Clear

  Quickly, I try to tuck my feet into the corner of the step and yank up my socks. I wince audibly. “Nothing.” I reach for the railing to stand. “I should go.”

  “How about I walk you downstairs, and we get someone to patch you up?”

  “That’s okay.” I fiddle with my revolting socks. “I’m really okay.”

  Sam sets a hand on my shoulder and sits me back down. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

  I watch with curiosity as he two-foot hops down to the landing. His hair is cut short, but it still bounces with each jump. The subtle auburn highlights are showing, even in this dark stairwell.

  Sam stops and looks at me. “I’ll be right back. I promise. You’ll stay here?”

  The way he smiles softly at me compels me to nod and to smile back only because it’s impossible not to.

  I listen to the sound of his ridiculous hops and then hear him open the door on a landing a few floors below us. I notice the quiet that surrounds me now that he is gone. As I fiddle with the bracelet on my left hand, I notice that my hands are smeared with blood. Perfect. How incredibly appealing.

  I grab my boots and start walking down the stairs. I’m halfway down the second landing when Sam rounds the corner.

  “Well, that’s not staying.” He looks disappointed.

  “Sorry. I just…I didn’t want you to…” I stammer. Finally, I hold up my free hand. “I’m kind of bloody. It’s really gross.”

  “It’s just blood.” He pauses. “It’s nothing to be scared of.” Sam lifts up two paper bags. “I got you covered.”

  He gestures for me to sit, so I do. He kneels in front of me, and ever so slowly, he takes my right foot and then gently peels down the sock. The bag reveals alcohol wipes, gauze pads, antibiotic cream, and first-aid tape. For the next few minutes, I stare in a near trance as this boy, whom I do not know, cleans up my blood and puts me back together. Soon, I have clean white bandages covering my wounds.

  “There. That’s much better, huh?” He admires his handiwork and lifts his chin to me. “Hey? Did I hurt you? Why are you crying?”

  “I’m not crying,” I whisper.

  The back of his hand grazes my face, and I feel dampness on my skin. I cannot move. Sam turns his palm to my cheek, and I instinctively lean against it, closing my eyes. He waits until an eternity passes, and I open them again. His hand moves to mine, and he begins wiping the blood smears until all traces are gone.

  “Better?”

  I nod. “Better,” I manage.

  He rolls up my socks and stuffs them into one of the bags. From the other, he pulls out a new pair of socks, and with the utmost care, he rolls them over my feet. There’s no reason that I can’t put them on myself, but I’m too busy looking at the shape of his lips. They are so smooth and full.

  “I should go,” I blurt out. “To find my family.”

  “Oh.” He adjusts my sock one more time. “Sure. Sorry about the socks. It’s what the gift shop had.”

  For the first time, I notice that Sam has dressed me in Wonder Woman socks, complete with stars and capes hanging from the top hem.

  “I know. You probably hate them. It was these or frogs. Or fuzzy purple ones, but they looked a bit eggplantish. Okay, fine, there might have been a white pair, but—”

  “I love them.” I look up at him again. “I love Wonder Woman. And now…I…I have to go.” I press my feet into my boots and move past him to the landing before I turn back. “Thank you, Sam Bishop.”

  He smiles. “Thank you, Stella Ford.”

  I exit the stairwell from the level below and then take the elevator back down to the floor I originated from. I locate a nurse who tells me where my sister’s room is. Perhaps it’s the Wonder Woman socks, but I am feeling better and desperately want to see my father and sister. No more of this waiting-around nonsense.

  Amy’s room is easy to find, but as I’m about to step in, my plans to run over and hug her and Dad are halted.

  Amy is standing by the window, looking outside at the snowstorm that is now in full force. Her blonde curls tumble over her shoulders and down her back in a wild mess. Her face is extraordinarily pale, but what I notice more is her expression of fear.

  My father, normally so happy and easygoing, is pacing the room. I don’t like seeing him this strung out because he’s the sane parent in the family and the one who balances out my mother.

  “I’m so sorry, Amy. I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t know what to do.”

