Chapter 17 Bird
BIRD
Behind me, Jessa’s quiet voice guides me to their house, directing, “Left at the light,” “Your next right,” “Keep going straight” while her sister whimpers softly.
I drive five below the speed limit the whole way, the cargo in the backseat feeling extra fragile.
I try not to replay the sound of the man’s hand against Jessa’s face, which I could somehow hear over the music and the shouting.
I try not to say anything except “okay.” Try not to breathe or brake too hard or get distracted watching Jessa and her sister huddled together in the rearview mirror.
My hands are still trembling by the time we arrive at Jessa’s house.
She tells me to park on the street, so I do.
I turn the car off and when I crack my door, the dome light comes on, eliciting a soft groan from Mack.
I reach up to turn the light off just as Jessa reaches to do the same, our fingers touching for one small beat.
I get out first and allow myself a deep inhale and exhale before I open the back door, as slow and soft as I can. Jessa takes my hand, the way she did at the skating rink, letting me help her out of the car, while her other arm maneuvers around her sister’s slumped shoulders.
It’s almost ten and the house is dark except for the front porch light.
No other cars in the driveway. Jessa’s parents must have lives.
She struggles to get her sister out of the backseat, so I move to the other side of her, trying my best to wrap my arm around her waist, letting Mack’s arm drape over my shoulders.
“Whoshee?” she slurs.
“It’s okay,” Jessa tells her, meeting my eye for only a moment as we hobble up the drive.
“My name’s Bird,” I tell her. “I’m Jessa’s friend.”
“Oh, hi,” she breathes, seeming to lapse back into unconsciousness.
We make it to the front door, and when Jessa turns the knob, it’s locked. She looks to me and I remember her keys in my pocket. When I pass them back to Jessa, I see her hand is shaking slightly, and I realize mine have finally stopped.
A dog barks on the other side of the door as Jessa unlocks it.
“It’s okay, Falstaff,” she calls.
Is it okay, though? I wonder.
The giant white dog greets us with a wet nose and thick wagging tail, so happy it keeps bumping into us as we move through a living room and kitchen, Jessa turning light switches on with her elbow along the way. “Falstaff, down!” she says. Then to me, “Her room’s this way.”
“Okay,” I answer, the only response I’ve given her since we left the club.
Down a short hallway, then Jessa pushes open a door, darkened inside except for a small night-light plugged into the wall.
We sloppily lower Mack onto the bed sideways, and I stand there in the doorway, watching as Jessa proceeds to scoop her sister up in her arms like she’s a little kid even though they’re the same size, and repositions her so that her head rests on the pillows.
She pulls her sister’s arms out of her leather jacket and folds it in half at the foot of the bed.
Methodically, like this isn’t the first time she’s had to do this.
She glances at me as she stands up. I’m not sure what to do, so I just pet the dog, who’s now sitting on my feet.
I don’t think I should walk away, but it could be weird that I’m just lurking here.
She tugs the blankets from underneath her sister’s body and pulls them up to her chin, smoothing them down before leaning over her and whispering something close to her ear.
I clear the way for her, ushering the dog down the hallway and into the kitchen, where I watch as Jessa closes the door and starts to walk toward me.
I can’t tell what she’s thinking, if she wants me to get out or stay or say something or be quiet.
She comes close to where I’m standing and pats the dog’s head, finally glancing at me, if only for a moment.
“Umm,” she begins, looking down before meeting my eyes again. “I’m sorry—”
“What? No, why? Don’t—don’t be sorry, I—I’m sorry,” I stutter.
“I’m sorry,” she repeats. “But I don’t think I can drive you home. I need to stay here. I can’t leave her alone in the house right now.”
“No, I—I don’t want to go home. I mean, I don’t need to go home. I mean, is it okay if I stay?”
She bites her lip and nods, and when she looks down I can see a bruise forming on her cheekbone in the bright light of the kitchen. I want so badly to touch her face, to pull her into my arms, to do anything to make this—any of this—better for her.
I turn toward the fridge and open the top freezer door, the frosty fog of condensation flowing over me while I search for something to use.
“Are you… hungry or…?” Jessa asks.
“No, I’m trying to find some…” I pull out a bag of frozen corn and a bag of mixed vegetables. I was hoping for peas, but corn will work.
“Um, corn?” she mutters uncertainly.
I replace the bag of mixed vegetables and close the freezer, pull the towel that’s threaded through the handle of the stove, and wrap it around the frozen corn.
