11. My Very First Time #2
My mind blanks at that, my chest tightening. And for the first time in my life, just as a cops rush into the front doors of the funeral home, I panic.
Audrey, Sixteen Years Old, 1984
My fingers adjust Krissy’s hair again, fixing the tight spirals from where I threw her a few moments ago.
I felt bad about it immediately, whispering my muted apologies as I tucked her close to my chest, her clothes still smelling faintly of clean linen and earth.
Mom’s staggered footsteps sound down the hall, her slippers scraping on the hallway runner, my chest tightening with anxiety as she halts by my room.
Screwing my eyes shut, silently pleading, willing her to just keep going.
I can’t stomach it right now, not a single hateful word.
“You’re a little old for that doll, aren’t you?
” She laughs, but it’s not a cheerful sound as I release my breath, steeling myself the best I can for whatever will leave her painted mouth next.
No matter how drunk she gets, her makeup is pristine.
Not that she needs it. Mom has always been pretty, beautiful even.
When I was smaller, stupider, I’d wanted to look just like her.
I don’t want to look like the woman standing in my doorway.
Although I know deep down, I do. Dirty blonde hair, curly and thick. Hazel eyes, the same upturned nose.
“You remind me so much of my brother. Always so wrapped up in yourselves, so unique, so different, so special,” she scoffs, the wine in her glass sloshing over the rim, dripping white wine onto her musty house robe, splotches from last night's red bottle dried on the collar already. I sit there staring down at Krissy, pretending like Mom’s not glaring from the hall.
It’s hard to tell what mood she’ll be in when she drinks.
It’s either laughing and pulling me out of bed in the middle of the night to dance, snuggle, and have heart-to-hearts, or it's... this. Never any in between. She’s either wildly lovely or wildly awful.
Often in the same span of a minute, flipping quicker than the pages of a book.
“Emma, leave her alone,” Dad’s voice smooths over my fraying nerves, if only a little.
I know I’ll regret it the moment I do, but I can’t help it.
I need to peek. The sight only adds to my growing heartache, remembering when they’d stand just like that, giggling to themselves.
Before Mom started drinking and always ended up with bruises on her cheeks.
When Dad would smile down at her instead of glare.
“You don’t tell me what to do. She’s my daughter!”
“Our daughter and you’re drunk.”
Mom laughs her unhappy little laugh. “You’d have to be to survive this house,” she grits out, getting as close to his scratchy, bearded face as her small stature will allow before staggering the rest of the way down the hall, leaving Dad and me in uncomfortable silence.
My hair tickles my cheek as I blink away my tears, turning again to watch out of my window at the bustling Bell Funeral Home.
It never occurred to me before that there was anything wrong with our house until she started saying things like that.
It makes me wish for the days I didn’t notice the imperfections.
The dark corners and flaking wallpaper. The dark wooden planked walls in need of dusting, and the stains on the warm shag carpet.
“Auds…”
“It’s okay,” I sniffle, flashing him a watery version of the smile he loves so much.
When he sees it, he smiles back, always.
It doesn’t matter how real or fake it is.
If it even reaches my eyes. It’s the illusion of happiness that holds all this together.
The badge on his uniform glistens in the overhead hallway light.
My thumb and pointer rub together as he enters my room, the wall he let me paint years ago still sporting its poorly painted birds and trees, a little boy with dark hair, and a girl with blonde curls holding hands in front of the wood line.
“Have you heard from him yet?”
My smile drops. “No, it’s been two days…”
Dad’s heavy hand ruffles the top of my head, messing up my hair, the callouses catching in the strands, but I can’t find it in me to complain.
“They’re grieving.” He clears his throat.
“Mr. Bell was a wreck when we showed up. Gideon too. It’s a horrible thing.
Took two of us and his dad to settle him down.
It's hard to watch such a cool-headed kid lose it like that.”
Gideon was a wreck…
And all alone.