  He steps into her to embrace her, and I am shocked to see her shove him away.

  Dad freezes and then drops his head. “I would undo this if I could. Don’t you know that? But what was the alternative? To let you go?”

  Amy turns to him, her eyes flashing anger—or panic maybe. “What have you done? God, what have you done? How could you?” she screams. “I am seventeen years old, and my life is over!”

  Dad walks slowly to the edge of the bed and sinks down. Very softly, he says, “Except that it can’t be.”

  She explodes. “And what about that other kid? I saw it.” She begins to sob and covers her face with her hands. “That poor kid. I wish we were all dead! What is this?”

  “Amy, shh!” Dad pleads. “Stop. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. Believe that.”

  I have stopped breathing. Nothing they are saying makes any sense. Silently, I back away from the door and edge down the hall to the elevator. I cannot think and cannot feel anything right now. All I can do is make my way back toward the waiting room.

  As I near the entryway, my mother walks past me, brusquely bumping into my shoulder, as she moves down the hall.

  “Mom?” I call.

  But she continues without stopping or acknowledging me, and she makes her way into the front lobby and out the door, car keys jangling in her hand.

  I have been forgotten. Again.

  When I catch up to her outside, she simply says, “You look bizarre. Wait over there for me,” and she points to the far end of the parking lot. “I need to get some of Amy’s things for her because the doctor has insisted that she stay overnight.”

  I have little reaction to what she just said, and I watch her march away through the downfall of wet snow. The snow, however real to anybody else, is basically nonexistent to me. The bitter cold should cause me to shiver, but I can’t get myself to even bother with tucking my hands into my pockets as I head in the direction of my assigned pickup spot. The roaring wind bellows my name, and it’s not until I’m halfway down the sidewalk when I realize it’s not the wind but an actual person calling me.

  I turn and see Sam.

  Lights from the emergency room entrance highlight one side of his tall, lean body. His already damp hair, the shape of his silhouette, the way his posture delivers an air of such confidence and competence—more than all that, I see familiarity and safety.

  Everything about him beckons me.

  Without thinking, I run to him. I don’t feel my throbbing feet anymore or the miserable Chicago winter or the way my heart is so full of pain tonight. All I feel is the desire to close the distance between us. Icy pellets hit my face and blind my vision, but I don’t care. As I run to him, Sam Bishop steps forward, hesitantly at first, but then he walks quickly and lets me crash with full force into his hold.

  I wrap my arms around his chest and dig my fingers into his back. The warmth of his body passes to mine as he holds me, perhaps clinging to me as tightly as I cling to him. His arms are over my shoulders, crossing behind my neck, sheltering me from everything. If it were possible to stay in the dark and in the safety of his protection forever, I would.

  I let every precious second here draw out. I drown in it, savor it, and commit it to memory.

  The sound of a car horn makes me want to retch. I have to go. Reluctantly, I drop my hands and try to step away from him, but Sam only gives me a few inches.

  With his arms still encircling my neck, he dips his head down, so we are nose-to-nose. “Everything will be
okay. Good things last, and the bad things will fade away. So, go find your good.” His lips touch mine, barely brushing against me, before he presses his mouth harder and kisses me.

  Only seconds probably pass, but they are seconds that will stay with me over the upcoming years when there is no Sam Bishop.

  “Go find your good,” he says again.

  But I can’t. I’m not strong enough.

  IT IS FIVE YEARS LATER, and I have not found my good. Sam Bishop was wrong. The bad is what endures, what increases.

  My father vanished a week after the car accident, and my mother has spent every day since pretending that he never existed. We are not allowed to mention him, to ask about him, to think about him, to miss him. As per her declaration, he was simply never here. My mother has the ability to erase whomever she wants, and it’s by the skin of my teeth that she allows me any sort of place in her world. In her eyes, Amy has always been the good daughter, and in the years after the accident, that opinion inexplicably grew when Amy became insufferable and learned to loathe me.

