I’m almost falling back asleep when I hear Alexa walk past me into the kitchen. I keep my back facing the sofa, hoping Curt leaves soon.
I need to talk to my sister about what I found online about him last night. I didn’t want to confront them both, because he actually scares me a little.
I’m lying there, going over my plan to tell Alexa, when her scream interrupts my thoughts. My instinct is to get up and run to her, to protect her, but my body doesn’t move. I hear Curt call to her, “Are you okay?” and she quickly responds back with “Yes, fine, just a spill. Be right there.”
I know my sister didn’t scream from a spill; it takes much, much more to make her scream like that. She covered it well enough to convince Curt. But he doesn’t know my sister, and I don’t want him to.
I wake to find Alexa looming over me. She’s still in her robe.
“What the fuck, Beth?”
I look at her, unable to respond. I’m still a bit drowsy, not to mention that I was prepared to be the one delivering bombs, not vice versa.
“Why did you do that with the bird?”
“What bird?”
“Oh, come on, Beth.”
I’m genuinely confused. My face must make this clear, because she takes a step back and sits on the floor across from me.
“What are you talking about, Lex?” I say gently.
“The fucking decapitated bird in the refrigerator.”
“What? You’re kidding.”
“Well, it’s in the trash now.”
She gestures toward the kitchen as if inviting me to go look. I’m admittedly a little curious, so I go to the kitchen and open the lid to the trash, moving the wad of paper towels until I see traces of red. I slowly move another paper towel out of the way, and the small decapitated bird’s body knocks the wind from my lungs.
I’m sucked back to the day in our family’s den. We liked to do our homework there because there was more space to work. Plus, there was a big window, much larger than the small rectangle in our bedroom, and it meant we could zone out and stare at the street outside to break up the monotony of fractions and ancient history.
On that day, I was staring out the window, but Lex was still working on her homework when our mom screamed. Alexa was the first to race toward our room, and I almost ran into her when she stopped abruptly at the door. It was only when I peeked my head over her shoulder that I saw our mom hunched over something, sobbing.
“Mom?” Alexa said.
Mom looked up, and I saw she was holding Susan, our family cat. Alexa began to cry. Susan wasn’t moving. I racked my brain for answers but came up empty.
“Why did you do this?” Mom said, staring at Alexa.
“Mom, it wasn’t me,” she insisted.
I was still confused, trying to figure out why Mom thought Alexa killed Susan. Then I saw it. The rope around Susan’s neck.
I had told Mom and Dad at least a dozen times that I had some allergy to Susan—it was driving me nuts. I even asked Alexa to try to convince them to give her away so that I could stop sneezing. I felt as if they were ignoring me. I didn’t mean to … well, I didn’t plan to. I just snapped. I’d had enough. I wanted some kind of relief. Or maybe I wanted some kind of reaction—nobody seemed to care, and I had to take matters into my own hands.
Suddenly nauseated, I ran to the bathroom and retched in the toilet. After several minutes, I pulled myself up and splashed water on my face. I was walking back toward the room when I heard them.
“Mom, it was Beth. It wasn’t me.”
“Alexa, stop.”
“Mom, I swear.” She was sobbing now.
“That’s it. You’re going to a facility. You need help, more than what Dad and I can give you.”
Mom left the room and disappeared down the hall, Susan’s lifeless tail swaying slightly in her arms.
When she was gone, Alexa still sobbed. She was in the fetal position, clutching her side.
“Lex?”
Sitting up, she glared at me with what can only be described as hate.
“Why did you do it?” she screamed. “Look what you’ve done.”
“I didn’t,” I began, but she cut me off.
“I hate you,” she said. “Just go away. I hate you.”
That was when I realized Mom was standing in the doorway, her face as horrified as if she’d just seen a ghost. After she ran into the den, I waited a few moments and then followed her. She was sitting at the computer, Googling something.
The next day Alexa went to the Weinstein Center for the first time.
I snap back to the present moment and feel the same pit in my stomach. Alexa blamed me for a lot when we were younger, but she stopped when she started seeing Dr. Greer. This is the first time in a long time that she doesn’t believe me.
“It wasn’t me,” I tell her softly. “But there is something I need to tell you. It’s about Curt.”
“Of course it is.” She turns away. “I don’t want to know.”
“Alexa, listen. I don’t think he’s who he says he is.”
“It’s pretty hard to steal an identity when you’re internet famous, Beth,” she snarks. She sounds very LA Gen Z now when she talks about work.
“That’s not what I mean. I found some stuff. He’s got a dark past, Lex.”
“Don’t we all?”
Her comment hits me like a punch to the chest, so I fire back. “Maybe he did that with the bird. He’s been to rehab. He has priors, has been arrested for shoplifting. And other things.”
“So? That’s no worse than what I’ve done, is it?”
“Alexa, he has two arrests for stalking.”
“Beth, stop! I love him. And he loves me.”
Her words hit me like a bullet.
“Love?” I shout. How on earth could these two be in love already? The notion is beyond ridiculous.
“Yes. He loves me. The real me. So I don’t care about his past.”
I feel the fear rising. “What do you mean, the real you? What have you told him?”
“Nothing. But he wouldn’t care. He’s not like that.”
“Oh god, Alexa, you’re playing with fire. Do you want to go back into a facility? Do you want to give up your freedom? Give up your life? Your work?” I ask, but she just stares at me silently. Then I finally ask the hardest question. “You’d give me up? For him?”
“No. I’m not going back anywhere or giving anything up. He’s not like that. He won’t care.” She doesn’t answer the last question.
“You can’t tell him. You can’t.”
“He wants to meet you.”
I have watched a few of those UFC fights. They’re bloody but impressive. Every once in a while, one guy or gal will make such perfect contact with the other’s head that you can almost hear their brain blacking out through the television screen.
Her words hit me just like that. And like the fighters, I black out.