He clears his throat and looks down at his hands and then back up at me, a tick in his jaw alerting me to the seriousness of the situation. “Did you run away because of me? Was it my fault, Byrdie?”
Every last thing that I’ve ever wanted to say to him builds up inside of my throat, and the pressure in my chest expands until I’m sure I’m going to pass out. This isn’t the time and place for it, though. I have a plan, and it does not involve standing in front of the beer refrigerator of a Chevron gas station. I wait a few seconds and gather my thoughts before I speak, even though I can sense that my silence is giving Cline more of an answer than a simple yes or no would.
“I didn’t run away. So, no.”
He holds my gaze, our eyes locked and bodies only inches apart for what feels like the first time in eons. He’s so familiar and yet the most foreign thing in my entire life right now. “Why would your dad lie about that? Tell everyone you ran away if you didn’t?” He asks, his voice low and a little shaky.
I shrug and look away, grabbing another treat before I sidestep him. “Some lies are easier to say out loud than telling people the truth.” There’s no reason for me to turn around and look at his face as I walk away. There’s confusion and hurt there that I’ve seen so many times before, more than I could possibly keep count of. Part of this trip is making that right, but I’m forcing myself to take my therapist’s advice and stick with the plan I have in my head. Ignoring the impulse to tell him everything in the here and now is overwhelming. and that’s exactly how I know it’s not right.
It’s not time.
The first day I met Dr. Stark. she didn’t look at me with pity or like I was some kind of miracle. She didn’t treat me as if I were some sort of hopeless thing that couldn’t be cured. She treated me like a person, and I didn’t know how to respond to that.
The first session began with the question, “What brings you here?” And I answered with a name, so she cut me off. It wasn’t who brought me there. There was no one person that caused me to end up in her office. No two people were responsible for my time spent in the hospital while Patrick and Miranda played damage control and lied that I’d run away. I half expected to hear the therapist tell me no one can make you feel inferior without your consent, but she stopped just shy of that.
She asked for a complete history. A full rundown. So I told her everything, down to the very last moment I could remember, and she wrote her notes all the while. She would cross and uncross her legs, nod and stop writing at particular intervals if something of note would come out of my mouth. Otherwise, she was nothing but professional, and by the end of that first session, I think I had told her everything I could think of, starting from the moment I was born until that very second I was in her office.
There was blame and guilt everywhere, almost as if I could see it piling up on the ground around me. The more I spoke, the more carnage, the higher the body count, there was. Everyone had a hand in my misery and owned a bit of why I was sitting in front of this slender woman with honey colored hair and a blank expression as I bared my fifteen-year-old soul.
By the time I was done, I was a mess, both emotionally and physically. I’d cried until I was dry, and my body hurt from the act of it. But all she did was offer me a tissue and then a small piece of advice that changed the course of my life forever. “Now that you’re done blaming everyone else for your troubles, we can start working on the root of the problems inside of you, Audrey. Let’s figure out where those come from.”
It was the inability to understand the origin of that—where those issues arose from—that had confounded me so deeply. I had no sense of who I really was or where I had truly come from. Now the only people who knew the truth were a few adults who were paid to know my secrets or were trying to pretend they didn’t exist.
Then I got assigned Cara, the voice on the other end of the phone. My weekly check-in to make sure everything is still okay. A twisted kind of pen pal or internet friend, but we’d been relegated to speaking only by phone and for the express purpose of my mental wellbeing.
Sitting in the car with Elliot as we drive back into Alabama, I wonder if there will come a time where I can tell someone else how I’m feeling instead of depending on a Tuesday night call. I wonder if this plan that my therapist set in motion, where I let go of these preconceived notions about the guilt I associated with each person I blamed for having a hand in what happened all those years ago, will actually make a difference. I wonder if I’ll come out on the other side like some sort of monarch butterfly. Maybe I’ll end up like that confused moth in the bathroom, bumping into everything and trying to escape a bathroom stall instead.
I wonder how September will be as a psychologist when she finally establishes her own practice. When we were up on the cliff and I was melting down, she was so kind and reassuring. She knew before I even said anything. It must have been the fear in my eyes. Or the way I curled up into a ball and started freaking out about how there was no way in hell I was going over that ledge. She told me it was all in my head. Her touch was so tender and reassuring. Her voice was so calm and soothing. Her eyes held mine while we spoke and she encouraged me to face my fears.
A smile plays at my lips as a thought hits me suddenly. With the way Cline has become interested in her so quickly, would she end up practicing as September Worley? Or September Somers?
“What are you smiling about over there?” Elliot asks as he pulls up to a red light. September and Cline pull up beside us, and I look over to see the two of them talking with the windows down, huge, stupid smiles on their faces. They’re so into each other it’s ridiculous.
“If those two get married, then her name will forever be September Somers.” I say without any sarcasm at all.
“They’ve known each other for all of three days. I don’t think you can start planning a wedding for them yet,” Elliot says as the light turns green.
