Breathless (18 page)

But the Ghost goes with him. On the same day that he buried his own father, his son almost killed him. But instead of falling apart, like any normal person would do, the Ghost goes into the house to get his car keys, gives my mother a kiss on the top of her head—she doesn’t even look up—and lights a cigarette as he gets into his car, following my brother to the police station, to make sure things go the way they should.

The next morning I shuffle downstairs late, my bathrobe dragging on the floor while my parents’ cat chases at its loose threads on the stairs. My parents’ house has grandeur: the banister is thick and long and curved at just the right angle for sliding down, like they do in the movies. There are high ceilings, endless sunken rooms that make the structure more of a shell than a house, each few steps into the next room giving you the feeling of going deeper inside, and for a while it felt okay, for years it felt okay, until it started to seem like if you
weren’t careful, you’d never be able to find your way out again.

The Ghost sits at the table in the dining room, doing a crossword puzzle, drinking coffee that has undoubtedly been rewarmed in the microwave, holding a cigarette between his teeth. To look at him, you would think it was just another normal day.

“Where’s Mazzie?” he asks without looking up from his puzzle.

“Upstairs. Still asleep.”

He nods, still not looking at me. “She seems like a nice girl. I hope you bring her home with you more often.”

“Well, after the fun we’ve had this weekend, I’m sure she can’t wait to come back.”

Finally, the Ghost looks at me. “Your brother won’t come back this time,” he tells me.

“I know that.”

“Do you?” He studies me. “I know you’re angry with him. Trust me, I know how it feels to be angry with someone you love. But Katie, when that anger goes away, you’re going to love him again.”

I shake my head. “No. Not after last night.”

“You will. You’ll love him because he’s your brother, I know. But you can’t talk to him. You have to let him go now. He’s only going to get worse.”

I’ve been hearing the same thing for years, always presented as a possibility rather than a definite. But now it seems certain that Will is never going to be my big brother again. At one point, years ago, somebody reached out and unlocked the cellar door in his head, and there he was: forever unhinged.

When I don’t say anything, the Ghost puts down his crossword puzzle. “Come here.”

I sit in his lap. He gives me a hug. I put my head on his shoulder and recognize the smell that is uniquely his. It occurs to me that he almost never says my brother’s name out loud.

Had he been here at all, all these years, instead of working every day, the Ghost might have been a really great dad. I think it’s better that I don’t know him that well. Better not to really know what I’m missing and just swim away.

chapter 9

It’s a long, silent ride back to school the following morning. All four of us go together: the Ghost, my mom, Mazzie, and me.

Before she goes inside, leaving me alone with my parents, Mazzie gives my mom a hug. She says to my dad, “I’m sorry about your father, Dr. Kitrell.”

“Thank you,” the Ghost says. He hesitates. “I’m so sorry about the weekend.”

Mazzie only shrugs. “Shit happens. Right, sir?”

For once in his life, my father is speechless. Then—for the first time in as long as I can remember—he laughs.

I don’t know what to say to Mazzie. How does someone apologize for something like this? For the rest of the afternoon, we continue to study vocab words on flash cards, quizzing each other. The only thing that’s different from any other Sunday evening is that Mazzie is nicer than usual.

When Drew knocks at the window, interrupting me as I struggle to recall the definition for “phylogeny,” I can tell Mazzie and I are both grateful for the distraction. I open the window and give him a hand as he climbs in.

“What’s going on?” he demands. “I couldn’t find you, and then yesterday, Mrs. Martin finally told me your grandpa died.” He glances at Mazzie, almost glaring at her. “The two of you went home? For the funeral?”

“My mom showed up out of nowhere, Drew. We had to hurry. It was a really emotional weekend, and I wanted to call you but I was so upset—”

“We’ve been dating for a
year,
Katie, and I’ve never even met your parents. I can’t believe you would take—instead of—”

“I’m sorry, okay? It’s a four-hour drive, Drew.
I
barely see my parents. Don’t be mad, please—”

“I can’t believe what a jerk you’re being,” Mazzie interrupts, startling us both.

Drew stares at her. His jaw drops. “Are you talking about me?”

