Guess I’ll make myself something
to eat. Something substantial.
I’m starving. Too bad the pantry
looks like a raiding party came
through. Manuela usually handles
grocery store duty, but she had
an asthma attack and wound up
in the hospital. Wonder if Hannah
took care of her in the ER. Wonder
if Hannah will do the shopping
this week. Wonder if I can make
spaghetti with tomato soup and
ramen noodles. Sounds disgusting,
but beggars cannot be choosers. Oh,
wait. Two boxes of mac and cheese.
At least it’s the kind with the cheese
in a can, not the stuff with fluorescent
orange chem cheese powder. I make
both boxes, because two is always
better than one. That’s my motto.
Double the Pleasure
I polish off every bite of both
boxes. Enough, according to
the label, to feed a family of
four. Twice. Not a very hungry
family, if you ask me.
Double the pleasure. Now I
feel the need for liquid fun.
Tucked away in a low cabinet
is my parents’ liquor stash.
Can’t touch the Turkey.
The smell gags me and anyway,
Daddy would notice it missing.
The Chopin vodka, stashed in
the freezer, is a different
song, and I’m so ready
to drink that slushy tune.
I’ll never sleep without it.
Too many conflicts, volleying
inside my head, bouncing
off the interior of my skull.
I don’t really like the taste
of vodka, but they say you
can’t smell it on the breath.
Not sure if that’s true, or
if it matters. Even if Daddy
did wake up, he couldn’t smell
the vodka for the Turkey.
Double the Fun
I poke my head into the living
room. Daddy hasn’t so much
as twitched, at least that’s my guess.
The rest of the house is quiet
as death. Think I’m safe.
I fill a juice glass half full
of fermented potato juice, try
not to think about such ingredients
as I down the clear, hot-and-cold
liquid. Cold, as in not-quite frozen.
Hot, as in its burn down the throat.
Frozen smolder, a popular combo.
Phew! Chopin is definitely
not cabernet. Still, while I feel
it on my tongue, I don’t feel it
in my brain. Probably the mega
macaroni meal. This time
I fill the four-ounce glass
almost to the brim, think
about adding some water
to the bottle before I put it away,
decide against it. I doubt
anyone will miss it, and I might
want an encore performance.
Clutching the glass like
a baby holds a bottle,
I pad softly down the hall,
to my room. I try sipping
the vodka, but gulping
it is easier, and very quickly,
the glass is empty again.
Shouldn’t I feel inebriated?
Ha. Funny word. Inebri…
ineb…whoa. Wouldn’t
want to have to spell it!
I-n-i…er, inebre…okay,
so maybe the Chopin
is singing a little ditty
after all. I’m usually
a really good speller.
I Start to Feel
A little fuzzy at the edges,
and warm behind my eyes.
Fuzzy and warm. That makes
me think of Ian. I glance
at the clock. Not quite nine.
I think I can get away with
a quick phone call. One ring,
two ringies…three ringy
dingies…C’mon, Ian. Pick up.
Finally, Hello? Kaeleigh?
What’s wrong? He waits
patiently for me to explain
just why I’m actually calling
him. This is something rare.
“Nu…nothing. I just wanted
t-to say…uh…” What did
I remember. “Uh…um…”
I can’t finish it, and his
patience comes unraveled.
Have you been drinking?
I could lie, but he’d know
I was lying. “Uh, maybe
a little…” Ball’s in his court.
He rallies. I don’t get it,
Kaeleigh. Why tonight?
Wasn’t today good for you?
I think back. Good. Good.
Sorta good. Not so good.
Better now. Or is it really?
Don’t say any of that! “It
was wonderful. That’s
why I called. To tell you…”
Grow a pair, Kaeleigh. Tell
him. He needs to hear it
right now. “I lu…love you.”
Pregnant pause. About nine
months pregnant. I love you, too.
But love doesn’t make me drink.
What Does Make Him Drink?
I wonder, trying my damnedest
not to giggle. My entire core
knows laughing will make
him turn his back forever.
So why do I really need to laugh?
(Oh girl, too many reasons to
mention!) “S-so-sorry, Prince
P-p-p-perfect. I guess th-that means…”
Brother! Why won’t my mouth
work? Straighten up and say it.
