Chapter 27

 

In the dark, sleepy hours distinguishing Friday night from Saturday morning, a little blip in the power reset everything in the house. I woke in the morning, watching red numbers flash. I could hear Mom and Ron stirring between the kitchen and the living room. My brain pieced it together, and then I was tumbling out of the bed, running to the living room and the nearest reliable clock.

“Well look who's finally up.” Mom gave me an odd look from her recliner.

“I overslept.” I yelled at no one, running for my room. “I'm late for work.”

Sitting at the front of the bus in a tense ball of energy, I chanted a thousand small pleading whispers for the driver to go faster. It did nothing. When we reached my stop, I ran to the store, weaving around the knots of slow moving pedestrians in my way. I could see the looks of annoyance, the accurate judgment that I was being rude. I arrived at the time-clock winded, annoyed with myself and still quite late. I searched the aisles for Brian as the shift was already well underway. When I found him, his sigh said it all.

“I'm so sorry I'm late. Our power went out last night. I'm so sorry.”

He led me back to get me set up to run a register. “Try not to let it happen again.”

The open check-out aisles were overflowing with customers. Before I flipped on the light to signal my lane was open, three people with heaping carts were already jostling for position. The woman at the end seemed annoyed to find she was now waiting at end of a different line. The flow of people and their level of annoyance didn't abate the entire shift. I shut down my light when John appeared at the end of my aisle to collect me for break. He ended up helping with bagging while I negotiated with yet another person that I needed to end the line somewhere.

“Do you mind heading outside today?” I asked when I saw him turn in the direction of the break room.

“The picnic table is soaked, so as long as you don't mind standing.”

Once out the door, I breathed deeply. The smell of the sky before the rain overwhelmed the stale smell of cigarettes that usually permeated the walls. “I'm sorry. I'm having sort of a bad day.”

“Hm.” John's look of consideration warmed to a smile. “I have something that might cheer you up.”

Always cautious when he got a look like this, I squinted. “What sort of something would this be?”

“It's at my house so it will have to be a surprise.”

“Is it a mammal?”

He laughed. “No.”

“Reptile?”

I got as far as deducing it a book of some type before break ended and we headed back in. My thoughts weren't completely distracted by him, but maybe I wasn't paying as careful attention as I should have. With a few minutes left, I started making preparation to close down my aisle. A lady appeared right as I switched off my light. She looked upset and, thinking it would help, I waved her to come through anyway. Unlocking my register, I started scanning and she hefted case after case of canned foods from her cart. Thinking it would speed the process along, I multiplied the number of cans before scanning a single item.

“Those are all different.” The woman spotted what I was doing, her arms already crossed. “Most of them are on sale. I'm not paying full price for all of them.”

My hands rose in a placating gesture. “I'm so sorry. I think I can fix this.”

I stabbed at buttons, trying to erase what I'd done. I'd scanned too many items though. The machine beeped at me.

“Don't think you can fix it.” The little woman snapped. “Fix it.”

“I'm sorry. Just give me a minute.” My nervous finger hit the wrong button. Register tape spewed from the machine accompanied by another series of urgent beeps.

For such a short woman, her voice managed to get bigger and bigger. “I told you I'm not paying for your mistake. Don't think you can treat me like some sort of idiot. I won't pay it, I won't.”

“I'm so sorry. Please, let me get my manager.” I picked up my phone, pushing the button for the intercom. “Manager to aisle six for customer assistance.” The speakers amplified the wavy sounds of my voice, projecting to the entire store that I was close to tears.

Despite being convinced I was going to overcharge her, the woman continued trying to shove items across the scanner.

“I'm sorry, we need to wait for my manager.”

“I don't have all day for your excuses!” Her little voice boomed. Rattled, I bumped against the register. My hand hit a button that duplicated the last scanned item. A second case of apparently overpriced canned goods was added to the total.

“What are you doing?” The little woman screamed. “Those aren't mine. You can't charge me for things I didn't buy!”

Brian appeared at the end of the aisle. “How can I help?”

I tried to explain the incorrect scans but the woman kept interrupting, yelling that I was trying to cheat her.

“Here, let me see this.” Brian moved behind the register, directing me to stand at the end of the aisle. It took him a number of entries and then resetting the entire order, but he was able to cancel it all out. He motioned me back. “Now, let's try this again.”

I felt grateful that he stayed close, watching the monitor as I scanned each individual item. The woman grumbled the entire time about idiot kids trying to cheat her, thinking she wouldn't notice.

I could feel my eyelashes getting wet when I read her the total.

“That can't be right.” She snapped.

I gave Brian a helpless look.

