Chapter Thirteen
Merit?”
I reluctantly open my eyes and Luck is standing in the doorway of my bedroom. I try to process what time it is, what day it is.
“Can I come in?”
It’s afternoon, I think. I nod and sit up. “Yeah. I didn’t mean to fall asleep. What time is it?”
“Almost time for dinna.”
I smile at his random accent slip. It hasn’t been happening as much as it did at the beginning of the week. He pulls my blanket over his lap and leans back against my headboard. “You’ve had a busy couple of days,” he says. “You probably needed the nap.”
I laugh halfheartedly. “In that case, I think we all needed a nap.” But as it stands, this wasn’t a nap. I’m just now waking up for the day, considering I stayed up most of the night last night pissed off at Sagan for what he said. I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned all night, throwing around all the excuses for why he’s wrong. I don’t even want to think about it again. I glance at Luck. He’s wearing his Starbucks uniform. He looks so strange in normal clothes.
“How do you like your new job?” I ask him.
“Great. Pretty sure any job I have from here on out will beat working on a cruise ship, though.” He pulls at a string on my blanket until it comes loose in his fingers. He puts the string in his mouth and eats it.
“Do you suffer from pica?”
“What’s that?”
“Never mind,” I say, shaking my head.
He pats my leg, and the room grows awkwardly quiet. I sigh. “Are you here to talk about why I swallowed twenty-eight pills?”
Luck shrugs and then says, “Actually, I was going to ask you if you want any beef jerky yet. I still have half a tub in my room.”
I laugh. “No, thanks. I’m good.”
“But since you brought it up . . . are you okay?”
I roll my eyes and drop my head against the headboard. “Yes,” I say, slightly annoyed. Not annoyed that he’s checking on me, but annoyed that my behavior this week is embarrassing and I just want to forget it but I have a feeling no one is going to allow that. Especially my father and Sagan.
“Why’d you do it?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. I was just exhausted and over it. And drunk.”
He starts unraveling another thread and then spins it between his fingers. “I tried to kill myself once,” he says nonchalant. “Jumped off the deck of a cruise ship into the water. I thought it was high up enough that I would hit the water and it would knock me out and I’d drown peacefully.”
“Did you drown peacefully?”
He laughs.
I don’t know why I’m making light of what he’s telling me. I’ve never been good with serious conversations.
“I sprained my ankle and got fired. But a few weeks later I had a new fake ID and a job with a different cruise line, so the firing didn’t really teach me a lesson.”
“Why did you do it? Did you hate your life that much?”
Luck shrugs. “Not really. I was mostly indifferent. I worked eighteen-hour days. I was tired of the monotony. There wasn’t really anyone who would have missed me. So, one night I was standing on the deck, staring out over the water. I was thinking about what it would be like to jump and not have to get up and work the next morning. When the thought of death didn’t put fear into me, I just decided to go for it.” He pauses for a moment. “A friend of mine saw me do it and he reported it, so they threw me a life raft and had me back on the ship within the hour.”
“You got lucky.”
He nods and looks over at me. He’s unusually serious. “So did you, Merit. I mean, I know they were only placebo pills, but you didn’t know that at the time. And I don’t know many people who would stick their hand down someone’s throat and then sift through their vomit to count the number of pills they swallowed.”
I divert my eyes and look back down at my lap. It occurs to me that I haven’t once thanked Sagan for that. He saved my life, got covered in vomit, and then cleaned it up and watched over me all night. And I haven’t even told him thank you. Now I’m not so sure I even want to speak to him again.
“I did learn something from jumping off that ship,” Luck says. “I found out that depression doesn’t necessarily mean a person is miserable or suicidal all the time. Indifference is also a sign of depression.” He looks me in the eye. “That was a long time ago, but I still take medication for it every day.”
I’m shocked. Luck seems like one of the happiest people I know. And while I do appreciate what he’s trying to do, it’s also annoying as hell. “Are you trying to turn this into an after school special?”
He shakes his head. “Not at all. It’s just . . . I think we’re a lot alike. And as much as you want to believe that it was a drunken mistake . . .”
“It was,” I interrupt. “I never would have swallowed those pills if I hadn’t gotten drunk.”
He doesn’t look convinced by my statement. “If you weren’t intending to take them . . . why were you stealing them?”
His question silences me. I break eye contact with him. He’s wrong. I’m not depressed. It was an accident.
“I really didn’t come in here to say all that.” He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. “I think maybe I had too much caffeine at work today. I’m not usually this . . . sappy.”
“It’s probably the whole gay thing you’re experimenting with. It’s making you sentimental.”
He glances back at me and narrows his eyes. “You can’t make gay jokes, Merit. You aren’t gay.”
“Does being gay make you the gay authority on who can or can’t tell gay jokes?”
“I’m not gay, either,” he says.
“Could have fooled me.” I laugh. “If you don’t think you’re gay, you’re sexually confused.”
Luck rolls his head until his neck pops and then he leans back against the headboard again. “I’m not confused, either,” he says. “I’m very comfortable with my sexuality. It seems like you’re the one who’s confused by it.”
