Suicide Notes from Beautiful Girls

“Yes?” he says. He rubs his watery blue eyes, rubs his big hand over his face. “Can I help you?”

  I think about Delia’s words, delivered voice shaking. She didn’t even sound like herself when she said it. William deserves to be in jail, but he’ll never get in trouble for what he did . . .

  I am filled with hot boiling rage. I want to pick up one of these decorative flower pots on the steps and smash it against his skull over and over until his teeth fall out and his face breaks and there is nothing left of his head but shards of bone.

  Instead, what I do is smile, brave and sad.

  “Hi, Mr. Grosswell,” I say. “I’m June. A friend of Delia’s. I mean, I was. I was over here a lot.”

  I need to calm down. I sound nervous. I’m the only evidence, she said. And I’m gone.

  He blinks, looks confused, as though he has no idea who I am, or who Delia is either. His expression changes slowly, like he is not processing things at the normal rate. “Right,” he says. “Yes, of course.”

  “I’m here because . . .” I pause. “I hadn’t really seen Delia in a while, which is why I feel so terrible about everything and . . .” I recited this so many times when we practiced. He needs to believe I don’t have any idea what happened, what he tried to do. He needs to believe he’s not in any danger. But like Delia, when she thought she was safe inside her own room, inside her own home, he will be dead fucking wrong.

  “We’re putting together a picture montage thing at school,” I continue. “And I was wondering . . . if you might have any old photo albums I could look through, maybe borrow some pictures of her for it. Like, from when she was younger.”

  “I remember you, I think. You used to come over here all the time.” He pauses then, closes his eyes. Opens them. “You stopped.”

  I nod, heart pounding. “We grew apart. I wish I’d been a better friend to her.”

  Does he look relieved? “You can’t blame yourself. She was having a hard time there, at the end especially.” He shakes his head. Because of you. I think. Because of you, you piece of shit. “Please, come in.”

  I step into the entryway. He shuts the door behind me.

  He leads me through the kitchen, into the living room, across the soft beige carpet. “Her mother keeps a couple albums over here.” I have to stick my hands in my pockets to keep them from clenching into fists, reaching out, punching him. He opens a big wooden cabinet. Down at the bottom is an album, fake burgundy leather cover peeling. He pulls it out and puts it on the coffee table.

  “Her mom has originals of all of them in the computer. I don’t think she’d mind you taking some of these. She’d be glad that . . .” He presses his lips together and swallows hard. “She’d be glad to know there’s a tribute, I think. For the funeral she wanted it to be just family. And she said she won’t be able to stomach having it for a while, so . . .” He stands there for a moment, then he starts toward the door. No, no, no. He needs to stay here with me, watch me look at the photos. Give me the chance to do what I came here for.

  “Let me know if you need anything,” he says. “I’ll be . . .” He motions toward the kitchen.

  Now what?

  I pull the album onto my lap. There’s Delia, age seven or eight, with no front teeth, standing on a bike. Delia eating ice cream. Delia holding a turtle. Delia when she was only a few hours old, eyes not even open yet—I’ve seen this one many times before. “But can you believe how small I was?” Delia would always say, sounding so surprised, as though she didn’t quite believe this could really be her, as though everyone on earth wasn’t once a baby.

  I fish out a few photos. Then I walk to the kitchen.

  You’re our best chance, Junie. He’ll remember you. He’ll let you in.

  There he is at the table, World Journal of Surgical Oncology in his left hand, an oversize blue coffee mug in his right.

  His Diet Coke. He drinks it by the gallon out of a coffee mug because he thinks that makes it more manly. Put it in there, he won’t notice a thing.

  I reach into my pocket, slide the tiny bag into my palm. Ashling made me do it dozens of times. She is an expert at making things disappear into her hand and then reappear when she wants them. “You’re a magician,” I said. “I have practice,” she said, then smiled at Delia, so I knew I was missing something.

  William looks up. “Did you find what you needed?”

  “Um . . . there are some pretty good ones in there,” I say. I hold out the few I’ve chosen.