“Here.” He pushed a button, running the receipt and handing it to her for her to look at. After thorough review, she huffed a rather rude sound and began writing her check. Brian helped me in bagging the items and putting them back in her cart. Turning to take the completed check, I saw she'd written it for forty cents less than the total. I ran it anyway.

“Forty cents, please.” I spoke with a small voice, prepared for another round of abuse.

“What do you mean forty cents? I gave you the check.” She nearly snarled.

Not trusting she would believe me, I showed her the total and then her check.

“Well why didn't you say something! I can't write another check for forty cents!”

Brian moved back towards the register. “You know what, I'll take care of this. Thank you for time, ma'am. Sorry for any trouble this caused and I hope you have a better afternoon.” From the lady's face, she considered giving him more trouble. She saw him taking that stance guys do, when they suddenly take up a whole lot more space. She muttered something and shoved her cart toward the door.

“Shut your register down and we'll take your tray back to the office for a quick audit.”

Following along behind him, the walk was sullen. We counted everything out and it all totaled up aside from that last forty cents. Brian pulled a quarter, a dime and nickel from his jacket pocket.

“There. All set,” he said.

I rose to put the balanced tray in the lock box.

“Don't let this get you down.”

I turned my head, fighting with my chin to prevent it pressing down into an ugly cry.

“This was one bad day, Layla.”

Still not looking at him, I shook my head.

“You know, I've seen the way you've dealt with upset customers before. It's what made me think you'd do well in this job.”

I felt my nose running and gave a pathetic sniff. “Then maybe I should go back to stocking.”

Brian leaned against his desk. “Layla, everyone has a bad day. When it doesn't go well once, that doesn't mean you quit.”

Still staring at my feet with my back turned, I wiped at my nose with my sleeve. “So I should learn to toughen up then? Not let it bother me?”

“You know, there are a lot of unhappy people in this world. When someone like that comes through here, there is not a thing you can do that will stop them from being upset if that's how they’ve decided it’s going to be. What I've seen before is you thinking on your feet and coming up with solutions, not taking it personally and falling apart.”

“But I messed up.”

“And that's okay. No one died. We were able to fix it. Give yourself a break. You'll do better next time.”

I felt my shoulders drop. My nose was really running now. Gaze dropped, I turned to his desk in search of a tissue. Brian stood with the box in hand, extended out to me. I took one and attempted a discreet blow.

“So," he said, “I'll see you Wednesday?”

I wiped my eyes in the crook of my arm and tossed the tissue into the garbage. “Wednesday.”

John waited at the time-clock, neck craning in various directions in search of me. His face brightened. “Where've you been?”

“There was just a problem with a customer.” I reached for my timecard. “I think it's all cleared up now.”

“Oh. Are you okay?”

I passed my hand over my face one last time, feeling for any wayward sign of tears. Finding nothing, I straightened my spine and voice. “I'm fine. So, is it a new novel?”

“Nope, and that was twenty.”

I doubled my pace to keep up. “Pretty sure that was nineteen.”

We walked to his car and John ran internal calculations. He leaned over from behind the wheel to unlock the passenger door. “You’re right, it was nineteen but if you can wait a few minutes, I can show you.”

“Hi, John. Hi, Layla.” Barely through the door, Linda's voice called dispassionate greeting from the kitchen. Peeking in when I walked by, the tower of papers didn't seem any smaller.

“Hi, Linda.”

She smiled and waved a greeting. Not wanting to linger for conversation, I kept my body moving, backing up towards the staircase. I hated feeling like I needed to be so careful now.

“Talk to you kids later.” She called in the same, low voice.

John bounded up the rest of the stairs and down the hall. I caught up to him, finding him seated on the floor in the middle of his room. He held what looked like a paperback book.

I sank to the floor beside him. “Okay, what is it?”

He handed it over. I read the words on the cover.

“These are the classes for college?”

His eager hands took the booklet back, opening it to an already well-defined section of interest. “It includes a list of all the classes required for majors and then descriptions of the classes. Look at some of these! They look great.”

He remembered to hand it back to me. I scooted myself closer, understanding it would only work if we looked at it together.

He'd already taken a highlighter to it, marking off requisite classes. Highlighted stars flagged classes that weren't necessary but had struck an interest.

“I wasn't positive about it before but after seeing this, Layla I'm really excited for the fall.”

I watched him, the ways his eyes penetrated these pages of printed words. “I'm glad.”

John grabbed a pillow from the bed, rolling and shifting so he lay on his stomach in the center of the room. With stiff movements, I followed. We looked through the entire section, the increasingly complicated names of courses matched in ascending numbers. The highest numbers seemed to indicate advanced years.

“So, what do you want?” He asked.

“What?”

“You know, when you go to college. What major do you want to study?”

“Oh. I don't know. I guess I can look.” I took the book, thumbing back to the beginning.

