Split (19 page)

chapter 29

n
ineteen hours of silence.
We didn’t talk when we pulled over to switch seats. We didn’t talk when we ate at an Arby’s. (I’m surprised he sat at the same table with me. If we weren’t driving my car, I’m sure he’d leave me on the road.) We didn’t talk when we stopped for gas, not even when he needed to get the bathroom key from me at a gas station. Instead of asking me for it, he let me return it to the counter and took it from the clerk.

And something inside me snapped, like a traveling ice pack. Break it, and it gets really cold.

Fuck him.

When we get to the apartment, he clears his throat and says, “Leave your key on the table,” and knocks on Mirriam’s door.

I am standing in the hallway when Mirriam opens the door.

“Aww, Christian, you were supposed to call me from the road. I haven’t even started the turkey.” She sees me standing in the doorway of Christian’s apartment. “Jace,” she says, “where’s your mom?”

I walk into our—his—place and close the door.

The small apartment is bloated with my things. I get my backpack and take it into Christian’s bedroom to start loading it up. I open the bottom drawer and look at my jeans, my clothes lying there neatly. My eyes are dried out.

When my backpack is overflowing, I pull out a garbage bag and stuff in the rest of my clothes and books. The bag stretches thin around one of my textbooks.

For the last time, I call up the Internet on his computer and search for emergency homeless shelters. I’ll have to lie about my age or I’ll get put into the system. The printer fires up and rasps out a set of directions. I pry my key ring open and slide the gold key off. I leave it on the table. Just like that, I am erased from this place, too.

I’m about to go, but I remember one thing that I want to do. I pull the closet door open and take out his NYU diploma. I whip it like a Frisbee across the room, and its frame takes a little chunk out of the wall. I leave it on the floor, broken.

I am halfway down the steps when I hear Mirriam’s voice.

“Jace?” She comes running down the steps. “Where are you going?”

I show her the directions as I hear another door shut upstairs. Our door. Christian’s door.

“What’s this?” she asks.

“The only place I can think of.”

“Come inside. Come with me. Let’s figure this out.”

“Mirriam, I’m done with him. I’m done with this place, and all of it.”

“Are you done with me?”

I sigh. “No.”

I haul my bag back onto my shoulder, she grabs the garbage bag, and we walk into her apartment.

I put the bag down inside her door, but I don’t close it. “I shouldn’t be here. He wouldn’t want me here.”

“It’s not up to him.”

She takes my hand and pulls me into her apartment. I smell eggs and green peppers. I want to pretend it’s just another day, another cooking lesson. Maybe Mexican.

“Did he tell you?” I ask.

Yes, he told her about Lauren. Is there anything else? she wants to know. I tell her I hit my dad.

“Well, that’s a little different, don’t you think? Sit down, okay?” she says.

When I’m sitting on her couch, she looks me over and then says, “You’ve had a long trip.”

I shrug. “It’ll be longer still.”

“Jace, try to understand; he is torn apart by this.”

I stand and pick up my bag.
Right. I need someone defending him
.

“Okay, I’m sorry. This isn’t about him. Please sit down and tell me what I can do for you.”

“You really want to help me? I need to find a place to live. Maybe I can get a room around the university.”

“You’re going to stay in Albuquerque?”

“Yeah. I still want to graduate from high school if I can manage it. Maybe I’ll test for my GED or something, so that I can go to college.”

She smiles. “You never give up.”

Oh yeah? I left my mother there. Again
.

Fightology Lesson #10: It hurts worse the next day.

“Jace,” Mirriam says. “Why don’t you stay here? I mean, those shelters can be … a hard place for a kid on his own, and you’re not in any shape for that.”

“But … Christian?”

“You won’t have to see him, I promise. Just stay until we can find you a place of your own.”

I probably should say no, but I’m as sick of protecting Christian as I am of seeing him. I’m about to say yes when I narrow my eyes at her. “Why would you help me? Now that you know.”

“You’re not going to like my answer.”

I cross my arms over my chest.

“All right,” she says. “Because you
are
a kid-at-risk, but you’re not hopeless. Yet. And because I think Christian will regret it if you disappear from his life.” I open my mouth to object, but she keeps going. “And because I think you deserve a break. Christian told me that you let your mom go. And that’s a step in the right direction.”

“It is? For whom?”

“For you, Jace. For you.” She sighs. “I think you should stay, get your bearings, and make your decisions in your own way. And I’m in a position to help, so why shouldn’t I?”

“Because of what it might cost you,” I say, looking at the wall that separates her apartment from Christian’s.

“I won’t lose anything.”

“You
hope
you won’t lose anything,” I say.

