I nod. He’s right about that.
Pushing through the doors of the clinic, I see my dad’s SUV parked out front. He and my mom slide out of their seats, hopeful smiles on their faces.
All it takes is a returning smile and my mom’s eyes water.
Holding up my finger—asking them for a minute—I slip my phone out of my pocket and hit number three on my speed dial.
“Hello?” It’s as hollow as ever, but it’s her voice.
I hit the “end” button and feel relief wash over me. Kacey’s still here. She’s still hanging on. That’s all I can hope for right now. I can feel the folded note in my back pocket, the one that maybe I’ll be able to give her one day. Maybe. But Stayner’s right; it’s not fair that I seek her out for my own healing.
So I’ll stay away from her.
For now.
Chapter 16
September 2010
Her hands rub the transfer onto my back with slow, smooth swipes. “What language is this?”
“Latin.”
“Huh . . . Sit up straight. Is this good?”
I follow her instructions and use the mirror in front to see the reflection in the one she’s holding up to my shirtless back. The heavy black lettering stretches from blade to blade. “Perfect.”
“Okay, Trent. Ready for your first tattoo?” I see the sparkle in her gaze, the sensual curve of her smile, as she holds the tattoo gun in one hand. I wonder if she’d still be giving me those fuck-me eyes if she knew I was in an inpatient rehab for attempted suicide only a few months ago.
Not that it matters. My attention is on one girl now and I won’t let it get divided.
“I’m ready. Let’s do this.”
■ ■ ■
“Hello?” Impatience fills her voice.
And I immediately break out in a sweat. “Is James there?”
“James? No. There is no James at this number. Learn how to dial!” Full irritation now. But she’s sober. I’ve called on three different Saturday nights and she’s been coherent each time. That says something. Maybe her spiral has stopped. Maybe she’s getting better.
I need to know.
She hangs up on me, as she has the last two times I phoned and asked for James.
The next call I make is to Rich. “Hey! Cole! How’s it going?”
I grit my teeth but say nothing. Rich knows me as Cole. That’s never going to change and I can’t expect him to just start calling me by something different. Stayner helped me rationalize that. Holding onto some ties to my past, as much as I’m not really that guy anymore, will keep me grounded. “I’m good.”
“I tried calling a couple times.” Did he hear what happened? I figure my mom might have told Derek’s mom. They still talk, occasionally.
“Sorry, man. I’ve been busy.” That’s not a lie. When Stayner’s clinic doors closed behind me, I stepped out, running. Within days I had located and attended my first PTSD support group. I go to it weekly. Through that, I’ve made connections with a local-area high school and two elementary schools. I’m in discussion to give presentations to some of the classes about the dangers of drinking and driving. I’ll probably shit my pants, but it’s something I need to do. Stayner was one hundred percent on the mark. I can’t change what happened, but I have a story to tell, one that could make an impact on other people’s lives. What better way to start making my amends?
“You’ve gotta come down again, soon.”
“Maybe in a few months?” It’s taken me everything not to jump in my car and head straight for a certain brick house just outside of Grand Rapids. But it’s too risky. I don’t know what seeing me would do to Kacey. Or what it might do to me.
“I’m still in the apartment. Decided to do my PhD.”
I chuckle. “Derek always said you didn’t want to join the real world.” It feels good, being able to share a laugh about my friend again, without my insides burning. “Listen, I have a favor to ask of you.”
“Shoot. Whatever I can do to help.”
I hesitate. This idea of mine may be crazy—in fact, I know it is. I can’t recall exactly when I came up with it. Probably around the same time that I realized keeping tabs on her would be impossible from five hours away. “Do you still have that hacker friend of yours?”
“Uh . . . yeah. Why?”
“What does it cost to get into someone’s email account?”
Chapter 17
June 2011
“I’m glad I caught you.”
“Hey, Mom.”
“How’s condo hunting? Did you check out that neighborhood I was telling you about?”
I can hear the hopefulness in her voice. That neighborhood is a seven-minute drive from her house. When I first told her that I felt it was time to invest in a place of my own, she struggled to hide the panic. As well as I’m doing—genuinely; it’s not an act this time around—she still rushes to get home for dinner every night. She still calls me every afternoon if I haven’t called or texted her yet; I wake up to a door creak almost every night, sensing her hovering over my bed, listening to me breathe.
She never used to be like this. Stayner warned me to expect it. From both her and my dad. I’d get a lot of questions and concerned looks and general overprotectiveness, for a long time. They almost lost me, after all. Twice.
“Uh . . . yeah. We’ll see, Mom. Listen, I may stay over at a friend’s house tonight.”
“Oh? Which friend?”
“Mom.”
She sighs. “Right. Sorry. Okay, just text me so I don’t worry. I miss you.”
Between the courses I’m taking at a local college and all the work I’m doing—both for my mom and some freelance stuff for small businesses who can’t afford to run print ads but might need a logo or marketing pamphlet design—plus the weekly group sessions and M.A.D.D. stuff I’m involved in, and a healthy gym schedule, I’m barely home.