“There's no nursing program, but you should do what you want, not what you think you're supposed to.”

I perused the listed programs of study. “This is not the first time someone's felt compelled to tell me this.”

John watched over my shoulder and I started having trouble concentrating. I sensed what he was feeling, everything he was hoping for. This plan that we'd both go to the same college, we'd always be together and everything would be perfect. I felt tightness in my throat, coughing back the strangled feeling. Unable to catch my breath, I pushed myself off the floor. Both of us sitting, I handed the booklet back to John. There was nothing in there for me. The coughing brought tears to my eyes. He tried to be comforting but he moved closer and I felt trapped.

Getting my breathing under control, I risked responding, “I don't know that college is something that's going to happen for me, all right.”

“What do you mean?”

“With me and my family, well, a lot of things, it feels premature to even think about it.”

He said nothing but his eyes communicated a deepening sense of betrayal.

“Look, it's not you. It's not anything about…this.” I gave a lame gesture to us, to the room. “It’s that in my life, I don't know what's coming next week or even next month. To say I'm going to be a specific place and do a specific thing a year from now, I'd be lying to myself and anyone else counting on me.”

John moved away, pushed himself back. He leaned his back against the bed, rubbing his thumb over his mouth. “I thought—” He shook his head then looked out the window.

He refused to see me. Punching my fist into my leg, I shifted, turning away from his face and all the hurt I was putting here. My shoulder hit a pile of paper stuffed one top of one of the shelves, scattering everything to the floor. John and I both moved to clean the mess I'd made. I picked up one the papers and understood his quick response. A familiar college logo was stamped into the letterhead, his name printed as the addressee. He pulled it from my hands, stacking it with the thick sheaf of printed papers that went with it.

“John, that was an acceptance letter to Oregon State.”

“I know.” He took the gathered pile and stuffed it under his bed.

“But—” I got no further. He stared at me, unhelpful and waiting.

Taking a very deep breath, I tried again. “You said that you didn't get accepted.”

He shook his head, untroubled. “I never said that.”

My eyes closed, the exhale came. “You said you got a letter.”

“That's how you do it, right? You say something vague and everyone thinks you said something else. Then they're all happy because they heard what they wanted. That's how it works, right?”

I launched upward, pointing to the hidden papers. “But this is what you wanted! It's about your future, about going where you're supposed to go and doing the thing you're meant to do. How can you throw away a chance like that?”

John rose too, emotions every bit as unrestrained. “I'm not throwing anything away. Is it impossible to believe this is what I want? And I'm not giving up anything, not my future, not even college. I knew you'd do this if you ever found out. Instead of agreeing that it was my choice to make, you'd get mad at me and then blame yourself. Why do you always do that, Layla?” His voice quieted. “Why do you always apologize for things that aren't your fault?”

Arms crossed, I took a step back to the door. “This isn't—” Staring at my feet, I felt my teeth clamp down on the inside of my lip. “This isn't fair.”

“It isn't fair for me to choose where I want to go to college?”

My face hardened. “It isn't fair that you made me part of that choice.”

“I don't understand what I did wrong.” His red-rimmed eyes pled with me.

Shaking my head no, I looked upward. Above me, I noticed the patched spot in the ceiling. The color of the newer paint didn't quite match. “I don't know how to explain it,” I said.

“Try.”

Arms crossed, I took another step back.

“It hurts, you know.” John’s face and voice were still, that deep place of hurting that's beyond tears. “You never let anyone in. I know you don't think I notice, but I do.”

Hugging my arms, I exhaled a ragged breath.

“I was so happy you liked me and I kept thinking maybe it would get better. Layla, I'll deal with it as long as you'll let me, but please, don't think I don't notice.”

I bit the inside of my lip too hard. The bloated, hot taste of blood irritated the raw skin.

“Will you please say something?”

Blood staunched, I spoke in a low voice. “Can you drive me home, please? I need to show you something.”

Downstairs, Linda peered out from the kitchen, undoubtedly having heard the raised voices. She noticed John's body language, every movement sharp. She gave me a look, wordless in asking if I was okay. I shrugged it off. Another twenty minutes and it wouldn't matter.

In the car, John's hands never left their assigned spots on the wheel and the space between us felt thick and unyielding.

“Right at this intersection and then left at the first light,” I said, sparse instructions to take me to my actual home.

His face constricted. More things I'd been hiding. He eased his car down the narrow road leading to the trailer park entrance.

“Park here.” I pointed to a spot reserved for guests.

He complied. It was a pointless risk and likely wouldn't do any good, but I needed to try.

“So this is where you live.”

I turned to face him, but the icy barrier remained. “This is where I live.”

“Why was it a secret? What about this is supposed to matter?”

