Push(69)

Best.


I look at my reflection in the mirror. My skin is warm and flushed. But it isn’t because I’m angry. It is because, even though he hasn’t said it, I know that David loves me back.
* * *

After I eat some dinner, I settle down at my computer. I want to see if I can find anything more about what happened to Michael. I Google his name and find exactly what I am looking for. There are two newspaper articles from a few months ago that describe the charges pending against TruTimber Imports and its owner, Michael Groff. From the sound of them, Michael was in it pretty deep. One of the articles describes a federal hearing in which the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service and the Department of Agriculture were charging TruTimber Imports under the Lacey Act, a tool intended to combat trafficking in illegal wildlife, lumber, and other plant products. Michael was facing a corporate shutdown, a half million dollars in fines, and five or more years of prison time. After the hearing, he had posted his own bail.
I also find another series of more recent articles, the one that Ricky sent and a few more subsequent to that. They all describe Michael’s medical condition as “critical” and talk about the lack of leads in the police investigation of the attack. The FBI is now involved, as it’s suspected that the incident may have more to do with TruTimber Import’s illegal activities than the police previously thought. There is also an article from this morning. It briefly notes Michael’s death with no update on the investigation.
I am shaken. But also not surprised. For some reason I feel as if I should call Ricky, despite the fact that I know it will probably be a waste of my time. It’s hard to believe how the love I once felt for both of my brothers has morphed into a completely different feeling. Love to disgust. Admiration to repulsion. It didn’t happen overnight—I think because I denied it for a long time. Acknowledging that Michael had that kind of power over them, the kind of power that can change a person’s moral compass, was the last thing I wanted to do. I felt that if I acknowledged it, I was giving Michael my approval. Denial was my safety net. I always tried to see the best in Ricky and Evan, even as I watched them turn more and more to Michael for attention and consent. But that fraternity party, that’s what made my continued denial completely impossible. That was when the last of the “best” in them vanished in a blur of cheap cologne and beer breath.
I pick Ricky’s note up off the table and dial his number. When he answers, I nearly hang up. A cluster of nerves has moved up into my throat, and when I say hello, my voice sounds small. I hate myself for it.
“It’s Emma,” I say, mentally shoving the wad of nerves back down into me.
“I didn’t expect it to be you, Em. So, you got my letter, huh?”
“Yes,” I say. My voice sounds better now. Reasonable, at least. “I know that Michael died. I called the hospital.”
“He was on a ventilator, and I made the call to pull it.”
“I know.”
“Do you know about everything else going on? Do you know about the whole TruTimber Imports thing?” he asks.
“Yes. I saw some articles about it online.”
“Okay.” After a few seconds of silence, he adds, “Well, we’re having a funeral for him on Friday if you want to come.”
“There is no f*cking way that’s happening,” I say. Suddenly I feel like a small, angry child. I feel as if Ricky is going to say something at any moment that will fill me with contempt, and I am angry at him for it.
“No one expects you to come. Hell, Evan isn’t even coming. I just wanted to put it out there for you.”
“Isn’t Evan in Florida or something?”
“Not anymore. He had no place to live anymore down there. Landlord kicked him out cause of the drugs. I don’t know what the f*ck he was thinking. He moved back here a couple of months ago. He’s in debt and trying to clean himself up.” I don’t know what to say. I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about Evan, or Ricky, for that matter.
I reach for the raven, and when I touch my own skin, it is burning. “Listen, I just called because I wanted to make sure it was all true. That he’s really dead.”
Ricky laughs at me. Laughs. If he were in front of me right now, I would f*cking beat his head with a baseball bat.
“It’s all true, Em. He’s dead,” he says.
“You turned out to be a real f*cking *, Ricky,” I say with as much attitude as I can muster. Then I hang up the phone.
I sink my face into my hands for the second time today—but this time I do not cry. This time I swipe my hands back off my face, across my scalp and down to the back of my neck. Fuck it. I am done with the bullshit.



chapter Thirty-One

Emma—Age 18

It is five-thirty, and Peter Beckman is here to pick me up for prom. My mother has swept my hair up into a beautiful braid and fastened tiny rhinestones into the folds. She left a few spiral curls hanging down, and they frame my face sweetly. When I hold up the hand mirror so that I can see the back of my head, I see her reflection looking back at me. She looks proud. I tell her how much I love my hair and thank her for helping me with it. I stand up and turn to her. She smoothes my dress against my hips and tells me how lovely I look. How grown up I am. How much my father would have loved to see me like this.
My father would have liked Peter, she says, because he is such a respectful young man. I ask her to please, stop. Please, stop talking about Daddy because it is making me emotional, and I don’t want to mess up my makeup. She smiles and says she wants to take some pictures of me and Peter before we go.