What's Broken Between Us (17 page)

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

I
feel like I should warn Henry when I see him Friday morning. But he’s already heard—everyone has
. Jonathan Tart for Chicago Cares.

“There’s nothing to say about it,” he tells me before school, as a hundred eyes pore over us as we walk down the hall.

After lunch, I stand at my locker reviewing my notes one last time before my test next period, when my phone starts vibrating. I check it, feeling an unwelcome surge of hope that it’s Dawn calling.

Jonathan.

I slide my finger across the screen to answer the call, leaning into my locker, like this will hide that I’m on my phone.

“Hello?”

“You answered!” Jonathan’s voice is loud and exuberant. I haven’t heard him sound like this since the night of the accident. “I’m downtown.” Now that he’s not yelling, his words sound heavy. “At the Riverwalk, by the docks.”

“What’s wrong?” S
omething
must be for him to call me in the middle of the day, sounding like he’s on a bender.

“Oh.” He laughs. “Nothing, nothing. We just need a ride.”

“We? Are you with Wren?”

“I’m with Sutton. Can you come get us?”

“Yes,” I tell him, too stunned to say anything different. I don’t know what else to do; he knows I’m in school and he still wants me to come. “I’m going to leave now, okay? Just don’t—don’t move.”

I can hear him laughing as I hang up the phone.

I scan the halls for Henry and find him in a huddle with three of his friends.

I tap him on the shoulder. “Hey, can I talk to you for a second?”

“Of course.” He nods good-bye to his friends and joins me by the wall. I grapple for the most political way to say this—a lighthearted opening, maybe,
so, we’ve got trouble
—but in the end I just blurt out, “Jonathan and Sutton are together at the Riverwalk.”

Henry stands up straighter, it’s like a reflex.
“What?”

“They sound like they’re . . .”

Henry’s chin juts out, he’s shaking his head, gritting his teeth.

“They need a ride,” I finish.

“I’ll take care of it,” Henry says, though he doesn’t look at me. He tugs on his collar like his shirt is choking him.

“No—Henry, I’m the one they called.”

“You’re the one
he
called, you mean.”

“Yes,” I say, my voice rising. “He called
me
.”

Henry stares at me, and I look him right in the eyes. I won’t back down.

“Fine. I’ll drive us,” he says.

“If you want.” But part of me wishes I hadn’t told him.

It doesn’t take
us as long to get to the Riverwalk as I thought it would. We spot them toward the end. Henry pulls into a No Parking zone, leaving the car with the front wheel slightly over the curb and the hazard lights on.

Jonathan’s sitting on a bench surrounded by crisp brown grass that’s barely alive and next to a tree with a few dry leaves that are barely hanging on against the breeze. Sutton is leaning against him with her eyes closed. She has both of her crutches today, propped up against a tree. It’s a clear day, not a cloud in sight. Jonathan and Sutton are both bundled up—winter coats, beanies, gloves. Like maybe they’d planned to be outside.

“What’s wrong with her?” I ask. Now that I’m closer, Sutton looks like she’s asleep. She’s perfectly still and doesn’t even react to the sound of my voice.

“Relax, she’s still breathing,” Jonathans says. His eyes are bloodshot. He frowns slightly when he sees Henry approaching.
“Did you bring our chariot?”

I nod and point behind me stupidly.

Henry crouches down in front of Sutton. “You got her drunk?” he says, sharp and astounded.

“It’s fine.” Jonathan scoots up, sliding Sutton’s arm around his neck. Her head dips forward. “I’ve got her,” he insists.

Now I can smell the alcohol coming off them. There’s a bottle of vodka perched on Sutton’s lap. It falls to the ground once Jonathan’s got her standing. He’s holding her up by her waist, and her head flops back on his shoulder, exposing her neck. If he doesn’t change position, she’s going to slide through his grip.

“Here.” Henry puts one arm behind Sutton’s back and the other under her legs and lifts her out of Jonathan’s arms.

“I said, I’ve got it.” But Jonathan does nothing to prevent Henry from taking her.

Sutton starts coughing and squirming once Henry’s holding her. He lowers her to the ground. I put an arm under her head, so it lands gently as Henry lays her on the ground. Her eyes pop open as soon as she’s down, but she struggles to form an expression. It’s like she’s not even there. Beyond wasted. I can’t remember her ever being this drunk before.

“You’re going to be okay,” Henry says to her. As if in response, Sutton’s body convulses, and she starts throwing up.