We pull ahead of them at least thirty seconds before September even realizes that the signal has changed, and I turn to glance back over at the boy sitting to my left. “I have a hunch about this one. I know we’re not close anymore, but he’s pretty easy to read when it comes to girls. I haven’t seen him this into someone before. Not even Kelsey. And I’m pretty sure his twelve-year-old brain thought he was going to marry her one day.”
Elliot’s shoulders raise a bit and he grips the wheel tightly, eyes still on the road. “Do you think you’ll ever trust me enough to tell me what actually happened between the two of you?”
I shrug and look back out the window, unsure of my answer. “I don’t know. Because the answer is that nothing happened between us. That’s the problem.” It’s still unclear how I’m supposed to apologize for walking away from a friendship without any explanation, because it was best for me at the time, and best for him in the long run.
I have three days to figure out the words to say it, though.
There’s a part of me that has wanted to look at Wendy’s journals when Audrey has left them unattended so that I can see what she’s reading while I drive or when she’s having one of her quiet moments. I know how bothered I would be if I found anyone looking through my dad’s stuff though, so I don’t.
The first letters he sent weren’t much, just blue pages saying how much he missed my mom. They’d always start with “Roseanna baby,”and they’d always end with “All my love, Pete.” That first deployment was directly after 9/11, and his unit was one of the first ones in—mobile and unestablished—so we couldn’t call. Couldn’t send mail. We could only receive it. He’d send small letters for me, too, but they weren’t much, just enough for me to read that he missed me.
The deployments weren't long, but they were back to back, and in a two year span he did three deployments to both Iraq and Afghanistan. My mom had been glued to the television, watching reports as hostages were rescued and bombs were detonated. Each time the doorbell rang, she would go pale, and now I know what she was waiting for, but at the time, it was usually
just my friends coming over to play. I didn’t understand her anxiousness until I got much older.
He was on his final deployment when it happened. A car bomb at a check point. You’re not allowed a lot of information, and they keep secrets about plenty of things that happen overseas, but the way my father died was heroic, and they were sure to tell me that at his funeral. That he’d died running toward the other men in his unit, trying to save their lives. His name lives on, printed on silver bracelets that his friends wear in his memory, along with the five other men that died that day.
He left behind a grieving wife, a confused eight-year-old son, a box of letters, and a photo album full of pictures of him in Afghanistan with people he considered his brothers. Face covered in dirt and sun beating down on everything. He was proud. He was doing something.
Part of me hopes that by doing this thing for Audrey, that maybe I’m doing something, too. Something my dad would be proud of. He’d always been so supportive of my interests and how my brain functioned, my love of building and how I wanted to know exactly how everything worked. I’d spend hours building Legos and wait until I could barely keep my eyes open just to hear him come through the door and tell me that I was the best builder he’d ever seen.
My game is not in memoriam. It’s in his honor.
Sitting at the small desk in a cheap hotel just outside of Mobile, Alabama, I remind myself of that as I put the final touches on a character that looks exactly like my father. His eyes stare back at me from the screen, eerily lifelike. I don’t know whether to laugh or shut my laptop and take a walk around the pool to clear my head.
Audrey appears at that exact moment, opening the bathroom door, wearing a red sundress. The straps are thin, pulled up and across her back in an interesting pattern that catches my attention when she turns around to check her reflection in the full length mirror. She’d asked to stop at the store on our way into town, and I’d seen her grab the dress along with a few other items, almost like she didn’t want to get it but couldn’t stop herself from buying it.
“I didn’t know if it would fit my boobs,” she says out loud and then turns to me with wide eyes. “Probably not something you’re used to hearing. Sorry about that.” Her cheeks almost match the color of the material she’s wearing. For what it’s worth, it does fit her boobs. Very well, if I’m being honest. Maybe a little too well, according to how fast I have to look away.
“You look pretty,” I say as I save my work and close my laptop. She’s still and staring at me as I turn around to face her again. “What? You do. It’s a good color on you. I like the hair, too.” She bought a box of dye and went one color, a dark brown, almost black, all over, covering the lighter ends. It makes her eyes stand out more.
“Please stop saying nice things to me. I don’t know how to take compliments. They make me feel awkward,” she says and begins to pull at the dress.
I stand and walk over to her, taking her hands in mine. “You just say thank you and move on. Try it.”
Her chest blossoms bright pink, and she breathes heavily as we hold eye contact. I swear I can see tears begin to form in her eyes before she looks away. “Thank you.” Stepping back, she pulls her hands from mine and reaches into the plastic bag on her bed, pulling out two hats. “I bought one of each. Wasn’t sure who you wanted to represent in this neck of the woods. We are a house divided today, Mr. Clark. Are you going to yell Roll Tide?” She extends the burgundy hat my way then scrunches her face up and shakes her head. “Do that thing where you make the bill less flat. That thing boys do. It’s a magic power I don’t possess.” She stands there, staring at the hat with a dubious look on her face then flops it in my direction with a silent demand for me to fix it.
I laugh while I bend the brim and wait for her to get the rest of her stuff together before we leave. From the corner of my eye I can see her rummaging around for another couple of orange bottles, and then she takes a quick swig of water before turning to me like nothing has just happened.
