No change.
I slowly turned the handle and stepped out into the dark hallway, shutting the door behind me with a faint click. The carpet was soft under my bare feet as I crept silently around the corner and down the stairs, the cold air whispering along my skin.
My pulse was racing, every sense alive as I walked slowly towards the light, a low glow coming under the kitchen door.
I pushed it ajar.
‘Miss me?’ Oliver was by the refrigerator, drinking juice straight from the carton. He met my eyes with a knowing stare and, right away, I knew, I’d come too soon. I should have waited, let him wonder. I shouldn’t have scampered down like an eager puppy to his master.
‘I didn’t know you were back. I couldn’t sleep.’ I feigned a casual tone, padding across the cool tiles. I reached past him and opened the freezer, looking for the tub of ice-cream Ethan and I had left unfinished.
‘Liar.’ Oliver whispered, turning so that his body was flush against mine, his lips brushing my ear.
A shiver rolled down my body, every hair standing on end.
‘You missed a fun night,’ I told him, turning around to meet his eyes. ‘Ethan and I had a great time.’
Oliver’s lips curled in a smile. ‘Trying to make me jealous?’ he drawled slowly.
I held his gaze. ‘Are you?’
Oliver’s face remained impassive, but then I lifted the ice-cream out of the fridge and his gaze settled on the promise ring. The tendon in his jaw flickered, just a moment, taut with tension. ‘Is that new?’ he asked, his voice still casual.
‘Ethan gave it to me.’ I felt a rush of victory. ‘Tonight.’
Oliver scowled. He took a step closer. ‘Did you fuck him?’
My blood rushed in a shock as he watched, smiling. ‘None of your business,’ I managed to reply.
Oliver just took another step, backing me up against the kitchen cabinet. ‘Do you think of me, when he touches you?’ he demanded, reaching out to trail a fingertip down my cheek, and along the line of my throat.
I shivered, caught in his gaze. ‘No,’ I lied.
‘Liar.’ Oliver’s finger trailed lower, over my collarbone, down over the swell of my breast. ‘I think you fucked him and thought of me. I think you imagined me, every minute he was inside you.’
I couldn’t believe he was saying those things. Worse still, they were true. Oliver’s eyes flashed and then suddenly his other hand was on my waist, gripping me hard, shoving me back in place as he pulled up the hem of Ethan’s shirt.
His hand slid up my thigh. My breath caught in my throat. I couldn’t look away, not with his eyes still fixed on mine, intent and victorious. This wasn’t like Ethan, fumbling and eager; Oliver touched me with precision, detached and remote, watching my every response. I tried to stay unmoved, meeting his control with my own, but he was good, too good, his fingers sliding cool on my hot skin until I broke, gasping against him, the roar of blood in my ears.
A noise came from down the hallway.
Oliver stepped away from me, sliding smoothly around the kitchen island so that when the door swung open, he was sitting on the other side of the room to me.
‘There you are.’ Ethan looked surprised. ‘I was worried.’
‘I . . . I’m fine.’ I caught my breath, my cheeks burning, my blood still shimmering from release. ‘I couldn’t sleep.
‘Hey, dude.’ Ethan nodded at Oliver as he crossed the kitchen towards me. ‘Good night?’
‘It was . . . eventful.’ Oliver smiled, his eyes on me.
I looked away.
‘You’re all red.’ Ethan frowned, looking down at me. He reached to press the back of his hand against my forehead. ‘And you’re burning up. Do you think you’re getting sick?’
‘Maybe.’ I inhaled quickly and grabbed a glass from the counter, running the faucet cold. ‘I haven’t been feeling so good. I probably just need some rest, is all.’
‘Aww, come back to bed,’ Ethan told me. ‘I’ll take care of you.’
I nodded, my eyes cast down as I passed Oliver. I could still feel the imprint of his touch on my body, my pulse racing in my veins; the remnants of desire.
‘Yes, don’t worry,’ Oliver added, his voice following me out. ‘You’ll be in good hands.’
I know, you’re judging me – and I would too.
