Sweet Nothing(72)

I nod. The strength in her voice gives me something to reach for. Like I’m drowning in choppy waters, and Gwen is the very edge of the rope being tossed my way.

Gwen nudges me down the hall. “Let me know if you need help.”

I find my way to my room and sink listlessly onto the edge of my bed. I don’t bother turning on the light. My room is chaos: the dresser spewing the gray outlines of pajama pants and one of Luke’s Allford t-shirts; the night stand piled high with student papers. Stuffed under my duvet is Aria’s tank top. I clutch it, bury my face in it and inhale until I think my lungs will burst. But I can’t find her.

I glance down at my cell phone. My own mother hasn’t called. Neither has Luke. I scroll through my Favorites, knowing I shouldn’t make this call. But I can’t stop myself.

After five rings, the call goes to voicemail.

Hey guys, it’s Aria. You know what to do.

I hang up before the beep, then dial again.

Hey guys, it’s Aria. You know what to do.

She sounds so real, so alive, that I’m tempted to call the hospital back. Tell the nurse that she must have made a mistake, some horrific mistake. I’ll forgive her, of course. We all make mistakes.

Hey guys, it’s Aria. You know what to do.

I turn off my cell and stumble into the bathroom. The shower knobs screech in protest as I turn the water as hot as it will go. I peel off my clothes and step into the shower, tilting my face toward the spray. My skin glows pink beneath the scalding water. This is my fault. If I’d let her come to Miami, she could have had something to look forward to. What was she thinking? Why didn’t she call me?

The questions swirl in my mind on loop. There are no answers, nothing I can do until I get to New York. I want to call my mother. I want her to be a mother for once in her life, a real mother. To tell me that this isn’t my fault; that Aria will survive it and that we will be fine. I need a we right now. But right now, I’m nothing more than an I. I’ve never felt more alone than I do at this moment.

I reach for the shampoo, not remembering whether I’ve washed my hair. The sharp scent of almond and mint rises with the shower steam, enveloping me. I need Luke. I need him now more than ever, but I know that he’s lost to me. I accept it. And I can’t blame him. I’m a liar with a power-hungry thief for a father and an abusive drunk for a mother.

I stay in the shower until the water runs cold, then wrap myself in a fluffy towel. I start to cry again when I see the picture on my bedside table. It’s the picture of Aria and me on the steps of the Met as children. I thought we were happy then. I wonder if she ever was. I wonder if I ever knew her.

I lift the picture and peer into my sister’s eyes. I don’t know what I’m looking for. Answers that I’ll never find; comfort that won’t come. I stare at her until her features go out of focus. Then I toss the picture on the bed and change into a fresh pair of jeans and Aria’s tank top. Cold, wet drops of water stream down my neck and back as I tug my suitcase from under my bed and fill it with the clothes I find on my floor.

I’m zipping the suitcase when there’s a soft knock at my door. My heart races, then sinks when I hear Gwen’s voice.

“El? Can I come in?”

“Yeah.” My voice cracks. “Sure.” I squeeze the water from my hair and rake my fingers through it.

The knob turns, and then Gwen’s standing in the doorway. She doesn’t turn on the light, and I love her for it.

“Your flight leaves in an hour. Come on. I’ll drive you.”





chapter twenty-nine



The New York outside my taxi window is a stranger. My face stiff from tears, I stare listlessly at the bright lights and familiar landmarks and looming structures in steel and glass as they storm past my window. None of it feels like home. How could it? This is the place that saw the destruction of my family. The place that watched indifferently as my sister swallowed pills and booze and self-loathing. Home is supposed to be a place that nurtures, a place that gathers you close and rocks you gently. I used to find my home in Luke.

Luke. I swallow the emotion that rises at the thought of him. He hasn’t tried to contact me since I ran out of his classroom, and I’m not surprised. It’s the reaction I expected, the reaction I’ve had from so many before him. I close my eyes and lean into the stiff vinyl seat, remembering the faces of friends, teachers, neighbors, when the news of my father’s arrest first broke. Their faces were horrified. Disgusted. Curious. At first, they’d distanced themselves. No more calls, no more texts. No one wanted to be close to the girl whose father had incinerated so many futures.