  I check my reflection in the mirror one more time. As of a few hours ago, my hair is now my mother’s exact shade of rich deep red and styled in sculpted, tiered waves. For once, I am confident that my appearance will get her seal of approval. My lips are stained in dark mauve, and my eye makeup is immaculate. I flash my practiced smile and pose, readying myself to show off for her.

  The pale-green top I’m wearing is something that she would have selected for herself from one of the many high-end stores she frequents, and my tan shorts and heels show off my legs. I turn to the side a bit. My shirt shows enough cleavage but not too much. I check my jewelry—small gold hoops in my ears and a matching bracelet. It’s classy. Classy and seductive, the way she is.

  While I’m in college, my mother has let me stay in the guesthouse above the garage on her property. I know she doesn’t really want me here because she’s hoping that my sister will move back home, but I doubt that will happen.

  Amy likes her privacy—a lot. That’s understandable, given her massive coke and prescription pill addictions. No one actually acknowledges that she has a problem—particularly our mother—but it’s idiotically obvious. It doesn’t take a genius to recognize that Amy’s mental and physical states are the result of more than recreational partying.

  I scan my room, memorizing the precise placement of the furniture. Then, I rescan and take mental pictures of the desk light, the alarm clock, the shelf of books, and the framed pictures. The floral wallpaper and Ralph Lauren patterned bedspread make me dizzy, and I touch the vanity behind me to steady myself. It takes a minute, but I refocus and slowly look from item to item. It’s four o’clock on the dot, and I make sure to spend exactly six minutes reviewing every item in my bedroom.

  Every time I leave the room, I have to go through this ritual. On more than one occasion, I have returned to my room, convinced that something is off in here. My perceptions are often muddied, so I work hard to pay attention to specifics.

  I stare at my desk—penholder, laptop, magazine, scented candle, scissors, calendar on the wall behind it.

  I go over this ten times until I’m sure.

  I hear a car door slam, and I try not to rush as I grab my clutch purse and lock the guesthouse.

  In the driveway, my mother takes shopping bags from the trunk of her ostentatious Mercedes while my sister sits in the passenger seat. The door is open, and her legs hang out. Amy stops examining her chewed fingernails long enough to catch my eye. She looks worse than usual. She might have on sunglasses, but I know that the bags under her eyes are particularly dark today. Her skin is pale, her badly bleached hair is stringy, and she is way too thin. The designer T-shirt hangs in a way that I can see her shoulder bones through the fabric.

  I don’t feel sorry for her though. I hate my sister. Not only has she routinely sabotaged the relationship between my mother and me over the years, but there is also nothing left of the childhood love we had for each other.

  “Well, good Lord. Who the fuck are you supposed to be?” Amy talks loudly and snidely. “Oh, Lucinda!”

  I have no idea why she insists on calling our mother by her first name, but she has for years.

  “Lucinda, look what the hell the cat dragged in.”

  My mother shuts the trunk and looks my way. I can see her sigh as she struts toward me, bags bouncing against her legs.

  I smile and touch my hand to my hair. “See? I got it done like yours.”

  My mother stops in front of me and runs her look over my hair and green shirt, managing not to meet my eyes. “Stella,” she simply states. “Oh, dear. You just can’t get it right, can you?” She makes no secret of rolling her eyes. “Amy, darling, tell your sister that her purple shirt is a joke.”

  Amy hops out of the car and stands in front of me. She smiles. “Stella, your mother says you’re hideous.”

  I listen to the click-clack of Lucinda’s heels as she heads into the main house. I don’t say anything.

  “Nobody likes you,” Amy matter-of-factly tells me. “I just thought you should know that.”

  I’m disgusted with my sister. “Leave me alone,” I whisper.

  “Gladly.”

  My junkie sibling leaves me in the driveway.

  I am not going to cry over this. I will not be some poor little rich girl standing in front of a mansion and manicured gardens, crying because life isn’t perfect. How fucking cliché. Although, technically, while my mother might be rich—thanks to my father’s money and her trust fund—I am not, so really, the cliché isn’t even applicable. Nonetheless, I’m not going to let my sister get to me.