“I will. Love you.” The truth is, I’m getting to the point when I need more space, more freedom to come and go without explanation.
Without having to lie.
Like today, when I strolled out the door at six a.m., I had to tell her I was heading to the gym. I was lucky she didn’t ask why I had bothered showering. And now, here I am, almost six hours away in this Caledonia Starbucks, having lied to her. I’ve been here since noon, making myself comfortable in a back corner, with a steady stream of caffeine to keep me going, my laptop open in front of me.
Kacey Cleary’s private email in-box staring at me.
I should feel guilty about invading her privacy—a small part of me does—but I’m not doing it to hurt her. And, I have my limits. When Rich’s hacker connection offered to hack into the webcam that’s connected to her family’s home computer for an extra grand, I told him I’d hunt him down and beat the shit out of him if he did that.
What it’s given me is a small glimpse into Kacey Cleary. A small window. Not one that I could actually fit through, but at least now I know just a tiny bit about Kacey Cleary. Information that I jot down in a little notebook. Things I can’t possibly forget.
Like, that Kacey has no friends.
Well, maybe that’s not fair for me to say, but in the eight months since I’ve been keying the password “douchebags” into her Hotmail account, I haven’t seen a single email from a friend. Maybe they just don’t email each other.
To be honest, there isn’t much in her in-box for me to work with. Mostly spam, including all the counseling newsletters and support group information blasts I signed her up for. That she hasn’t bothered to even delete, let alone open.
I know that she finished her senior year of high school, even if it was a year late. Based on a few old emails from her counselor, requesting meetings to discuss her grades and what options she has for improving on them, she didn’t do it with flying colors. I have to comm
end her for not quitting, though. Not like I did.
I also know that she started working at Starbucks last summer. It sounds like she’s here almost every day now, picking up extra shifts every time this manager guy, Jake, emails her. They were only occasional emails at first, with just her schedule. But over the months, he’s begun tagging cheesy and borderline inappropriate jokes onto each request. It’s obvious to anyone that he’s flirting with her. At least, I see it.
That’s why I finally broke the rule I made on the day I was released and drove out here today. Because when I read this last message, I decided that I needed to know once and for all.
To: Kacey Cleary
From: Jake Rogers, Starbucks Management
Date: June 11, 2011
Re: 3-11 shift this Sunday
Hey, Red – Can you work this Sunday? Joanne has a family thing. I’ll be there
To: Jake Rogers, Starbucks Management
From: Kacey Cleary
Date: June 11, 2011
Re: 3-11 shift this Sunday
I’ll take the shift. Despite you being there.
No smiley face. No LOL. No indication that she’s kidding. It feels like a blow-off.
That night, I lay in bed, wondering if there was something going on between her and this Jake guy. What if he’s taking advantage of her? What if they’re together?
I couldn’t fall asleep for hours. So I decided that I had to risk it.
It could be a boneheaded move. She may know what I look like. Not that she’d remember me from the frat party. I know I look different from my college days—my hair now shaggy, my face perpetually covered in scruff. I’m leaner than I was back then, but hard.
Just in case, I grabbed a baseball cap and wore a loose jacket, trying not to attract too much attention from my corner, in front of an obscure mirror on the wall that shows the entire counter space. From here, I can hear their conversation perfectly.
I just need to see them together for two minutes and I’ll know if she’s got a thing for the douche canoe I’ve been eyeing for the better part of two hours—a cross between Carrot Top and the Fonz.
If she does?
My chest floods with disappointment at the thought.
And suddenly Kacey’s just there, standing behind the counter in a black employee golf shirt. She must have come in through a back door because there’s no way I would have missed her. I suck in a breath. It feels like a lifetime has passed between the last time I saw her face and now, more than a year ago. Where I was mentally, then and now.
But, more importantly, where is she? I don’t know what else she’s been doing, but it can’t be filling her nostrils with cocaine and her stomach with alcohol anymore. As fit as she looked before, she’s all sinewy now, her arms corded, her movements reminding me of a leopard—sleek and graceful and dangerous. Her face hasn’t changed, in that it’s still hard and unyielding, the smiles fake and fleeting, and never reaching her eyes. Those watery blue eyes that haven’t found their sparkle again.
Will they ever? Why isn’t she getting help? Why is no one making her get help! It’s been over three years.
Her face also has changed, though. She was a pretty girl before.
Now, at nineteen, she’s a stunning woman.
So much so that I struggle to peel my eyes from her reflection as she begins serving customers and pouring coffees, always polite but never warm. It’s almost like she’s mentally not here. That she’s put herself on autopilot, not really noticing her surrounding beyond her purpose for being here.
Kind of like I was for so long.
Until she steps out from behind the counter, that is, and begins weaving around tables, collecting dishes and trash left behind, those strong, lean legs within black, fitted shorts stirring the blood in my body.
And panic.
I duck my head as she passes around my back.
“Done with those?” She swoops in and collects my dishes without my answer, my nostrils filling with the scent of soap and shampoo. I’m guessing she just came from the gym.