I nod, because I am definitely confused by it. “Are you bisexual?”
Luck laughs. “Labels were invented for people like you who can’t grasp a reality outside of a defined gender role. I like what I like. Sometimes I like women, sometimes I like men. A few times I’ve liked girls who used to be guys. Once I liked a guy who used to be a girl.” He pauses. “I liked him a lot, actually. But that’s an after-school special for another day.”
I laugh. “I think I might be more sheltered than I thought.”
“I think you might be, too. Not just from the outside world, but you might even be sheltered from what’s going on inside your own house. How did you not know Utah was gay? Have you not seen his wardrobe?”
“Who’s making gay jokes now?” I say, shoving his shoulder. “That’s such a terrible stereotype. And I didn’t know he was gay because no one tells me anything around here.”
“In all fairness, Merit. I’ve lived here less than a week and I can already tell you live in your own version of reality.” He stands up before I can shove him again. “I need to go shower. I smell like coffee beans.”
Speaking of showers. I could probably use one.
A few minutes later, I’m in the bathroom, trying to gather all the stuff I need to shower, but I still can’t find a damn razor. I look in all the drawers, in the shower, under the sink. My God, they overreact!
I guess I’ll just be hairy, then.
As soon as I pull my T-shirt over my head, a piece of paper is shoved beneath the door. I would assume it’s from Sagan since this seems to be his method of delivering art, but the paper looks like an article. I bend to pick it up when Luck speaks to me from the other side of the door.
“Just read it. You can trash it if you want, but I wouldn’t have a clear conscience if I didn’t give it to you.”
I roll my eyes and lean against the counter and read the title. It’s a Web page printed off the Internet.
Symptoms of Depression.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter.
Below it is a list, but I don’t even read the first symptom. I fold the paper up and toss it on the sink because Luck is ridiculous. He really is a walking after-school special.
After I shower and change, I open the door to the bathroom. Before I walk out, I grab the paper and walk to my bedroom with it so no one sees it lying on the bathroom counter. I sit down on my bed and begin to open it, curious as to what symptoms Luck has if he’s been diagnosed with depression.
When I examine the list, there are empty boxes next to each symptom, waiting to be checked off. It’s a quiz. This might actually be what I need to prove to Sagan and Luck that I’m not clinically depressed.
I grab a pen and start with the first one. Do you ever feel sad, empty, or anxious?
Okay, that’s a stupid question. Check. What teenager doesn’t?
Do you ever feel hopeless?
Again. Check. They should just say “Are you a teenager?”
Are you irritable?
Um . . . yeah. Check. But anyone in this household would be.
Do you have less interest in activities or school?
Okay. You got me there, Luck. Check.
Do you feel less energetic than usual?
If less energetic means sleeping at random hours of the day and night and sometimes not at all, then yeah. Check. My heart starts to beat faster, but I refuse to take this list too seriously. It came from the Internet.
Do you have trouble concentrating?
I’ve made it through this list, so I can answer no to this one. I don’t check the box, but before I move on to the next question, I start to think about this question a little more. I haven’t been able to focus on my crossword puzzles like I usually do. And one of the reasons I stopped going to school is because I was getting so antsy in class, it was hard to pay attention. I draw a check mark, but make it lighter than the rest. I’ll count it as a no if I need to.
Have you noticed changes in your sleep patterns?
Well . . . I didn’t used to sleep all day. Check. But I think that’s just a side effect of skipping school.
Have you had a change in appetite?
If I have, I haven’t noticed it. Finally! One I’m not checking.
Or . . . wait. I’ve been skipping meals lately. But that could also be a side effect of skipping school.
Do you ever feel indifferent?
Check.
Have you cried more than usual?
Check.
Have you ever had thoughts of suicide?
Does just once or twice count? Check.
Have you ever attempted suicide?
Check.
I stare at the list with a knot in my stomach. My hands are trembling as I look over the list and realize I’ve checked off every single box.
Fuck this stupid list. It’s no different from any other online symptom checklist that leads people to falsely believe they’re suffering from some terrible disease. Have a headache? You must have a brain tumor! Have chest pain? You’re having a heart attack! Trouble sleeping? You’re depressed!
I crumple it up into a ball and chuck it across the room. Five minutes pass as I stare motionless at the wad of paper on the floor. I eventually force myself to snap out of it.
I’ll go check on Wolfgang. At least he won’t torture me with conversation or questions.
“You want to help me feed Wolfgang?” I ask Moby as I make my way through the living room. He’s sitting on the couch, watching cartoons, but he jumps off the couch and beats me to the back door.
“Is he mean?”
“No, not at all.” I fill the pitcher up with dog food and open the back door.
“Daddy said he’s mean,” Moby says. “He called him a bastard.”
I laugh and follow him down the steps. I don’t know why it’s so cute when kids cuss. I’ll probably be that mother who encourages her kids to say things like “shit” and “dammit.”
