Thicker Than Water (11 page)

“Okay.” I swallow, then look up at the ceiling. “Do you think you could give me a prompt—I mean, like something to talk about? A suggestion.”

Trina taps her pencil against her bottom lip. “Hmm. How about—tell me about something your mom disliked. Like, liver or spiders. Something she really couldn't stand.”

I don't even have to think about that one.

“Pain medicine.”

Trina's eyebrows rise. “Pain medicine?”

I nod. “We knew she was feeling really shitty when she actually took hers. The bottles would move from the kitchen to the bathroom to her bedside table—closer and closer the worse off she got. And she hated it—said it made her loopy and lazy, two things Mom never was before she got sick.”

Trina shifts in her chair. “What kind of medicine was she taking? Do you remember?”

I sniff. “A bunch of different kinds. About six months after her diagnosis, her doctor prescribed her Oxys. It seemed like a numbing haze was the greatest and only gift we could give her. After taking the Oxys, Mom couldn't, or wouldn't, get out of bed at all.”

I go quiet, thinking of those little orange bottles. Mom's name printed boldly on the sticker. The white childproof caps always a little askew, making them anything but childproof.

Trina is completely quiet, completely still. When I look up at her, there's a bloom of recognition on her face.

“Cecelia?”

“Yeah?”

“When did your brother first try Oxys?” she asks slowly. The question hits me like so many things at once—most of all, like an accusation.

“My mom didn't give my brother drugs, if that's what you're asking,” I practically spit at her.

She shakes her head. “No. I didn't think that. But when your mom was gone . . . were there pills left? In your house, I mean?”

I shrug for what feels like the thousandth time. “Some, I guess.”

“Do you think Cyrus took them?”

“He could have,” I admit. “I—uh—I never really thought about that.”

Trina nods and looks up at the ceiling. “Here's the thing, CeCe. With addiction—sometimes it's programmed in our brain. Cyrus may have tried painkillers, maybe your mom's or a friend's, before he ever hurt his knee. It could have just been a matter of time—a different injury, perhaps—that the drugs would have caught up with him.”

I stare at the floor. Its bumpy unevenness feels forgiving. Acceptable. Familiar.

“It's not something you could have helped.”

The feeling I hate most—the lump of tears that feels like a
ball gag—enters my throat and I try my damnedest to swallow it down.

“I should have said something,” I choke out.

Immediately, I wish I could take my words back. Trina's eyes fill with the pity I hate most. The pity that says, “You've lost your whole family and your freedom and your future.” The pity that says, “You've lost everything.”

“Said something to who?” she asks.

I focus harder on the floor—its flecks of pretend igneous rock, its shoddy caulking.

“To Dad.”

“You never did?”

I rub my eyes. “I did at the beginning. Not at the end. Not when I should have.”

Trina comes toward me and kneels down, forcing me to look her in the eye.

“Cyrus's addiction—and his death—wasn't your fault, CeCe. Neither was your father's choice to enable him. Your father saw what he wanted to see.”

I almost laugh at that, but a tear rolls down my cheek instead.

“He never saw me.”

Trina smiles at me, then grabs my hand and squeezes.

“I see you, Cecelia,” she whispers.

And for a second, or maybe longer, I believe her.

June 27

Mom wanted to die at home.

This was something Dad hated, because we were all completely ill-equipped to save her life. It was only when there was no hope left, when “saving” became an empty promise that Dad finally agreed.

But sometimes there isn't dead or alive. Sometimes it's not that simple. My mother, still breathing, fell asleep during Jeopardy on a Thursday night. Dad carried her to bed. She never woke up, but she didn't die either. Dad was torn—there was no protocol for half-life. What would she have wanted him to do?

He called 911.

At first, the hospital smell was a foreign combination of latex and disinfectants. After a few days and nights, however, it became as familiar as fabric softener. It seeped into our clothes and hair like smoke or grease. Just because it was the smell of clean didn't mean it didn't make you feel dirty.