We all pretend to be so much better than we are, but if you’re really honest with yourself, you’ve felt it. Lying there, silently willing their hands lower, their touch harder. Wishing you could tell them just what you need, but finding you have no voice, no words to sound.
Nobody’s told you how to say those things. Nobody said you ever could. So you stay silent, and restless, and guilty.
Bad, for wanting so much more.
Bad, for not appreciating everything they give.
Bad, for all the dark places inside your soul you try so hard to hide.
As so it goes, day after day. Every sharp word and every angry, impure thought. You press them down, pretending they’re not a part of who you really are – the sweet, good girl, the smiling, happy person but the truth is, that anger is more real than anything. It burns and blooms and blossoms, twisting tighter with every faked smile until you wonder, what would it be like to just let it free?
Stop pretending. Stop hiding. Stop being the girl they all said you should be.
Imagine that freedom. God, can’t you feel it?
What harm could it do?
They dropped all charges against Blake. No DUI charge, no manslaughter trial, not even a ticket for reckless driving. The statement said there was no evidence of wrong-doing. It was time to draw a line under the tragedy and let the community heal.
A pipe burst along the east wall of the sheriff’s department, flooding the evidence lock-up. Two crates were destroyed, including the interview tapes from the night Blake was brought in.
Weber. The evidence room. The tapes. Blake’s testimony.
I could have said something, I know. Crystal was gone and they were sweeping it aside, like her death meant nothing, not compared to loyalty among officers. A couple of beers might not have made any difference in the end, but it was a lie.
A lie I could have exposed.
But I did nothing. I turned my head away and bit back my suspicions, and told myself that they were right, it was time to move on. The truth was, I didn’t have room in me to rail at Crystal’s injustice; I didn’t have the energy for her fight, not with my own underway. I had bigger things to worry about.
Mom had stopped taking her medication.
I didn’t notice at first, I was too intoxicated by Oliver, I didn’t know how long she’d been slipping back into her old depression. I only realized when I came home from work early on Friday night and found the stench of urine, thick in the air.
She’d wet herself.
A grown woman, sitting in her own filth. Crying quietly with the TV on, as if she couldn’t even find the effort to get up.
‘Mom!’ I pulled her to her feet. The smell was terrible and I tried not to gag. ‘Jesus, Mom, what happened?’
‘Did you see?’ she hiccuped, pointing at the TV. ‘Those poor babies.’
It was some news report about an orphanage in Asia. I quickly shut it off, then tried to coax her upstairs to the bathroom. ‘It’s OK,’ I told her, over and over. ‘Everything’s going to be OK.’
I helped her strip off her soiled nightgown and get into the shower. She stood there, shivering like a child under the jets.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whimpered. ‘I’m trying, I really am.’
‘I don’t understand, you were doing so well.’ My voice twists. I thought we had it figured out, I thought all this was under control. And now, now it was threatening to fall apart again. Panic rose up in me, sharp and swift. I couldn’t do this, not again, not from scratch for month after anxious month.
‘We’ll go back to Dr Mayhew,’ I told her, fighting to stay calm. ‘Your dosage must be wrong. We’ll try new med
s, we’ll figure this out.’
I left her cleaning off and went into her bedroom, hunting for fresh clothes and towels. Her pill bottle was standing on the bedside table and I paused. The last time I checked, weeks ago, it was about half full. When I lifted it again, I realized: it still was.
Anger flared.
‘Mom!’ I strode back into the bathroom. I yanked the shower curtain aside, holding the bottle up. ‘What the hell is this? You’ve stopped taking them. I can’t believe you’ve stopped taking them!’
‘I don’t like it,’ Mom mumbled. She turned her head away, ‘They make me feel like someone else. It’s not right.’
‘Not right . . . ?’ I gasped for air, drowning in the rage that flooded through me, the harsh blow of frustration. ‘Not right is me running around after you, having to make sure that you dress yourself, and wash yourself, and don’t piss your pants on the fucking couch!’
I grabbed her arm and pulled her roughly out of the shower. She protested but I ignored her, shoving a clean robe at her and pushing her out into the bedroom. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whimpered again, tying the robe around herself with shaking hands.
