Love Me Broken (27 page)

He doesn’t call. I keep looking at my phone, expecting him to call.

I’m back home. Honestly, I don’t even remember how I made it back here. Everything from the time Adam walked away until now is all in a daze.

Gone? Could he really be gone? I had wondered what would happen if it ended, but I always thought there’d be more time. This is out of nowhere. It—

It reminds me of losing Conner.

I can’t breathe. It feels like my heart is being squeezed. I clutch my sides and bend over, struggling to gain control of myself. But I can’t. All I keep thinking is that this is my fault. That this is just like with Conner, and it’s all my fault.

Why did I say anything?

But—But—he said I wasn’t his girlfriend. I wasn’t wrong. He should have cared.

But he didn’t. He said to forget him.

My head feels light and I squeeze my eyes shut. The whole room feels terribly far away for a moment, as if I’m floating past myself. Then it’s like I’m observing myself, detached, and I feel nothing. This scares me; I can feel that it scares me, but I also feel nothing.

This was how it was after Conner died. This was how it was when I couldn’t cry. Except this is worse. Because I’m having trouble feeling anything at all.

I sit up on the edge of my bed, my face stone and my body rigid. Thoughts pass through my head, cold and logical.

He left. Adam has left. There’s nothing for me now.

I picture my mother. My father. Nicole.

No one would miss me.

No one would—

Then I think of Adam again, his face, his touch, and my resistance falls away so fast I feel like I’m in an elevator that has entered free fall. All at once my emotions are back, and I am so overwhelmed with them that I feel nauseous. I stumble to my feet and throw open my door, rushing to the bathroom. I barely have time to lift the toilet lid before I’m sick, my body heaving. It feels terrible. A cold sweat erupts on my arms and face, and my muscles are tense but tired. My stomach grumbles, and I’m sick again.

It’s a good twenty minutes before I feel stable enough to stand and lean against the bathroom sink. I wash my face and brush my teeth. I look awful. My hair’s a mess, but what is more noticeable is the hollow way my eyes look. Wide and empty. It doesn’t even look like me.

I leave the bathroom and go downstairs to the kitchen. Suddenly I’m overwhelmed with hunger. I eat three of my mom’s Pop-Tarts and wash them down with Pepto-Bismol. My stomach is still upset, but I manage to keep these down. I’m still not able to think clearly. I stand in the kitchen a moment, wondering what to do now—what to do? what to do?—when my eyes land on the cabinet that holds Pete’s cat food.

It gives me something to do.

I stumble into the garage and flick on the light. Surprise, surprise: Pete is hiding out. The garage is beginning to smell, and I know I only have so much more time to try to win Pete over before I have to rehome him.

No. I will win him over. He’s a cat. How hard can it be? He just needs to trust me.

I walk into the center of the garage and set down the food dish. “Here you go, Pete,” I say, and at first it’s quiet, like I’m alone in the garage. I’m used to this though. I wait.

A moment later there’s a flutter of movement in the shadows. Then Pete sticks his face out. Two green eyes watch me, then he sticks out a foot. His white paw is so tiny and delicate, and I wonder how I have been so terrified of this creature for so long? He looks so harmless. He steps out of the shadows and creeps up toward me. He still doesn’t trust me, but at least he seems to be getting used to me, because he walks right up to the food dish and sticks his nose into it. Then there’s a good long period of chewing, occasionally lifting up his head to gaze at me.

“Hi, Pete,” I say softly. He stills for a minute at my voice, and his eyes close slightly. Then he dips his head down again to eat, and I continue. “I know you don’t like me yet, but there’s no reason not to. I’m here to help you. I—I don’t have a lot of friends, Pete. Nicole and I had a fight. You remember Nicole?” No reaction. “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter. You probably won’t be seeing her again. And Adam.” My voice chokes, and I have to fight back the emotions before I can continue. “He won’t be here either. He said, he said—”

But I can’t go on. Tears are streaming down my cheeks, and I just feel so alone in the world. I reach out without thinking and put my hand on Pete’s back. He freezes, but he doesn’t scamper away. I take this as my cue, and run my hand down the length of his body. When I get near his tail, his rear end lifts in the air. I laugh a little. Was it this easy? Was I supposed to just pet him? I take my hand and set it down again right below his neck, and stroke him one more time, and again he seems to be enjoying it. When I place my hand on his back a third time, I say, “I love you, Pete.”

