After I Wake (10 page)

“At the party, you know, that night, I was drunk, a little bit and I wanted you to have as much fun as I was. Me and Harper both, really, and then Brittany was there…. She wanted us to help get you drunk, and she was really convincing, and then we had so much fun, but you said to… to go back to the house after you put your hand in the river, and….” With a small hiccup, Darcy is sobbing uncontrollably, her shoulders tight with a guilty tension.

I feel my demeanor soften, looking at her. Somehow, and I literally cannot summon how, she's been carrying this… guilt with her for as long as I have, a burden that she was at fault for everything. I pull her back into the hug, which is awkward as all hell and pat her quivering shoulders.

“There… there… It's, uh, it's alright, Darcy.” I stumble over the words, totally unsure of what to say in response, but I kind of want her to calm down so we can talk logically. I send a pleading glimpse my mother's way and mouth the word “dinner” at her, and she nods subtly. I mouth the word “Chinese?” next, and my mother nods again.

“Why don't you come over for dinner tonight, and we'll talk about it. But let me tell you right now, I do not blame you for anything, I promise. Come have some Chinese food at my house, alright? You remember the address from when you came over to work on that project, right?” She sniffles and nods quickly, and then moans a little.

“I got lipstick on your shoulder!” she wails. I look at the corner of the dress. Sure enough, there is a delicate pink smear inching toward my neck. I suppose I have to get this one, then. I'll work through the anxiety shortly, for as long as I can put it off.

“It's really okay. I was planning on getting this dress anyways,” I tell her, trying to smile and grimacing instead.

We get the dress and leave the store, parting with Darcy. Standing within a five-foot radius of her remains incredibly awkward. We walk around for a few minutes and meander into the food court. Emmett scurries off, looking for a bow tie to surprise us with, leaving me alone with my mom and a very large plate of french fries that we both look forward to eating.

“What do you think that was?” my mom muses, slowly nibbling on a fry.

“I think she feels just as guilty as I did. But somehow, she never lost her mind or anything,” I mumble, nonchalantly shoving the fries into my mouth. They slide down my throat, hot and greasy. They are deliciously salty and distracting.

My mom nods and sighs, and we end the conversation of few words, choosing instead to watch Emmett bustle over at top speed, probably with his version of the perfect bow tie.

His bow tie is utterly fantastic and contrived, and I compliment Emmett profusely on his amazing ability to find a bow tie decorated with little bow ties. We finish our food and head out, trying to get home and straighten up a little before Darcy comes over. I anticipate a deep conversation over some rice and noodles.

Emmett's phone buzzes while we are in the car, and with his usual lightning speed, he replies before looking up at me. “Darcy wants to double-check your address. Can I give her your cell phone number?” I don't know if I saw that coming or not, but I tell him sure, and my phone is buzzing seconds later with messages pouring in from Darcy.

If she is going to talk all night in the manner by which she texts, I can take some solace in the fact that I won't have to say too much. Excessive talking for any reason still bothers me. Words, while less foreign now, remain challenging. I need to pick the right words when I speak, but I'm never sure exactly what they are.

 

 

W
HEN
I
was sad

I would sleep,

So much,

So very much.

And when I could not sleep,

I'd pile all the blankets I could find

And pile them on my bed,

So high,

So very high

And then I'd go and slither under the sheets

And pick the blankets up

Pushing them off my chest,

Up into the sky

And drop the blankets down and then they'd fall

Fall down

Onto my chest with a thump

And under the weight on my chest

I'd be safe

I'd be protected

And because I was trapped in a heavy cocoon

I was lucky to be

Safe

Protected

From myself.

 

 

D
INNERTIME
ROLLS
around quickly, bringing Darcy along with it. We eat our dinner, my mom in her office doing work stuff, and in between bites of sweet and sour chicken Darcy continues to apologize to me for everything. After I finish a spoonful of rice because I refuse to use chopsticks, I notice Darcy watching intently and a little bit guiltily as I do everything one-handed. Of course she would be fascinated, everyone is.

“Look,” I start, to distract her, and to get her to stop apologizing. “Like I said before, none of these circumstances ever were your fault, and they never will be. Maybe six months ago, I would have accepted your guilt and moved on because I refused to acknowledge that I could ever be wrong, but here I am, admitting that I was wrong. I'm trying to change and move on, Darcy. You really should too.

“That night, it was all Brittany's fault. She instigated it and everything. You were only along for the ride. She despises me, and she had you and Harper wrapped around her nefarious little finger. And we were all drunk as hell.

“But it was me who made those choices, the ones to drink and get drunk, and then to walk and punch a hole in fucking ice. Those were my ideas and consequently, not yours. Stop carrying the guilt, Darcy. It doesn't suit your beautiful face, alright?” She nods slowly, guilt falling off her shoulders. I smile, and it's awkward as all hell, but I think it helps.

We finish eating and chat about movies and the weather and how nice summer is. After our fortune cookies are settling in our stomachs, Darcy pushes her hair off her forehead and stands up, slightly taller than me in her sandal heels. I stand to meet her, and she hugs me again, but this time softly murmurs a thank-you into my ear. The tension is practically flowing from her pores and away, and she seems lighter already. I feel a knot in the pit of my stomach, a dread from knowing someone carried such a similar burden to me for so many months. Now she's free, and heading out my front door. The dread is instantly replaced with an airy feeling, unfamiliar and pleasant.

As Darcy backs her car out of the driveway, my mom comes down the stairs to stand behind me and wave, she whispers to me from the corner of her mouth, “Is there any chicken left?”

