Burn Before Reading(89)

My name is Beatrix Cruz, and no matter what anyone says, no matter what happens tomorrow, this was the story of how it went down.

This is how Lakecrest ruined my life.

This is how Wolfgang Blackthorn destroyed me.

***

When I wake up the next morning – at 2 in the afternoon – Dad still hasn’t come out of his room. I’m perversely grateful for it; explaining to him why I’m staying home would be so much harder with him on one of his good days. Mom comes home in two days– theoretically. But two days come and go, me puttering around the house, explaining to Dad the second day, when he comes out of his room, that I’m sick, and staying home from school. He lets me off the hook, and we order pizza. Mom never comes home.

“Maybe she got a hotel somewhere,” I offer. Dad nods.

“Maybe.”

I don’t press him for details on the fight between them – the last thing he needs right now is someone interrogating him. We eat pizza and watch TV and I avoid my semi-broken phone, which, when it actually does turn on, lights up with a dozen text messages – all of them from Kristin. I can’t bear to answer her, or talk to anyone. I just want to be left alone.

Dad talks about clearing some stuff out of his room – stuff he doesn’t use anymore – so I help him load cardboard boxes of old comics and baseballs cards and shirts and golf clubs. It’s sort of a repeat of what he helped me do with my old stuff, when I found out I was going to Lakecrest. We’d boxed it all up together. Something nags at me. I stop duct taping everything and look up.

“Hey Dad?”

“Hm?” He struggles with an old, broken typewriter, gingerly placing it into a box.

“How’re you, um, feeling?”

It’s a dangerous topic, but I have to ask. Dad doesn’t immediately fly off the handle, which I’m grateful for. He just heaves a sigh.

“I’m fine, Bee. I just wanted to clear some of this old junk out. Start fresh, you know? Or, as fresh as I can get at my age.”

He laughs, and I try to laugh with him. I really do. But all the textbooks I’ve read – everything points to getting rid of old things or giving them away as a bad sign. It’s called reconciling, I think, or something like that. And no matter how much he says he’s okay, I can’t help the uneasy gurgle in my stomach. He seems fine for the next two days – he eats well whenever I make pancakes or sandwiches, and when I check his pill bottle the correct amount is missing. Taking his meds regularly and eating right is a huge step up. So things can’t be going wrong.

They can’t be.

On the fourth day, Mom finally calls me. It takes her three tries, since my phone gives out twice.

“Finally, honey! Is something wrong with your phone?”

I swallowed. “I, er, dropped it in the sink.”

“God, sweetie –“

“I know, I know! We can’t afford another one. Don’t worry – I put it in rice. It’s just a little slower, is all.”

Mom breathed out. “Well, if you’re sure. How are things over there?”

“Good. Dad’s eating a lot.”

“That’s good.” She said, though it sounded a little strained. “And how about you? How are you doing?”

I’m shitty. I wish you were home. I wish you’d just come home and make up with Dad. I wish I was in school. I wish my friends didn’t hate me. I wish, I wish - so many wishes and not enough realities.

“I’m okay. I think I’m coming down with something, though. My throat feels weird.”

“Okay, well – don’t be afraid to take a school day off. God knows you work yourself to the bone to stay in that place. If they give you a hard time, just have them call me. I’ll set them straight.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Did you know the director of the hospital I work at went to Lakecrest, too? He studied at Yale, and when I told him you were at Lakecrest he was so surprised. I told him you were keeping a scholarship there, and oh, the look on his face, honey. You should’ve seen it. People are so impressed by you – people you don’t even know!”

Every word is a red-hot iron nail straight to my heart. I clear my throat.

“Yeah. Um. Mom, about that –“

“What?” Mom shouts in another direction. Someone’s voice echoes, too distant for me to make out the words. “Okay! Bee, I have to go – I’ve taken Candace’s shift and they need me in ICU. I’m sorry, can we talk later?”

“Yeah, no, it’s fine,” I lie, though I’m secretly relieved. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Bee.”

She hangs up, leaving me to empty silence and crushing guilt. I can’t keep putting off telling her forever. Or Dad. Eventually they have to know. Eventually my little fa?ade will come crumbling down. But if I can put it off for even one more day, that’s good enough for me. That seems to be their mentality, too – avoid things. I guess I took a master class in avoidance from them while I was still in the womb.

Eventually, I have to venture outside. Turns out the refrigerator doesn’t just automatically refill itself. I put on a jacket and big, old sunglasses and make my way to the grocery store. When I’m done, I glance at the paper bag in the backseat, the one I brought from the house. I figure while I’m out, I might as well tie up a few loose ends.