Maybe it was the sound of my voice. Maybe Pete forgot just who was touching him. Because as soon as I say this, Pete turns his gaze on me with a look of absolute ferocity. I understand at once why people in the Middle Ages thought cats were the tools of Satan. My hand is barely lifting up off of him, trying to retreat, when he snaps his paw out and scratches me, hard. His sharp nails land on the back of my hand, right above the wrist, and I cry out and try to pull away. He’s too quick for me though, and before I can get away, he’s jumping at me, digging both front claws into my forearm and slashing away.

“Ow!” I scream, and shuffle backward as fast as I can. “Bad cat!” I scream. He stands back, staring at me with his demonic gaze. I’m sure he’s thinking about attacking again. I can see it in his eyes as clearly as if he could talk. “Shoo!” I yell, and stamp my foot on the floor between us. “Shoo!” This breaks his nerve, and he runs so fast he practically flies to his hiding spot behind the boxes. My breath is coming out in heavy bursts, and I look down at my arm.

There are long gashes on my forearm, and little swipes on my hand that are already being obscured with blood. It stings, and the blood starts to drip from the long gashes too. I stand up, wobbly, and make my way into the house. I leave a trail of blood drops on my way to the upstairs bathroom, where I try to dig out the bandages and rubbing alcohol with my one good hand. The entire time I’m muttering curses to myself: “Damn cat. Goddamn it, Pete! How could you—ow!”

I turn on the faucet and run my wounds under the water to wash away the blood. He didn’t bite me, though. Adam told me to watch out for that, as apparently cat bites can get infected easily. If he bit me, I’d have to go to the doctor. I turn off the water and dab my arm dry with a piece of gauze. Then I take out the cotton balls and start dabbing the cuts with alcohol. The stinging makes me grit my teeth, and by the time I’m applying the antiseptic, I’m crying again.

It’s a different kind of crying now. I’m learning that there’s a broad spectrum of tears, like there’s a variety of laughter. These are tears of exhausted frustration. I just can’t take it anymore, trying to help Pete and trying to be a good friend and a good daughter; I can’t take the trying when all I do is fail. I wrap my arm with a bandage and wrap a smaller set of bandages on my hand. I look down at myself, and I have a flashback to the bandages I wore after the accident. I was lucky, they said. I only had minor, superficial cuts from the glass. Nothing was broken. I was sore all over for a week, not that I noticed much with everything else going on, but otherwise, I was fine. Physically fine. Which, naturally, only added to my guilt.

Conner was so far from fine that he had to have a closed casket at his funeral.

I realize I’m standing in the bathroom, staring at the first aid kit, zoning out. I look at the kit again, seeing it now, and don’t bother to put it away. I just turn off the light and close the door.

I’m tired, so I go to my room and shut the door. I fall onto my bed and press my face down in the pillow with my eyes open. My arm stings. My eyes feel raw from tears. But mostly I feel like I don’t know what to do with myself. I feel lost. I feel so terribly lost.

It’s some time later—I don’t know, I’ve lost track of time in the swamp of my thoughts—when I hear a knock at my door. When I don’t answer, I hear my dad’s voice calling to me.

“Erica? You in there?” His voice is disgustingly cheerful. It’s the verbal equivalent of bright sunlight when you’re hung over.

I test sitting up and groan, then fall back to the bed. For some reason, he takes this as an invitation to enter.

I hear the door open but don’t look up.

“Honey,” he says, and sits down on the edge of the bed. “Guess what I found?” I don’t respond. He must really want me to respond, because instead of just telling me, he nudges me with the corner of an envelope, and asks again, “Have you seen this?”

I turn over, looking up at him with my red eyes. He gives a little start at my expression, and then tries to ignore it. He smiles.

“It’s for you,” he says, and holds out a padded envelope. When I don’t reach for it, he puts it in my hands, and notices my bandages for the first time. “What happened?” he asks.

I sit up fully, my back propped up against my pillows. Who does he think he is? He’s ignored me for almost a year, and now because some letter comes in the mail, he thinks he can be my best friend? I take the envelope.

“It’s open,” I say, noticing the flap is torn. It’s a cream-colored envelope with my name written in fancy script. It’s typed script, meant to look like handwriting. On the backside, there’s an emblem. Columbia.