I nod and turn to her. “There's some left, but we are very good at putting away food. I told Darcy everything we talked about before, and she hugged me and stuff, then I got this really light feeling here-ish.” I motion to my center, trying to figure it out.

“Car, you did the right thing. You feel good because you were generous and helped someone. Is the feeling that unfamiliar?”

“It might be. My God, if I was in a book, they'd call this character development.”

We laugh for a minute, and if we were in a sitcom the picture would freeze and credits would roll, but this is real life so that doesn't happen, and I go to my room to get some clothes for laundry while my mom eats chicken and sneaks pieces to the dog. The trip is coming up, and soon, and I need to have my effects in a working and easily accessible order.

 

 

T
HE
NIGHT
before we leave, my mother runs around the house checking every detail of the trip, making sure our clothes are packed, that we have snacks for the train ride, and that I have everything I need for my photo shoot and interview. The dog is accounted for, and the neighbor will feed her and let her out, and so on and so forth.

I ignore the chaos my mother creates and choose instead to finish the very last of my catch-up work before school. I'm starting late and nobody can stop me. It's only a little while, a few days, but I'll have a fashionably late entrance to school senior year. My mom and Jordan, my therapist, are in agreement that I should start late to reduce the stress and anxiety. I'm supposed to ease into it. Because frankly, I don't know if I have the courage to do it, to go back to a place where I'm not accepted, where my actions outcasted me, to the so-called friends that really weren't. I don't know anyone anymore. What a way to kick off my senior year.

I go to bed that night after an exhausting texting session with Emmett, who wanted to know if an all-male a cappella group could get away with calling themselves the Testoster-tones because it would be perfect, but I feel completely awake and stare at the ceiling for hours, fear gnawing at my insides and butterflies trapped in my digestive system. I've never modeled before. What am I going to do? I've never interviewed before. What am I going to say? I've never displayed my scars so publicly before in such a nice dress. How the hell are the people in the audience going to react? The questions and worries circulate throughout my brain and push off the sleep.

Around three in the morning, I get up because I can't take it anymore. I go down to the kitchen for a glass of water and fill it to the brim, watching the drops run down the sides. Why does gravity feel the need to drag those poor drops away from the cohesiveness they've always known? I'm no scientist, but it seems cruel, to the water at least. I had plans to drink those few swallows. I end up gulping down what is left, the other 98 percent of the glass. It doesn't leave any lasting impressions, because it is merely water. Annoyed, I dig into whatever leftovers I find in the fridge before giving up on those, and I trudge back up to my bed.

Sleep takes a long time coming, but I eventually slip into the dreamless void while tomorrow happens.

 

 

E
MMETT
SHOWS
up promptly at nine that morning, an hour early, and wakes me up by hacking into my phone, attaching it to a speaker, and playing the loudest and angriest song he can find at full blast. Needless to say, he is successful. I keep some violent music on my cell phone. I roll over with a groan and swear loudly in his general direction and do my best to sic the sleeping dachshund at the foot of my bed on him. Sarah, in response, only stretches and repositions herself, licking my ankle before sleeping again. My mom yells at me from her bedroom to use kind language with my friends.

Emmett bows out to go to the bathroom, claiming that my mom sent him to wake me up, but the idea could easily have come from either of them, and I am not sure what to believe. I pretend not to notice that his smile is a little strained and that there are bags under his eyes. I forget it the minute that I roll out of bed. I dress quickly and find Emmett eating a cinnamon roll at the table while my mom puts suitcases into the trunk of our car.

I join Emmett in a cinnamon roll, thankful that my mom has requisitioned my favorite food to start off this miniature vacation. We eat quickly and load into the car, me in the passenger seat and Emmett in the back as always. We're running late, but that's really nothing new at all. I've grown used to it in the past seventeen years. Emmett's followed Darwin's guidelines and has likewise adapted to our tardiness, at a rate almost as impressive as his texting abilities.

It's partly due to luck and mostly due to my mother's driving speed that borders on highly unsafe that we make it to the train station with time to spare and find ourselves on the platform waiting for the train to arrive.

When it pulls to a stop, we stow our luggage in a corner and settle into the uncomfortable pleather seats that will be our home for the next two hours. My mom pulls out a book, and I pull out my phone, to write down any ideas I may want to voice in the interview, but I end up playing games and getting distracted.

Twenty minutes later I pause to look up, and I see that Emmett is hunched over a pad of paper, not unlike the ones I tend to use, but his is bigger and probably homework-related. He is humming an old song by The Doors that I played for him once.

“What are you doing, Emmett?” He looks up, revealing an earphone that was hidden under his shaggy hair, shifting to look at me.

“I'm writing a thing,” he mutters enigmatically before hunching back down, subtly turning up the music on his phone, now visible.

“What kind of thing?” I press, leaning forward.

“I'm writing a poem,” he admits.

“Why are you listening to The Doors, then?”

“Shut up.” He squints at the notepad that contains three words and a rough sketch of a famous face that I vaguely recognize, and he is obviously crushing on. “This is conducive to writing.” He sticks his tongue out at me.

“Conducive? That's a good one. Learn it in your dreadfully boring English class?” I smirk.

“I'm not answering any more of your questions.” He hunches back over the pad and scribbles hair onto the visage of whatever celebrity he's thinking about.

It's maybe three minutes later that Emmett looks up and frowns at my amused expression. I've been unashamedly watching him write. I want to know if he can write a poem.

“You know, I've gained a whole new respect for the art of crafting a poem, Carter.” I nod at him, encouraging the man to explain himself. He refuses. Eventually, I elicit a response.