Chapter 18 #2
The answer comes to me as clear as a bell, tinkling straight into the center of my brain.
That’s exactly it. I have to get her out of my life.
And my life is mostly online right now. My real life is nonexistent, but online, I have everything—friends, a community, my publishing deal, my social media accounts, which are steadily growing.
So what I need to do is to get rid of Haven from my online life.
My gaze, previously locked on Mr. Lee, now travels back to the side of the house, where the trash can and recycling bin stand.
I’d spotted something else there, stuck to the wall.
I wait until Mr. Lee turns his head away from the window before ducking down and scampering back to the side of the house.
There it is. A white box with cables running out of it and into the ground. The fuse box? Or an internet box? Either way, without one or the other, Haven is not getting online. Well, she could use her phone to go online, but this will still put a damper on things.
Part of my mind, the part that’s been raised by my parents to keep its head down and stay out of trouble, gibbers, This is crazy! Stop! Don’t do it!
But it’s overwhelmed by the other part of me.
The part that’s tired of rolling over and playing dead.
I don’t let myself hesitate before I grab the cables, then I give the cables a ruthless yank.
They’re tougher to rip out than I thought, requiring me to plant my feet firmly on the ground and give it two more tugs, but then there’s a satisfying click as the cables detach from whatever’s in the box, then a buzz of electricity, and for a moment, I wonder if I’m about to get myself killed, but I’m okay, I’m still here, and I’m holding a bunch of ripped-out cables in my hands.
Voices are raised from inside the house.
Confusion and alarm. I drop the cables, and without another look behind me, I turn toward the street and run as fast as I can.
I’m expecting to be caught, to hear Haven’s voice shouting “I see you, Fern!” but nothing comes.
No one even steps outside of the house. I’m out of earshot within a few seconds, so I have no idea what they’re saying in there, and I don’t stop running until I’m inside my car.
I slam the door shut, the sound of my gasping, wheezing breath filling the small, enclosed space.
Before long, my body heat and hard breathing fogs up my windows.
I stay there for a long while, gripping the wheel tight, letting the fogged-up windows cocoon me from the rest of the world. I’m okay. I’m okay. I made it out.
When I finally catch my breath, I take out my phone and check Slack.
I go through the channels one by one until I find Haven’s name.
Her last post was on the #celebrations channel, thanking everyone for congratulating her on the announcement about being a Good Morning America book club pick.
That was sent just seven minutes ago. I estimate that I’ve been sitting in the car for about five minutes, so Haven posted this two minutes before I ripped out her cables.
Excitement bubbles in my chest. Have I done it?
Have I successfully gotten rid of Haven online, even if temporarily?
I’m not delusional enough to think that this could be a permanent solution.
I would be happy if it just means that Haven is even the slightest bit impeded from posting all the time.
If she no longer has internet at home, she’ll have to rely on her phone, and maybe she won’t be so quick to respond to everything.
I wait a little longer in case Haven makes a new post in the next few minutes, but the channels are regularly getting updated by other members, with no Haven in sight.
The dot next to her name remains gray. I’ve done it.
I laugh out loud, the sound unabashedly happy in my car.
I sound like a little kid getting an ice cream sundae.
Time to get out of here. I turn on the engine and blast the heaters to unfog the windows, then I slowly drive down the street, keeping my headlights off.
I watch Haven’s house as I drive past, and it’s shrouded in complete darkness.
I guess what I ripped out was their electric cables and not just their internet cables after all.
Guilt stabs into my stomach. What if by doing that, I harm Mr. or Mrs. Lee?
But how would that harm anyone? Blackouts happen all the time.
And if it were a true emergency, then they’d find help.
Haven has so many friends and family members in the area.
Surely she can turn to any of them for assistance.
Unlike me, I think to myself with more than a little self-pity.
I have no one to turn to in real life. It’s why I need to take things into my own hands.
The adrenaline is still pumping through my veins when I get home.
As soon as I get inside, I charge through the living room and rush up the stairs without even saying hi to my parents.
I’ve only been gone for less than an hour, so they are still awake, watching TV in the den.
If either of them wonders where I have been, they do not say anything.
I lock myself in my bedroom and pace about the small space like a caged animal.
I rip my mask off and take a few deep breaths.
Did I really do what I just did, or have I imagined it all?
Once again, I check the Slack group, and there is still no Haven in sight.
Holy shit. What a feeling. I really did just go out there and take matters into my own hands.
I made it happen. I took her out. Another strange laugh burbles out of me.
Game on, Haven, I think. How do you like it now?
Now that the tables have turned. Is this what it’s like to finally realize that you are not just prey at the bottom of the food chain?
Learn at last that you, too, have teeth and claws that you can use to defend yourself? Well, it feels amazing.
Even though it is nowhere near my usual bedtime, as soon as the adrenaline drains from my system, I am suddenly left exhausted.
I collapse onto my bed, my body covered in a cold sweat, shivering slightly.
I think about checking Slack again, but my arms feel too heavy to even lift.