Henry rolls her on her side, and I pull her hair back and help angle her body so she doesn’t vomit on herself. It’s all liquid, so it’s not as disgusting as it could be. Or maybe it is, but I’m too worried to be grossed out.

“You’re okay, you’re okay.” Henry rubs her back. “How much has she had?” he shouts at Jonathan. His voice is strong, but it wavers slightly.

Jonathan shrugs. He bends down to pick up the bottle of vodka and holds it up for us, so we can see the damage. “Sutton was always really good at holding her liquor. I had no reason to believe this would happen.”

“Mixing vodka with antidepressants and muscle relaxants would make anyone sick,” Henry says.

Sutton’s thrown up a million times in our bathroom. Passed out in weird places like the back porch or the floor of Jonathan’s room. But something about this time seems off. Even Jonathan looks sickly.

“How was I supposed to know what she’s on?” he says.

There’s a switch in Henry—from worried to raging. I can see it on his face. So can Jonathan.

Jonathan holds up his free hand and steps back. “Hey, man, she brought the vodka. It was all her. You know how Sutton loves to drink her lunch.”

“How fucking stupid are you?” Henry says. I think he’s about to charge at my brother, but he’s got to hold on to Sutton. He wipes her mouth with his jacket sleeve, keeping her steady on her side. I’ve still got a grip on her shoulders, and her head in my arms.

“Don’t look at me like that, Henry.” Jonathan seems mad now, too—as mad as Henry. I wonder if it used to be Jonathan taking care of Sutton the way we are now. Or if it was Grace, and
the only person my brother’s ever taken care of is himself.

“Really, I’m the one who should be pissed at you,” he says to Henry with a callous laugh.

“And why’s that?” Henry says, annoyed.

I close my eyes when I hear Jonathan’s answer.

“Amanda.” His voice is dark, serious. “She deserves to be with someone who makes her happy. That’s not you, from what I can tell. Not anymore.”

I open my eyes and watch as Jonathan unscrews the cap of the bottle, shaking his head. He tips it back, slowly at first, and then he tilts it upward, letting it flow down his throat. He hardly winces as he swallows. Sutton vomits again.

“Hey, hey.” Jonathan bends forward and taps Henry on the shoulder twice, trying to get his attention. Henry shrugs him off.

“Hey!” Jonathan says. His smile is sinister, like he’s enjoying his anger. “You should stay the hell away from Amanda. I mean it.”

Henry rolls Sutton toward me and looks at me for the first time since we arrived here, to make sure I’ve got her. He stands up and walks over to Jonathan. They’re practically the same height, though Jonathan’s slightly taller. I can’t see Henry’s face because his back is to me, but I watch his shoulders drop in a loose shrug.

“If she’s better off without anyone, it’s definitely you,” Henry says. “Look at you; what a joke.”

There’s no time to be upset by what they’re saying to each other. Jonathan takes a sloppy swing at Henry. Henry leans back,
and instead of getting hit in the head, he gets knocked in the chest.

“Fuck you,” Jonathan slurs.

Henry raises his fist so quickly I barely see it move. I just see Jonathan’s head knocked to the side, droplets of blood soaring through the air, and Jonathan falling to the ground. I scream—I can’t help it. Henry whirls around to look at me, and even though his mouth is turned down in an apology, his eyes are so wild.

Jonathan is on his hands and knees, blood covering his nose and mouth. It’s dripping down his chin and smeared on the front of his jacket. There’s so much of it that I can’t tell where it’s coming from—if his nose is bleeding, or his lip, or both. He coughs and spits, trying to wipe the blood away a few times before he sees that it’s useless.

“Come on,” Henry says, jerking Sutton up a little too hard and hoisting her into his arms. She moans loudly, like she’s going to let out a scream, too.

“Come on!” Henry says again. I hadn’t realized he was talking to me.

I stare at Jonathan, sitting back on his knees. Not even trying to get up. Bleeding. Swaying slightly. Staring at me with unfocused eyes.

“Get in the car, Amanda,” Henry says. He’s halfway to his car when he’s forced to stop so Sutton can throw up again.

“My baby sister’s not going anywhere with you,” Jonathan calls.

Henry doesn’t react at all—he’s too busy wiping Sutton’s
face. He takes her the rest of the way and eases her into his backseat. As soon as she’s secured inside, she curls into a ball. Maybe she’s done this before.

