Identical (11 page)

He nods his head, stands.

How’s that beer? Need a refill?

I shrug. “Sure. Don’t suppose

you happen to have anything

stronger on you, though?”

It’s a distinct possibility. Let’s

get those refills and take a walk.

It’s stupid even to consider taking

a walk with this guy. Like I care.

I glance toward Mick, who is now

in the truck with Madison, filling

the cab with smoke. I’m so taking

a walk. With a complete stranger.

Sit on a big stump, slurping foamy beer.

He’s cute, really cute. So what if he’s not

much for words? He reaches into his jeans

pocket, digging for treasure. Maybe I’ll dig

in there later myself. Meanwhile, I’ll content

myself with the giant fatty he lights. The pot

is the same as (or very similar to) Mick’s.

“So…” I cough out a big hit. “You and Mick

share a connection, huh?”

Something like that.
He laughs.
Let’s

just say we move in mutual circles.

He draws in a long, deep lungful.

I move a little closer, like I can’t quite

reach the joint. “Since we’re sharing

a hooter, can we, like, share names?”

The name’s Ty. I know who you are.

I saw you on television tonight.

If he says my mom is hot, I’ll kill him.

“Jeez, man. Did everybody just happen

to watch the fucking news tonight?”

What? Did I say something wrong?

Now he scoots closer. Looks into my

eyes.
Should I apologize?

To apologize, for sure. He reaches

across the short distance between us,

pulls me right into him, kisses me

with unexpected hunger. In the

time

it takes me to react to that, decide

whether or not to invite more,

he already has my top button

unbuttoned. His hands want

to go

under the fabric, insist on it,

in fact. I should say no. Need

to say no. “W-wait,” I try,

but no little bit of me wants

to stop

and Ty intuits all of that. He

doesn’t stop, and I don’t try

to make him. And it isn’t long

before

I throw every ounce of caution

to the nonexistent wind. With only

a fleeting thought of Mick,

I give

in to this insane desire to know

this not-quite-stranger in the most

intimate way. And so, I sacrifice

my inner child, give

myself away.

His touch is soft as a dandelion,

ready to release its spores.

I feel his eyes trace my silhouette,

steel myself against what will

come next. But the quilt doesn’t move.

His lips brush my forehead.

You’re so much like her,
he whispers.

Why can’t I just take it all back?

He crumbles on the carpet beside

my bed. In the growing light,

I slit open my eyes, watch his face

fall into his hands. Tears stream

through the cracks between

his fingers.
Why can’t I take it back?

Will you ever be able to forgive me?

Nobody answers. Not her. Not me.

Before long, Daddy’s breathing

evens, and when he starts to snore

I slide out from under the blankets,

into chill, Turkey-tainted air; tiptoe

past his sleeping form. Away.

In the house or out, as I slide open the door,

step out into the crisp Saturday morning,

biting back sudden teeth chatter.

The entire neighborhood seems asleep,

not a single early-morning mower in sight.

But smoke trails zigzagging from chimneys

belie the idea that I’m completely alone.

Someone’s awake, despite the fact that the sun

has barely risen. I’ll be early to work.

Usually I ride my bike the mile or so to

the Lutheran home. Today I think I’ll walk,

inhaling the clean of barely dawn.

Showered, made-up, and blow-dried,

my body is almost as scrubbed as

the daybreak. So why do I feel dirty?

Has a new arrival, one who has

thrown the place into an uproar.

Seems William O’Connell

is something of a ladies’ man.

He’s tall, or once was, having

lost a few inches to stoop.

And, despite his years, he’s

really quite handsome,

in an aged, Irish way.

Come over here, m’darlin’,

he invites, to no one woman

in particular.
I’m thinking

you’re in need of a bit of male

companionship.
His offer is met

with a chorus of giggles.

Ah yes, it’s a breakfast

to go down in the history

of the Lutheran home, one

to be retold in whispered tales,

passed around by these good

(if lonely) ladies. Only Greta

seems unimpressed.

Who does the man believe

he is? Sean Connery? Now

there’s an Irishman worthy

of consideration,
she jokes.

Unlike some of the home’s guests,

William is completely ambulatory.

In fact, he gets around so well,

I have to wonder why he’s here,

flitting from woman to woman

like a horny hummingbird.

I watch, amused, until it’s time

to clear the dishes. And that’s

when he finally catches sight of me.

Ah, such a sweet young rose.

Who might I be addressing,

my lovely little flower?

For no discernible reason,

my arms sprout goose bumps

and my forehead leaks sweat.

I start to say “Kaeleigh,” but my

mouth clamps tight around my answer,

squeezes shut around my name.

Chokes me. Strangles me.

It was dark in my room.

Very dark.

Someone had closed the curtain.

I was small. Maybe nine.

Mommy wasn’t home.

But Daddy was.

He lurched through my door.

That scared me. But why?

He’d never hurt me before.

Only touched me lovingly.

Like any Daddy.

So why did I tremble?

Why did I catch my breath,

hold it, as if

I might never breathe again?

Why did my heart feel

like a race-car engine?

Daddy must have heard it.

Don’t be afraid, little flower.

It’s only me.

And almost instantly, Daddy

made everything seem just fine.

Even when it wasn’t.

But here in the dining room,

terror inflates inside me

like a flame in a breeze.

Especially when William

echoes,
Won’t you tell me

your name, little flower?

Blood rushes from my face

to who-knows-where, and I feel

weightless, helpless, a cloud

in a cold, trembling sky.

Just as I think I’ll turn and run,

or worse, keel completely over,

dearest Greta takes hold of me,

props me up with the force of her.

Kaeleigh seems to have taken

ill, William. You and she can

chat later.
She guides me away.

Will you come to my room for a while?

It’s a question, not a directive,

and for that I am grateful.

In my life, Greta knows when

to stay silent. She sits me down

in a chair by the window,

settles into a rocker, opposite me.

Then all she does is rock.

I stare out over the fog-shrouded

valley. The gray gulps me into

it, infiltrates my brain. Sad.

Will I ever find a way beyond

this sad? Tears puddle my eyes.

I let them fall, like how they

feel, then come to my senses.

“S-sorry,” I sniffle, not sure

why, except it’s lame to cry,

like it’s ever done any good.

Sorry? What for?
Greta asks.
You’ve

got some powerful demons, girl,

but I’ve got a few of my own.

Already told you I’m a good listener.

Talk to me when you’re ready.