I stare up at the ceiling, a small smile still on my lips, and in my mind’s eye, I rip those cables out again and again and again.
The popcorn ceiling swims above me, and slowly, my eyes drift shut, and I allow myself the sweet escape of sleep.
I wake up with a start, my heart going from a resting state to a sudden gallop, my mouth opening into a shocked O as I take in an aggressive gasp.
For just a moment, I’m back in the bushes outside Haven’s house, peeping into her front window at her sickly father.
Then I blink, and I am back in my room, on my childhood bed, which is way too small for me.
I will myself into calming down, doing my breathing exercises and looking around the room and making a mental note of the first five things that I see.
These grounding exercises are such a lifesaver.
My mouth is dry and fuzzy, as though my tongue has grown a carpet overnight, so before I let myself check my phone or do anything else, I pad into the bathroom and quickly wash up.
Then I go back into my room, grab my phone, and go downstairs for some breakfast.
It is not yet 6:00 a.m., so Mom and Dad are still asleep.
After last night’s adventure, I am famished, so I pour myself a bowl of cereal before finally settling down and opening up the Slack group.
I check the channels where Haven would have likely posted if she was able to.
#Commiserations is full of the usual whining about publishing-related matters, but nothing about a blackout.
#Celebrations is still hopping from Haven’s news yesterday.
People are still congratulating her. No one else has made an announcement since, and who could blame them?
Who would want to go after an announcement as big as Haven’s?
The other channels are similarly Haven-free.
Victory dances inside me. This is the longest that Haven has been off the Slack group.
But maybe it’s too early for a victory lap just yet.
I go on to Instagram and check her profile, and sure enough, there she is.
She posted three stories last night. The first one is a video of her talking into the camera outside of her house.
“You guys won’t believe what just happened,” she says, clearly distraught. “We just had a blackout. We have a generator, but the reason why we have a blackout is because something—probably a raccoon or something—has ripped out our cables, so we can’t get the generator hooked up onto the mains.”
The story ends, and the next one begins.
“As many of you know,” she continues, “my dad is diabetic. And he has been through hell and back because he got COVID, and it was touch and go for a while back there. He is much better now, and he is home, thank god, but obviously he is still very fragile. I am worried to death because his insulin needs to be kept refrigerated, but now with no electricity we are in a bit of a bind. I do have relatives who live nearby, but they are all elderly, and we cannot risk passing COVID on to them. And with my dad having tested positive less than two weeks ago, I have no idea what we are going to do.” Her voice breaks then, and she whispers, “Sorry guys, just—”
The cereal in my mouth turns to cement. What have I done? The last thing I wanted to do was to harm anyone, not even Haven. I just wanted to have a break from her online.
The third and final story starts. Haven is now in a well-lit room, beautifully furnished but small.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you so much,” she says, blinking back her tears.
“You guys are magical. So for those of you who are asking me what’s going on, a very kind soul has offered us their guesthouse to stay in.
So I am here with my mom and dad—” At this, Haven swivels her phone around to show her parents sitting on a sofa in their pajamas.
They smile and wave at the camera. “The three of us are going to share this one room, and you know what? It’ll be kind of like camping when I was little, right, Mom and Pops?
” Mr. and Mrs. Lee laugh and nod. Despite the scary time that they have had, they look peaceful and content, grateful for the way things have turned out in their time of need.
And, above all, they are still gazing at Haven with that same adoration, with a confidence that says that they knew she would somehow save the day.
There is a knot in my throat that takes lot of effort for me to swallow down.
Inside, my emotions are a maelstrom of anguish.
Self-hatred wrestling with everything else that I feel toward Haven—envy, guilt, rage, and a lot of other things that I struggle to identify.
How does she do this? How does she land on her feet every single time?
If ever I needed a way to prove that Haven is unfairly blessed, then surely this is it.
What are the chances that a random internet stranger would see her desperate Instagram posts and offer up their guesthouse to her and her parents, one of whom has tested positive for COVID?
But even as I think that, relief courses through me that someone has come in and saved the day, because if something had happened to Mr. Lee because of the stunt I just pulled, how would I continue living with myself?
Even though I have only taken three bites of my cereal, I find that I have lost my appetite completely.
I leave the bowl in the sink and go out into the backyard.
I plump down onto a lawn chair and mindlessly scroll through Twitter, filling myself up on complete strangers’ online rage.
Maybe some part of me hoped that comparing my misery to others’ might make me feel better, but it doesn’t.
Again and again, my mind goes back to last night, and my hands twitch with the tug of the electric cables.
Shame burns me up from the inside. I need to do something to atone for what I have done.
I am a good person, I know this. It is something Aliyah was so adamant I work on, because all Haven’s words have carved a certain darkness into me that I hate.
I refuse to let myself be defined by what Haven has done to me.
Last night, I lost my way. But I will find myself again.
With that in mind, I open up the Slack app, and I create a new chat group. One with everyone on it except for Haven. Then I start composing my message.