“Please get in the car,” Henry says, walking past me to retrieve Sutton’s crutches. “I have to take Sutton to the hospital.”

“That’s a smidge dramatic.” Jonathan shares a drunken laugh with himself and takes another swig out of the bottle, covering its top with blood.

Henry shakes his head. “I don’t know what else to do.” He holds out his hand to me even though I’m too far for him to reach. “Come on. Please.”

I look over my shoulder at Jonathan, tipping his head back to take another drink. He’s smiling, still, but all I can see is the blankness behind his eyes—the way they looked after he heard about Grace.

“Amanda,” Henry says, coming toward me. “If you think I’m leaving you here alone with him, you’re mad. But I have to go now. Sutton needs help
now
.”

“It’s fine,” I tell him. “Go. I’ll be all right. We can take a cab. I have to make sure she gets home.”

“So call
him
a cab.
Please.
Please, just come with me.”

“I can’t. But you should go. We’ll be fine.” But even as I say the words, I don’t believe them. I walk over to Jonathan and bend down to help him stand. He puts one arm around my shoulders and leans against me. I hug him with both my arms—it’s the only way I can keep him steady, he’s so much taller. Henry doesn’t say anything else. He stares for a moment, watching us,
and I can’t tell if his anger or disappointment is winning out.

But did he really expect me to leave Jonathan here, drunk and bleeding and alone?

The second Henry’s car is out of sight, Jonathan lets go of me.

“Sorry I called,” he mutters.

I try to ignore him as I call for a cab. It arrives twelve minutes later to take us home.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

I
t takes me thirty minutes to clean the blood off Jonathan and convince him that the place he needs to be right now is in bed. The vodka is taking its effect. Each time my brother talks, his speech becomes more and more indecipherable.

My dad’s at work and Mumsy is out, at the club, most likely. I’m very glad they aren’t here to see this.

“Go to sleep,” I say to Jonathan.

“Mm-hmm,” he mumbles, turning from his stomach to his back. He repositions the bag of frozen peas I gave him so they’re resting over his nose.

I take a seat next to him on the bed, pushing him so he rolls
back onto his stomach. I position the peas under his nose.

He lets out a tired, sad sound. “Oh, baby sister. You’re so good.”

“You’ve got to sleep it off.”

“I’m going to kill Henry Crane,” Jonathan says.

“Go to sleep, Jonathan.”

“I guess I can’t really talk about killing someone these days, can I?”

“Shhh.”

“I just don’t know anymore.” He sighs, and I think he’s finally starting to fall asleep. “I just don’t know . . .”

“It’s okay. Go to sleep.”

“I just . . . I don’t . . . I don’t know how to be anymore.”

“Be nice, Jonathan.” I feel tired, too, like I’ve just finished a sprint.

He sighs again, but I’m starting to think now that in this stage of his inebriation all his breaths come out heavy and exasperated. “I miss her,” he mumbles, rolling to his side so he can see my face without craning his neck. “I miss
them
.”

“I know you do,” I whisper back, my bottom lip quaking furiously. He pulls at the hem of his shirt, tugging it upward before losing his grip on it.

There it is, exposed with the rising of his shirt—words I can’t understand, written in small black letters above his hip bone.

“What . . . is that—?”

“Italian,” he slurs, closing his eyes.

“What does it mean?” But I’m suddenly so afraid of the answer. “Jonathan?” I nudge him.

“It’s fucked up that that was her favorite book.”

“Which book?”

His eyes stay closed, but his forehead creases as he frowns. “She was fascinated by it. Thought it was a beautiful and dark story. We’re always most curious about the things we’ll never know, the places we’ll never go.” The right side of his mouth quirks up, noting the rhyme.

I stare at the quote for a moment longer before pulling his shirt down. “Where is this from?”

Jonathan’s quiet. He might be asleep, but I don’t care, I shake him lightly by his shoulders. “Is it from the Bible?”

“No,” he says. “
The Inferno
.”

It was on our reading list sophomore year. I remember Grace saying she’d read it the summer before. She always picked the darkest stories in English class. Essays on the works of Edgar Allan Poe; a character sketch of Patrick Bateman from
American Psycho
; a diorama of the murder scene in
The Secret History
. What could have possibly inspired my brother to brand himself with a passage from the
Inferno
? If Grace loved it, is it to commemorate her? Or is this tattoo some sort of punishment; one for my brother alone, that only he’ll ever understand?

“What does your tattoo say, Jonathan? What’s the translation?”

