at school.”

  Love is about helping each other

  through dark times, Kaeleigh.

  Try to remember that, okay?

  Getting drunk tonight won’t make

  tomorrow better. But letting me

  love you will. It’s all up to you.

  I So Do Not Deserve Him

  He is

  Mr. Perfect

  and I’m a perfect

  ass to have ever, for

  even a moment, believed

  we could even resemble a

  real couple, in real love,

  like such a thing exists

  bey
ond media-fed

  fantasies.

  He says

  he loves me

  and he’d never lie

  to me, not on purpose.

  But would he love me if

  he knew my secrets? I go

  from Chopin giggles to

  a Chopin breakdown,

  steeped in Chopin

  teardrops.

  Time For a Chopin Pee

  I force Ian out of my mind,

  do the best I can to do that,

  anyway. Head spinning, gut

  churning, I go into the bathroom,

  try not to look at the

  girl in the mirror as I pass by.

  Every time I think I’ve gained

  a little control, actually played

  an active role in determining

  my future, reality punches me

  in the face. I have no control

  at all. All I can do is hang on

  for the ride, and it’s starting to

  make me completely insane.

  The toilet beckons and my

  body responds, evacuating

  Chopin and undigested mac

  and cheese every which way

  imaginable. Finally I lay my

  sweaty forehead against the

  cool porcelain. No! I don’t

  deserve such comfort. In fact,

  right this moment, all I really

  deserve, really desire, is pain.

  Not Mental Pain

  Not emotional pain,

  things beyond my

  ability to control. But

  physical pain is most

  definitely within my

  limited realm of power.

  I pull back from the mac-

  spattered toilet, feel a

  fleeting sense of shame

  and commiseration for

  Manuela. But then I

  remember she’s out of

  commission. Just who

  will scrub this mess?

  Can’t trust my shaky

  legs. I crawl over to the

  tub, hoist myself inside,

  slide out of my vomit-

  crusted clothes. Ugh!

  My legs are fat. Fat and

  hairy. Time for a major

  shave. And not just hair.

  New Blade

  No razor burn.

  No razor nicks.

  No more hair.

  Legs are smooth.

  But still fat.

  Open my skin.

  Right ankle.

  Left ankle.

  White flesh.

  Red polka dots.

  Ha! That’s funny.

  Ouch. Stings.

  Behind right knee.

  Left knee. Oops.

  A little deep.

  Blood pumps.

  Check it out.

  Thump. Thump.

  Oh my God.

  Can I stop it?

  Who really cares?

  The drain runs red.

  I’ve Heard Exsanguination

  Is a pleasant enough way to go.

  Bleeding out, ebbing away, one

  heartbeat, ever slower, at a time.

  Thump-thump. Thump…thump. Thump…

  …thump………until you look

  death

  right in the eye, decide you like

  what you see. I’ve always feared

  dying before, psychological

  fallout from my childhood

  near

  death experience. The accident

  replays in a series of black-and-

  white snapshots. Raeanne laughs.

  Daddy swears. Mom screams, Ray!

  Glass rains. Darkness. Someone

  calls,

  Wake up, and I open my eyes

  to a swarm of disembodied faces.

  Halloween masks. Bloated. Distorted.

  Hands, gloved red, reach out

  to me.

  I fall back into blackness, stumble

  toward an orange glow, vaguely aware

  of spectral movement. Ahead, a figure

  leans into a low-banked fire. He lifts

  his horned head. Daddy! I leap

  from the shadows

  into antiseptic white.

  Raeanne

  OM—Effing—G

  The bathroom looks like a battle

  field. Tangerine-colored puke

  paints toilet and tiles, and the

  whole place smells like

  death,

  not only because of the barfed-up

  whatever, but also because

  of the blood, thick maroon drips

  all over the tub and towels. And

  near

  the sink is a sticky crimson puddle.

  What’s up with Kaeleigh, anyway?

  I mean, yeah, I get throwing up.