When we make it to the doghouse, Wolfgang isn’t inside it. “Where is he?” Moby asks.
I look around the yard. “I don’t know.” I walk around the doghouse, yelling his name. Moby spins in a circle with me as we scan the dark yard for him. “Let me go turn on the back porch light.” I make my way back to the porch when Moby calls my name.
“Merit!” he says. “Is that him?”
He’s pointing to the side of the house. I walk around the corner and Wolfgang is crawling out from under the house, right next to the window to the basement. I sigh, relieved. I don’t know why I’m oddly attached to this dog, but I was about to start panicking. I walk back over to Wolfgang’s bowl and fill it with dog food. He slowly makes his way to the bowl and begins eating. “Getting your appetite back, huh?” I pet him between the ears and Moby reaches out and does the same. Guess that means he’s not depressed.
“How’s he doing?”
I spin around to find Sagan making his way over to us. He’s acting so casual, like nothing even happened last night. Two can play at that game. “He looks a little better.”
Sagan kneels down next to me and runs his hand across Wolfgang’s stomach. “Yeah, he does seem a little better.” He moves his hand to pet Wolfgang on the head and his fingers brush against mine. It sends chills up my arms and I’m so glad it’s almost dark. The last thing I need him to see is that he still flusters me.
“Can he sleep in my room with me tonight?” Moby asks.
Sagan laughs. “I don’t think your dad would like that very much.”
“We don’t have to tell him,” Moby says.
His comment makes me laugh. My father is going to have his work cut out with this one.
The headlights from my father’s car scroll across the property as he pulls into the driveway. “Pizza’s here!” Moby yells. It’s so rare that Victoria allows him to have pizza, he forgets all about Wolfgang and runs back into the house. I don’t want to be left alone too long in the awkwardness between me and Sagan.
“I’m starving.” I grab the empty pitcher and Sagan follows me toward the back door. As soon as my hand is on the handle of the screen door, Sagan grabs my other hand and tugs on it, not wanting me to go inside yet. I close my eyes momentarily and sigh. When I turn around, I’m a step higher than him, so we’re eye to eye.
“Merit,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry about last night. I was up all night thinking about it.”
He sounds sincere. I open my mouth, but then I clamp it shut again because I lost his attention to the ring of his phone. He’s digging in his pocket, stepping back down onto the grass, bringing his phone to his ear.
“Wow,” I whisper. I shouldn’t be shocked that I misread his apology as sincere. He couldn’t even silence his phone long enough for me to respond?
I leave him to his urgent phone call and let the screen door slam shut behind me.
I walk into the kitchen just as my father and Victoria are walking through the front door with the pizza. “Moby, they didn’t have gluten free,” Victoria says. “You can have regular pizza tonight, but don’t get used to it.”
Moby’s eyes light up and he climbs onto a bar stool and pulls a box toward him before Victoria even has a chance to set it on the counter.
“That’s not how being gluten intolerant works,” I say to Victoria. “You can either have it or you can’t.”
Luck covers my mouth with his hand. “Merit. Let the mother allow her child some gluten tonight.”
I pull my head away from Luck’s hand and mutter, “I’m just making a point.”
Honor is next to me, pulling a stack of paper plates out of the cabinet when Sagan walks into the kitchen. “You need any help?” he asks her.
She shakes her head. “Nope.”
That wasn’t a friendly nope. I’m curious if she’s mad at him, too. He scoots around her and grabs some cups. Moments later, we’re all seated at the table, sans Utah.
Honestly, it’s strange not having him here. I can’t help but wonder where he is right now and where he spent the last two nights. Or how long my father is going to be mad at him before he allows him to come back here.
Honor is staring at the empty spot where Utah usually eats. “It wasn’t enough that you kicked him out? You went and got rid of his chair, too?”
My father glances at the empty spot. “The chair broke,” he says, failing to mention that he’s the one who broke it when he smashed it against the wall.
The next few minutes are quiet. Even from Moby. I think he can sense that things have been a little off lately. I watch Victoria for a moment, wondering how she’s still here, sitting at this table with my father two nights in a row, knowing what he’s been doing behind her back.
“Did anyone take pizza down to your mother?” my father asks.
I shake my head. “I won’t be doing that anymore. If she wants to eat, she can come up and make her own plate.”
My father narrows his eyes at me, like the dinner table is no place for honesty.
“Why don’t you take her some pizza, Dad?” Honor says with a hint of condescension in her voice. “I’m sure she’d love to see you.”
And this is where Victoria draws the line, I guess. She doesn’t even yell this time. She just drops her pizza on her plate and pushes back her chair. The screech it makes against the floor is deafening. No one says anything until her bedroom door slams shut.
“We almost made it to the end,” Luck says, reaffirming the fact that we can’t even make it through a single meal. That’s when my father drops his pizza onto his plate with the same frustration Victoria did. He stands up and heads to his bedroom, but he hesitates and then comes back to the table and points at us. At Honor and me. He opens his mouth to lecture us, but nothing comes out. Just fumes of frustration. He shakes his head and follows after Victoria.