He’s silent, and even after more shaking, more nudging, he doesn’t speak.

A few minutes later, he mutters, “Don’t you dare get a tattoo, baby sister.” Instantly, he’s snoring.

I stay next to him all afternoon and into the evening, holding the peas against his nose until they’ve defrosted into a soggy lump. I replace the peas with a bag of frozen corn, keeping him propped up so he doesn’t roll onto his back. I’m careful not to fall asleep. What if he vomits and I’m not there to make sure he doesn’t choke? What if the ice melts when I’m not looking and he becomes so swollen and infected that his injuries get worse? My head is so clouded with what-ifs, it scares me. But I’m glad for them, even if they torment me. Because the night Grace died, all my what-ifs were about Henry, and I missed the most important what-if of all. What if my brother gets in his car and drives?

My mother gets home around five. When she walks past Jonathan’s open door, she doesn’t come in to check on us, just shuts the door carefully.

Jonathan finally wakes
up around seven that night. “You need water,” I say to him. He stares at me blankly, like maybe he doesn’t know where he is, or at the very least, doesn’t remember how he got here.

“You need to eat.” I turn on the light on his nightstand and prop him up against his headboard, repositioning the pillows under him. “I’ll get you something.”

He stares at me for a long time behind bruised eyes, still tired and confused. He nods.

The house is empty, cold, and abandoned. No sign of my
mother, even though I never heard her leave again. A few lights have been left on: the chandelier in the dining room, the pendant light above the sink in the kitchen—but there’s no other trace of her. My father’s still at work, or out. It’s late enough, he could be home. But he’s not here.

I drop some water and toast off for my brother, then cross the hall and knock on the door of my parents’ bedroom. I don’t wait for my mother’s permission to enter, I just open the door. She’s there, cozied up in her robe on the chaise lounge, watching television. In denial. Pretending nothing is wrong. If she can’t see it, it doesn’t exist. Her room, her bubble. All is well in here and she doesn’t have to think about the rotten world outside.

And my dad, he’s no better. Both of them, insisting we have our own lives, letting us think we scored independence early. Like responsibility doesn’t have to be learned, honed. Instead, Jonathan and I were alone, free but struggling, with only ourselves and each other to depend on.

“You saw us—” I blurt out, my voice rising in astonishment.

Her face falls, she shakes her head—this accusation hitting her full force, like an attack.

“I didn’t want to disturb you,” she says quickly.

A monstrous growl comes out of me. “What’s the matter with you?” I yell. “We’re yours! You’re supposed to disturb us!”

She widens her eyes defensively, and her legs, previously curled beneath her, drop to the ground.

“Didn’t you see his face?” I ask.

The way her lip is trembling, her eyes ready to spill, I know
she did. It’s why she’s in here—the same reason she stopped going into my brother’s room after the accident. If you can’t see something, it doesn’t exist.

“You’re not going to ask what happened?” I yell at her silence. My screaming contains the rage of all the years she didn’t ask.

“I don’t want to know!” she shouts back—and it’s the most helpless sound. At this, her lips press together tight, her eyes snap shut.

“Mom,” I say, softer now. I hate her in this moment, I really do. I imagine all the exquisite reasons most other girls loathe their mothers.
She nags me. She doesn’t approve of anything I wear. She calls me over and over again when I don’t answer. She grounds me for coming home too late. She’s unreasonable.
All I have to hold against my mother is that she let us do whatever we wanted and we had to find out the hard way that we don’t know anything.

“He needs help,” is what I end up saying, as a few stray tears begin to fall.

She covers her mouth, tears sprouting in her eyes, too. “I—” She shrugs. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

“Make him go to an AA meeting. There’s one tomorrow at seven, at the church by that art gallery you love.”

She stares at me, red-faced and crying. I wait for her to tell me that she’ll do it, that she’ll try—I wait for her to rise to the occasion.

“Get him some water,” I tell her. “Make him a sandwich. He’s sick, hungover, maybe still drunk. It’ll be worse if he doesn’t eat. He’ll need more ice, too, for his face.”

She nods. This, she can manage.

“I have to go,” I tell her. Now she’ll have no choice. I watch a shadow of fear, of doubt, of panic pass over her face. “I’ll be back later.”

“Where are you going?” she calls. But I don’t stop. I don’t turn around. I hear her again when I’m in the hall.
“Amanda?”

I walk fast down the stairs snatching my purse and coat from the closet in the foyer, and head out the front door without looking back.