‘Don’t just say that, do something about it!’ I took the pill bottle and shook two on to my palm. I held them out to her. ‘Take them.’
Mom shook her head. ‘I can’t.’
‘Take them!’
My voice echoed, a furious scream.
Mom cringed back, her eyes widening with fear, but I didn’t care. ‘Take them, or I’ll drive you to the ER right this minute,’ I ordered her, my blood pounding in my ears. ‘I’ll tell them you tried to kill yourself, that you’re a danger to yourself and others, and they need to commit you.’
She gaped at me in crumpled disbelief. ‘You wouldn’t.’
‘I will,’ I promised her and, God, I meant it. ‘And if you think these drugs are bad, just wait and see what they put you on in there. Have you seen the psych ward?’ I demanded, moving closer. ‘Have you? They’ll strap you down in an empty room and leave you there alone to rot.’
‘Don’t!’ She broke into sobs, her body shaking. ‘Please, Chloe . . . ’
‘There won’t be fluffy pillows!’ I yelled, hurling one from the bed. ‘There won’t be cooking shows, and knitting, and a nice dinner every night. I’ll leave you there, and I won’t ever come back!’
‘Please!’ She sank to the floor, weeping. ‘Please, don’t leave me, Chloe, you’re all I’ve got.’
Her words tried to wrap around me, suffocating, squeezing tight, but I fought them back, determined. I was done with hesitance and panic and creeping around in the dark. I had the upper hand now, I knew how to keep her in line. ‘So you’ll take the meds?’
She nodded.
‘Promise me, you have to take them. Otherwise . . . ’ I let the words hang in the air.
‘I will!’ Mom gasped eagerly. ‘I promise, I’ll be good.’
She reached for the pills, quickly gulping them down dry. ‘See?’ she managed a quaking smile. ‘It’s OK, sweetie, I’ll be better.’ She tried to hug me, but I stood back. I couldn’t look at her like this, not another second longer.
‘I’m going to class. I want you in bed by the time I’m back.’
I turned it over in my mind, all through Ashton’s lecture at Rossmore that night. What to do, what to do? Every step I thought we were progressing, Mom would back-slide at a moment’s notice – and now I had to accept for the first time, that she might never get any better. I’d been hanging on the hope that recovery was just around the corner: that with enough time and the right meds and careful, nudging support, she would crawl herself out of the darkness of her own mind and somehow shed this helpless, weary skin, becoming the person she used to be again.
Now, I realized, that was just a childish dream.
There was no getting ‘back to normal’. There was no magical solution, no pill that would wipe the slate clean. Any recovery would be hard-fought, day by day, with relapse and breakdowns and a dozen other awful failures along the way.
It could take her years like this. Years of my life, right here.
The longer I saw staring at my blank notepad, the teacher’s voice drifting just out of reach, the more I felt something harden inside me, an angry resignation. Part of me wanted to just follow through on my threat: hand her over to be somebody else’s problem, wash my hands of her for good . . . but what would that make me? I tried to tell myself I owed her more than that, but I knew that obligation was wearing thinner by the day, strained to breaking point after months of her helpless collapse.
I was her daughter, I told myself, over and over, even as I dreamed of escape. That had to mean something.
I was no closer to a solution when the chairs scraped back around me. Class was ending in a bustle and rush. I packed my things away, untouched, and followed the crowd towards the exit.
‘I know this stuff isn’t exactly riveting, but could you try and pretend like you’re listening?’
I turned. Ashton was wiping down the board. He gave me a wry look from behind his square-rimmed glasses.
‘I’m sorry.’ I swallowed. ‘Was it that obvious?’
‘Not as much as the guy snoring beside you, but yes. It’s OK,’ he added, sighing. ‘I’d zone out too. God, this place is depressing.’ He finished cleaning up, looking around the windowless room with an expression I recognized as pure resentment.
I felt a surge of empathy. He’d had other plans too, I remembered: tenure in a city somewhere, another life away from here.