“It was mixed in with the rest of the mail and I didn’t notice until I got to work.”

I look at him briefly. I didn’t know he’d started opening the mail at work. Is he that uncomfortable spending time at home?

I reopen the envelope and a bunch of stuff falls into my lap. A colorful brochure with obnoxiously happy college students, sitting on a grassy field. I sneer and open it, and look at the terribly fake photos of students engaged in stereotypical activities: a girl with lab glasses on peering into a test tube; a preppy-looking guy smiling with a stack of books in the library; two girls, both with perfect teeth and coordinating outfits, carrying trays filled with desserts in a school cafeteria. I set the pamphlet down and pick up the letter. It’s on thick card stock, with an embossed logo and a real-looking signature from the dean of students.

I glance at it, not really seeing the words.

“It’s a welcome reception,” my dad tells me, and takes the letter from my hands. He starts to point at parts. “And parents are welcome to attend. It gives you a chance to look at the campus before school actually starts, meet a few of your classmates, check out the dorms. It sounds like a lot of fun.”

I feel nothing.

“I noticed that the RSVP date was this weekend, so I went ahead and called to reserve your spot.”

My eyes widen slightly. “What?”

“I figured we could go together. A father-daughter trip, like we used to do.”

I shake my head. “I can’t go.”

“Sure you can,” he says. “I even booked us a hotel. That way, if the dorm room they give you isn’t that great, you can stay with me nearby. We can make a weekend of it. See a show, visit Central Park. See where you’ll be living your new life.”

My breath starts to come in shorter and shorter, and I have trouble getting enough air. The room feels so small. I want to push my dad away, he’s so close. “I can’t go,” I repeat, my words a gasp. “I—I—”

I want to be here for Adam, I think. I want to be with him while I can.

But I can’t tell my dad that. He’d think it was stupid. Especially if Adam didn’t want me.

Does he really not want me?

“Honey, what’s wrong?” my dad asks. “I thought you’d be excited. I mean, if you’d rather go with Nicole, I’d understand—”

“No!”

I push myself off the bed, the letter and pamphlet falling on the floor.

“I don’t want to go anywhere!”

My dad is stunned. “But, honey, it’ll be good for you to—”

“No!” I say again, my voice firm. “There’s no point. I’m not going to Columbia. I don’t want to go.”

At this, my dad’s face shuts down. Friendly concern is replaced with a wall. “Erica,” he says slowly. “What are you talking about?”

“I don’t want to go,” I repeat. Without thinking, I start looking around my room. I find my shoes and slip them on. “I never wanted to go. I just didn’t want to be
here
anymore.”

“Erica,” he says, with what I’m sure is patience on his part, “you should think about this.”

I roll my eyes and look back at him. “Don’t you think I have, Dad? Don’t you think I have? I don’t want to go.”

He stares at me a moment, then crosses his arms. “What are your plans, then?”

I see my cell phone on my bedside table behind him. I don’t want to go that way, to put him between me and the door. He won’t hurt me; my family is hands-off about everything. But I want to be able to run. I want to have that head start.

“I don’t know,” I say.

“Because if you think you’re just going to live here forever—”

I cut him off. “I don’t.” I look out the window. The rain is beating down on the glass, and I hear thunder in the distance. I realize I don’t care. I don’t care about any of it. I just want to get away.

I take a step to the door. “Erica,” he says, his voice warning me to behave. Like I’m a child. Like I’m a bad child. It’s this effort to control me when he obviously has no idea what’s going on in my life that gives me the nerve to leave.

“I don’t want to be here ever again,” I say, and when I take another step back, I slam the door on him and start to run down the stairs. I see a flash of lightning, sending odd shadows through the front window. I’m glad I have my shoes. My father doesn’t have his on. It’ll slow him down enough, just enough, for me to get out of sight. I open the front door and run down the steps. I can see the shape of my mother in my peripheral vision.

She doesn’t move.

As soon as I’m beyond the porch, the cold rain pelts my skin like tiny knives. I don’t care. I just don’t care anymore. I run down into the street and take off down the block. As I’m turning the corner, I hear my father shout from back at the house. I was right—having to put his shoes on did slow him down. By the time he’s out the door, I am already out of sight. I duck into an alleyway and double back around to the back side of my block. I know my father will continue to go toward the water, the direction he saw me run, so instead I keep to the higher blocks.