I looked to my lap. “In this neighborhood, there are so many good people, so many wonderful families. They’re like your family, they love each other and help each other out. They want the very best for each other.”

His look of continued confusion was distilling into anger.

“But none of those families are mine.”

He glared at the windshield. This was my last chance and I needed to say it now.

“John, I watch your parents and I see how much they love you. It's...phenomenal for me to get to see that. They want a good life for you, for you to do things that interest you, to have a life that’s meaningful and fulfilling.”

He shook his head. “I don't—”

“Most of the time, I have no idea what my parents want from me. Usually, I think it’s just to give them someone to blame. The only time I ever matter is when I have something they want. If there’s nothing in it for them, I'm a big inconvenience. I didn't want you to meet my family because I never wanted you to know that. The people that are supposed to know and love me best think I'm a big screw up, vain, greedy, and generally a huge disappointment. To them, I’m everything that’s opposite of good or kind. I didn’t want you to see me like that.”

“You could never be like that.”

“If I let you pass this up, I’d be everything they think I am.”

He scrunched his nose.

“John, in the time I've known you, I can honestly say I've been happy. It's made all this bearable.” I gestured out the window.

“But?”

I sighed the barest of smiles. “You are meant to do something special. Maybe everyone feels this way, but I really believe it. If leaving here and going away to college is the first step in that journey and I'm the thing holding you back, I couldn’t live with myself.”

He looked confused but at least not angry.

“I said I love you and I meant it. I love you and I want you to have the life you're meant to. Even if it means I don't get to be in it.”

“Why do you keep talking as though you're going to disappear? Nothing has to end, nothing has to change.”

“John, my family has moved six times in the last five years. Move number seven's coming any day now.”

“You said they wouldn't, not while you're still in school.”

“I hoped. That doesn't count for anything.”

Outside the car, a couple of ladies walked by on the sidewalk. Behind the car, a few kids rolled past on skateboards. News of my being here would reach home before I did.

“I need to go.” I pushed a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “I hope someday this will make sense and I'm so sorry for hurting you. It was the last thing I ever intended.”

John stirred in his seat, putting a hand to my arm before I let myself out. “Layla wait. Before you go, please, consider this.” He shifted, face constricting a bit, uncomfortable in trying to express deep feeling. “All those things you said, about loving me. Layla, I love you too.”

Lips twitched but I restrained myself from that nervous habit of biting. I thought of the way John absently rubbed the chain of my necklace and my fingers instinctively reached for the charm hidden beneath my sweatshirt. The smile and the tears arrived simultaneously. “Thank you.”

I released the door and let myself out. He didn't try to stop me but I felt him watching me walk away.

The house felt empty when I entered. It made sense Ron might still be out running his errand but that didn't explain Mom's absence. Hanging my coat, I heard the muffled giggle. I took cautious steps towards the hall and heard it again.

“Mom? Ron? I'm home.” I stood perched at the entry to my room, hand on the doorknob.

“Layla, hon, is that you?” Mom's voice called from further down the hall.

A stupid question but I answered anyway. “Yes. Sorry to bother you, I wanted you to know I'm home.”

Bruce's large form passed down the hall first. Mom followed behind. I kept my mouth and jaw still but couldn't help the look in my eyes.

“Thanks for your help with that, Bruce.” Mom smiled. “I'd never be able to move that big dresser on my own.”

She may have been satisfied with this but, the look Bruce gave me, I don't think he expected me to believe it either.

“I'll be heading home now.” He continued down the hall, Mom following him as far as the living room. “You tell Ron I've got another delivery of parts coming in if he's up for more work.”

“Oh I'll tell him.” Mom placed her hand on the back of her hip, a slight arch to her back and her lip. I gave Bruce a blank stare until he left.

Mom gave her hair a slight fluff. “Well, you’re home. Don't you have a friend's house to got to? I swear it's like you've never got anywhere to be except underfoot. When I was your age, I was always out with friends, going to parties. Why don't you never do stuff like that Layla?”

Suddenly a big nuisance, I should've gone to my room.

“I thought you were pregnant when you were my age.”

Her face ignited in rage. “Don't you talk to me like that.”

“Oh I'm sorry. Did I say something untrue?”

She marched to the living room. “There's a way of talking about it. You don't have to be so hateful.”

I took a deep breath and talked myself into not pursuing it. Retreating to the kitchen, I started pulling ingredients together for dinner. I savagely chopped vegetables and Mom turned on the television to drown me out. In between commercials, the savvy talk show host navigated through her guests' melodrama. Within half an hour, she managed to find resolution and solve the whole lifetime of woe. Sounds of an unfamiliar engine chugged in the driveway, sputtered and died.

“Damn thing about died ten times on the way over.” Ron lumbered through the door, tossing his coat on the table on his way to the living room. “I'll have to tell Bruce. We can work on that carburetor tomorrow.”

