Letter Twenty-Four
When I left you at the jail on Tuesday, I let the dark flame of my dad’s surprise engagement completely consume me.
I couldn’t have done it without Carola.
She’s the biggest, most terrifying bitch in this place. She’s the type of person you do not mess with if you want to stay vertical and conscious—which is why I rammed my shoulder into Carola’s arm as I stalked past her at rec time.
But she just sneered at me, going right back to holding court with her posse of friends.
You see, the problem with everyone knowing I enjoy a good beating in here is that the girls have lost their desire to give me one. It isn’t all that fun for them if I want it—if I keep asking for more.
So I utilized the best weapon I have at my disposal: my mouth.
I said a few things to Carola—of the body-shaming variety—that one girl should definitely never say to another, and that’s the moment I had her.
She twisted around to face me, and the look she gave me—right before she gave me what I wanted—was a death glare so deadly that it rivaled one of mine.
She grabbed me by the shoulders and rammed her giant forehead into my face.
I knew, as I dropped to the ground, she’d broken my nose.
Now, I don’t know if anyone’s ever broken your nose, Casey—I doubt it, since your nose is ridiculously perfect—but it takes you a while to come back to your body after a blow like that.
The blow slung me from that faded green basketball court to some red-black void. The ether. A place without sound or people or thoughts. Just static.
Then I gasped for air, and it all rushed back: the girls, their hushed voices, the fuzzy stars dotting my vision, the pain.
Hot, bitter, ruthless pain. Like a thousand needles being shot into the front of my skull all at once.
And yet it still hadn’t been enough to quell the force of my rage.
I slowly lifted up, blood gushing from my nose like a faucet left to run, laughing as I licked the blood from my top lip.
And those bitches, Casey, they gaped at me.
They found that disturbing as hell. And Carola?
She didn’t like that I liked it. That I could laugh it off. That I could still get up.
Which I tried to do.
I think.
The last thing I saw was her tree-trunk of an arm coming at my face before everything went pitch black.
As I slipped back into consciousness, beeping sounds alerted me to my new location—as did the blue gown and the scratchy white blanket draped over my legs.
The hospital would’ve felt like a reprieve but for the throbbing in my head and the screaming pain pulsing across the center of my face. I couldn’t breathe through my nose.
I whimpered, lifting my right hand to assess the damage—but quickly discovered I couldn’t. Cold metal dug into my wrist.
They’d handcuffed me to the bed.
A soft voice came from my left. “Hello, Elliot,” said a middle-aged woman with a kind face.
“I’m Sara—your nurse. You’re at the hospital.
You’ve suffered a mild head injury, as well as a broken nose, so you’ve been brought in for observation.
An ENT has already assessed your injuries and will return shortly to speak with you.
” She administered more pain medication into my IV, said that it might make me sleepy.
As I slipped gently back into oblivion, her voice sounded far away.
Then—another voice.
Deep and familiar.
Thick with emotion.
That voice settled over me like a fire when you’re cold. Like water when you’re parched. Like a burden finally lifted when you just can’t take the weight anymore.
My dad’s voice.
“I miss you,” he said, and I could’ve sworn I felt him there.
Could’ve sworn his hands were clasping my hand.
Could’ve sworn his presence flowed through me, righting every dark and scary and hopeless thing.
Like it did when I was little. “I miss you so much, honey. I miss seeing your beautiful face first thing in the morning. I miss your smile and the sound of your voice. I miss how happy being in the same room with you makes me, and if I could go back, I would do it all differently. I would be so much better. I didn’t acknowledge your feelings.
I didn’t answer your questions. I protected you from everything else, but I failed to protect you from me—from my problems. I should’ve answered your questions, even if the answers hurt us both.
I should’ve made it clear that you were always good enough.
The problem was never you. It was me. I’m the broken one.
I’m sorry I never told you that. I love you, Elliot. I love you so much.”
Sometime later, as I blinked awake, the blurred shape of a head came into view. Dark hair. Someone bent over my hand, the backs of my fingers pressed to a stubbly cheek. “Dad?”
But his face didn’t snap up to meet mine.
Yours did.
“No,” you said, wincing as you looked at my face. “Just me.”
“Casey,” I rasped, squeezing your hand—I was touching you! Touching you for the first time in eighteen months! Your skin touching my skin!—but I couldn’t focus on how great that felt due to the steady, ringing pain in my head. “Don’t be mad.”