Mom's bedding was from home—it was the only way we could give her the death she'd asked for. Two hours after she stopped breathing on her own, I lay my head down next to her and inhaled everything I could. I smelled all that was fleeting and all that was home—my mother's hair, our generic detergent, and something like life. I wanted to ingest as much as my body would hold. I wanted to never exhale again. Things that ride the air, like scent and breath, always disappear first.

For weeks after, I would search our house, looking desperately for that smell—I buried myself in Mom's sweaters and my own grief. It took months for me to stop looking for that familiar scent. It took far longer for me to stop wishing I could find it.

C.P.

THAT EVENING, I DON'T GO LOOKING FOR TUCKER AND I DON'T
think Tucker went looking for me. Instead, we just appear, we manifest, in the same place at the same time. I'd call it a magic trick, but I'm still pissed about Sister Mary Jensen. The only magic I'm interested in is disappearing.

“Cecelia.”

Tucker's voice is kind of husky, but with sparks, like a match scraping the flint before being lit. I narrow my eyes but I'm not squinting. I'm glaring.

“Cecelia,” he says again. I open my eyes wide enough to roll them.

“So, she's your sister,” I say. It's not a question. Tucker shrugs.

“She's my sister.”

“Did you know she was coming here?” I ask.

He shrugs again. “Not really. I mean, I knew she wanted
to be a guest speaker. I didn't have the right to tell her not to. It was supposed to be helpful.”

“And was it helpful?”

“For me?” He shakes his head. “I ducked out of there early. I didn't stay to hear about the failure that is my legacy.”

“Yeah, I noticed. I thought you were just being an ass.”

“Well, yeah. That, too.”

“Whatever.”

I turn to leave, but Tucker reaches out and grabs my wrist. I try to yank back, but he's stronger than me. For a second, I'm furious. Then, all of a sudden, this capture feels less threatening and more intimate. The anger begins to leach from the veins in my wrist and pool in the space around me.

“I didn't lie to you,” he says.

“Okay.”

“I don't owe you any explanations.”

“I know that.”

Tucker lets go of my wrist and I rub it like it's sore, even though it isn't.

“My sister volunteers,” he says, as though he didn't hear me. “She usually talks to high school kids.”

“Were you pissed when you saw her here?”

Tucker's mouth lifts at one side in an expression that would be a half smile if there were any happiness behind it. Instead it's kind of a cartoon grimace.

“I don't know if I was pissed, exactly,” he is saying. “The thing is—well, it's her story, too, you know? I may have been the fuckup, but she was the one who got fucked over.”

I digest that for a second. Outside, there is a misty, foggy rain that is more hovering than falling. It's the kind of weather my dad loves—he could plant and water at the same time. Sometimes nature was on his side.

I look back at Tucker.

“My brother almost drowned once.”

He blinks at me, confused. Then, I think he gets what I'm trying to do. I'm trying to tell him something about me—about my family. To even the score, I suppose. I've met his sister. I've seen his world. Maybe I should give him a window onto mine. Or maybe I just finally want to.

“I was little,” I continue, looking down at my hands. “Like, really little. I didn't understand breathing or that you couldn't do it underwater. I didn't know that floating wasn't always good. It was really the only kind of swimming I'd ever done.

“Mom had jumped right into the pool with her clothes on. When she pulled him out and started to give him CPR, I didn't know what she was doing. I thought she was kissing my brother good night.”

I smile at that—I remember her explaining the truth later when Cy was resting and after the paramedics had left. That she'd been breathing for him because he couldn't breathe for himself.

“I couldn't wrap my head around the idea that something invisible was what made us exist.”

Tucker nods, his motions carefully calculated as though not to scare me. I swallow hard against the overwhelming
desire to clam up, to shut up and run.

“My brother, Cyrus—he was hooked on Oxys, too,” I manage to say. “Like you.”

Tucker's eyebrows lift. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“He's doesn't take them anymore?” he asks. My hands clench at my sides and I try to stay unlocked, unblocked. I try to stay open for him.

“He's dead.”

Tucker is silent for a second. Finally he says, “I'm sorry.”

“Yeah, well . . .”