Mom did some fast talking, giving me a look over her shoulder. “Oh, he stopped by about an hour ago. He said he'll have more work for you if you're interested.”

“That'd be fine.” Ron kicked off his shoes, wrenching his legs up in the recliner. “Bring me a beer.”

I retrieved the requested item from the kitchen. Having work seemed to agree with him. I hadn't seen him this animated in years. I offered him the can. “Here you go.”

Ron looked at me before taking it. Acknowledging my presence was also something that hadn't happened for years. “Now what's this I hear about you hanging out in the front lot with some boy?”

I withdrew my hand, wiping the condensation from my palm onto my jeans. “It was just a friend from work giving me a ride home.” I walked to the kitchen.

“To hear Old Janie tell it, it didn't sound like no just a friend.”

I brought the food to the table. Mom stood, casting calculated looks between Ron and me. “Tell us more about this boy,” she said. “Sorry, this just a friend.”

I always thought my sisters were stupid. Each and every one of them had tangled with Mom, always in these dumb arguments about insignificant things. Watching them, I could always see how they could have avoided it, how they could have talked around certain topics and how to answer questions the way she wanted. Standing there, though, I saw Mom’s face and how clever she thought she was, and I understood. It was never about picking a fight worth having. It was about the way the rage finally choked off common sense and nothing seemed like it could possibly be worse than enduring another single minute of this.

“It only really matters that he’s my friend. Was, anyway.”

Mom’s eyes contracted into little pinpricks.

“It never could have worked, he’s too much like Dad, only wanting people to be happy. We all know, I’m not meant for that.”

Ron shifted and looked uncomfortable like he always did. Mom brought her fists down to hips. “Don't you talk like that.”

“What did I say that's so wrong?”

“Ron's been a dad to you and your sisters all these years. You're being disrespectful.”

“And if I never talk about my dad, surely I won’t miss him, right?”

That smug little smile was gone now. Her voice was breathy and wounded. “You don't even know what you're saying. You was just a baby when he died.”

“I remember.” My voice came from a deep, strong place. “I remember he always did what you wanted, but it never made you any less miserable. I remember never getting to see his brothers because they made you uncomfortable. I remember how you two would argue, and you’d hit us because it made him cry. I remember how he always tried to make you happy and how you decided nothing ever would.”

Her hands moved from her hips, moving to her abdomen, hugging herself.

“You don't want to remember,” I said, “because of how it makes you feel and your feelings were the only ones that ever mattered.”

“Don't you dare say I don't care about you and your sisters.” Her eyes were fierce. “I have done everything in my power to give you a decent life. Don't you dare stand there and tell me how much better things would be if your dad was still alive.”

I shook my head, finding an exhausted little smile remained. “It doesn't matter. Nothing matters. Anyone could be standing around this table right now and the only person that would ever matter is you.”

Ron's hand swung across my face, the force of his arm throwing me half-way to the floor. When I looked up, he stood over me, finger pointed down. “Don't you talk to your mother like that.”

I rose, spotting Mom brushing her hands over her shirt and pants. The defended damsel, she prepared for her next performance. “You always try to make her happy too, Ron.” My lip already felt fat. “It's never enough though, is it?”

His eyes narrowed. This was a very dangerous game.

“You centered your whole world around her, even raised four kids that weren't yours. You’ve always given in to everything she wants but it never gets better, does it? And whenever something comes up and you actually feel good about yourself, let me guess, the whole time she’s pointing out everything missing, everything you didn’t get quite right.”

His fists were balled, but he was listening.

I exhaled. There was no other way.

“You're feeling good because you're working, doing something with yourself instead of sitting there, watching her poison everything with misery. You're out there feeling like a man, and she's using it as an opportunity to fuck your friend.”

He turned to her with a look of slow rage, but caught the pleading look on her face, her begging for my silence.

He loved her though. I watched his jaw lock. Even after a decade of shadows, there were brief moments Mom could still shine so bright. He was lost without the hope of seeing it again.

The first blow knocked me to the floor. His fist connected hard on the jaw and my arms instinctively curled in protection. It somehow made sense to me that the table had fallen on top of me, but the motion kept repeating, something striking down over and over and over. Curling down, tight in a ball, I felt no control, no need to exert any. Each blow felt like it was bringing my end. I screamed like I was dying because that's what I thought was happening. He dropped to the floor, his arm coming down on my back again and again like the wooden beams of a rafter dropping down one by one. A beat skipped and the next blow didn't arrive. Mom was there, screaming something, pushing in front of him. Maybe she was helping, but she braced her hand on my side. I screamed mouthfuls of spit and loose hair into the crook of my arm.