“If Christian were to break up with me over this, I wouldn’t want to know him. I won’t lose anything.” She doesn’t even blink.

Who’d have thought that I could be a deal-breaker?

“Thanks. I’ll try to keep out of your way.”

“All right. I’m going over there now, but I want you to stay here. Can you promise me that you’ll stay here?”

“Yeah,” I say and put my backpack on the floor.

“I have a TV in my bedroom.”

I’ve been here for months and there’s been a TV next door without me knowing about it? That is just so wrong.

I kick off my shoes and head into her bedroom. It is cluttered, clothes spilling out of the hamper, and the dresser carries more gadgetry and makeup than I’ve seen anywhere: brushes strewn, a hair dryer and its attachments littered, a compact left open with its sponge lolling out. I flip on the TV. My brain glazes over with commercials and black-and-white
I Love Lucy
.

Through the walls, I hear Christian and Mirriam.

Blah, Blah, Blah, Jace! BLAH, BLAH, BLAH.

Whatever. A pair of headphones sits on top of the television. I plug them in and turn up the sound.

After a little while, Mirriam appears in the doorway.

I say, “You shouldn’t fight about me.”

She says something, but I can’t make it out. I pull the headphones off. “What?”

“You couldn’t hear us?”

I wave the headphones at her.

“Well, thanks for the privacy,” she says. “We didn’t really fight.”

I raise my eyebrows at her.

“I mean, we aren’t breaking up over it.”

I don’t know why she would want to stay with him, but I doubt I’ll ever really understand women.

“Well, if that’s what you want, I’m glad for you,” I say.

I put the headphones back on. Lucy is wailing because Ricky Ricardo is making her feel like a useless idiot again, and I listen to the laugh track.

chapter 30

w
hen I wake up the next morning,
I forget where I am, but the citrus smell reminds me that I’m not next door, that I’ve been ousted again. The worst part is that the one person I want to turn to is the same person who has shown me the door. I can’t go back, so my only option is to keep going. And to keep going, I can’t think about Christian anymore.

I push myself off Mirriam’s futon and fold the blanket she gave me last night. After digging through the garbage bag of my stuff, looking for my camera, I realize that I left it at Christian’s.
Oh, that’s just great
. I consider knocking on his door for about two seconds.

I’ll get Mirriam to ask him for it.

I put on my soccer shorts and jersey. It will be cold for a run, but at least I’ll be outside. The apartment feels overheated, just like my head. I peek in Mirriam’s bedroom, but she is dead to the world. I leave her a note, grab the key, and take off.

While I’m on the run, I try to let the images of my mom and my house be driven out of my brain. But my hands are so cold, I need to turn around before I get relief.
Someday
, I tell myself,
I’ll have my own place, and I’ll come home to it day after day after day. No one will be able to tell me that I can’t live there anymore, and I won’t have to live by anyone’s rules
.

When I get back, Mirriam is just coming out of the bedroom. Her eyes are not blinking in sync yet. She can’t believe how long she has slept, she says, and looks away when she gets that I’ve already been out and back. She asks how I’m doing. I don’t answer because I don’t want to lie and I don’t want to get into it, either.

“Jace,” she says, “you don’t have to answer me today, okay? But maybe tomorrow.”

I can’t think that far ahead yet. All I can think about is how to manage the ache I’ve got right now.

After a shower, I tell her I’ll make some coffee and an omelet while she takes her turn in the bathroom. My homeless-person cardboard sign could read WILL COOK FOR RENT. I am ripping up cilantro for a spicy omelet when a knock at the door interrupts. Gotta be Christian. I go for the pretend-no-one-is-home strategy.

He pounds a second time.

“Mirriam!” His voice is panicked. He’s probably worried that I killed her or something.

“She’s in the shower,” I yell back.

“Open the door, Jace. I have something for you.”

“Slide it under.”

“It’s your camera.”

“So leave it there. I’ll get it in a minute. I’m cooking,” I say.

“I’ll just …,” he says, and I hear a key slide in the lock. Of course he has a key. Why didn’t I think of that?

I sigh, put down the cilantro, and open the door before he can. A wave of overheated hallway air pushes its way in. I grab the camera, but he won’t let go of the strap.

“I wanted to say I’m sorry,” he says. “You know, that it turned out this way.”

“Whatever.”

“And to give you this.” He pulls a check from his pocket. “It’s what I owe you from your last paycheck.”

I’ve been depositing my checks into his account. I don’t know how he has calculated what’s mine and what’s his.

“Give it to Mirriam for letting me stay.”

“Well, it’s a lot … How long are you staying?” He peers past me into the apartment.

“Until I can find another place.”

“Can I come in?”

“I’ll tell Mirriam you came by,” I say.

