Don't Fail Me Now(62)

“Hi,” I whisper, needing to talk but not sure what to say. Cass’s heart rate monitor climbs and falls, a range of tiny mountains. The electrodes taped to her forehead and scalp feed data into a computer. The IV bag drips steadily and silently. “It’s me,” I say. I lay my left hand on her right, the one not attached to a needle. I splay my fingers out and cover hers. Mine are half an inch longer and a shade lighter but otherwise nearly identical, thin and tapered, with nails chewed down to ragged nubs, spots of dried blood at the cuticles—nails that defy manicures but wouldn’t cut your fist if you had to throw a punch.

We’ve been fighting for so long, though. We’ve done it because we’ve had to, but if where we are is any indication, it’s time to stop. I thought we’d hit rock bottom back at Aunt Sam’s, but I was wrong. I thought leaving town would buy us time, but instead it’s just made things crumble faster. Nothing I can do—no amount of work, or vigilance, or prayer, or clever roadside tricks—can fix what’s been broken inside my sister. Inside me. It’s time to give up, go home, and face our demons. At the very least, our mother.

“I’m sorry,” I say, weaving my fingers in hers. “I’m sorry I kept putting you off. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you when you needed me.” I wipe my nose with the sleeve of my free arm. Cass’s face remains motionless, serene. Even with the cracked lips and gray tint to her skin, she’s stupidly beautiful. I lean over and kiss her on the forehead.

“Excuse me!” A sharp voice behind me: the nurse. “You can’t be in here until nine A.M. And don’t touch her wires!” I turn to see good old Munch glaring at me from the door, her eyes little slits in her long, tired face. “Do you need me to show you back to the waiting area?”

I shake my head. Reluctantly, I let go of my sister’s cool, limp hand.

“See you tomorrow,” I say to Cass. Her monitor beeps noncommittally.

Back in the waiting room, the sweatpants have fallen off of Denny and onto the floor. I replace them and kiss his cheek, burying my nose in the soft, warm skin that doesn’t smell half-bad, actually, for the time he’s gone without a proper cleaning.

“Mmmmmph,” Denny sleep-groans, rolling over, his elbow smacking me in the chin. “You’re squishing Max.”

Fantastic. The return of Max. I hope Denny doesn’t talk about him around the doctors too much, or we’ll be looking at two psych evaluations. Three, if I can manage to wake up paralyzed. I wonder if they offer family packs.

I slink back to my preferred crying bathroom and gargle with plain water, wiping the surface of my teeth with a paper towel, washing my face with abrasive, Pepto-Bismol-colored soap. It’s only as I’m making a move to leave that I see the OUT OF ORDER sign dangling from the shower rack. I briefly weigh my options—the waiting room with my little brother, his imaginary adult cowboy, the estranged sister I recently insulted to her face, and the good-hearted crush I brutally rejected; the backseat of a smelly old car parked in a dark hospital garage; the sidewalk—before hanging the sign on the doorknob, locking it from the inside, shutting off the lights, and lying down on the hard tile. I settle in with my arms behind my head, stretching my aching legs out across the floor, the bleach-scented air stinging my nostrils, when I feel my phone start to buzz against my hip.

The light of the screen reflects off the glossy walls, casting the whole room in an eerie blue glow. A restricted caller. At four in the morning. That can’t be good news. I’m about to let it go to voicemail when curiosity gets the better of me. Could it be the same person who was trying to reach Cass? I click the talk button, biting hard on my tongue.

“Hello?”

“An inmate at the Baltimore City Detention Center is attempting to contact you,” a cheerful robotic voice says. “Please press one to accept the charges.”

Mom. But how could she be getting phone privileges in the middle of the night? Don’t they have wardens who lock down that kind of thing? I hold my breath and look up at the industrial showerhead bolted into the ceiling. If I’m sleeping at eye level with a toilet, I don’t have much left to lose. And every instinct I’ve had so far has led us further and further astray, so maybe it’s time to stop running.

I press one and wait for the telltale click of connection.

“Hi, Mom,” I say into the darkness.





SEVENTEEN


Early Sunday Morning, Part 2

Flagstaff, AZ




“What in the hell is going on?”

I’m back in the hallway now, making a beeline for the exit to the stairs. Mom has been asking some variation on this question since I picked up, and her voice is steady and strong, not a trace of the junk-sick shakes of a few days ago. Cass and Denny call it her pastor voice, because it goes up and down like a preacher delivering a fiery sermon. She only uses it when she’s angry, so I know there’s going to be yelling. That’s why I had to get out of the bathroom, to someplace with less reverb and fewer witnesses. I might have some yelling of my own to do.

“What do you mean?” I ask, lowering my voice as I push through the heavy metal door. The stairwell is empty and gray, yellow moonlight filtering in through a gated window. Buck’s rhyme whips through my head: Look real quick, it will soon be gone.

“You tell me,” Mom says, indignation seeping through the receiver. “I got dragged out of bed because some hospital in Arizona called the warden about my daughter.” My stomach drops. I remember the intake nurse asking for Mom’s contact info, but I was so upset I didn’t even think to lie. I didn’t have a number, though. I never thought they’d call. “Is it true? Is she in the hospital?” Mom asks, less mad and more scared this time.