Beautifully Ruined (23 page)

Candace nods. “I should’ve seen it. I should’ve paid attention to the looks. They were different. Owen and Keisha were different around each other and around me. But now, as I look back, it wasn’t different because they were in love—they’d always loved each other, just like I loved Keisha—but because they knew the mistake they made. They knew…” she trails, composing herself. “They knew that if I learned about what they did, that I’d kick her out and the only place she’d have left to go is back to
him
.” She whispers the last word like a curse. “After she died, I felt so horrible, because that’s exactly what I did. Owen and Keisha told me, because they couldn’t keep their secret any longer.

“I screamed at him. I screamed at her. I placed everything she and the kids owned on the front porch and locked the door. Luckily, Owen gave them money, called his parents, and sent her up to Canada where you were born five months later.” She shakes her head. “I should’ve recognized you. You look so much like her, it’s uncanny. But you also look like Owen.” She sits on a stool. Everyone in the room is silent. “I’ve never forgiven myself for what I did. Maybe if I just… I don’t know, but if I did it, maybe she’d still be alive. Ivy and Noah would be here, and you could have your family.”

“Mom,” Mel says, walking over to Candace and wrapping her arms around the older woman’s shoulders.

“It wasn’t your fault,” I tell her, knowing it to be the truth. Benjamin would have found a way. Looking to the picture in my
hand, staring at the man who
is
my father, I feel the urge to smile but it’s hidden beneath the need to escape.

Reaching out my hand, I hand the picture to Milo. He takes it slowly.

As much as this is good news, it’s also horrible.

I release Zephyr’s hand and back from the room, grabbing my coat and bolting through the door. I think I hear someone call my name but it’s drowned out by the roar of thoughts swarming through my mind. Taking in gulps of air as I make my way through the neighborhood, walk toward the main street. It’s not far to my house. There’s a trail through the trees I could take, and I do. The thick scent of rain and pine comforts me, soothing me, and helping me think—helping me to clear my mind. I step on soft earth, my steps silent as my thoughts race through my mind.
My father isn’t my father
. It’s a happy discovery but it’s still a lot to take in.

I find a fallen log and I take a seat, tucking my hands deep in my pockets and breathing deeply.
Inhale
. My phone vibrates in my pocket. I press the top button, knowing it’s Zephyr—I just need a moment.
Exhale
. Another vibration, another push of the button.
Inhale. Exhale
.

She’s our daughter, Keisha
. I remember that from my dream. The fight I witnessed in a dream.

She’s
my
daughter
, my mother’s rebuttal. It makes so much sense now.





Walking through the front door, I close it quietly. I sent Hilary message telling her I was fine. I know Zephyr called her, she even told me as much, but walking alone made me feel better. Zephyr hates it when I go off-grid. I rarely do it but in order for me not to push him away, I need time to make sure I don’t anything stupid.

And I do a lot of stupid things when pressured.

Speeding up the stairs, I peel my jacket from my arms, and push open my door. I turned off my phone at some point during my
walk, so I now need to face the music and check the messages. Eight from Zephyr, eleven from Milo, three from Mel, one from Hilary, and an unknown voicemail. Intrigued, I dial my voicemail.

“
Joey, it’s Candace
,” the message begins. “
I know I’m probably the last person you wish to speak to, and I know what you learned today was quite a shock, but
...” she trails, sighing into the phone. “
I’m not sure even how to say this. The last person I expected to see was you. That’s hard to hear, I know and I apologize, but I just want to talk to you again. I need to clearly explain myself clearly and I—I mostly need to apologize. So, you can come over, you can call me at this number, you can send an email, I don’t know what you prefer. I’ll, uh, I’ll wait
.”

I pull my phone from my ear, checking the time. It’s not too late, so I hit redial.





Walking into Starbucks—we both didn’t think it appropriate to have this discussion around Milo and Mel—I spot her sitting at a table in the back, a steaming cup of coffee in front of her. I walk over, dropping my bag into the nearest chair.

“Hi,” I say quietly, placing my keys on the table. After last night, I called Zephyr and apologized for running out on him. He gave me a speech,
I was worried about you, Jo, don’t do that again
, and then apologized for the number of messages he sent me. I didn’t want to tell him about this meeting.

“Joey.” Candace smiles sweetly when I sit down. “Would you like something to eat, maybe some coffee?”

“No thank you, I’m fine,” I tell her. I’m too nervous to eat.

“I apologize for everything last night,” Candace begins, rubbing the pad of her thumb over the rim of her cup. “It wasn’t very nice how I told you everything.”