I look down at Moby to make sure he’s okay, but he’s working a slice of pepperoni into his mouth like nothing matters but pizza. He’s got the right attitude if you ask me.
Luck is the first to break up the awkwardness. “You guys want to go swimming at the hotel tonight?”
We all answer simultaneously.
“No.” —Me.
“No.” —Honor.
“Yeah.” —Sagan.
Sagan glances at Honor and she’s glaring at him. “I mean . . . no?” he says, trying his best to get that frown off her face. I feel bad for him, even though I’m still angry at him. Is she mad because he’s paid attention to me for the last two days? Does she have to be the center of everyone’s attention?
“It’s not a competition, Honor,” I say. “He can be friends with more than one person.”
She laughs and takes a drink of her soda. “Friends?” she says, placing the can back down on the table. “Is that what you call it?”
“Honor,” Sagan says. “We talked about this.”
They did?
Why? What did they talk about?
Honor shakes her head. “Just because you make out with her doesn’t mean you know her like I do.”
I can feel my anger smash against my chest with nowhere to go but out. I want to scream at her but I try to keep my composure in front of Moby.
“What’s ‘make out’?” Moby asks.
“Hey,” Luck says, standing up. “Let’s go to your room, Moby.” Thankfully he grabs Moby’s hand and pulls him out of the kitchen, but not before Moby grabs his plate and takes it with them.
Honor is still glaring at me from across the table.
“Where is all this hostility coming from?” I ask, frustrated. “I assumed you’d be a little more sympathetic.”
“Oh, please,” she says, scooting her chair back. She stands up. “If it was the truth you would have said something when it happened. Why would Utah do something like that to you and not to me?”
My jaw is tight and my teeth are grinding together as I hold back everything I want to say to her right now. “I can’t believe you’re taking Utah’s side right now.”
“You’re calling him out when you admitted to the whole family that you tried to lose your virginity to our uncle?”
“Stop!” Sagan says, standing up. His chair falls back and crashes against the floor. “Both of you! Just stop it!”
Too late for mediation, Sagan.
I grab my glass of water and splash it in Honor’s face. She gasps, wide-eyed and angry. Before I can escape, she’s across the table with a handful of my hair in her fist. I scream and try to pry her hand loose, but it’s useless. I grab her ponytail and yank it. Sagan’s hands are around my waist and he’s trying to pull me away, but I’m halfway across the table now and I refuse to let go until she does. Her other hand grips my T-shirt so I pull at the front of her shirt.
Several of the buttons pop off and Sagan is still trying to break us up when someone yells, “Hey!”
That sounds like Utah’s voice, but I’m not really in a position to turn around and look. I don’t have to, because Utah jumps on the table and tries to climb between us. He’s prying Honor’s hands off me and Sagan is trying to do the same to Honor. “Stop!” Utah yells.
We don’t stop. I’m pretty sure a good chunk of Honor’s hair is now wrapped around my fingers, but I just grab hold of more.
“Cover her mouth!” Utah yells at Sagan. Utah says this just as he clamps his hand over my mouth and nose, smothering me. Sagan is behind Honor now, covering her mouth and nose with his hand.
What the hell are they doing? Trying to kill us?
I can’t breathe!
Honor’s eyes grow wide after several seconds and we’re both trying to struggle out of their grips while still refusing to let go of each other.
I can’t take it another second.
I can’t breathe.
I release Honor’s hair and grip Utah’s hand that’s covering my mouth. Honor does the same, pulling Sagan’s hand away from her mouth. We’re both gasping for breath when they release us.
“What the hell!?” Honor says, shoving Sagan. “Are you trying to kill me?”
Sagan looks at Utah and gives him a thumbs-up, then he puts his hands on his knees and bends over, catching his breath. “Quick thinking,” Sagan says to Utah.
I fall into my chair again, trying to catch my own breath. I pull strands of Honor’s hair from my fingers.
“What’s going on?”
My father is back. He’s standing next to the table, which is now a chaotic mess of pizza parts. Honor’s shirt is ripped and both of us look a wild mess. But he isn’t looking at any of that. He’s addressing Utah, who is wiping pizza off his jeans.
“What are you doing here?” my father asks.
“I’m calling a family meeting,” Utah says.
My father shakes his head. “Now’s not a good time.”
Utah laughs under his breath and says, “If you want me to wait for the perfect time to discuss kissing my little sister, we’ll be waiting for an eternity. We’re having a family meeting. Tonight.” Utah walks past my father and heads toward his bedroom. He slams the door so hard, I jump in my seat.
My father grips the back of one of the chairs and shoves it at the table so hard, I jump again.
“Great,” Honor mutters. She goes to her room and slams her door, too.
It’s just me and Sagan now. He’s standing on the other side of the table, staring at me. I think he’s expecting me to cry or get angry or have some sort of normal reaction to everything that just happened. I scoot my chair toward the table and reach to the only box of pizza that isn’t ruined. It’s ham and pineapple. Figures.
