Forty
In the end, Beck’s parents pull her into what could be the biggest hug of her life. Her mother is sobbing, but she never says Paisley’s name. She just holds Beck, petting her greasy hair and muttering, “My miracle baby.”
It’s going to be a long, hard road for them, but I have faith they’ll make it through.
As for mine, well, they wheel me into my dad’s car and let me fall asleep as soon as we head out of the hospital parking lot.
By the time I wake up again, we’re getting off the freeway at Buena Vista Blvd., Walt Disney Studios to my right and Forest Lawn Memorial, where two of my friends rest, to my left.
“You awake, hon?” Dad asks.
I groan and say, “Yeah.” The painkillers are wearing off and the pulsating ache of my leg makes it hard to wake up and feel clear in the head.
“Enough to tell us what the hell you were thinking?” Mom asks.
I can’t have this conversation without more painkillers and sleeping in my own bed first.
I don’t know if I can have this conversation even after that. Because how the hell do you explain that you embroiled yourself in a multi-homicide and never seriously attempted to get any proper authorities involved? There’s no way to justify that, even if it felt right in the moment.
So, I’m honest. I don’t know if it’s what my parents want, but it’s what they’re going to get.
“There’s no point in explaining,” I say. “I know that it won’t make sense to you both.”
Mom and Dad exchange a look.
“I’m sorry for how I worded that,” Mom says.
Tension releases from my shoulders. Mom really is taking the blame?
Mom sighs. “We really do want to know,” she continues. “We know grief turns us into versions of ourselves we hardly recognize. It can make us do things we never would’ve done before. In that context, I think what you’ll tell us can make some sense.”
I’m still too exhausted to tell the whole story, but something blooms in my heart in that moment.
I know my parents aren’t perfect. I know we still have so much left unsaid that’ll continue to cause disconnect and conflicts if we don’t address those things.
But I’m no longer the only problem. I’m not the only one who needs to change.
If we both have work to do, I can get behind that.
So, I start telling the story.
“I was supposed to be on that camping trip,” I say. “But Paisley, Harlow, and Opal went without me.”
I only get through explaining how I saw the woman in the parking lot by the time we pull into the garage.
Owen’s standing by the door that leads into the house, crutches in hand from when he broke his foot a few years ago. Once I’m on the crutches, Liam pulls me into a hug.
“I’m so glad you’re okay,” he says. “I have something for you in the living room.”
Tears well; I don’t think he’s ever said anything like that before.
Mom peels him off as I hobble to the living room and lower myself onto the couch.
Sitting on the coffee table is a small round red velvet cake that reads FEEL BETTER SOON, EMMA!
There’s a little note taped to a toothpick, clearly not part of the original decoration, that reads “Liam got you the cake ??” My sweet little brother, whose love language must have been getting me treats, and I never saw it until right now.
I break into sobs. I try to bite my fist to contain them, but the feeling is too big.
I risked my life in such a stupid way, and my family is acting like me returning home is something to celebrate.
“Oh, great job, you made her cry,” Owen says.
“It’s happy tears!” Liam replies.
“Boys,” Mom says. “Let’s lay off, huh?”
Mom nudges Liam into the kitchen to cut the cake.
Owen stays on the couch. I make eye contact with him, and he clears his throat, clearly unsure of what to say.
We’re not twins, but extended family always treated us as such.
In most photos, we look like twins, but we both know we’ll never have the bond that real twins have.
Yet I think about Paisley and Beck. I think about that speech Beck gave at Paisley’s vigil about her life not beginning until Paisley was born.
There was real love there once, before Paisley started being so critical and lashing out so violently at Beck.
They were close once, yet by age eighteen, they’d become so estranged that Paisley was capable of inflicting real, physical violence onto Beck.
They were so estranged that Beck genuinely was relieved to see her dead.
Sure, it was a complicated, guilt-ridden kind of relief, but that’s what it truly was.
I feel the same way about Paisley, despite everything that’s happened.
I don’t want Owen’s and my relationship to fester and die like that.
“Hey,” I say. “I’m gonna be stuck at the house for a while. Do you want to maybe play through a game together?”
Owen goes stick straight, confused, before something soft hits his eyes. “Yeah, I do. Have you played Alan Wake before? It’s kinda old, but it reminds me of the movies you like.”
I smile through the tears bunching again. “Let’s do it.”