But it had to be said.

“I just want you to know that I, in no way, harbor any bad feelings toward you. I even forgave your mother a long time ago.”

I nod slowly, not sure where this is going—I’m waiting.

She coughs lightly. “I’m sure you have some questions.”

I shake my head.

“Well, I’m sure you want to meet Owen.” Candace tugs out her phone. “I didn’t tell him about last night, I thought I’d give you some time to process before I made any hasty decisions or phone calls.” She places the phone in front of me, a picture and number illuminated on the screen. “I know he’d want to meet you.”

It’s as easy as that. Just one push of the button and I could talk to my… my
father
. My real, non-murderer
father
.
Holy balls of fury, my father isn’t a murderer!
I should be jumping up and down with glee, I should be screaming with joy, but all I feel is empty.

I place my hand on the table, tapping my finger against the side and debate. One call, that’s all this is—just one little phone call. It doesn’t mean much.

Sliding the phone back to her, I watch the smile fall from her lips. It’s a big move—meeting this man. It’s terrifying that I’ve met
siblings
. I have a brother and a sister. That’s all I need for now.

I haven’t spoken to them since last night. Milo and Mel have left me voicemails, sent me texts, they’ve tried talking to me, and that’s the first thing I need to do—talk to them. They might not want me in their lives. I’m nothing but the lovechild of an affair. Right now, Owen is
their
father. That’s all he’ll be until I speak with them and make sure any kind of relationship between him and me is acceptable with them.

“I still need to talk to Milo and Mel,” I say to their mother.

That’s where she takes me, back to her house. I follow her in my car, parking behind her in the driveway and sit, watching her walk to the front door, watching her turn around—expecting me to be there.
You can do this, Joey. They were your friends before; you can talk to them now
. With every amount of confidence I can muster—which isn’t a lot—I step from the car and slam the door shut.

Milo’s splayed along the couch, paper everywhere as he studies for midterms. Mel’s reading a book in the corner.

“Hey,” I say to alert everyone to my presence in the doorway. I wave my hand when they both look up.

“So I guess you’re our sister, now?” Mel asks.

“Not necessarily,” I reply, in case she’s about to throw her book at my head. “It all depends, you know, on you.” I look from her to Milo expecting a major reaction.

She looks to Milo then turns to me, her gaze thoughtful. “I’ve always wanted a sister.”

Walking through the door, I toss my keys into the hideous bowl by the door, the one I tried to break a few weeks back on purpose. If only my aunt hadn’t walked in, that thing would be long gone, smashed into thousands of tiny shards. I’m an angry, destructive girl when pissed off. The clink of metal against plaster alerts my aunt to my presence. She lifts her head, smiling politely as I walk toward her while she sits at the dining room table, a calculator in front of her as she balances her checkbook.

Many things run through my mind, many things Hilary needs to know. But I’m not sure how to tell her.

Hey, Aunt Hil, did you know your sister-slash-best friend slept with her friend’s husband? Well, now I’ve got siblings. Living siblings—ain’t that a hoot?

Uh, maybe not that.

Aunt Hil, guess whom I met without knowing it! My half-brother. You know him, too.

Yeah, not that either.

I HAVE FAMILY!

Now, while I love the bold approach, something like that might be a bit too much. I think I’ll have to ease her into it.

“Where’ve you been?” she asks, her eyes planted on the paper in her hand, a pen in the other that she repeatedly taps against the lacquered surface of the wooden table. We’ve replaced many of the items we brought from Texas, many of the items she bought herself when she discovered she was the new guardian of a small child. The one thing we never replaced, the one item we never even debated tossing away, is the dining room table. It’s something we’ve repaired and repainted, lacquered and polished, throughout the years. There’s no story as to why we take so much care of it—if there is, it’s one she hasn’t told me. I don’t mind, it’s a nice table. I like it.

“Out,” I mutter evasively, walking toward the table. I snake around her chair to get to my preferred seat; it’s right in front of the large window. I place my hands in front of me, lacing my fingers together.

Hilary giggles. “You
can
tell me if you were with Zephyr, you know?” she says, marking something on the paper in front of her. “I
do
know you have a boyfriend, Joey.”

She folds up everything, dragging out a few envelopes and ripping them open. I can see they’re all bills. She looks to her checkbook—she doesn’t trust online payments anymore, not after paying for the phone plan went haywire.

This is what she does on a typical Sunday afternoon when she doesn’t work—she ensures everything is paid. Never have I been without electricity, heat, or water—and she works hard to make sure I never do.