Grabbing my shoulder, she yanked me from the floor. A rough escort to my room, she shoved me to the bed. I risked a short inhalation, the air burning me inside and out.

“You brought this on yourself.” Light-switch flipped and door slammed shut, I was alone.

The yelling went on through the night. I didn't want to listen, but had no choice. Slumped on the bed and panting shallow little breaths, my eyes bled tears and I listened. She didn't want to defend me but didn't want him coming unhinged like that again. She kept on reinforcing how confused I'd gotten about her and Bruce. It must be that trash television giving me all sorts of nasty ideas. The yelling simmered down to quarreling. They'd never had problems like this with me before. It all seemed to start once I'd started hanging out with those girls. The quarrel softened to bickering. I was a teenager now and they'd definitely been through this before.

Pain leeched into my dreams. It was the ocean again, this time John and I walking along a rough pebbled beach. We were heading uphill, hiking a steep incline towards a line of trees. The rocks were slick, though, and I couldn't keep up. I felt the rocks slipping and skittering under my feet. John had almost reached the tree line, smiling as he waved and waited for me. I grabbed at a fallen tree trunk, pulling myself against the force dragging me back towards the sea. John turned for the forest path. At the base of his neck, a huge black spider scurried for position, fangs exposed, rearing to plunge into his skin. The branch I held ripped loose from the tree and I screamed.

“Wake up, you're dreaming.” Mom sat at my bedside, hands full of my sweatshirt as she shook me awake.

I tried to push myself up to sitting, stabbing inhalations reminding me not to move.

She brushed sweat-soaked hair from my forehead. “Better now?”

I groaned something close to a yes.

Giving a gentle pat, she rose. “Good. Try to get some rest.”

___

 

Over the next 24 hours, I saw every single version of Mom. Early on, she came to my room to get me up. Fussing and giddy, she helped pull my shirt up over a bruised and aching body. She called me silly goose and walked me to the shower.

In the living room, confronted with the battered and broken dishes from last night, she railed. Did I see what I had done? Moving only when not breathing, I picked up the shattered pieces under her watchful eye. She needed me to know there were consequences to my actions.

While I recovered in my room, she decided it was time to investigate. Ordered to again wait against the wall, she tore through the closet and drawers. The heat of the activity flamed her anger because I must be hiding something. Why else would I act this way? Fuming about those damn girls and the influence they'd had, she pulled and yanked the mattress to the floor. I could smell hints of sweat and covert cigarettes.

“I don't understand it Layla, you were raised better than this. All the sudden, we move to Portland and you act like a foul-mouthed hellion like your sisters.” She kicked the mattress over. “After all the grief and heartache you seen them put me through. I don't understand it. You were never like this bef—”

The corner of a manila envelope stuck out between the bottom of the mattress and the sheet. I shifted my weight and she reached over, snatching it up.

“What is this?”

Lips pressed, I watched.

Pulling open the metal clasp, she up-ended it, spilling the photographs to the floor. The family photos with her and Ron landed close to my feet. She reached down beside her, scooping up the one thickened with layers of cheap tape.

“Where the hell did you get this?”

Still silent, I could feel a strange pulsing where my mouth was swollen.

She stared at the picture, then reached down to grab the others still on the floor. They were all that was left of my family's pictures. All save one. It took both hands for her to crumple them into a ball.

“Let me go throw this garbage away.”

She didn't come back. Not for a while. Sometimes it works. They find the small sacrifice and the real treasure stays hidden. It was excruciating work to get the mattress back off the floor, though.

Around lunchtime, there were entreaties to go watch a movie together. At some point, she must have remembered my friend, the mysterious boy in the car. The afternoon was peppered with accusations. She noticed the lock on my door. In a screeching rage, she directed Ron to take the whole thing off its hinges. I watched and felt nothing.

Around dinner time, she and Ron seemed to have reached a truce. He flipped on a television program and she brought a cold can of beer from the kitchen. Listening from my room, I found that the door had indeed blocked a little of the noise from the television. They retired down the hall. Curled up in bed, I waited for sleep to claim me.

The sound of shuffled slippers progressed down the hall. Mom’s silhouette paused at entry to my room.

“Layla, I know you're still awake.”

I took a controlled breath and pushed myself up to sitting. She flipped on the light and sank down into the blankets beside me.

“It don't have to be like this. If you just shape up this attitude and apologize to Ron, everything'll be fine, hon. Things'll go back to the way they were and nothing's gotta change. If you work hard and get your head right, we can still be proud of you. You can finish school, do all those nurse things you talk about.” She sniffed and smiled, but a few honest tears broke through. “You'd be able to take care of your old sick mom and dad someday.”

I shifted, trying to relieve the pain in my side, but Mom collapsed on me, her desperate hug overwhelming me.