“No, I’m talking about your mother. Of course I’m talking about you. Your
girlfriend
has to pack up and leave without any notice because her grandpa died, and she has a weekend that, let me tell you, was not pleasant in any sense of the word. And you come climbing in the window like a big angry giant and yell at her because she didn’t think to bring you instead of me. Maybe she didn’t want to bring you, Drew. Maybe she didn’t think that her grandpa’s funeral was the right time to play get-to-know-you with her boyfriend and her family.” She whips “phylogeny” at him, nicking him on the forehead. “What would Jesus think of how you’re acting, Drew?”

There is a long pause in which I know I cannot make eye contact with Mazzie without bursting out laughing.

“Oh, God,” Drew says, “you’re right.” He puts his arms around me. “I’m so sorry, Katie. I’m acting so selfish.”

As I look over Drew’s shoulder, I can see Mazzie making a series of hand gestures in his direction, each one a little more obscene.

“I’ll be here for you,” he whispers.

I nod, unable to suppress my laughter, which I pretend is a sob. I bury my face in his shoulder and hold him tight.

A few weeks later, just after two in the morning, the phone rings in our bedroom. Mazzie and I both sit up; I wonder if she isn’t sleeping well, either.

I’ve turned our answering machine off so that Will can’t leave messages while I’m in class. The phone keeps ringing and ringing. Even though the volume is set to low, each ring feels like a smack that could startle the whole dorm awake.

I finally pick it up with every intention of hanging up immediately, but before I can put down the receiver, I hear an automated voice asking, “Will you accept a collect call from . . .” and then Will’s voice, desperate, saying, “Please pick up, Katie, please talk to me.”

I’m so tired that I can’t think straight. I feel myself trembling at the sound of his voice. Where is he? Is he safe? Are they taking care of him? Why is he awake in the middle of the night?

Mazzie stands behind me. She puts her hand over mine on the receiver, and together we hang up on my brother.

The same weekend, Lindsey has a birthday party at her house for Estella. I feel exhausted from the week. Aside from everything else that’s going on, swimming season is going to start in a few weeks, which means longer practices and less sleep. On Saturday morning, during a flip turn, I smack my big toe against the gutter and crack my toenail in half. A ribbon of blood dissolves in the water behind me as I swim to the opposite end, not realizing what has happened until Solinger is blowing hard on his whistle and Drew is wading over to me, his arms outstretched to pick me up and lead me to the edge.

The last place I want to be is at a party, but there’s no getting out of it. When I tell Estella that my grandpa just died and I’m tired and sad and just not in the mood, she presses her lips together and says, “I didn’t kill him, Katie. You’re coming.” When I don’t say anything, her expression softens a twinge. “It will make you feel better to be around your friends,” she assures me. “You’ll see.”

By ten o’clock, all I want to do is sleep. Drew holds my hand and takes me up to bed, on Lindsey’s third floor, where there’s one big room set up. It’s like how I’d picture a nineteenth-century orphanage: there are eight twin beds, all made up with worn, matching sheets and blankets, in a row against the wall; a big bathroom; and bookshelves filled with all of Lindsey’s and her sisters’ old books. There are the complete Nancy Drew and Doctor Seuss series, and Woodsdale Academy yearbooks going all the way back to the eighties.

Drew and I go to sleep together in one of the twin beds, wearing nothing but our underwear. Mazzie is in the room with us, a few beds over, her nightstand light burning while she reads
Madame Bovary
for our women’s lit class, and while I’m lying on my side trying to fall asleep, I focus on her little face, her jaw moving frantically back and forth, mouthing the words as she reads, her narrow shoulders hunched against a pillow, tiny hands holding the book up and far away from her face, almost out of the light.

Every time she goes to turn the page she takes a quick look at me, like she’s checking to see if I’m asleep or not. I know for sure I’m awake because I can feel Drew’s breath on the back of my neck. One of his hands is slung over my waist, his elbow digging into my hip.

I don’t remember finally falling asleep, but when I wake up, in a blink, I’m on the floor and Mazzie is kneeling next to me with a towel in her lap, trying to fit her arms under my shoulders. At first I’m sure it’s a dream because she isn’t saying anything and all the lights are off except the bathroom light, which wasn’t on when we went to bed. I can hear water running. It’s the shower. Mazzie is in her underwear: a little white tank top stretched over her breasts, which are almost nothing; baggy white underpants; and white athletic socks. She isn’t strong enough to pick me up, but she does it anyway, falling back onto her butt a few times until she finally props me up against the wall and puts the towel in my lap. I realize I’m all wet. My thighs are sticking together. Nothing makes sense.

