21. In Which Aiden Asks for Advice
IN WHICH AIDEN ASKS FOR ADVICE
M y heart hurts for the woman curled up asleep on my bed, and I didn’t know I had the kind of heart that could do that.
My heart aches for the hungry and the cold and the lost. It aches for the people I can help and the people I can’t. My aching heart is the catalyst behind most of my life’s actions.
But it’s never ached so personally before. It’s always been a detached sort of hurt, a hurt that I could walk away from at the end of the day and still manage to be okay.
This hurt, though, this pain…it isn’t just in my heart.
It’s in the blood being pumped and oxidized and sent throughout my body, branching and spiraling and reaching to the furthest tips of my toes and fingers.
This pain I’m feeling for her isn’t the kind of pain I can put into the top drawer of my desk when I’m done working for the day.
It is the kind of pain that ties itself to my ankle and follows me home, trailing behind as I drag. It is riding piggyback, its arms tightening around my neck.
That is this pain. It hurts because she hurts, and I want to make it better, and I can’t.
It’s just…her life has been so rough already. She doesn’t need this mess.
Usually I find my desk chair very comfortable, but right now there’s a weight on my shoulders that makes me squirm. That weight comes primarily from the laptop that’s sitting open on my desk, taunting me.
Whatever is in this document tore my roommate apart. And that’s the kind of knowledge that makes me hesitate. Some things are better left unknown.
But as my eyes drift to Juniper again, her face troubled even in sleep, her eyes still red, her nose still swollen, I make my decision.
I’m going to read it.
No, it’s not mine to read. But I don’t want to wake Juniper up, and I have a feeling that what’s in here relates to the things going on in Autumn Grove right now. So I’m going to ask forgiveness rather than permission if need be.
I debate for a second before unplugging the computer and moving to the bed.
Juniper is lying on the right side, where I usually sleep, so I sit on the left side instead.
It’s only a few feet removed from my normal position, but it feels wrong, a new world view I’ll never get used to.
If I ever get married, that will have to be one of my wife’s characteristics.
Man seeking woman. Must be well read. Must sleep on the left side of the bed.
I sigh, settling grudgingly into my spot. Is it colder over here? It feels colder than I usually feel on the right side. Is there a heat vent on the ceiling that I’m missing?
I’m being stupid. I admonish myself silently but firmly to cut out the whining, and then I return my focus to the laptop resting on my outstretched legs.
I click the little magnifying glass at the bottom of the page so that the size-twelve font shows up larger for my old man eyes—though I will tell no one—and then begin to read.
It’s best, I think, just to get it over with rather than dragging it out.
And as my eyes trail over page after page of what appears to be a novel—unfinished, judging by the word count—one thing becomes crystal clear.
This is not a manuscript written by a gifted writer. It's not written by someone with talent or someone who understands the craft of writing.
It’s written by someone consumed with a story.
That is the beginning and the end of the strength this manuscript boasts—and yet it’s enough.
I’m pulled through the choppy sentences, the run-on sentences, and everything in between.
This story is real , raw and livid and vibrant.
It jumps off the page, clawing and fighting and drawing ragged breath.
A high school girl, named Cora in the story and clearly a sketch of Nora. Three male friends. And a night in which she is drugged, assaulted, and left alone.
Three weeks later, the pink line appears.
I tear through the story, my eyes growing wider and wider with every line I read.
I think I am probably the second person in the world to walk this path, reading these words, but I don’t take them for granted.
They settle heavy on my soul, and I’m an outsider; I can only imagine what they did to Juniper. I saw the aftermath.
If this story is to be believed, the story Nora Bean was writing, Juniper is a product not of love, or even mutual, consensual lust. She is a product of sexual assault.
And she has probably been fundamentally changed by that knowledge.
Another strange twisting of my heart wrenches my chest, and I want nothing more than to push the laptop away and get rid of the story it’s telling.
But somehow I also know that it’s my duty now to bear witness to what really happened; to read these words, recognize their truth, and acknowledge them.
To remember this story, the same way Juniper remembers her dead.
We are all record keepers.
We all bear witness to our days and nights and lives and loves here in this world.
So I will be a keeper of this truth: that thirty years ago, a young woman suffered immensely from one of the most terrible things that can happen, and as far as I know, she never told anybody.