  I’m staring at the mug, dark blue enamel with green glaze drips, brown fizzy liquid and melting ice cubes inside. Five seconds, that’s all I need. Four if I’m quick.

  “Could I have some water, please?”

  “Yes, of course, sorry. Rude of me not to offer.”

  He stands up and goes to get me a glass. Now is my chance. My heart is on fire.

  I walk toward the table, pretend to be interested in his magazine. My hand is over the mug, the bag in my palm. But I’m sweating, so scared, and suddenly I feel the tiny bag drop and land in his drink, cupcake side up.

  Shit.

  “Ice?” William is in front of the freezer, back to me.

  My hand is shaking. “Yes, please.” My voice is shaking too. He’s going to notice. He’s going to turn and see what I’m doing. And then what?

  William puts a couple of cubes into a glass. I reach into the mug, pinch the tiny bag, and shove it back into my pocket. Ice clanks. William is coming back with my water. There are Diet Coke drops on the table. I mop them with the edge of my sleeve.

  He is next to me now. I feel my face turning red. He is staring at me, icy glass gripped in one fat hand.

  Oh God, he saw. I should turn. I should run.

  “You know,” he says slowly. “I think there might be some older albums in the basement. Would you like to see those, too?”

  Safe. For now.

  I remember what Delia once told me, about how he wouldn’t let her mother put most of their old stuff out around the house. “That was your old life,” Delia said she’d overheard him telling her. “You shouldn’t be thinking about it anymore.” Delia said the worst part was that her mother didn’t protest, didn’t even fight back. She just agreed.

  He turns and gives me a smile, friendly and warm. My stomach turns.

  “Let’s go have a look.” He picks up his mug and takes a gulp.

  And suddenly I desperately do not want to go down those stairs with him into that basement. What he did to Delia, he could try with me. Are my teeth as sharp as hers? My hands as quick? But it doesn’t matter. Because if I don’t go, he’ll get away with what he did to her. And I want that even less.

  “Good idea,” I say.

  He opens the door and holds out an arm. “After you.” There’s no room. When I squeeze past him, our chests brush. At the bottom he flips on a light. There aren’t any windows down here. There are cheap bookshelves lining the walls, a small leather couch, a big new-looking TV, and a pile of cardboard boxes in the corner. It smells like new carpet and earth.

  “I think the albums are in one of those boxes, at the back,” he says. “Feel free to poke around.” He waves his hand like go on, then. So I lean down, aware of his eyes on my ass. I feel sick. I need to do this, to get this over with. But how?

  I grab a box. It’s heavy, not too heavy for me to lift, but . . . I have an idea. I tug at it, let out a little mmmmph. I stop, then pretend to try again.

  I turn toward him, giving him a sheepish look. “Um. This is embarrassing, but it’s so heavy. Could you maybe, um . . .”

  “Oh, of course,” he says, and gives me a disgustingly indulgent little smile, then holds out his mug. “Would you mind . . .”

  Delia promised he’ll never guess that I’m to blame for what’s to come. “He has more than enough enemies,” she told me. All the interns he fired, hospital staff memb
ers he pissed off, it could be any of them. But for a moment I almost hope he figures it out. I want him to look back at this moment, remember how he smiled at me, and feel like a fucking fool.

  I reach out for his mug. No, William, I would not mind at all.

  But you might.

  He lifts the first box. I fish the soda-sticky bag out of my pocket, open it up, and sprinkle the yellowish crystals into his drink. I stick my finger in and swirl it around until they’ve all dissolved.

  Meanwhile William has moved three of the boxes, four of the boxes. He is grunting, sweating a little. “Ah-ha!” he says. He bends down and pulls a box out from the back. ALBUMS is written on the front in green. He turns toward me, face shiny. He is smiling, pleased with himself. Pleased with himself for pushing around a few boxes when his stepdaughter is dead. I want to vomit. I want to punch him in his fucking head. “Found it,” William says. He puts the box on the couch. “They’re in here.”

  “Thank you,” I say. And I hand him his mug, smiling back.