In the silence of the room, it's impossible to ignore the rhythm of my breathing, which is now jagged and stressed. If air could palpitate, it would be palpitating. Like the rain outside, the oxygen in the room hovers like an eavesdropper. I take an intentionally slow breath. It's like inhaling a mouthful of bleach.

“It was my fault.”

Tucker's brows furrow.

“What was your fault?”

I scrub a hand over my face. “His death. My brother's dead because of me.”

Tucker doesn't say anything to that. I'm exhausted from so much talking, from so much honesty, so I sit down. I choose an armchair and Tucker settles himself on its matching ottoman. It's the first time I've gotten dibs on something in a long time. In my house, the oldest or fastest always got the best choice of everything.

But it's here and now that I've been dreading. This moment when someone starts asking all the questions Jennifer is asking and Trina is asking and all the questions I'm asking myself and I still don't really have any answers. I'm grateful we aren't in group right now. I'm grateful Tucker's the only person here. And some small part of me is grateful that he knows a piece of my truth.

“If you could be an animal, what kind of animal would you be?”

“What?” It's the last question I expect to hear. Tucker's looking at me sideways and I stifle a laugh. I know what he's doing. I don't know if I'm glad. Changing the subject gives me an out, but I don't really deserve one.

“I'd be an elephant, I think,” he says thoughtfully, his eyes squinting up at the fluorescent lights above us.

“Yeah? Why's that?” I ask him.

“Because, you know, they're strong and tough. They can be fast if they want to be. They're nice to their kids. They hold each other's tails in a row and that's sort of cool.”

“So you're saying you want to use your nose to hold someone's tail, which is inextricably connected to the place they shit from?”

Tucker cocks his head, clearly reconsidering. “Maybe everything but the tail part, then.”

But I feel bad for him giving up on his power animal so easily. I shake my head.

“I don't think you'd get shit on or anything. You'd just have to pay close attention. But I'm sure elephants have
enough manners to wait until no one's holding their tail to do their business.”

“Unless it's like holding someone's hair back when they puke.”

We lapse into silence and I think about dolphins, the stereotypical girl animal, or horses, another popular girl choice. I could say unicorns and just be an asshole. Instead, I try for a genuine response.

“I think I'd be a prairie dog.”

“Really?” Tucker looks appalled. “Aren't they just, like, glorified hamsters?”

“No!” I'm indignant on the prairie dogs' behalf. “They are really fast. They live in a series of complex holes and tunnels.”

“Like moles.”

“Yeah, but they can see. And they work together and they live in families. You never see one prairie dog at a time—they're always in a group.”

“Like a cult?”

I ignore him. “They're my favorite exhibit at the zoo.”

“Well, that doesn't count, then.”

“What? Why?”

“Because if you only know them as zoo animals, you can't possibly understand their indigenous character. You have to see them in the wild.”

“Let me get this straight,” I say slowly. “You've seen elephants in the wild?”

“Well, no . . . but I've seen them on TV.”

“Seriously?”

“They were
filmed
in the wild.”

This time, I let myself laugh. The sound is almost unrecognizable.

“You know, you look really pretty when you smile.” His eyes, now crinkled, have turned a little coppery, like shiny new pennies gazing right at me. I duck and shake my head.

“You just never see me do it,” I say. “It's a foreign concept.”

He brings his hand up to the right side of my face. I think he's going to lift my chin, to make me face him, but instead he just lays it flat against my cheek. The warmth is soothing. I put my own hand on top of his. There we are, my skin and bones and blood sandwiching his. I've sort of captured him back. And he's still got me confined, but in a different way now.

Our lips meet two feet above the space between chair and ottoman. If we were smaller, we'd fall through. If we were smarter, we'd stand up. Instead, we use our free hands to hold the furniture together, and we kiss and kiss and kiss until the rain looks more like sun and the air feels endless and sweet.

Jennifer clears her throat. “Can you state your name for the record?”

“Cecelia Price.”

“And where were you born?”

“Roanoke, Virginia.”

“And please describe what your childhood was like.”

I bite my lip. It tastes raw. I must have been biting it earlier, though I can't remember doing it.

“Are you really going to ask that question?” I complain. Jennifer takes off her suit jacket and throws it over a nearby chair.