“Next time Honor and I fight on the kitchen table, try to salvage a box of pepperoni, will ya?”
Sagan does that quiet laugh of his and shakes his head. He sits down across from me and pulls the box of ham and pineapple toward him. He pulls out a slice and takes a bite, then with a mouthful he says, “You’re kind of a badass, Merit.”
It makes me smile.
I don’t want to be smiling at him, so I grab a slice of pizza and walk to my room with it, then close the door.
An hour later, Moby is asleep, I’ve washed the pizza off myself and almost everyone in the family is seated in the living room together for the first time in years. Utah is pacing the floor, waiting on my father to join us. I’m on the couch between Sagan and Luck. I mostly scoot toward Luck so that not too many parts of me are touching Sagan. Honor and Victoria have taken both the recliners.
When my father finally does walk into the room, he doesn’t sit down. He leans against the wall near Jesus Christ and folds his arms over his chest.
Utah inhales a deep breath, like he’s nervous.
He can’t be as nervous as I am. I know I’m trying to play it cool, but my stomach has been in knots since he walked through the door an hour ago. I don’t want to talk about this, and I especially don’t want to talk about it in front of the entire family. I guess that’s what happens when you lay everything out in the open with a letter, though.
Utah wrings his hands together and then shakes them out, still pacing the living room. Now that we’re all here, he finally comes to a pause. Right in front of me.
I don’t look up at him. I just want him to hurry up and say his lame apology so we can all move on and continue to pretend that it didn’t happen.
“I feel like I owe everyone an explanation,” he says. He begins pacing again, but I stare at my hands, clasped in front of me. I still have black nail polish on my thumb nails, left over from last month, so I pick at it.
“I was thirteen,” he says. “Merit was twelve. And it’s true . . . everything she said. But that’s not who I am. I was a kid, and it was stupid, and I’ve regretted doing it since the moment it happened.”
“Then why did you do it?” I snap. I’m shocked at the anger in my voice as I continue chipping away at the polish on my thumb.
“I was confused,” he says. “My friends would come to school every day and talk about girls. We were all hitting puberty and our hormones were crazy, but I didn’t care about the girls. All I could think about were the boys. I thought something was wrong with me.”
He pauses in front of me again, and I know he’s looking down at me, wanting me to make eye contact with him. I can’t. He eventually begins pacing again.
“I thought maybe if I kissed a girl it would fix me. But I was a kid, and I didn’t know the first thing about kissing or girls. All I knew was that there was one person I wanted to kiss, and according to society, I wasn’t supposed to want to kiss Logan.”
I finally lift my eyes to watch Utah speak for a moment. He isn’t looking at me. He’s still pacing.
“I had written Logan a letter that day, telling him I liked him. He showed everyone at his lunch table and then called me a queer when we were walking out of the cafeteria. I was so upset after that. I didn’t want to be queer, I didn’t want to like Logan. I just wanted to be what I thought was normal. So that night, I didn’t even think about the consequences of what I was doing. I was desperate to fix myself, so I made Merit kiss me, hoping it would . . . I don’t know. Cure me.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t want to hear anymore. I don’t want to go back to that moment, and I don’t want to hear his excuses.
“As soon as it happened, I knew I had done something terrible. She ran out of my bedroom, and I ran to the bathroom and threw up. I was disgusted with myself. Disgusted by what I did to Merit. And I’ve spent every day since then regretting it. Trying to make up for it.”
I shake my head, trying to hold back my tears. “You’re a liar,” I say, finally looking up at him. “You haven’t done a damn thing to make up for it! You never explained yourself and you’ve never once apologized to me!”
The tears have made an appearance, so I swipe at them angrily.
“Merit,” Utah says.
I suck in air through my nose and then force it back out. It’s an angry sound.
“Please look at me.”
I fall back against the couch and look up at him. He actually looks remorseful, but he has had an entire day to practice this speech. He squeezes the back of his neck and then squats down in front of me so that we’re at eye level. I fold my arms over my chest and hug myself.
“I am so sorry,” he says. “Every day, every hour, every second since then I’ve regretted that moment. And I’ve never apologized because . . .” He looks down at the floor for a moment. When he lifts his eyes back to mine, there are tears in them. “I was hoping you forgot. Praying you forgot. If I had known how much it affected you I would have done everything I could to make up for it and I mean that, Merit. The fact that you remember and you’ve been angry at me all these years . . . I can’t even tell you how much regret I have.”
A tear slides down my chin and lands on my arm. I wipe it away with the sleeve of my shirt.
“Merit, please,” he says, his voice desperate. “Please tell them I have never done anything even remotely inappropriate since that day.” He looks over at Honor and stands up. “You, too, Honor. Tell them,” he says, waving toward my father.
Honor nods and looks at my father. “He’s telling the truth, Dad. He’s never touched me.”
My father looks at me and I nod, too, but I can’t speak yet. Too many emotions are caught in my throat. But I can tell by the look on my father’s face that he wants to make sure I’m okay with Utah moving back in.
Everyone is looking at me now, even Utah.