  I open the box and pull out an album. Then watch as he brings the mug to his lips and takes the first sip.

  Before we plant Tig’s stuff on him, Delia said, we have to plant it in him . . .

  He motions to the small sofa. “Sit down, if you like.” He sips again.

  My insides are lighting up, I feel a crazy rush, as though I’m the one slurping down a mug full of meth.

  He is standing over me, watching me. I try not to smile as he gulp, gulp, gulps the rest of his drink. He puts the empty mug down on the arm of the sofa. Then he walks to another little room off to the side. He flips a switch and a harsh yellow bulb lights up a new-looking white refrigerator. He pulls out two brown glass bottles. Then he comes back to the couch, sits down, and holds one out for me.

  “Technically I’m not supposed to even drink beer because of the diabetes. But, I guess, neither are you,” he says. “Right?” And then, “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

  There’s that smile again. I want to reach out and take the bottle and break it across his nose. I imagine the thunk, the crack, the blood pooling over his thick dry lips.

  “Thanks,” I say. And his fingers brush mine when he hands it to me.

  The album is heavy on my lap. The beer is cold in my hand. I can smell his breath. He’s close to me now. I wonder how long I need to sit here. I stare at a picture of Delia, age five or six. Her hair is dark and curly, her smile wide, both arms thrown up in the air like “ta-da!”

  William is looking over my shoulder. “God, you see a picture like that . . . It’s so awful to think how the story ends.” He sounds so genuinely sad, so very heartbroken that for a second I could almost pretend that he was a real human being with real feelings. “You have to wonder, what the hell happened?”

  And I think, You know exactly what happened, shitbag.

  “We were never very close. I think she kind of resented me for being with her mother, for not being her father . . .”

  For trying to fucking rape her.

  “We didn’t agree on a lot of things, I guess. But I always felt she was like a daughter to me, even if she didn’t feel the same way. She was family . . .”

  I don’t know who he’s trying to convince, me or himself, but I can’t listen to this. And I’m struck, suddenly, by a memory, something I’d long since forgotten: It was the middle of eighth grade, and I was sleeping at Delia’s house. I went to get a glass of water in the middle of the night, and William was in the kitchen. I was only wearing a nightshirt, one of Delia’s—bright red with black stars. My legs were bare, and even though it was longer than the dresses lots of girls wore to school, I suddenly felt very naked. It was the first time we’d been alone in a room together. I remember him smiling at me, saying something like, “Fancy meeting you here . . .” and I remember how I’d awkwardly laughed.

  “I’m just getting water,” I’d said, self-conscious.

  And he’d shrugged, and then, for some reason, winked. And I thought, even then, even at that moment, how I was probably supposed to think he was nice, that he was a cooler stepdad than Delia gave him credit for. But there was something in the pit of my stomach, a hard little stone.

  Their glasses were all up on high shelves, and I felt her nightshirt riding up as I reached for one. I started to blush, tried to pull it down over my butt. And then I went to the sink and turned on the faucet. My skin was tingling. When I turned around, he was just leaning against the counter, staring right at me, hands in his pockets. I’d been planning on getting a snack, too, but suddenly I wasn’t hungry anymore. I just wanted to get out of there. Like I want to get out of here now.

  “I think I have enough photos,” I say. And I stand up. I blink as though blinking back tears.

  “You don’t want any of those?” he says.

  “No,” I say quickly. “I have plenty already, from upstairs, I think.”

  “I can show you some more of her things,” he says. “We’re getting rid of a bunch of her old stuff, clothes and whatnot. Her mother wanted me to deal with it, thought going through it would be too hard. It’s all in the garage, if maybe you want to take some mementos, or . . .”

  He sounds desperate. He doesn’t want me to go. His wife is away, his stepdaughter is dead. And the sick fuck wants me to stay here with him, reminiscing, having a beer.

  “No,” I say. “Thank you. I’m going to . . .” I point toward the stairs. I can barely look at him. “I’ll let myself out.”