“At least take the check. You’ll need it for a security deposit.”

I start to close the door, but he pushes his palm against it.

“Take it,” he says. “It’s yours.”

Sure, hand me money, hand Mom money, pay off your conscience. You’re gonna have to break the bank
. I grab the check, rip it in half, and drop it on the floor. Mirriam will have to do her own prep work. I pick up my backpack and try to head out the door, but now Christian roadblocks me.

“Excuse me,” I say through clenched teeth.

“Where are you going?”

“Siam.”

“You know what, Jace? Why don’t you try, for a change, telling me the truth?”

“Okay. I don’t know where. I’m finding a room in Albuquerque; I’m keeping my job; I’m finishing school. Happy? Now get out of my way,” I say.

He separates his legs—shoulder-width apart, ready for anything.

“Christian, let me out of here.”

He still doesn’t move but pushes his jaw out. I go and sit down on the futon. He closes the door behind him, and I remember the way my dad would draw the shades. But no one’s kicking my butt today.

“Well, what then?” I ask.

“Explain.”

“Not a chance,” I say.

“Now whose mouth is stitched closed? What? Is there more? Is there a whole string of ex-girlfriends?”

“No.”

“Was this the first time?”

“Yes. Is this interrogation over?”

“Interrogation?” His shoulders fold, and he studies his shoes. He is tied to his “don’t ask” policy.
Figures. God forbid he should actually extend himself for anyone
.

But then he looks me in the eye and says, “It’s past time.”

I grind my teeth together and stare at him. Outside, the wind would feel good against my face. Outside, I would get in my car and start driving. I wouldn’t even glance in the rearview.

“What do you want?” I ask.

He stands there.

“Well?” I say. “Open your fucking mouth.”

“How come
you
get to be pissed off at
me
? You can honestly tell me that you would choose to live with another abuser now, after you’ve gotten out? That you would sit down to a game of rummy and a plate of sandwiches with him? You’re the one who beat up his girlfriend and lied about it so you could weasel your way inside my door. So how come you get to be pissed at me?”

Oh, gee, I don’t know. Maybe because you’re such a stand-up, reliable brother? Could it be, just maybe, because you dump me on my ass whenever you don’t like the scenery?

I’m kindling, but this time it is hotter than it ever was with my dad, with my mom, even more explosive than with Lauren. I can’t believe I spent so much time trying to be like him. What a waste. I stand up, and he steps so close to me that I know he had oolong with breakfast today. My hand clenches into a fist, and I dig my nails into my palms.

“I’ve gotta get out of here.” I step to the side, and he steps with me, his face close to mine. “Jesus. Lemme out.”

“Or what? You’re gonna hit me, too?”

He’s baiting me, like he used to with Dad. Bring it on, get it over with, control what you can. We’re close enough that I could easily take two swings before he could bring his long arms into play. I could get the advantage, knock him on his ass, and kick the shit out of him.

Smoke wisps.

I put my fingers on my pulse, close my eyes, and try to breathe. I can’t even feel my blood. All I can think about is that crystal in my window. I keep one wrist locked inside my own grip.
I am not my father
.

“You’re gonna tell me what I did to piss you off, ’cause you’ve been on edge since day one,” Christian says. “I kept Mirriam off your back with a stick, nearly sacrificed our relationship, so you wouldn’t have to talk about it. God, Jace, of all things … You had me protecting an abuser, again. And I was stupid enough, trusted you enough, not to ask. So now I deserve better from you.”

Backdraft.

The sucking sound deafens me, and I can’t even hear myself screaming at him, but words are shooting out of my mouth.

“
You
deserve better from
me
? Two years, Christian. Two fucking years. That diploma from NYU was dated two years ago. Where have you been? And don’t give me that Dad-had-never-hit-you-so-I-thought-you’d-be-all-right bullshit. Did you check? I mean, good God, it couldn’t have been that hard. We were listed in the goddamn phone book. He nearly killed you in New York, and you never thought about me? I Googled your name seventeen thousand times; I hunted state by state on
whitepages.com
for you. You sliced me right out of your life and left me to sink without a second thought. I mean, have you considered, have you thought about what a difference it would have made if you had come back for me? I hadn’t even met Lauren when you got out of college.”

And, in that instant, I see how I’m most like my father; I’m blaming someone else for what I did. But the words keep coming.

“And now you do it again? You pull out so hard and fast that I’m left on my ass again? So Fuck You. But you’ve gotta know, Christian, that I would never have done that to you. You could commit murder, and I would offer you an alibi. I would fucking confess.”

I lift my hands, my palms open, and stare at them. No more fists. That was it. That was my backdraft.