“You can't leave me here all alone, Layla. You seen what he's like. You can't leave me. I need you.” She sobbed hot tears, clenching me tighter. Crushed ribs and raw terror left me breathless. “Don't you abandon me too.”

She curled onto my shoulder, shuddering and crying until her tears were spent. I patted her head, rubbed her back, everything I could think of to soothe. Comforted, she rose, ready to return to bed.

“You always were my good girl.”

___

 

I wish I could say I'd given up dreams of rescue, of someone strong coming to whisk me away. Most days, my life seemed so mundane, there was nothing to save me from. On bad days, though, when everything seemed so huge and horrible, on those days, it felt like no hero could ever be brave enough.

In the end, there was no rescue. I walked away.

It didn't feel like running. After all, I'd taken the time to shower and brush my teeth. I don't think great escapes start with flossing. It wasn’t even sneaky, I left through the front door. Save the absurd early hour, it looked like I was going to school. Examining closer, the contents of my bag gave it away. I had my important papers and a few changes of clothes. My math book held the one salvaged picture, the one with two matching faces of similarly fractured souls. I nearly had to abandon the picture of John and me. The ornate woodwork at the top of my dresser created a barely noticeable gap within the internal frame. When I tried to pull the picture out, the old wood groaned and snapped. It was the last hidden treasure it would hold. I fastened the necklace around my throat and packed everything else I valued into my bag.

I had a well-intended if a somewhat vague plan to track Jess down. She wouldn't be thrilled but I was pretty sure she would understand. My ribs and lungs were burning by the time I reached the bus stop. After being jostled down two miles of bumpy side-streets, I decided to recalculate.

I didn't want to. I really, really didn't want to. Slow steps led me down one sidewalk, then another. Taking the easy way always felt like cheating. I walked past the school, away from the likelihood I’d go on saying I was fine and forcing everyone to believe me. The hardest route was usually the right one. I stood at the stairs leading to the big grey house. This was humiliating, so it must be right.

I hadn't seen much of my face since Sunday morning. Those few glances told me I wasn't looking great, but everything worked. This led me to believe that I was all right. I left my hair down in a half-assed effort to cover my chin and lip, but it didn't occur to me that I looked anything other than 'not that bad'. Linda opened the door. Before I could start my plea, I watched her face react in horror to mine.

Pulling me into the kitchen, she pressed a day late cold pack to my mouth. “Layla, what happened to you?”

I spoke through numbing lips. “I didn’t mean to bring bad things here.”

“What are you talking about? Bill, can you come in here?”

Walking into the room, his face froze at the sight of me. From upstairs, Nina's voice called for parental help.

I pulled the cold pack from my face. “Please, I don't want her to see me like this.”

“I'll go.” Bill put his hand on Linda's shoulder. “Take her to our room.”

Linda tried to support me on the short walk down the hall. She had no idea about the mess of bruises under my shirt, so the pain of her assistance was unintentional.

“I'm sorry.” I spoke to my lap when she seated me on their bed. “I'm sorry I was never what you wanted me to be.”

“What are you talking about, Layla? What happened to you?” Her hands brushed at my hair and face, thorough and gentle in looking for injury.

Bill's voice yelled from the bottom of the stairs. “Help your sister, okay?” The bedroom door creaked and he entered. John followed.

The path of greatest humiliation must be the correct one.

I don't know what their faces did, what any of them thought or felt. I stared intently at a spot of carpet on the floor. “I'm sorry if this isn't right but I don't know how to do it. Please,” I took the deepest breath my lungs would allow, “I need help.”

Holding my hand, Linda sank to the floor, obstructing my view of that little spot of carpet. “How can we help you?”

She'd wrapped her hands over mine, covering them with warmth and the faint residue of lotion.

“I know I can't stay here but I can't go home. I don't know where to be.”

“Please tell us why you can't go home, Layla.” Bill's voice wasn't unkind, just unfamiliar in its neutrality.

They could see my face. They must need me to say the words. The path of greatest humiliation.

“They hurt me.”

A warm, kind and loving family, it seemed so reasonable that they should inhabit a nice, warm and kind sort of world. Things like this weren't supposed to exist in the same space as them.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” Linda eased my sleeves upward. Staring shamefaced at the window, I lifted the side of my shirt.

“Please,” I stammered, “please—” I didn't know what I was asking for.

Linda's hand guided mine in pulling my shirt back down. Standing from the floor, she drew me up too. “We need to get you to a doctor.”

Bill moved to the door, calling for Miles. With Linda to my right, John moved to my left, guiding me forward. He stopped my mumbled words of protest already forming.

“Don't apologize. Let me help.”

“It’s all the worst things about me.”