I nod and manage to choke out a quiet “I believe him.”
The room is quiet for a moment. Victoria eventually stands up. “Okay, then.” She begins walking toward the kitchen, when she turns around and says, “I’d appreciate it if you all would clean up this damn mess you made.”
Luck laughs under his breath. Utah faces me and mouths “Thank you.”
I look away from him, because I don’t want him to think I’m doing him any favors. I can’t just let go of years of anger simply because he finally apologized.
“Meeting adjourned,” my father says, clapping his hands together. “You heard your stepmother. Clean up your mess.”
The meeting may be adjourned, but this is just one of many issues that needs addressing in this family.
We spend the next fifteen minutes cleaning the kitchen in silence. I don’t think any of us really know what to say. It was a very sobering family meeting. The Vosses aren’t used to so much honesty in one day.
“How did pizza sauce end up on the window?” Luck asks, wiping the glass with a wet rag. “Looks like I missed a good fight.”
I close the dishwasher once it’s loaded and hit the Start button. Honor washes her hands in the sink next to me. “I’ve got pizza sauce in my bra,” she says. “I’m gonna go shower.”
Utah walks to the pantry and grabs his box of letters. Pretty sure this will be the first time he’s ever changed the marquee at night. He walks toward the door and pauses, then turns around and looks at me. “You want to help?”
My eyes dart around the room until I find Sagan. I don’t know why I look to him for reassurance. I just honestly don’t think I’ve been alone with Utah in several years and this all seems so strange. Sagan gives me a small nod, silently telling me I should go with Utah. It isn’t lost on me that I just looked to Sagan for advice. I dry my hands on a towel and walk toward the front door.
When we’re outside and the front door is closed, Utah smiles at me, but neither of us says anything. We just both walk in silence until we reach the marquee. He sets the box of letters down on the ground and starts removing the letters that are already on the marquee. I walk over to the marquee and start pulling down a few of the letters.
“You have a quote you want to put on the marquee?” he asks.
I think about it for a moment and then say, “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
He points down to the box. “They’re in alphabetical order if you want to go ahead and pull them out.”
I bend down and start pulling the letters I’ll need out of the box while he continues to remove the words from the marquee. “Did you really not know I was gay?”
I laugh. “I don’t know what I thought.”
He bends down and puts the last of the letters in the box. “Does it bother you?”
I shake my head. “Not at all.”
He nods, but he doesn’t look convinced. And then I remember that he’s probably still thinking about the letter I wrote and all the hateful things I said to him. “Utah, I’m serious. I don’t care that you’re gay. I know I said some mean things in that letter, but I was upset. I really am sorry for that. We were kids. I know that . . . I’ve just spent years building up a lot of animosity toward you.”
I pull out the last letter and place it on the ground. When I stand up, Utah stands up, too. He holds eye contact with me for a moment, and then he says. “I’m sorry, too. Really, Merit. I mean it.”
The sincerity in his voice makes me feel things and my God, I’m so sick of crying. But I do it anyway. Stupid tears start running down my cheeks, but I can’t help it. I’ve needed to hear him say that for so long.
Utah reaches for my hand and pulls me into a tight hug. My face presses against his chest and he hugs me like a brother should hug his sister and that makes me cry even harder. I wrap my arms around him and as soon as I do, I can feel all the anger I’ve ever felt for him evaporate with every tear I shed.
“I’ll be a better sibling,” he says. “I promise.”
I nod against his chest. “Me too.”
He releases me and then says, “Let’s finish this and go inside.” We finish up the marquee and walk toward the front door. As soon as we open it, we see Luck at the kitchen table, looking down at a piece of paper in his hands.
“You’re a dick!” he yells.
Utah and I close the door. “What now?” Utah asks, walking the box of letters back to the pantry. Sagan is seated across from Luck, who looks extremely pissed off.
“I don’t look like this!”
Sagan laughs. “Don’t ask me to draw you if you’re going to argue with me about how I perceive you.”
Luck pushes back his chair and tosses the sketch at Sagan. “If this is how you see me, you suck as an artist.” He walks to the refrigerator and Sagan is laughing quietly. I walk over to him and grab the sketch that pissed off Luck. I flip it over and immediately start to laugh.
“Let me see,” Utah says. I hand him the sketch of Luck and Utah bursts out in laughter. “Wow,” he says, handing the sketch back to Sagan. “You holding a grudge or something?”
Sagan grins and slips the sketch into the back of his sketchbook.
“Actually, let me keep that,” Utah says. “For blackmail.”
Luck walks around the bar and tries to snatch it from Utah, but Utah holds it up in the air. Luck tries to grab it again but Utah runs down the hallway with Luck close on his heels.
“I like the marquee,” Sagan says, pulling my attention back to him. I glance out the window at the quote I had Utah put up.
NOT EVERY MISTAKE DESERVES A CONSEQUENCE. SOMETIMES THE ONLY THING IT DESERVES IS FORGIVENESS.
I shrug. “I heard it from some guy.”
