Last Girl Ghosted(56)

Soured. Not the right word. That implies the slow turning of something good into something rotten.

Ignited.

My father’s rage was a fuse that took any excuse to light. It transformed him, made him huge, and cruel, brutal. Since the late-night trip to the bunker, things had been worse than ever. He never hit me, not once. Maybe because I made myself small, shrank myself down to nothing, hid. But my mother and Jay, they fought back.

The makeshift ice pack I’d put together from a bag of frozen peas and a dishcloth sat on the arm of the rocker. Jay rubbed at his jaw. Even in the dim light, I could see that the side of his face was purple and swollen.

He’d come out here last night to be ready if my father came back. I’d stayed with him; my mother cried herself to sleep in my bedroom. What had made my father so angry? I didn’t even remember. I thought about the garden we’d planted, the lunches I’d shared with him, his quiet in those moments, his strength, the way he understood the land.

“Put it back,” I urged Jay. A blackbird landed on the porch rail, cocking his head back and forth at me.

Jay had taken a handgun from the weapons cache the night before. It lay in his lap.

“He’s passed out somewhere now, probably in the barn,” I went on when he said nothing. “He won’t even remember what happened when he wakes up.”

Jay turned his head slowly to look at me. His voice last night, it had been high and desperate, childlike. Leave her alone, he’d wailed. My father hit him so hard that I felt it in my own jaw, started to cry.

The blackbird flew off.

“Don’t love him,” Jay said. “Even though he’s nice sometimes, and he’s our father. Don’t love him. He doesn’t deserve it.”

“I don’t,” I said quick, defensive. But I did. The man he was during the day, just like my mother loved the man he was “before.” The man in the photographs—young, brave, strong in his uniform, face fresh and eyes bright. Thank you for your service. The boy in the photograph, wearing his best suit. The man in the garden, with the sweat on his face, hands in the earth.

“Put it back,” I said again.

As long as Jay had that gun, I knew something bad could happen, something worse, any second. We’d both been learning to shoot, aiming at cans my father lined up on a rusted-out old tractor that sat in the clearing.

You’re a deadeye, son, he told Jay. My brother hit every can, every time.

I got a pat on the head. Keep at it, girl.

Girl. He didn’t mean it as an insult. But it felt like one. I vowed to get better.

Jay and I locked eyes now. The sun was breaking the horizon, painting the sky pink. He nodded, just slightly and rose, the rocker beneath him groaning. He stepped over the porch and took the path that led to the cellar where the guns were kept. God forbid, my father should find it missing.

I waited for him to return, listening to the morning cacophony, that sun salutation—chickadee, warbler, thrush, starling, northern cardinal. Back “in town,” in our other life, I never heard their song, not really. In the quiet, birds thrive. Noise is a kind of pollution; it silences nature.

Finally, Jay returned, walking by me into the house without a word, letting the squeaky screen door slam hard.

I sat, listening to the birds. When I looked into the trees, I saw Robin standing there. I walked off the porch to join her.

You have to do something, she told me. Or things are just going to get worse and worse.



twenty-seven


Now


Back at the bed-and-breakfast, I turn on the fireplace, put on my sweats and check my computer. No word from my mysterious contact. I didn’t expect him to be fast. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised to never hear from him again. There is an email from Marty, my accountant, confirming the Bitcoin transaction and asking if I need to talk. I don’t.

No more texts from you. But I feel you, shadowing me. Where are you?

Was it you out in the woods tonight? Or am I losing it? If not you, then who? And those cigarettes by Jay’s grave. Do you smoke? I doubt it.

That text. Welcome home, little bird.

It confirms that you know way more about me than you have a right to.

I turn off all the lights except the one by my bed, which is dim. I’ll sleep with it on, its pink glow keeping the shadows at bay. I never liked the dark.

As I settle into bed, my phone rings, Jax’s high cheekbones and wide smile on my screen. It’s a picture I took of her ages ago, still stored in her contact file.

“You’re not coming home,” she says when I answer. “I can see your little blue dot blipping on Find My Friends. Up in the middle of nowhere and nothing.”

“Not tonight.”

She sighs.

“Want me to stay at the house?” she asks.

“If you want,” I tell her. I like the idea of her and the house keeping each other company. My favorite human and my favorite place. Maybe she should just move in. It’s a big house. Her Chelsea rent is obscene.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’m not gonna blow up your iTunes, your UberEats, your grocery delivery account.”

“But it seems like you’re well on your way.”

I’ve been getting text notifications all day—pizza for lunch, Chinese for dinner, binge-watching Christmas rom-coms. This is a very typical postbreakup day for Jax.