“Sure, thanks,” I mutter to her back as she walks away. She doesn’t seem interested in making eye contact. Or any contact. With anyone. It’s for the best, at this point, though just once I’d like to lock eyes with her, feel them on me. And know what she knows.
Know if she realizes this connection we share, being the only two people to walk away from that night, to get stuck within the vortex of its aftermath, unable to move on. Would she hate me for it? Or would it help her to know that she’s not alone? Not anymore. Not with me, here.
Those are the thoughts I can’t shake. But the great news is that she ignores Jake for the most part, throwing him only enough of a bone to keep him happy. A tiny, emotionless smile, a flat giggle. Smart on her part, with him being her manager and all. He seems to drink the attention up like a lap dog.
And she continues existing.
I can tell she hasn’t gotten any better. She may not be tumbling anymore. Maybe she did hit rock bottom, like I did. But I don’t think she’s started her climb back up yet.
What if I could help her take the first steps? Someone has to.
I really should leave.
In another twenty minutes.
■ ■ ■
September 2011
We stopped attending mass when I was around twelve. There was no big political reason behind it; we just stopped going. I don’t think I’ve been in a church—outside of Sasha’s funeral—in the eleven years since. Yet the second I step inside, I’m hit with that familiar smell that I recognize immediately. A strange combination of wood and must and incense.
It seems almost fitting that I’ve broken my rule to stay away a second time to come to church, seeking answers. Specifically, why haven’t Kacey’s aunt and uncle gotten her help?
It took me four trips to Caledonia and risky stakeout sessions to find the parish that her aunt, Darla, attends for Sunday morning services as well as on Mondays, for prayer. It’s a small, old church with brown brick and a tall, narrow steeple.
Darla’s seated in the fourth pew from the front right side, her short, curly black hair sprayed in place, her forehead resting against clasped hands as she prays. I slowly pick my steps down the aisle, easing into the pew behind her and a good ten feet over. Given that it’s Monday and we’re alone in here, I’m fully aware that this is a weird move on my part. But I’m hoping I’m right about her.
Turns out, I am.
“So nice to see a young man in the church, praying,” she whispers with a smile my way.
I return the smile. “I’ll admit, it’s been a while.”
“Are you from around here?”
“Just visiting some friends.” I hate lying, what with Jesus hanging on a cross directly in front of me.
She nods as if in agreement. “I know almost every parishioner here. I didn’t think I’d seen you around.”
With that, she turns back to her prayers, and I silently try to plan out how I’m going to get information from her. After half an hour, I realize that the woman is either a marathon worshipper or she has a lot to worry about. Either way, my ass is getting sore against the hard wood and I’ve given up on this brilliant plan of mine. The pew creaks loudly, echoing through the lofty space, as I stand and walk toward the aisle.
“Do keep your faith up. It’s so difficult to get young people in here and they’re the ones who need it most, what with all the drugs and sex and violence in society today.”
So . . . Aunt Darla’s not a partier. Does she have any clue what her niece has been doing? “You’re right,” I agree. “Do your kids come with you?”
“Oh, I don’t have children. But my nieces live with me and one of them has started coming to confession on Friday afternoons, after school. Now, if I could just get my other one here . . .”
“Not interested in religion?” Come on, Darla. Give me more.
Darla’s tight smile tells me she’s biting her tongue. “Kacey’s not interested in much of anything,” she mutters, and then adds for my benefit, “She lost her parents in a tragic car accident.”
I frown appropriately. “It must be hard to deal with, for her.”
“Well, Livie lost her parents too and she didn’t become a heathen,” she argues. “Then again, I suppose Livie wasn’t the one stuck in the car, waiting to be pulled out.”
A genuine frown pulls my brow together.
She sees my bewilderment. “It took those firefighters hours to cut into the car. How she remained conscious that entire time is beyond me.”
Thankfully I’m still in the row because my knees give out and I half-sit, half-fall into the pew. I can feel the muscles in my face fighting to control my expression, trying to hide the horror from it. Kacey sat in a car with her dead parents. Just the idea of seeing Sasha or Derek lying on the pavement is enough to drain the blood from my face.
“It’s divine intervention, is what I keep saying to her,” Aunt Darla keeps going. “How can no one believe there’s a God after that? The girl should have died, to be honest. I tell her that and she just gets angry. Angrier . . .” She harrumphs. “She’s never anything but angry nowadays. She was always the boisterous one of the two, getting into mischief and all. But it was good-natured, before. She loved life. Now . . .”
I blow out a mouthful of air. “Sounds like she needs some help.”
“I’ve tried, but she refuses. She still has nightmares every night. Her screams are . . .” She shudders. “I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in more than two years, since she moved in with us.”
Yeah, poor you. “Is she seeing a therapist or going to support groups or . . . anything?”
One shake confirms my fears. Kacey is exactly like I was. “She’s beyond help. I had the church counselor and the priest visit our house, but Kacey would have none of that. I even bought her her own Bible and left it on her nightstand. The spine hasn’t been cracked once.” She clucks her tongue. “If only my sister raised them with God in their lives, Kacey would be fine now. I truly believe that.”