“I know that,” I mutter quietly, still debating how to say what I want.
So, there’s this dude… turns out we’re related
. Stupid—stupid! Not to mention everything else going on inside my head, things she might like to know. “Aunt Hil,” I say quietly. She doesn’t hear me, only quirks her head to the side as she writes something out. I stare at the top of her orange head, trying to muster enough courage to speak louder. I clear my throat. “Aunt Hil?”

Her head snaps up, green eyes locking with mine. “Yeah?” she asks.

I pull my hands to the edge of the table, dragging them beneath the lip and pushing them into my thighs. The pressure is strong enough to keep my hands from trembling.

It doesn’t help.

Let’s start with something easier.

“I was, uh, wondering,” I begin, looking around the room, hoping to see something for my eyes to settle on, but it’s all things I’ve seen before. Yeah, as if someone would break into our house
just to
leave
something. “I was wondering if you’d go to therapy with me.” I didn’t know I wanted that until I said it.

We pass through long moment of silence. And another. And another. Before I finally raise my eyes. There’s a question to her stare, a question I don’t think I could answer right this moment, but I hope she says yes. I really
need
her to say yes to this.

“Oh Joey,” she whispers quietly, almost as if she’s proud. “I’ll clear my schedule, honey.”

“You don’t have to do that if you have more pressing plans,” I tell her. She shouldn’t change anything because of me. It’s not like my therapy sessions are changing any time soon. She’s a surgeon, other people need her more than me.

“Of course, I do.” She jumps from her seat, pushing it aside as she rushes to my side, wrapping her arms around me—I don’t protest. I enjoy her warmth, upset with myself for denying everything comforting and loving. “I can’t believe you’re asking me this,” she gushes loudly, completely filled with excitement.

Still, I need to tell her.

“Aunt Hil, there’s something else,” I mutter. There’s a need to prepare, to mentally work out the words, to plan how to break this large ice glacier I’m about to slam into her.

She leans back, pulling away with confusion in her eyes.

How do I put this delicately?

“You might want to sit down,” I tell her. When she does, she reaches for my hands and I let her take them, rubbing her thumbs gently against the skin on the back of my hand. Her touch is so tender, so welcoming, that I nearly forego the information and only let her hold my hands.

But this is something she needs to know.

Slowly, I tell her.
You remember Milo, right?
Hilary didn’t completely understand, she definitely didn’t believe me. But I wouldn’t believe me if I was her.
What you’re saying, Joey—it doesn’t make sense
. But slowly, it all—every single word—starts to sink in.
Milo and Mel, they’re—they’re my half-brother and half-sister
. The stunned expression covering her pale face says it all—sometimes a life is a lie, or what you think your life is.

By the time my appointment comes around, I am sitting in my usual seat across from Dr. Jett. There’s a new chair brought in from a different office for Hilary and she sits comfortably, one leg hitched over the other as her foot bounces to a silent beat.

I lace my hands together in my lap, nervously waiting for this session to begin.

“Good afternoon, Joey,” Dr. Jett says while holding her trusty pen in her right hand above her hand-dandy legal pad. “I see you’ve asked your aunt to join us today.”

“Yup,” I answer quietly. No matter how much support I have, no matter who sits in this room with me, I still hate these sessions. I’d rather not do them—with a passion, but I do. I have to until I’m 18.

“Hello, Hilary.” Dr. Jett turns her full attention to my aunt, her pen clicking twice before she jots something on the notepad sitting in her lap.

My aunt nods, her eyes focused on me.

“So, what’s—”

“I have things I need to talk about, Doctor,” I say, interrupting my shrink before she can ask me anything I might need to explain. “Really important things; and I
think
you know what they are.”

Dr. Jett narrows her eyes, confusion covering her stoic face. She doesn’t know what I’m going to say. Neither does Hilary. Good, I love shocking people when they least expect it. I just wish this weren’t the case.

Taking a deep, deep breath, I try to think of how I’d like to word this, how I want to phrase what my dreams revealed to me. “I know what my father did to me and my sister.” I pause. “Well, he’s also
not
my father, so I don’t know what to call him.” That was surprisingly easier than I thought it’d be.

An eerie, thick silence falls over the room. I look to my therapist as she furiously writes on the notepad. I turn to my aunt
who was covering her mouth with her hand, her green eyes wide with shock.

Yup, it worked.