In logic mode, his eyebrows furrowed, head tilting a little, cues he was about to say something potentially hurtful. “It isn't about you. It's something that happened to you, that's all. You didn’t choose this Layla.”

Propelling me to the door, he paused to put on shoes and a coat. Linda gave him a measured look and he did not shy from meeting it.

“I'm going too,” he said.

She didn’t argue.

The car ride was fine but a mounting sense of panic grew with each step towards the emergency room. This was a very serious place and it wasn't right for me to be here. They would call me back to one of those little rooms and discover I was wasting everyone's time. John’s arm resting on my shoulder, he kept me planted in the plastic chair.

Finally called back, we learned there were rules. They weren't my family. I would need to go alone. I stood up with the best of intentions of taking that walk in silence, but something small and irreparable snapped in my head.

“They're coming,” I announced.

The nurse spoke gentle explanation but my brain seized upon this one idea. I would not be reasoned with. Yelling my demand over and over, my voice spiked in terror. Rules were bent. It was better than dealing with a hysterical kid. Though Bill had never said a word, everyone suddenly seemed to understand he was an attorney.

Bill and John waited outside the curtain while I changed into the hospital gown. Linda didn’t speak but her face concealed nothing. I toyed with the plastic band at my wrist. It hadn’t seemed so bad until she saw it.

The doctor arrived, pulling the curtain aside. He looked down to his clipboard and a nurse burst in, calling him back to the hall. John sat beside me on the bed and we waited. The nurse returned, asking us to please wait more.

When the doctor returned, he watched his clipboard and asked me questions. With halting words, I gave the highlights of places that I hurt. I had to show my back and sides, wincing when he touched near my ribs.

He made me get an x-ray.

When I returned, the space was even more crowded. A clean-shaven Dr. Arns sat talking to Linda. He introduced the two women, one a social worker, the other a cop.

We started at the beginning and I understood that the discomfort of having this audience was to my benefit. I only had to say it once.

I repeated what happened and where I'd been hit. Hoping to lessen the consequences by getting it out now, I ejected the words. “It was my fault. I said things I knew would make him angry. I knew this would happen and I did it on purpose. It's my fault.” I watched my pale knees sticking out from the pastel gown and waited for the fallout.

The cop and the social worker exchanged a complicated look. Officer Molly un-clicked her pen.

“Layla,” She leaned forward, pausing until I looked her in the eye. “Let me say this once before we go on. You are not responsible for this. Now I'm going to guess that your whole life, you've been taught that whether you got hit or not depended on you. You may have worked out some tricks, figured out patterns that made you think you had a handle on it. I’m guessing you got it right just often enough that you would have never stopped trying. What I want you to understand, though, is that this was never under your control.”

Her gaze was cool and even. She wore no makeup and her jaw remained firm. “People say unkind things to each other every day. When it results in a fight, think about it, who would the police say is at fault?”

Considering her words, I reminded myself not to bite my lip.

She smiled and it struck me as a raw and rare thing. I wondered if she was always the one sent out for cases like this. She never flinched, noting each bruise and wound covering me. I wondered if her colleagues thought it was easier for her, that being a woman somehow better equipped her to see a child's shattered body. She leaned over to take a medical report from the doctor. I noticed the plain blue ribbon tying up her braid. I straightened, ready for the next question. It hadn’t broken her, it wouldn't break me.

Dr. Arns shared a related, though somewhat incomplete story. After Mom's hospital visit, he put out some record requests. The reports weren't all in yet, but it was enough. Mom's medical history framed times and locations. By giving my name, I guess I’d given him the key to completing his search. He listed each troubling injury he’d found, every incomplete and somewhat concerning malady. It’s funny, I remembered each time Rhee or Mandy or Jess had been whisked off to the doctor with something broken, something hurt. Spread out over so many years and towns though, it never seemed like a big deal.

He pulled out a file with my name on it, a faded, yellowing report from the school nurse. Mrs. Wilkes' distinct cursive filled two sheets of paper, describing attempts to stitch together the carved up skin on my back. She’d been discreet about treating early signs of infection, worried it would worsen if left for my parents to notice. She mentioned that I begged her not to tell anyone. She was familiar with my mom. She feared repercussions for me if she said anything.

The thin hospital gown could never cover how naked I felt. John wrapped his arm around me, warmth spreading over my tender back. “Layla, tell us what happened.”

Using the timeline from Dr. Arns' records, I told them everything I could remember. I didn’t know what was normal and what was strange, so I included it all, my voice cracking and splitting. No one stopped me and the longer I spoke, the less I cried. I related all the madness, the nothingness and neglect. The entire time, John looked at me exactly as he always had. He listened and processed. Nothing I said seemed to detract from his knowledge that I loved him and he loved me. As to the rest of it, I guess he was still taking a quantum view.