  I inhale and exhale. I make myself smile and walk down the long driveway to my old two-door silver Civic that I always park on the street. My mother is understandably embarrassed by having this car on her property.

  I sit behind the wheel for a while. A long while. Or at least I think it’s a long while. I look at the clock. It’s almost six. I don’t know if I stood in front of the house for ages or if I’ve been in the car this whole time.

  I watch the digital numbers change over and over. Finally, I drive.

  I try to clear my head and attend to what I know is true. This is not easy for me, but I do this because I don’t want to get lost again.

  My name is Stella.

  I am twenty-one years old.

  It is a Tuesday evening in April.

  I’m a junior at a small community college in Chicago.

  That’s…that’s all I can come up with. Paying attention to facts is not easy when I’m in this state.

  I drive for a while. Later, I park the car and go inside my boyfriend’s third-floor apartment near campus.

  You aren’t anything to me. Don’t you understand that? In my head, I hear the words that have been said to me so many times. You are forgettable.

  Jay lets me into his place. After thirty seconds of small talk, we’re in his bedroom. He’s big on having sex as much as possible, and I’m big on forgetting it as much as possible. But I’m on my back in no time, and I let him go ahead and do what he wants.

  I turn my head to the side. Today, I don’t have the will not to fade off. It gives me pleasure to escape for a bit. The shades are open, and flashes of sunlight pierce through my closed eyelids, furthering my distance from reality. I let the rhythmic motion of him on top of me drag me into oblivion. If I’m lucky, I’ll just disappear. If I’m really lucky, maybe I’ll disappear far enough that I’ll find myself in a world where I am happy, where my father did not take off in the middle of the fucking night and leave me with a screwed-up mother and a sister who went from angel to demon. Luck, however, does not seem to be my friend.

  My thoughts shut down, and a fuzzy haze takes over. I like this space because time does not exist. My body does not exist. Most importantly, I do not exist. Nothingness is my salvation. Maybe I’m going crazy, but I don’t care much right now because this is at least a degree of peace.

 
Then, I hear a noise, and I am ripped away from my alternate world.

  A male voice. Oh, it’s a groan.

  My hands touch down beside me and run over cool fabric. Sheets. I am in a bed, on my back. My shirt is unbuttoned all the way, my bra still on. A breeze rushes in and crosses over my bare stomach. I reach out until my hand hits skin.

  That’s right. I’m having sex with Jay. Great.

  I open my eyes. Jay is too busy fucking me to notice my spaced-out state. He’s an asshole like that. But I want to be the kind of girlfriend who gets her guy off—one who is perfect in bed and out—so I need to do something other than lie on my back and battle the crazy swirling in my head.

  Generally, I’m very good at hiding the fact that something is wrong with me, but I have lapses, like right now. So, I lift my hips and make appropriate noises of ecstasy, as though I am so totally caught up in the throes of sexual fulfillment that I can barely contain myself.

  “That’s fucking good, huh?” he mutters.

  I nod and fake a smile.

  I close my eyes again and let him crush his body into mine over and over.

  When he’s done, I grab my purse and escape to the bathroom.

  My reflection in the mirror upsets me. Eyeliner is smudged, and my hair is a disaster. The linen shirt I have on is now wrinkled. I squint. I think it’s pale green, but I could be wrong. My mother said it was purple. However, perhaps I misheard her. I look down and realize that I have no idea what color it is. For five minutes, I examine the fabric, looking for clues that will help me answer this. It’s green, I confirm.

  The color is green. That is a fact, I think.

  But I don’t know for sure. It’s really just a guess.

  I pull a small bag from my purse and begin the process of redoing my hair and makeup. While my curling iron heats up, I wipe away eyeliner that has traveled across my cheeks. I pause. It looks like I’ve been crying, but I don’t remember doing that. I don’t know if I hate Jay or myself more right now.

  It takes a thorough primping process for me to make myself presentable until I can leave the bathroom.

  I kiss Jay good-bye with a hundred times more sexual energy than I actually feel, and he slaps my ass as I get back into my car. The engine rolls over a few times before it catches and finally starts.