The fractures I feel in my heart deepen, so deep they go further than my bones.
“I heard Mom say she did it, you know… like Uncle Rodney did,” I whisper, a sick feeling pooling in my gut. Heat rushes to my face until vomit creeps up my throat, slow and steady.
Dad’s eyes dart out the window before giving me a small nod. “You don’t need to worry about things like that. They were both hurting. Now they’re—"
A sob mingles with the vomit in my throat, working its way out. “I’m hurting, Dad.” It’s a dumb thing to say, a dumb, desperate thing.
And worst of all, it’s not the first time I’ve tried to put a voice to the strange needles that live in my chest, all the tiny things that make me feel too much too suddenly.
How I can’t breathe because my feelings always seem so much rougher than anyone else’s.
Keeping my routine helps, but without Gideon, it’s messed up.
I can’t sleep because the pillow isn’t as cold as it usually is; something as silly as that ruins my night.
He doesn’t look back down at me, only sucks his lips between his teeth, and I can already feel him retreating.
I’m silent, but I want to scream. I want to wail and beat myself over the head for even saying it out loud.
For ruining one of the brief moments I get with him.
The regret is as tangible as the tears in my eyes.
He’ll avoid me for days now. I can’t… I don’t want to be alone.
Not like this. Not even Gideon to pass my time with.
“Don’t stay up late tonight, Auds. It’s back to school tomorrow.”
I turn back to the window before he’s out of the room.
My eyes are on the patchy gravel, waiting for the front door to shut, for his boots and dark uniform to fill the space the dreary driveway occupies, his boxy truck, drizzled and dripping with rain, as he swings himself into the cruiser beside it.
Just like that, he’s gone, and I’m alone with the woman down the hall.
Alone without the boy who makes it all bearable.
Just like that, my eyes fall back to the house across the street, where what little family remains is bustling in and out, preparing for the funeral tomorrow.
One that isn’t curated for a stranger but for a woman who once dusted the pews in the service room, arranged flags on top of caskets, held more hands, and wiped more tears than I can probably count.
Gideon’s eyes head keeps turning toward my house.
I don’t need to be there to know he isn’t crying.
He probably isn’t doing much of anything, despite what Dad said.
I wonder what it would take to make him cry, if I’d even want to see that.
What would he have done if it were me who was dead?
What if I took some of Mom’s sleeping pills?
Cut my wrists like some girls at school started doing?
Would Gideon cry then? Would Mr. Bell hold Mom’s hand because Dad doesn’t want to anymore?
Eventually, the drizzling rain and my melancholy thoughts turn toward dreams, the fitful kind, where you’re running toward something you’ll never reach, tripping over nothing but the tangled shadows under your feet.
When my eyes open again, the early afternoon light is traded for a setting sun.
The drizzle stopped and the clouds parted.
My face smudged the window from where it rested during my nap.
The slight change in the weather is all I need to surge to my feet, my heart pounding as I stalk down the driveway and across the narrow road.
If the roles were reversed, Gideon would’ve already let himself into my house, barged up the stairs, and held me while I cried.
It’s stupid to wait in the woods; it makes no sense why this should feel so alien…
he’s just been busy. Maybe even waiting for me too.
Needing me, and all this time I’ve wasted feeling sorry that he hadn’t reached out himself.
The neighbors and Mr. Bell’s cousin, who helps him now and then, have all left by the time I let myself into the lobby. “Mr. Bell? Gideon?” I call out into the empty space.
The bizarreness of how… unchanged the place feels strikes me, sending a chill up my spine, like someone didn’t just take their life here.
It still smells faintly of flowers, a touch too cold but not uncomfortable.
The nautical mantel clock ticks away below the long mirror in the entryway, a mirror that has been witness to more grief than I can fathom.
My uncle said objects store emotions. If he was right, that must be the world's most miserable mirror, but again, it's always been that way.
Because everything is the same.