Push(82)

It isn’t working. I need a release. I need a way to make it stop. I can’t bring myself to think of a reason until I find a way to tamp down my anger. Then I can be rational.
I look around the room searching for my release. A split second later I have found an aggressive end to my fury. David’s phone drops to the floor, and a box of my childhood discards flies through my bedroom window, breaking the glass and scattering it across the bed and floor. I scream out a low, hollow noise as the box hits the window, and then I ball my hands into fists. I strike myself, landing two stiff blows on my thighs. I feel the surge of anger pushing its way into the muscles there. And then I am still. I am lighter now. Now I can think.
I reach down to pick up David’s phone, and before I can stop myself, my finger presses the call log list. I scroll through the entries, looking at all the phone calls David has made over the past few weeks. I see lots of numbers that I don’t recognize, along with several familiar names. Matt, Saz, John, Brad, Carl, Jake from the tattoo shop, and a handful of others are listed there. And then I see Michael’s number again. David called him a few weeks ago. On a Tuesday afternoon. It was the same day that David took me to poker. The same day that Matt held my hair over the toilet. And it was the day before Michael’s head met a baseball bat.
I notice that before that four-minute call to Michael, David made a call to 411 information. And after the call to Michael, another 241 number is listed. I recognize it immediately—Ricky’s cell. I can see David calling Michael to rip him a new one about sending me the dog tags, but why the f*ck would he call Ricky? And how did he get Ricky’s number? From Michael? Maybe that’s why he called Michael—not to chew him out, but rather to get in touch with Ricky. But why? I don’t get it.
I walk out to the living room as I am sorting through the muddle of thoughts in my head. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I should say to David, and I panic when the thought rushes into my head that somehow David was involved in Michael’s death. If that’s the case, how the f*ck am I supposed to feel? What am I supposed to do?
I need David to be here. I need him to tell me what the hell is going on. I can’t call him, because his phone is in my hand. I look down at it, and the screen has gone black. My time is up. I don’t know the code to get back into the phone. So I sit down on the sofa and wait.
Fifteen minutes pass before I hear David’s key slide into the lock. He is holding the handles of a plastic bag and a large bottle of Maker’s Mark 46 in his left hand. He does not look happy.
“What happened?” he says. “You didn’t call in the order.” He pauses, waiting for me to say something. But I can only stand here, holding his phone at my side and thinking about what I am going to do next. “I forgot my phone here, and I couldn’t remember your cell number,” he says. “I had to wait for them to make us something. What happened, Emma?” He puts the bag and the bottle down on the table and walks toward me. He must see something in my face. He must see that something isn’t right. He lifts his hand to touch me, but he drops it and steps back just before he makes contact.
I stare at his face. My eyes narrow, and I hold out his phone. My arm is rigid, and when the phone is right in front of his face, I speak.
“Tell me why the f*ck you called Michael’s house last night.”
“Shit,” he says softly. He brushes his hair back off his forehead and then rests his hand on the back of his neck. “Jesus, Emma.”
“For f*ck’s sake, David, do not bullshit me.”
David turns his back to me and walks over to the table, dropping his hand and turning back to look at me. “Shit,” he says again. This time it sounds sharp and loud. “You shouldn’t have looked at my phone, Emma.” My head draws back, and I shake it in disbelief. Seriously? He is going to chastise me for looking at his goddamned phone? Fuck that.
He rubs his fingers over his eyes, and then he picks up the whisky. He peels off the wax and pulls out the cork with his teeth. And then he drinks from it. Long, rough swallows. When he stops to take a breath, his eyes move back to mine. “Fuck. No. It’s my fault, Emma. I shouldn’t have left my phone here. I should have erased the number. Fuck me. Fuck,” he says briskly.
I walk over to him, throw his phone down on the table, and take the bottle out of his hand. I carry it into the kitchen and pour a hefty dose into a glass. For a second I consider smashing the rest of the bottle on the floor, but I know that won’t get me what I want. I have to keep myself straight. I walk back out of the kitchen and over to David. He has picked up his phone and is looking down at the backlit screen. I hand him the bottle and hold my glass up.
“A toast,” I say, looking straight into his eyes as he looks up from his phone, “to Michael—the man who just keeps on f*cking me over.” My voice is loud and pointed and resolute. David does not raise his arm, so I clink my glass against the bottle. Then I drink the whole damned thing in a series of a dozen or so rapid, burning swallows. When it’s empty, I hold the glass out in front of me and raise my eyebrows. David lifts the bottle and pours more Maker’s into the glass, filling it nearly to the top. He doesn’t say a word, but as I begin to drink, he swallows straight from the bottle, sip for sip. Once my glass is empty, I toss it down on to the table. It skitters across the top and rolls off the edge, landing on the carpet with a soft thud.
“Talk, David,” I snap at him, grabbing the bottle from his hand. My face is hot, and I am about sink into a rage. I am losing control again. There is no stopping it. “I will keep drinking like a goddamned fish until you tell me what the f*ck is going on.” I lift the rim of the bottle up to my mouth and take another deep swig. The bottle is half empty. I feel like a runaway freight train.