It’s hard for me to look at him right now because so much of me still likes so much of him. And for some reason, the way he’s looking at me right now is the hardest to accept. Like he’s proud of me.
Luckily, he gets one of his urgent phone calls again. At least this time he holds up a finger and says, “One second,” while pulling out his phone.
I don’t give him his second. I just give him privacy as I make my way to my room. I’ve had enough for one day, and even though I slept through most of it, I’m already ready to sleep through the rest of it.
When I get to my room, I realize just how literal Sagan was being when he said, “One second.” He’s knocking on my door almost immediately after I close it. When I open it, he’s sliding his phone back into his pocket.
I don’t ask him why he’s at my door or what he wants to talk about. I just start with the question that’s been bothering me the most. “Why do you get so many phone calls?” He’s always answering his phone, no matter what he’s in the middle of. It’s actually kind of rude.
“It’s never who I want it to be,” he says, walking into my room uninvited.
“Come in, I guess.”
Sagan walks around my room, looking at everything. He pauses in front of my trophy shelf. “When did you start collecting these?”
I walk to my bed and take a seat. “I stole the first one from my first boyfriend. He broke up with me in the middle of a make-out session and it made me mad.”
Sagan laughs and then picks a few up and inspects them. “I don’t know why I like this about you as much as I do.”
I bite my cheek to hide my smile.
Sagan sets the trophy down on the dresser and faces me. “You want a tattoo?”
My heart skips at the thought. “Right now?”
He nods. “If you swear you won’t tell anyone.”
“I swear.” I try not to smile, but I’m way too excited.
Sagan nods his head toward his room and I follow him across the hall. He pulls the desk chair close to the bed and motions for me to sit in it. He starts messing with a box of tattoo equipment that he pulls from the closet.
“What do you want?”
“I don’t care. You pick.”
He looks at me and arches an eyebrow. “You want me to pick the tattoo that’s going to be permanently etched into your skin for the rest of your life?”
I nod. “Is that weird?”
He laughs quietly. “Everything you do is weird,” he says. But before I can reflect too much on that comment, he says, “It’s my favorite thing about you.” He pulls out a piece of transfer paper and a pen, then places it on his dresser and begins drawing something. “You have five minutes to change your mind.”
I watch him sketch my tattoo for the next five minutes, but I can’t see what it is from where he’s positioned. When he’s done, I still haven’t changed my mind. He walks to the bedroom door and locks it. “If anyone sees this, you better lie and say you got it from someone else.”
I try to peek at it when he walks near me, but he hides it. “You can’t see it yet.”
My mouth falls open. “I didn’t say I’d let you tattoo something on me before it gets my approval.”
He grins and says, “I promise you won’t hate it.” He has me pull my arm through my sleeve. “Can I do it right here?” he asks, touching the top right area of my back. “I’ll make it small.”
I nod and then close my eyes, waiting anxiously for him to begin. He’s sitting on the bed with all the tattoo equipment set up beside him. I’m facing the other direction, which is actually a relief. I don’t really want to have to watch him the whole time. I might be too transparent in my thoughts.
He transfers the tattoo onto my skin first, then hands me a pillow to hug over the back of my chair right before he starts. The initial sting is painful, but I squeeze my eyes shut and try to focus on breathing. It’s actually not as painful as I thought it would be, but it certainly doesn’t feel good. I try to focus on something else, so I decide to make conversation with him.
“What does the tattoo on your arm mean? The one that says, ‘Your turn, Doctor.’ ”
I can feel a rush of warm air meet my neck when he sighs. Sagan pauses a moment until my chills subside, then he begins the tattooing process again.
“It’s a long story,” he says, trying to dismiss it again.
“Good thing all we have is time.”
He’s quiet for so long as he continues tattooing me that I assume he’s not going to elaborate, like always. But then he says, “Remember when I told you the flag on my arm was a Syrian Opposition flag?”
I nod. “Yes. You said your father was born there.”
“Yeah, he was. But my mother is American. From Kansas, actually. I was born there.” He pauses talking for a moment while he concentrates on the tattoo, but then he continues. “Do you know anything about the Syrian refugee crisis?”
I shake my head, grateful he’s finally in a talkative mood. This tattoo hurts a little more than I imagined and I need a distraction. “I’ve heard of it. But I don’t really know much about it.” Much meaning nothing.
Sagan says, “Yeah, they don’t really teach about it in schools here.”
He’s quiet for a few more painful seconds, but then he moves to a different spot of my shoulder and I feel some relief. He begins talking again. I do nothing but listen.
“Syria has been ruled by a dictatorship for a long time now. It’s why my father moved to America for medical school. A lot of other countries around Syria are also ruled by dictators. Well, several years ago, something called the Arab Spring began. A lot of citizens in these countries began to hold protests and demonstrations to try and overthrow the dictators. The people wanted their countries to be less corrupt. They wanted them to run like more of a democracy, with checks and balances. The protests were successful in Tunisia and Egypt and the leaders stepped down. A new form of government was put in place. After that, the people of Syria and other countries were hopeful that it could happen in their countries, too.”