“Guess that means you never
found out your dad is s-scr…”
I swallow any sort of apology.
“Screwing your neighbor.”
There. Said it. React, okay?
Pregnant pause becomes three
weeks overdue. Four weeks.
Time for a C-section. What?
Oh, Kaeleigh, I’m so sorry.
Are you sure…?
Spoken like a true guy. Even
if I’m not sure, I say, “Of course
I’m damn well sure. Do you think
I drink for the fun of it?”
I Regret Everything Immediately
The confession. The out-and-out
meanness. That I called at all,
considering the state I’m in.
“I’m s-sh-sorry, Ian. I just didn’t
know who I could t-t-talk to,
except for you. I’ll go now, ’kay?”
Wait. Are you sure you’re okay?
Do you want me to pick you
up in the morning?
I’m not okay at all, but I never
will be. The thought pierces
me. How can he ever love me?
I struggle to talk without slurring.
“I…I’m okay. No, don’t pick me
up. I’ll sh-see you at school.”
Love is about helping each other
through dark times, Kaeleigh.
Try to remember that, okay?
Getting drunk tonight won’t make
tomorrow better. But letting me
love you will. It’s all up to you.
I So Do Not Deserve Him
He is
Mr. Perfect
and I’m a perfect
ass to have ever, for
even a moment, believed
we could even resemble a
real couple, in real love,
like such a thing exists
bey
ond media-fed
fantasies.
He says
he loves me
and he’d never lie
to me, not on purpose.
But would he love me if
he knew my secrets? I go
from Chopin giggles to
a Chopin breakdown,
steeped in Chopin
teardrops.
Time For a Chopin Pee
I force Ian out of my mind,
do the best I can to do that,
anyway. Head spinning, gut
churning, I go into the bathroom,
try not to look at the
girl in the mirror as I pass by.
Every time I think I’ve gained
a little control, actually played
an active role in determining
my future, reality punches me
in the face. I have no control
at all. All I can do is hang on
for the ride, and it’s starting to
make me completely insane.
The toilet beckons and my
body responds, evacuating
Chopin and undigested mac
and cheese every which way
imaginable. Finally I lay my
sweaty forehead against the
cool porcelain. No! I don’t
deserve such comfort. In fact,
right this moment, all I really
deserve, really desire, is pain.
Not Mental Pain
Not emotional pain,
things beyond my
ability to control. But
physical pain is most
definitely within my
limited realm of power.
I pull back from the mac-
spattered toilet, feel a
fleeting sense of shame
and commiseration for
Manuela. But then I
remember she’s out of
commission. Just who
will scrub this mess?
Can’t trust my shaky
legs. I crawl over to the
tub, hoist myself inside,
slide out of my vomit-
crusted clothes. Ugh!
My legs are fat. Fat and
hairy. Time for a major
shave. And not just hair.
New Blade
No razor burn.
No razor nicks.
No more hair.
Legs are smooth.
But still fat.
Open my skin.
Right ankle.
Left ankle.
White flesh.
Red polka dots.
Ha! That’s funny.
Ouch. Stings.
Behind right knee.
Left knee. Oops.
A little deep.
Blood pumps.
Check it out.
Thump. Thump.
Oh my God.
Can I stop it?
Who really cares?
The drain runs red.
I’ve Heard Exsanguination
Is a pleasant enough way to go.
Bleeding out, ebbing away, one
heartbeat, ever slower, at a time.
Thump-thump. Thump…thump. Thump…
…thump………until you look
death
right in the eye, decide you like
what you see. I’ve always feared
dying before, psychological
fallout from my childhood
near
death experience. The accident
replays in a series of black-and-
white snapshots. Raeanne laughs.
Daddy swears. Mom screams, Ray!
Glass rains. Darkness. Someone
calls,
Wake up, and I open my eyes
to a swarm of disembodied faces.
Halloween masks. Bloated. Distorted.
Hands, gloved red, reach out
to me.
I fall back into blackness, stumble
toward an orange glow, vaguely aware
of spectral movement. Ahead, a figure
leans into a low-banked fire. He lifts
his horned head. Daddy! I leap
from the shadows
into antiseptic white.