“Yes. I am. We need to set the stage of your happy childhood. However, I've also told you again and again that you need to be prepared for multiple lines of questioning. The prosecution might try to paint your family as perfect and you as the black sheep. Or they might go another way.”

Rehearsing is never something I've been good at. I wasn't much of a studier. I didn't do a lot of prep work before a test. I just managed to do pretty well on my own. So rehearsing for my hearing feels more than phony—it feels itchy. I'm sitting straight up in a wooden chair wearing a long-sleeved shirt and a stoic expression. There is nothing natural about anything that's happening in this room right now.

“Look.” Jennifer pulls up a chair next to me and sits. We both face the picture-less wall. “Now is the time to ask me any questions. What are you worried about? What do you think it's going to be like? What outcome are you prepared for?”

I consider the courtroom in my future. Maybe I'll be quiet. Maybe I'll protest the details. So far, I don't think I've argued once. That's my lawyer's job.

“I guess I'm worried about seeing my dad,” I admit.

“Yes.” Jennifer nods solemnly. “That will be difficult. You haven't seen him since you've been here?

I shake my head. “I haven't really talked to him since Cyrus . . . since I got here.”

“Right.”

“So, yeah. Other than that, I'm not sure much could throw me off-kilter. Wait, do I have court clothes?” It occurs to me that I'm currently stocked with nothing but jeans, hoodies, and flip-flops.

“I'm going to bring something with me—you can dress before we drive to the courthouse.”

The future is full of contradictions. On top of the worry or regret or anger or fear is the anticipation of getting out into the world again. I haven't been in a car since Jennifer drove me here. At night, sometimes I imagine I am driving my Honda up and down the hills near my house. Like being on a ship, I can almost feel the pitch forward and back of the car's momentum.

“What time will you be here?” I ask as Jennifer stands and pulls her jacket from the back of the chair. She's wearing a gray suit today, a shade darker than my sweatshirt. Her white blouse has the faintest purple pattern. It's the flashiest thing she's ever worn here.

“I'm going to get here by eight; we need to leave no later than nine,” she answers, shrugging her jacket over her shoulders. “Can you be ready by then?”

Talk about a question that's impossible to answer. I shrug.

“I'm sure Tom or one of the other security guards will wake me up.”

Today, Jennifer escorts me back to my room. I walk in to see Aarti, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of our full-length mirror, carefully applying eyeliner. She looks
like Cleopatra and I wonder if that's the point. We all have our disguises.

“See you tomorrow, CeCe,” Jennifer says over her shoulder. The door shuts behind her and its vertical rectangle of glass reverberates with the solid almost-slam.

“Your lawyer?” Aarti asks, even though she knows. Aarti knows more about me than I've ever told her—it's a side effect of being my roommate.

I lie down on the under-fluffed comforter on my bed—it's really more of a blanket than a comforter, considering its lack of weight and complete failure in comforting me. Aarti continues to apply her makeup and I prop my head up on one arm to watch her.

“Where'd you get that anyway?” I ask. The attendants had confiscated my cosmetic bag when I got here, not that it had much in it.

“Victoria let me have it. We had a good session.” Victoria is Dr. Barnes's second-in-command. “I only get it for today.”

We lapse into silence and I watch her sweep powder across her cheeks.

“How did you learn how to do that?”

“Do what?”

“Put on makeup and stuff. Did your mom teach you?”

She shakes her head, holding a mascara wand a few inches from her eye.

“My sister showed me. In India, you wear makeup for ceremonies and such. Even when you're young.”

She brushes on the mascara and it's sort of hypnotizing.
Mom never really showed me how to do the makeup thing. I mean, I figured out the basics—lipstick is for lips, eye shadow is for eyes. But I still don't know which colors to choose or how to blend them. I don't know what brushes are used for what jobs. It's like there's this entire portion of womanhood that I'm ignorant about, like I missed the femininity class for a week and lost out on knowing how to be beautiful.

“Do you want me to show you?”

I blink at her as she motions for me to join her on the floor. I pause for a second, considering the silent, lonely alternative. Then I take a few tentative steps and sink down next to her.