“So the tattoo is somehow related to Syria?”
“Yeah,” he says. “It’s what many believe started the revolution. The Syrian ruler, Bashar al-Assad, studied to be an ophthalmologist before his father died and he took over as the new leader of Syria. Bashar’s nickname is Doctor. Well . . . a group of school kids spray-painted graffiti on a wall at their school with the words, ‘Your turn, Doctor.’ They were essentially saying what many in Syria had been quietly hoping. That the Doctor would step down, just as the leaders of Egypt and Tunisia had, in order to allow for a democracy in Syria.”
I hold up my hand to pause him. I’m soaking all of this in but I have so many questions. “At the risk of sounding stupid, what year did this happen?”
“Two thousand eleven.”
“Did the Doctor step down after that?”
Sagan wipes at my tattoo again and then presses the needle against my skin. I wince when he says, “He did the opposite, actually. He had the children responsible for the graffiti imprisoned and tortured.”
I start to turn around, but he puts a firm hand on my shoulder. “He had them arrested?” I ask.
“He wanted to make a point to the people of Syria that there would be no tolerance for opposition. He didn’t care that they were just kids. When the parents started demanding the release of their children, the government didn’t listen. In fact, one of the officers in command said to the parents of the children, ‘Forget your children. Just make more children. And if you don’t know how to make more, I’ll send someone to show you.’ ”
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
“I didn’t say it would be a good story,” he says, continuing. “Once the Doctor imprisoned the kids involved, people in the city of Daraa took to the streets. Protests and demonstrations started happening, but instead of being met with compromise, the government used deadly force against them. A lot of people died. This sparked nationwide protests. People demanded the Doctor step down. But he refused, and instead, he used military force to crack down even harder on the protestors. The violence escalated and soon turned into a civil war. Which is now why there’s a refugee crisis. Almost half a million people have died so far and millions more have had to flee the country to save their lives.”
I can’t speak. I don’t know what to say to him. I can’t reassure him because there isn’t anything reassuring about that story. And honestly, I’m embarrassed I didn’t know any of that. I see the headlines online and in the paper but I never understand any of it. It’s never directly affected me so I’ve never thought to even look into it.
He stopped tattooing but I don’t know if he’s finished, so I don’t move. “We moved to Syria when I was ten,” he says, his voice quieter. “My father is a surgeon and he and my mother opened a medical clinic there. But after living there for a year, when things started to get bad, my parents sent me back here to live with my grandparents until my father could get his visa to return home. My mother was due to give birth to my little sister so she couldn’t fly at the time. They told me it would just be three months. But right before they were due to fly home . . .”
His voice trails off. Since he’s no longer tattooing me, I spin the chair around to look at him. He’s sitting with his hands clasped between his knees, looking down. When he looks up at me, his eyes are red, but he’s holding his composure.
“Before they came home, communication just stopped. They went from calling me every day to complete silence. I haven’t heard from them in seven years.”
I cover my mouth in shock.
Sagan is sitting stoically, staring at his hands again. Both of my hands are pressed against my mouth in disbelief. I can’t believe this is his life.
This is why he answers the phone with such urgency, because he’s always hoping it will be news about his family. I can’t imagine suffering through seven years of not knowing.
“I feel like such an asshole,” I whisper. “My problems are nothing compared to what you’ve been going through . . .”
He looks up at me with completely dry eyes. I think that makes me the saddest, to know that he’s so used to his life that it doesn’t make him cry every second of the day.
He puts his hand on my chair and says, “You aren’t an asshole, Mer.” He turns me around. “Hold still. I’m almost finished.”
We sit in silence as he finishes up my tattoo. I can’t stop thinking about everything that’s happening with him. It has my stomach in knots. And I really do feel like an asshole. He read a letter I wrote, complaining about my entire family and our trivial issues. And he doesn’t even know if his family is alive.
“Done,” he whispers. He cleans it with something cold and then he begins to bandage it up.
“Wait,” I say, turning around. “I want to see it first.”
He shakes his head. “Not yet. I want you to keep the bandage on until Saturday.”
“Saturday? It’s only Thursday.”
“I want you to anticipate it a little longer,” he says with a smile. I like that he’s smiling after the heaviness of the conversation. Even if it is forced. “I’ll apply lotion every few hours until then.”
I like the idea of that, so I reluctantly agree. “At least tell me what it is.”
“You’ll see what it is on Saturday.” He starts cleaning up his mess. I stand up and roll the chair back to the desk. He walks his box of supplies to his closet.
As I watch him, I’m overcome by an overwhelming sense of compassion for him. For what he’s going through. I walk to him and slip my arms around his waist, pressing my face against his chest.
I just need to hug him after hearing all of that. And based on the way he wraps himself around me and accepts the hug without question, he must have needed it, too. We stand like this for an entire minute before he presses a kiss to the top of my head. “Thanks for that,” he says, releasing me.
I nod. “Good night.”
He smiles appreciatively. “Good night, Merit.”