“What’s going on? What happened?” I whisper. My eyes burn as I blink, trying to get them adjusted to the dim lighting. Drew is still asleep. Mazzie has replaced my body with a pillow, and he doesn’t seem to notice any difference. She shakes her head and puts a finger to her lips.

“It’s okay,” she mouths, and takes my hand to pull me up, holding the towel around my waist with her other hand. We go into the bathroom and shut the door. I notice that she’s left another towel on the floor where I was lying.

“What’s going on?”
I ask again, looking down at my legs. My underwear is all wet. There’s a smell.

She looks up at me. “You had a nightmare.”

I’m still so confused. “Oh. Okay. Why am I all wet?”

“You were scared. You got out of bed.”

“Why am I all wet?”

“Katie . . . you peed the bed. It’s okay.”

Oh, my God.
“Oh, my God. Oh, shit.” I realize that I have to pee,
now,
badly. I take off my underwear and sit down on the toilet, naked. Mazzie looks away. I’m so embarrassed that I start crying. I feel so dizzy that I have to lean forward and put my head against my knees. When I sit up, I ask, “Does Drew know? Did he wake up?”

“No. Don’t worry, Katie, I’m not going to tell him. He won’t find out.”

Oh, shit.
Shit.
“What do you mean, he won’t find out?” I’m crying so hard that I’m shaking. I’m so thirsty. “Did I pee all over him?”

“No. Be quiet, Katie. You’ll wake him up.”

“What happened, then? Did I pee on the floor?” I can’t believe this. I haven’t peed the bed since I was a little kid.

“No. You got into bed with me.”

I don’t understand. “I got into your bed? While I was sleeping?”

She nods, still looking away.

“Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know. You wanted to.”

“Did I pee in your bed?”

“Yes.”

“. . . ”

“. . . ”

“I’m so sorry, Mazzie.”

“It’s okay, Katie. Get in the shower.”

“Are you going to tell everybody?”

“I’m not going to tell anyone, Katie. Nobody has to know.”

She’s still in the bathroom with me, taking off her clothes now, and I realize that she’s all wet, too. I wait for her to shower before I get in myself. When the water hits my face, it’s too much. I lean over and gag into the drain, but nothing comes up. I have to sit down. The water hits me right on my stomach. Mazzie throws me a washcloth over the shower door. “I’m going to get the sheets off the bed,” she says, wrapping herself in a clean towel. “I’ll be right back.” She shuts the door behind her.

We go down to the laundry room together, finally, both of us carrying an armload of dirty towels and sheets and our wet underwear. We’re wearing nothing but oversized T-shirts, but at least we’re clean.

Neither of us has any idea how to operate a washing machine. We stand in front of it, gazing at the control dial, contemplating the settings. I never imagined it could be so complicated.

“I think we should use hot water,” she finally says.

“Why?”

“To rinse out any stains.”

“I think you’re supposed to use bleach for that.”

“I don’t think you can put whites and colors in together.”

“Why not?”

“I think they bleed.”

“Doesn’t this thing have any freaking
directions
?” It does, underneath the lid. We do the sheets first, adding half a bottle of bleach for good measure. We watch the washer fill up with hot water and start running. Mazzie finds a garbage bag and stuffs the towels inside, then puts them behind a stack of boxes so nobody will find them before we get a chance to wash them. I sit on the washing machine and watch her pattering around, getting the bottoms of her feet black with basement dirt. She’s wearing one of my Woodsdale Swimming T-shirts. It’s about two sizes too big for her, and on the back somebody—probably Lindsey—has written
Club 813
in uneven bubble letters with white permanent marker. Lindsey’s street address is 813; lately we’ve been writing it on everything, pretending we think it’s a big joke, but deep down I know we all feel like we’re genuinely part of an exclusive club. Mazzie is so petite, so skinny, that when she’s bent over I can see each of her narrow ribs outlined beneath the fabric.

“How long do you think those are going to take?” She means the sheets.