“For your face,” I explain.
She touches her cheek and winces a little, as if she’s forgotten what happened. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that.
“You should sit,” I tell her, bringing the makeshift ice pack closer to her.
She takes it from my hand before I can touch her, clears her throat. “Um, let’s go to my room.”
“A-all right.”
“I just don’t wanna be down here when my parents get home,” she adds, as if she needs to justify herself.
“Okay.” I nod and smile—try to, anyway—then follow along behind her as she leads the way through the kitchen to another door, up a set of stairs.
Her room is in the attic—her room is the attic.
Somehow that feels very appropriate for her.
The exposed wood rafters. Liner notes stapled to the walls, posters.
Raw, unfinished floors. Rough-and-tumble.
So very Jessa. Butter-soft yellow shines through underneath all the clutter. Ironically, also her.
My room—or my half of my room—would say exactly zero true things about me.
“It’s a work in progress,” Jessa says, as she sees me taking it all in.
“I like it,” I tell her. “It’s very you.”
She plops down on her bed and lets out a long, heavy sigh. I go to sit down next to her, then pick up the frozen corn pack she set down on her bedside table. She shifts away from me like there’s some invisible bubble of space she’s supposed to be maintaining around herself.
“Here,” I tell her. “Come here.” She lets me scoot closer, lets me bring the towel to her cheek. I try to be gentle as I press it to her skin. She closes her eyes. “Does it hurt?”
She swallows hard, whispers, “Not really.” But I can tell she’s lying.
“I can’t believe that guy did that.”
“I can.” She opens her eyes and looks at me. “My sister can really push people to their limits when she gets like that.”
“Was she… on something… or drunk, or high, or whatever?”
“No.” She brings her fingers to my wrist, holding on for just a moment before she pulls my hand and the ice pack away. “I mean, she’s drunk, but that’s not why she was acting like that. She’s sick.”
“What is it?”
“She’s bipolar… you know, manic-depressive?
” she says, and I nod to let her know that yes, I know what that is.
At least, I’ve heard of it. “She just gets really high and really low and she sometimes goes off her meds and it just messes her up even more. It’s not really her fault, though; she’s just…
” She pauses, looking into my eyes like she’s trying to make sure I understand.
“She’s sick,” I repeat.
“Yeah,” Jessa says. “She’s just sick, and she needs more help than… I don’t know.” She stops and shakes her head, lets it fall into her hands.
“No, say it.” I touch her shoulder and she sits up again. “What?”
“She needs more help than I know how to give her.”
“Well, what about your parents? They’re—”
“Fucking oblivious,” she says, laughing sadly through the words.
I place my hand on top of hers, sitting there on the bed between us. “I’m sorry. “She’s lucky to have you looking out for her.”
She shakes her head dismissively.
“Mack is lucky to have you,” I repeat more firmly.
“Thanks,” she says, her voice tight. She pulls her hand from beneath mine and stands abruptly. “I mean, thanks for your help tonight.”
“Yeah, of course.” I resist the urge to stand up too, the muscles in my thighs fighting with my brain not to go to her, not to pull her into a hug, not to stop her pacing. “Are you okay?” I ask instead.
“You know what? I’ll be honest with you—I’m not.”
“Okay.” And now I do stand. I do go to her. I do reach for her. And she backs away. My hand freezes. “Um, I’m sorry, I—”
“No, it’s me. God!” She shouts this last part at herself.
“What would help? Is there anything I can do? Do you want…” I hesitate, before finishing. “Do you want me to leave? I could walk home or—”
“No,” she answers. “I don’t want you to leave. But…” She pauses.
“What?”
“Listen, I know you hate it, but would you hate me if I smoked up right now?”
“Jessa, no.” I laugh. “I wouldn’t hate you.”
She flings open her desk drawer and pulls out a plastic container.
“Oh, thank god, because I could really use some right about now.” She brings the container to a wooden bench under the nook carved out for a gabled window and sets it on her lap.
I take a few steps closer to her, kind of entranced by this unfamiliar ritual.
She opens a tiny cardboard box and pulls out a small piece of paper, delicately setting it on the lid of the container, then she opens a baggie, pinches out a portion of the weed, and sprinkles it carefully inside.
She rolls it between her fingers so gently.
And as she swipes her tongue along the edge to seal it, my heart does a strange little stutter in my chest.
She reaches into her pocket for her trusty Zippo and quickly lights the end of the joint, inhales deep, then rushes to get her window open before she exhales.