“The Lovebirds should be waiting for us downstairs. Are you ready to experience deep fried butter?” She asks, holding her hand out for mine.
“I’m going to pass on that,” I say, holding the hotel room door open for her and allowing her to pass through before me. “I want to live past the age of twenty-two. Death by calories wouldn’t be my suicide of choice.”
Her hand is gone from mine in an instant, suddenly fidgeting with a pin in her hair. “Sorry,” she mumbles. “It was falling.” But she doesn’t give me her hand back on the elevator ride down.
Cline and September are waiting for us by the doors, and Audrey has a smile plastered on her face by the time we reach the both of them. She extends her hand in offering, giving Cline the Auburn Tigers hat as a gift. He appears surprised for all of two seconds before finding his composure and taking it from her. The bill is broken in by the time we’ve made it to the fairgrounds, and the awkward moment in the hotel hallway is long forgotten under the sounds of kids screaming and yelling on rides. The smell of fried food hangs heavy in the air, and my stomach rumbles with want.
The sky has been light gray all day, but as night begins to fall, the clouds are drawing closer and deepening to a darker hue. The air feels thick with humidity, and my arms are coated with wetness within a few minutes of being out of the air conditioning of my car.
September has her hair pulled up into a bun, pieces escaping around her face and sticking to her forehead as she stares up at the giant Ferris wheel while Cline and I buy ride tickets. Her dress is strapless, and she’s wearing boots, effortlessly pretty and comfortable in her own skin next to Audrey who is twisting her hair into a knot and letting it go, over and over again. The difference between the two of them as they stand side by side is glaringly obvious.
I come to stand behind Audrey and lean into her ear. “Want me to put your hair up for you?” Even in the warmth of an Alabama summer, the feel of my breath on her neck causes goosebumps to arise, and instead of answering me, she pulls a ponytail holder from around her wrist and offers it to me. Her attention goes to the aluminum bracelet around her wrist again, and I wish for once she could find some semblance of calm for longer than thirty seconds.
I secure her ponytail and turn her around to face me with a smile and a nod. “Perfect. Are we going on the Ferris wheel?”
“Not a chance in hell, Elliot. But I’ll let you take me on that zero gravity ride over there.” She points to a circular ride where people are standing, but the machine is moving so fast they’re forced against the sliding wall, paralyzed. Every single rider is screaming their heads off and laughing all at once.
“I’m in,” comes September’s reply, and she takes a handful of tickets from Cline in one hand and Audrey’s palm in the other. The two girls take off, and I’m left with Cline, watching them go.
“She blew me in the shower,” he blurts out.
“What the hell, man? I don’t need to know that.” I throw a disgusted look his way and start walking after the girls.
He jogs a second to catch up, his eyes wide. “You might. See how close they are? My girl could be, like, hey Audrey, want to share a soda? And she’d be all, like, oh, yeah, let’s do that, but only one straw because we’re girls and we do weird shit like that. And then you’ll be kissing Audrey later tonight and—“
I punch him right in the arm to get him to shut up.
“Ow!” he yells.
A man walking by with an Alabama hat on just like mine tips it at me and crows, “That’s right! Roll Tide!”
“You’re wearing the wrong hat tonight,” I say and punch Cline again. He flinches and pretends like he’s going to punch me back but doesn’t follow through. Instead, he pulls me under his arm and steals my hat, running off with it over his head as he meets up with the girls waiting by the ride.
It’s started to sprinkle, and we’ve ridden five rides so far, walked the entire length of the fairgrounds, and watched a group of nine year olds tap dance in skirts big
ger than my bedroom. The smile on Audrey’s face is enormous, and I can’t stop staring at her.
She’s holding a funnel cake in one hand and a custard in the other while I balance a corn dog and massive soda myself. Cline and September have gotten on the Ferris wheel, and it will be at least another ten minutes before they make it to the top and all the way back around. We head away from the lights and sounds toward the grass and rocks of a field just beyond the parameters of the fairgrounds. There’s a slight breeze as we go to sit, and Audrey’s skirt flies up, making her laugh and attempt to grab it with both of her full hands. She’s unsuccessful and ends up landing on her ass gracelessly, powdered sugar sliding from the plate onto her lap in the process.
“Figures. I’m over here trying to act like a lady, and all the elements are against me.” She shakes her fist at the sky in false anger.
“You don’t have to act like a lady,” I tell her just as I turn to look and see that she’s taken a huge bite out of the funnel cake and has white powder all over her cheeks and under her nose. “I retract that statement. Maybe trying a little bit would be helpful.”
Her laugh causes more powdered sugar to go flying into the air. She passes the food over to me, and we share it until it’s all gone and we’ve cleaned up the best we can, though her red dress has spots that won’t come out without a good washing. The sprinkles of water are doing little to help with the situation. They simply disappear into the fabric as soon as they make contact.
We stare at the lights of the fair beyond us, such a stark contrast to the dark night sky, obliterating any stars that are shining above it. It reminds me of how I feel when I’m around Audrey. How loud and bright and chaotic she can be. How she can swallow the entire environment around her until she’s the only focal point. She could dim even the brightest of stars if she’d just get out of her head.