“I had a dream the other night,” I say, deciding to continue. “And I was talking to myself—which isn’t as crazy as it sounds. It wasn’t me
today
, it was me when I was a kid.” Out of me spills the entire story, how I told myself all about what happened to me. How she—or I, still not sure—never wanted anything to happen, how she didn’t like it. But I still feel so detached from it, like it wasn’t
me
. Like it was some alternate universe where this happened.

“So, this little girl was you?” the doctor asks as she hits the end of her fourth page. I’ve never given her so much material before. She seems disturbingly happy.

I nod, averting my eyes to the floor. “Yes.”

I’m holding my aunt’s hand as I continue the session. By the time it ends, I refuse to release her, needing her strength to pull me through. I’m so glad she’s here.

We walk out and sit in the car, neither of us moving to buckle seatbelts or do anything else car related. I’m not sure how Hilary feels about this. I think I’ve scarred her—that wasn’t my intention.

“I always thought I imagined it,” Hilary whispers. I turn to face her and see her knuckles turn pale—brighter than her already pale skin—as she grips the steering wheel. “There was something about Ivy that was so vacant and…
gone
. She was so hollow and angry, I could never figure out why. I just thought it was her. I thought she was going through some sort of phase.” She stops and rests her head against the back of her seat. “And then the same thing happened to you. You weren’t
there
anymore—you were just as empty as Ivy. I always thought that…” She doesn’t continue.

“No one knew.”
I couldn’t even remember for ten years
.

She shakes her head, eyes shut tight. “But I suspected. And I—I just let it happen.”

“Aunt Hil.” I grab her hand, gripping it tightly. I can’t tell her I was the one who told. I was the reason my mother, brother, and sister died. I’m the reason for all of this—the change in
her
life. Hilary doesn’t need to know that, she doesn’t need to know any of that. Not now. Maybe never.





The dreams continue but I begin to expect them—I begin to want them. I’m not having nightmares so much as I’m just learning more about myself. So many things rush to my mind as I sleep and they remain—a collection for my mind to sort through.

I remember I used to love tacos to the point where I wouldn’t eat anything until it was shoved inside a taco shell. And none of that soft taco stuff. It made my morning cereal interesting. I remember the first chord my mom taught me on the guitar was C-chord. It’s still my favorite—if it’s not weird to have a favorite chord. I remember that my favorite movie was Thumbelina but the singing toad scared me.

I’m a walking enigma for myself but I love these discoveries. It’s as if I’m meeting myself for the first time.

Months passed by filled with dreams and life.

I worked on my project, ultimately deciding a paper would be a hell of a lot easier than making some big spectacle, and the teacher agreed. I worked studiously until I just got bored and started searching the internet about my interview.

It hadn’t shown yet, which I didn’t mind. I’m not really sure I want to see it now, not with how honest I was.

But I can’t take it back now.

Ambrielle sent me a copy that I promptly hid in my closet beneath the blankets on the top shelf. I forget it’s there, only a few feet away, until I just can’t anymore. But I haven’t watched it.

It doesn’t matter; I don’t
want
to see it yet.

I continued to live my life like normal.

Orchestra was going good. Max still envied my position in the seating arrangement especially when I performed a solo at one of the biggest competitions of the year. He grumbled until I hit him in the back of the head.

“Then shut up about it,” I told him on the bus heading back home. The competition was in Oregon and we’d be traveling a while before we saw Seattle lights. “Either get better or just leave it alone, Max. We got a trophy, we did well and you’re being an ass.” It was rude but hearing his complaints nearly drove me up the wall.

He turned to me, bottom lip jutted out in a pout as his girlfriend held his hand. He soon turned his head, staring out the window while a few people clapped me on the back, congratulating me for finally telling Max how I—really most of the class—felt.

We finally had our Quiz Team competition, coming in second to a team from Spokane. Not our greatest moment but the team wasn’t upset. It was a good time, honestly.

I took the SATs at the end of February, something I forgot when applying to college. I quickly sent off the scores to every college I applied to, also sending them with every application I sent out afterward. I still hadn’t heard anything but I was patient.

Zephyr and I were closer than ever. I apologized for being a bitch and stubborn brat and he just shrugged it off, as if it never mattered. It’s a thing like that which makes me love him more.

We spent more time together than before. I’m almost certain he’s trying to figure out a way to jump from his window to mine. I won’t let him try it. Still, we stand at our windows and just talk to each other, through our phones so we’re not yelling loudly and waking up other neighbors. It’s oddly cute. We’ve reached the adorable status that used to sicken me with others. I have no bad opinion when I’m the one in the hall putting on the PDA.