I go back to the couch and sit down. I drop my head into my hands and feel my pulse thumping through my temples. I count the pulses. One. Two. Three … When it slows, I take one big breath and look up.

“Well,” he says, “don’t hold back on my account. Tell me how you really feel.”

A short bark of a laugh escapes me.

“I couldn’t go back, not even for you. I couldn’t think about Dad or Mom or that house. None of it. I just buried it, and yeah, I buried you with it. You’re right, Jace. Everything would have been different for you.”

I grab a red throw pillow off the futon and fold my arms over it.

My dad always had excuses: she had it coming; he had a hard day; no one understood the pressure he was under—the usual, the flimsy. And here I am, making the I-had-a-hard-life excuse.

Finally I say, “No. Beating up Lauren … that’s all on me.”

Christian inhales sharply and holds his breath. He comes over and sits next to me. When he speaks, his voice is lower, his words thoughtful. “I’ve heard Dad say he’s sorry, I’ve heard him promise he won’t do it again, but I’ve never heard him say it’s his fault.”

I take a breath and close my eyes. The tears push out. “Really?”

“You’re not that much like Dad. No blaming everyone else, no pushing Lauren to come back, not nearly enough charm. Short.”

He’s got me crying and laughing at the same time.

He continues, “I’m not excusing what you did to her—”

“Nothing could—”

“Exactly, nothing could. But … if anyone could see the difference between you and Dad, it would be me, right? I mean, when you messed up, you tried to fix it. He’s still using guilt and charm and everything else to win Mom back just so he can do it again.”

I crush the pillow to my chest. He’s right; it’s the one thing I’ve done that was good. I’ve never blamed Lauren, never guilted her, or tried to trap her in my mistake.

“But how come you went through the same thing, and you wouldn’t hit a woman, not ever?”

“See, that’s what I thought, too. That we went through the same thing. But we didn’t. For one thing, you and Dad were close, and everyone always said you were alike. You looked up to him, wanted to be like him for a long time. I always had Mom.”

“But that’s not—”

“And then last night, I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said when I pulled that knife. You said that you couldn’t watch him hit me
again
.”

I go back to that moment and replay it in slow motion. What was I thinking about when I said that? My brother’s face lying in a pool of antifreeze, dropping the tray of food in the garage, and racing to my dad, burying my face into his stomach.

I begin ripping at the pillow’s tassel. He frowns and takes the pillow from me.

“So?” I say.

“So, I never saw him hit you. And let’s be honest, it was easier to take his crap than to watch Mom take it, right? That’s why we both stepped up.”

“Not for me,” I say. “Just once I wanted her to take a blow for me.”

“She did, Jace, for years and years. Once he got to me—well, once I left—you never had a chance.” His lips curl inside his teeth—a gesture I haven’t seen in years, but I do recognize it. He is trying not to cry. He doesn’t look at me, and when he talks his voice is so quiet and shaky, I have to lean in to hear him. “The truth is I never checked up on you because I knew it was only a matter of time until he started in on you, but as long as I wasn’t sure, I could tell myself that you were okay.”

I exhale. I didn’t know that an apology could actually help; I always thought saying sorry was more about alleviating guilt, that apologies were designed for the mouth, not for the ears. I nod slowly.

The shower water turns off, and the silence is louder.

“So …,” I say. “Now what?”

“Well.” He starts nodding. “We’ve pretty much established that we’re both screw-ups, right?”

“Yup,” I say, bobble-heading in time with him.

“But brothers, right?”

I stop, while his head stays in motion.

I say, “We’ll always be brothers, by blood, at any rate.”

He stares at his knees, puts the pillow to the side of him, and stands up. “Okay.” When he is at the door, he says, “Will you let me know where you land?”

“Sure, okay.”

His lips curl over his teeth once more, and his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat.

“I mean,” I say, “I promise.”

He twists the door handle and then stops. “Jace, I could never live with another abuser. I worked too hard to get away from one.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“But considering that you’re not going to do it again … that you’re an ex-abuser … I made a mistake when I told you to leave. I painted you with the same brush as Dad. I’m trying to say that you could land with me.” He waits as if it is a question, and I don’t answer. “So, if you want, I’ll be around, all right?”

I nod, and just before he leaves, I stop him with, “Hey, Christian? Maybe for Thanksgiving, I could come over and cook you something decent to eat?”

“Jace,” he says, “Thanksgiving was yesterday.”

I feel my throat tightening up, but I ignore it. “Well, our own Thanksgiving, then. The thanksgiving-for-screw-ups. Maybe next week?”

“What’s on the menu?”

“No more turkey,” I say.

He brightens. “How about pizza? Could you make that? I love pizza.”

“You do?” I ask.