The story is set up a bit like a mystery novel, though watered down; it couldn’t be clearer that this project was more like a diary than a book that was ever meant to see the light of day.
It follows what I assume was Nora’s real-life journey as she searched for which of the boys did this to her; the main character hunts ceaselessly for that secret, running into roadblock after roadblock.
There’s a stirring of motion from next to me, and I startle back to the present—where I’m sitting next to Juniper instead of following her mother as she tries to hunt down her assailant with little to no support.
“You read it?” Juniper’s voice is thin, watery, muddled with sleep. She doesn’t sound upset.
“I’m not finished yet,” I say to her. I lean over, trying to get a closer look. “How do you feel? Physically,” I clarify.
“Tired,” she says. “And I have a headache.”
She looks tired. Maybe it’s just because she was crying, but her eyes are red, and even her pink hair seems duller and less saturated than usual. She’s curled on her side, facing me, my gray bedspread tucked up around her head and shoulders.
“You should sleep more,” I say. It’s on the tip of my tongue to suggest returning to her own bed, but I can’t quite bring myself to kick her out.
I can handle Juniper Bean in my bed for one night.
I’ll sleep on the couch and then wash my sheets and pillowcase so that none of her intoxicating citrus scent is left behind.
“I can’t sleep right now,” she says, shaking her head a little. Then she nods at the laptop still perched on my lap. “Finish reading, and then we’ll discuss.”
Like it’s book club.
I just nod, though, and return my attention to the computer.
I find my spot easily, and for the next fifteen minutes, I read Nora Bean’s unfinished manuscript.
Every now and then there’s a sniffle from Juniper, but I don’t let myself lose focus.
When I finally reach the last page, the cursor blinks at me expectantly, eerily, waiting for someone to tell the rest of the story.
It’s unfinished; Cora, the narrator, is still hunting for who assaulted her.
Did Nora ever find out?
“Done?” Juniper says.
I nod. I think ten years have been added to my age tonight.
“Thoughts?” she says.
“First thought: Are you sure you don’t want to talk about this another time?”
“I’m not sure,” she admits, and even though she’s backlit by my bedside lamp, I can still see the sheen of tears that enters her eyes.
“But I kind of get the feeling that now is the best time. While it’s fresh.
I’m not going to be able to put all this behind me until we figure out what’s going on, and to do that we need to discuss. I don’t trust my brain at the moment.”
“All right,” I say, not bothering to keep the grudging note out of my voice. I’m not convinced this is a good idea, but she’s in charge. “Go on, then.”
“Right.” She takes a deep breath; I hear it, see the rise of her shoulders in her silhouette before she puffs it back out. “Okay. So what did you get from that?”
“Are you comfortable assuming it’s autobiographical?” I say quietly.
“Yes,” she says. “I have no proof, but the similarities aren’t subtle. Cora instead of Nora . The story matches bits of what she told me and everything Lance said.”
“I agree,” I say. I hesitate. “But that means…”
“That she was assaulted,” Juniper says. The words, spoken softly, vibrate through the space between us. “And got pregnant.”
I nod slowly, keeping my eyes trained on Juniper.
I’m not sure what I’m expecting; I guess nothing would surprise me right now.
I’m taking my cues from her, though, and she seems to be holding it together for the time being, so I keep going.
“Yes. That’s what I understood too. But she didn’t finish the book.
She didn’t say who did it. So one of those three—Lionel, Tommy, or Cam… ”
“Was my father. Is my father.”
“Yes.”
A heavy silence permeates the room, settling over us like a thick blanket, muffling and dampening everything.
I’m still sitting up, looking over at Juniper, who’s still curled up on her side.
Now, though, I move the laptop, setting it on the floor next to the bed with a grunt that makes me sound like I’m seventy. Then I sit back up and look at Juniper.
Her eyes are glazed as she stares vaguely at my pants, her thoughts clearly a million miles away—with Lionel, maybe, or Tommy Freese or Cam Verido.
“My mom,” she whispers, the words cracking. “She did lie to me. Probably to protect me, just like Tonya said. No child wants to know that she’s a product of—of?—”
“Regardless of who your father was,” I say, “your mother loved you.” It’s a rash thing to say, maybe, but something tells me it’s true.