  “It was good of you to come by.” His voice sounds muffled and strange. Almost like he’s going to cry, but I’m not close enough to see.

  I walk slowly until I get to the top of the stairs. I turn back, and the album is on his lap now. He’s staring down, and I swear to God, he is stroking one of the pictures.

  I put the bottle on the table and then I’m out of that house. Back in the cool clean air, I breathe deeply, so glad to be away from him.

  I imagine William still in the basement with all those photographs. Doing who knows what with them now as the drugs spread through his system.

  He deserves to be in jail for what he did to Delia. Soon, maybe he will be.

  Chapter 39

  Delia

  I’m pacing by the door, buzzing white-hot. I bounce on my toes, kick my legs, run in place. I am burning up. “Sit down with me, baby,” Ashling says.

  She comes up behind me, puts her hands on my shoulders, and tries to rub them. I don’t mean to ugh out loud, but I do when I shrug her hands away. Ashling gets needy when she’s jealous—clingy. It disgusts me.

  She stops, goes back to the couch, and pulls her long legs up under her. Her cheeks are pink. She’s hurt but trying to pretend she isn’t. You don’t scare me, she said when I met her. You’re not too fucked up for me. I can handle you. She said this like she was proud. I let her believe it was true.

  “What are you still worrying about? Seb texted. She’s back in the car. It went perfect. It’s all happening. The fuse has been lit. . . .” Her voice sounds strained and her sweet berry mouth is pursed into a pretty little pout.

  It’s all happening.

  I go over to her and kiss her like I mean it. “I’m sorry, babe,” I say to her. I’m not sorry. But it’s easier this way. She can go insane when she’s jealous or insecure. I’ve seen her do it. I can’t deal with it now.

  She resists for a second, then wraps her thin arms around my neck and nuzzles me. And I force myself to sit still even though it is physically painful to do so.

  I remind myself that I owe her, I always will. I remember that night at Tig’s party, fucked out of my mind on who even knows what, her face like ever shifting liquid, quicksilver eyes swimming slowly back and forth. The words rolled out of my mouth. I heard them as I said them, amazed that I could still speak in sentences anyone could understand. My fucking step­father, I said. This is what happe
ned, I said. I thought I’d surprise her; I wanted to. But she didn’t gasp and her jaw didn’t drop. She nodded like she understood. And even as fucked as I was, I realized then that those big gorgeous eyes had seen some really ugly shit.

  What she said back then was, “I can help you, maybe.” But she didn’t elaborate at the time. I thought she was saying for the night, that she would bring me water and more of whatever pills it was I’d taken, because I wasn’t ready to come down yet.

  I couldn’t have begun to conceive of what she really meant then. Even later when she explained it all, I barely could. She has given me everything, I always must remind myself. I can’t ever forget it.

  So now, sitting here on this couch when all I want to do is stand at the door and wait for my Junie, I make myself hold Ashling’s lips against mine.

  Ashling is like a goldfish, or a puppy. She remembers only what you did to her last. The kiss is what counts now. But she has a core of electric hot wires. She is not—none of them are—to be fucked with.

  I stroke her back, lean against her. Close my eyes and feel the adrenaline buzz until I hear the cars pull up. And I fly up to the ceiling and stick like a balloon filled with black smoke. POP!

  “They’re here!” Evan says. And he runs into the living room. He is excited too, but for different reasons. He’s proud of what he’s done.

  A few seconds later they walk inside. Sebastian gives a tiny silent nod. June’s eyes are bright, brighter than usual even. And her face is flushed.

  “He’s disgusting,” she says. “I could barely stand to be in the same room with him, thinking about what he . . . I wanted to fucking kill him.”

  I wanted to fucking kill him.

  Inhale, exhale, time stops. I hold my face still. Inhale exhale inhale exhale. In out. Whoosh. Time starts again.

  I feel a rush of relief and joy and a tingle of something else. “Thank you, Junie,” I say. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  She shakes her head. “I . . . my God.” She holds out a stack of photos. “I got these for you, if you want them. I mean, I had to take them, but if you want to keep them here . . .”