  It’s not bad at all, except for the

  stomach acid part. The barf monster

  calls

  to me regularly. But hey, you’re

  supposed to get it inside the bowl,

  and if you don’t, protocol dictates

  you clean it up. I guess maid duty falls

  to me from

  who-knows-where this morning. Kaeleigh

  is gone, and if Daddy sees this, all hell

  will break loose. That girl seriously

  owes me, and I’d better collect soon,

  before she succumbs to

  the shadows

  overtaking her soul.

  Speaking of Souls, Monsters, Etc.

  Tonight is Halloween.

  Ghouls. Goblins. Witches.

  Avoidable candy. And way

  avoidable children in costumes.

  Kind of fun to jump out and scream

  boo at the little brats. Then they

  avoid you. Woo-hoo.

  Not only is it All Hallows Eve,

  but it’s also Friday. The perfect

  excuse to party hearty. All I have

  to do is decide who to party with.

  Tricks? Treats? Ty? Mick?

  A little (a lot?) of both?

  (I don’t think it’s the right night

  for Lawler, but never say never.)

  Daddy won’t try to stop me. He

  knows who he wants to party

  with. Well, maybe. I could have

  read the whole Hannah thing wrong,

  I guess. But if he was flirting and Hannah

  didn’t go for it, he’s a bomb with

  a very short fuse. Tick. Tick.

  Daddy and Hannah

  As I scrub away Kaeleigh’s

  disgustingness, I can’t help

  thinking about them. Truth is,

  the idea makes me crazy.

  (Crazy jealous.)

  Am I jealous? I guess I must be,

  because right now, all I can see

  (besides orange puke) are still

  shots of Daddy and Hannah.

  (Doing the dirty.)

  Shot one: missionary, Daddy on top.

  Shot two: doggie-style, Daddy on top.

  Shot three: can’t even say it, let alone

  dwell on the picture, but Daddy’s on top.

  (Always on top.)

  Being

  On top means never saying you’re sorry, not for any damn thing you ever say or do. Daddy has got to be the king of on top, with Mom a very close runner-up. Hm. Wonder who was on

  TOP

  when they did have sex.

  Sex, Sex, Sex

  I have really got to stop thinking

  about it so damn much, you know?

  Daddy and Hannah; Daddy and Mom;

  Daddy and Kaeleigh; Daddy and whoever;

  Mom and Daddy; Mom and whoever;

  Lawler and whoever; Mick and whoever; Ty…

  Sex, sex, sex. I have really got to stop

  wanting to have it, and more and more of it.

  Clumsy sex (Mick); choreographed sex

/>   (Ty); imagined sex (Lawler, assorted others).

  I’ve even half thought about experimenting

  with a girl or two. Variety is the spice of life.

  Sex, sex, sex. And what goes with that?

  Drugs, more drugs, and alcohol, of course.

  I’m a living, walking, waking party on

  two unsteady legs. (Not to mention a shaky

  brain.) Tonight is Halloween, a night to

  walk on the dark side. Can’t wait to hit the road.

  First, I Have to Get Through the Day

  And that starts with getting

  out the door. Standing between

  me and that goal is a red-eyed Daddy.

  Apparently you forgot to tell

  me something important.

  Quick. Think. “Uh. Something

  important? Like what?” I mentally

  run down a long list of possibilities:

  He saw the bathroom?

  He saw me with Brittany?

  He saw me see him with Hannah?

  He missed a few “borrowed” pills?

  One of his spies saw me with Lawler,

  or told him about Mick, the pot, and the cop?

  You know, the phone call? Listen…

  He advances, menacing, and now

  I’m thinking about phone calls.

  Is he talking about the hang-ups,

  or—oh, shit—the call from his father?

  He never mentioned it, so I assumed

  he never found out about it.

  If you can’t pass on a simple

  answering machine message,

  don’t play them back, understand?

  I Decide to Act Ignorant

  And, you know, for the most part

  I am. I have no clue what he’s

  talking about. “Uh…I’m sorry,

  but I’m not sure what you mean.”

  Your mother called yesterday,