“What should I be, then?” Your voice sounded wrong. Flat and furious and wrong. “You did this to get back at him, but he’s not here, is he? He isn’t having to look at you right now. I am. Me.”
“He didn’t come?” My heart dropped. “He wasn’t here?”
“No,” you said. “Only me.”
“But I thought he was sorry,” I cried—no, wailed, the anguish twisting its way through my gut. “I thought he missed me. It was…it was…it was all…”
Just a dream.
I couldn’t finish for the sobs racking my body, and the sobbing only made the pain scream louder, and it wasn’t the good pain. It wasn’t the kind I ever liked or craved. It was the terrible kind, the kind that splits you wide open and breaks you.
I thought my heart had already been broken by my dad—at least a couple of times—but it hadn’t been.
Not really. And that’s when I knew: I’d wanted him to be there.
Wanted him to miss me enough to show up.
Wanted to hear his voice and know, despite everything I’d done, he still loved me the same. Not less.
You began shushing me and telling me you were sorry, and you were crying, too. I know you were, because when you pulled my hand to your mouth, I felt them. Your tears. Seeping through my fingers and trickling down my palm.
Some commotion occurred. The guard’s voice.
Vera’s voice. Talking over an unfamiliar woman’s voice.
She needs a little something to help her calm down.
You and Vera. Arguing. So much arguing. What happened?
What did you say to her? What did you do?
Little by little, the cries abated, my limbs loosened, and my eyes drifted shut.
And that was it.
Back to oblivion I went.
The morning after Halloween, I blinked awake, still in your arms. Above the coffee table, particles of dust swirled through the air, dancing in the golden rays of sunshine that sliced through the room.
Someone cleared their throat.
My dad. Sitting in one of the wingbacks, one leg crossed over the other, chin resting on his hand.
His gaze roamed over us: our limbs tangled, your hand on my thigh where the skirt had ridden up, your fingers across the garter strap, which—shit—hadn’t been reattached to the tights.
I shoved my skirt down, knocking your hand in the process.
You stirred awake and lifted up, rubbing at your eyes. “Oh, shit,” you said, gaze going wide when you spotted my dad. We both scrambled to sit upright.
My dad had the strangest look on his face as he gestured between us. “What’s going on here?”
“We were watching a movie,” I said. “We must’ve fallen asleep.”
You squirmed beside me. “I’m sorry, Nic.”
“What are you sorry for, Casey?” he asked, cocking his head to the side, eyes narrowed.
“Just—um—”
But Nic’s phone rang, saving us both. He answered it. “Whoa, Lib, hey,” he said softly. “Slow down. What happened?” Long pause. He pulled a face. “Hold on.” He got up, snatched the remote off the coffee table, and switched on the local news. “Yes. Just now.”
Together, we watched as all those campaign signs I’d defaced flashed across the TV. My big, black, bold letters looked especially harsh in the glaring light of day. They called it a Halloween prank.
“Shit,” I muttered. On some level, I’d suspected something like this might happen. With every stroke of black marker, I’d considered the possibility those signs might cause a spectacle. After all, I’d defaced at least fifty of them.
And then, to my horror, a video played on screen. A video taken from the camera on someone’s front porch. A video of me. In that white mask. Dressed in black. Hair down, dark ringlets around my shoulders.
I froze, eyes big as I gripped a sofa pillow.
My dad froze, too, gripping his phone.
He slowly turned to look at me, his eyes wide with alarm. Disbelief. Anger. So much anger.
My heart pounded as I held his gaze. Because this was bad. The third worst thing I’d ever done—after stabbing Michael and nearly blinding Sienna in one eye.
You hadn’t seen that mask the night before, but you must’ve recognized me, anyway. The hair. The outfit. The way I moved. You whispered, “Elliot, what the fuck?”
I couldn’t look at you.
In a quiet voice, my dad said, “Lib, I’ll be right over.” He dropped the call and pinned me with a look so furious and scathing that I began to squirm on the sofa. “Did you do this to get back at me? Or to get back at her? For the way she talked to you the other day?”
I didn’t answer.
“Answer me!” Nic yelled, causing us both to flinch.
“She talked you into sending me to Arizona over the summer,” I said. “She wanted me gone.”
“She wanted you to get help. She loves you, and this is how you treat her? Hurting me wasn’t enough? You had to hurt her, too?”
“That’s not—”
“Stop,” said Nic, holding up his hands, his eyes squeezed shut. “Just stop. I don’t want to hear any more of your excuses.”
My dad left the room.