Raeanne
OM—Effing—G
The bathroom looks like a battle
field. Tangerine-colored puke
paints toilet and tiles, and the
whole place smells like
death,
not only because of the barfed-up
whatever, but also because
of the blood, thick maroon drips
all over the tub and towels. And
near
the sink is a sticky crimson puddle.
What’s up with Kaeleigh, anyway?
I mean, yeah, I get throwing up.
It’s not bad at all, except for the
stomach acid part. The barf monster
calls
to me regularly. But hey, you’re
supposed to get it inside the bowl,
and if you don’t, protocol dictates
you clean it up. I guess maid duty falls
to me from
who-knows-where this morning. Kaeleigh
is gone, and if Daddy sees this, all hell
will break loose. That girl seriously
owes me, and I’d better collect soon,
before she succumbs to
the shadows
overtaking her soul.
Speaking of Souls, Monsters, Etc.
Tonight is Halloween.
Ghouls. Goblins. Witches.
Avoidable candy. And way
avoidable children in costumes.
Kind of fun to jump out and scream
boo at the little brats. Then they
avoid you. Woo-hoo.
Not only is it All Hallows Eve,
but it’s also Friday. The perfect
excuse to party hearty. All I have
to do is decide who to party with.
Tricks? Treats? Ty? Mick?
A little (a lot?) of both?
(I don’t think it’s the right night
for Lawler, but never say never.)
Daddy won’t try to stop me. He
knows who he wants to party
with. Well, maybe. I could have
read the whole Hannah thing wrong,
I guess. But if he was flirting and Hannah
didn’t go for it, he’s a bomb with
a very short fuse. Tick. Tick.
Daddy and Hannah
As I scrub away Kaeleigh’s
disgustingness, I can’t help
thinking about them. Truth is,
the idea makes me crazy.
(Crazy jealous.)
Am I jealous? I guess I must be,
because right now, all I can see
(besides orange puke) are still
shots of Daddy and Hannah.
(Doing the dirty.)
Shot one: missionary, Daddy on top.
Shot two: doggie-style, Daddy on top.
Shot three: can’t even say it, let alone
dwell on the picture, but Daddy’s on top.
(Always on top.)
Being
On top means never saying you’re sorry, not for any damn thing you ever say or do. Daddy has got to be the king of on top, with Mom a very close runner-up. Hm. Wonder who was on
TOP
when they did have sex.
Sex, Sex, Sex
I have really got to stop thinking
about it so damn much, you know?
Daddy and Hannah; Daddy and Mom;
Daddy and Kaeleigh; Daddy and whoever;
Mom and Daddy; Mom and whoever;
Lawler and whoever; Mick and whoever; Ty…
Sex, sex, sex. I have really got to stop
wanting to have it, and more and more of it.
Clumsy sex (Mick); choreographed sex
(Ty); imagined sex (Lawler, assorted others).
I’ve even half thought about experimenting
with a girl or two. Variety is the spice of life.
Sex, sex, sex. And what goes with that?
Drugs, more drugs, and alcohol, of course.
I’m a living, walking, waking party on
two unsteady legs. (Not to mention a shaky
brain.) Tonight is Halloween, a night to
walk on the dark side. Can’t wait to hit the road.
First, I Have to Get Through the Day
And that starts with getting
out the door. Standing between
me and that goal is a red-eyed Daddy.
Apparently you forgot to tell
me something important.
Quick. Think. “Uh. Something
important? Like what?” I mentally
run down a long list of possibilities:
He saw the bathroom?
He saw me with Brittany?
He saw me see him with Hannah?
He missed a few “borrowed” pills?
One of his spies saw me with Lawler,
or told him about Mick, the pot, and the cop?
You know, the phone call? Listen…
He advances, menacing, and now
I’m thinking about phone calls.
Is he talking about the hang-ups,
or—oh, shit—the call from his father?
He never mentioned it, so I assumed
he never found out about it.
If you can’t pass on a simple
answering machine message,
don’t play them back, understand?
I Decide to Act Ignorant
And, you know, for the most part
I am. I have no clue what he’s
talking about. “Uh…I’m sorry,
but I’m not sure what you mean.”
Your mother called yesterday,