‘I thought you were supposed to give us inspirational speeches,’ I replied lightly. ‘About how this is the first step in the great adventure of our lives.’
He snorted. ‘Please. We both know, you don’t make it out of a place like this.’
‘I can see it on the prospectus now,’ I joked darkly. ‘Rossmore, where dreams go to die.’
Ashton laughed. ‘Walk you out?’ he offered.
‘Sure.’ I hitched my bag up. He shut off the lights and we walked down the empty hallways, our footsteps echoing on the scuffed floor.
‘I read your paper,’ he said. ‘I’ll have it back with the rest of them next week.’
‘What did you think?’ I asked, nervous. I’d taken a shot at one of the assignments for Ashton’s American Lit class; I hadn’t been in the classes, but I’d done the reading, and tried to follow the outlines he’d suggested.
‘You’re getting there,’ he started, sounding encouraging. ‘It had some good arguments, but you need to watch your structure. You go off on tangents sometimes and it dilutes the central thesis. Believe it or not, less is sometimes more.’
His criticism stung a little. ‘I’ll remember that.’ I said quickly.
‘But don’t be discouraged.’ Ashton had clearly seen the disappointment on my face, because he stopped, turning to me with a reassuring look. ‘You have a nice style, clean, unsentimental. You’ve got potential, you’re just starting to get the hang of this.’
I nodded. ‘OK. Thanks.’
We got outside. Ashton looked around. ‘Any wild plans?’ he asked, joking.
‘Sure.’ I gave a wry laugh. ‘This place is Party Central.’
Ashton made a face. ‘Tell me about it. They say it’s so great out of the city, less pollution, all this nature. But I can’t sleep at night, it’s so fucking quiet.’
There was an edge to his voice, I recognized it well: a discontented hum, vibrating under the surface. I’d noticed the change in him in class too – he’d been buoyant at the start of semester, full of enthusiasm, but it had been draining away in the face of the general apathy of the students, who seemed to doze their way through the session.
‘Still, it’s just the year, right?’ I said, reminding myself, as much as him.
He nodded, giving me a brief smile. ‘I can make it if you can.’
‘Deal.’
I said my goodbyes and headed over to my car, sending up my usual prayer that she would keep go
ing just a few miles more. But when I turned the ignition, the engine started, spluttered briefly, and then died.
Again.
I sank back in the freezing seat, too worn out to even be mad. Another trip to the mechanic to fix the engine that was already past its use. Another three hundred dollars we didn’t have, another call for Ethan to come rescue me, because that’s all he ever did these days.
Goddamn.
I saw a pair of headlights light up on the other side of the parking lot. Ashton.
My spirits lifted. I quickly grabbed my bag and got out of the car.
‘Hey!’ I waved him down as he slowly drove towards the exit. He pulled up alongside me, rolling the window down. ‘I’m sorry,’ I apologized. ‘But my stupid car died again. I’m totally stranded.’
I waited hopefully. Sure enough, Ashton waved me around. ‘I can give you a ride.’
‘Are you sure?’ I checked. ‘I don’t want to be any trouble.’
‘It’s no problem, get on in.’
I went around and slid into the passenger seat. It was warm inside, the radio playing some talk show about politics. ‘You’re a regular knight in shining armour,’ I told him, relieved to be out of the cold. ‘I swear, I’ll pay more attention in class next week. I’ll even ask questions.’
Ashton laughed, putting the car back in drive. ‘Hey, no need to go overboard.’
He drove away from the college, making the turns towards the highway. I watched the darkness blur outside the window.
‘So, tell me, how am I stacking up?’
I turned. Ashton was looking at me expectantly. ‘School gossip, behind the scenes. C’mon, I want to know.’
‘That’s confidential, sir,’ I joked, as if I was party to any of the gossip around college.
‘Aww, I told you, it’s Ashton. And I’m serious, what are my feedback sheets going to look like at the end of the semester? Do I need to brace myself for zeros?’
‘You know you don’t.’ I stretched, getting comfortable. ‘Now, Mr Yi might be giving you a run for the money in the “hottest teacher” department . . . ’