Chapter twenty:

 

 

“What can I do?” I say.

Because she’s been crying for a long time now, as if she’s letting go of the years of pain she’s been holding onto. As if it’s all “coming out in the wash.” That’s what my mom used to say. ‘It’ll come out in the wash, Ethan. Just let it all go.’

She cries and I hold her. I shush her. I kiss her hair, her cheek, and her head. I kiss her hand, her neck, and her lips. And the more I kiss, the more she cries, but it’s all I know how to do to make her feel better. But still she cries and she cries, and I hold her against me and will her to feel better soon.

I hate to see her so upset.

“You can let me go,” she says, looking up at me through her thick, damp lashes.

I laugh and smile. “Silly.” And then I kiss her lips again. “I’ve missed you, Carrie. I’ve missed you so, so much. I never stopped thinking about you, and wondering where you were, what you were doing. Thoughts of you kept me awake at night.”

And it’s true, they did.

I would lie awake in my room, listening to people screaming and yelling at each other, and I would close my eyes, put my hand down my pants, and I would think of Carrie. She kept me going all those years. She kept me sane when my mom stopped visiting. She kept me strong when my dad refused to have a son anymore.

And when my parole came up, it was thoughts of her that kept my head clear enough so that they let me out.

I wasn’t a danger anymore, they said.

I never was to begin with, I thought.

I spent a few years in juvie, which was really, really bad. But then they talked with me and it was decided that I wasn’t mentally stable at the time, and because of that I couldn’t be fully accountable for my actions.

A psychotic break, they called it, due to borderline schizophrenia.

I was shocked.

I was confused.

I didn’t think it could get much worse than that. But I wasn’t a boy anymore, and when they sent me to the hospital, things got so much worse.

The people there were crazy.

Much crazier than me.

Carrie starts to cry again, and I press her wet cheek against my chest and I hum to soothe her, because it’s the only thing I can think of to do. The only way I know to make her feel any better. It’s what my mom used to do when I was a kid, and it always made me feel better. But it doesn’t seem to work with her because she cries even harder. And that makes me sad.

“Please stop crying now. We can’t move forward if you don’t let go of the past.” And that makes her stop, and I want to cheer, hurray!

My counselor-slash-therapist-slash-Mr. fucking Jeffrey told me that. He told me that you have to let go if you want to move forward.

And I hate to admit it, but he was right. You can’t be angry at the past; you have to look forward to the future, because what’s happened has happened, and it can happen only once.

My life went to shit, but that’s done now. Things are going to get better now, and all because I’m looking to the future and I’m being positive.

And because I was patient and observant, and I found Carrie.

And now Carrie needs to do the same thing.

She needs to let go, and move forward, with me.

“Move forward?” she asks, and she squirms on my lap to look at me better. I don’t let her go though, because I know she needs me close.

Her cheeks are red and blotchy; her lip is swollen and bloody. The small cut on her forehead is swollen too, and it looks painful. But it’s her eyes that look the sorest. They’re red and puffy. She needs an ice pack to soothe them.

“Yes, move forward.”

“With you?” she says, looking confused.

I nod and smile, and I can feel a yawn in my mouth but I stifle it. And I realize how exhausted I am now.

“Together?” she says.

And it’s really late and I’m getting really tired now, so I guess that’s why I snap at her.

“Yes, Carrie, with me. Who the fuck else would you move forward with? Mr. Fancy Asshole Adam?” I laugh like he’s a big joke, and he is a big fucking joke. Not like me. I got the girl. “Yes, we can move forward, together. Everything’s going to be okay. Just stop crying now, okay?”

And she looks frightened again, and I feel bad for that, but hey, she’s stopped crying, so that’s good, right?

Glass half full and all that shit. I smile, but she doesn’t smile back.

“Maybe you just need to get some sleep. I bet you’ll feel much better after some sleep.” I smile wider, because see? I am observant. I will be a good husband.

“Sleep? Yes, yes, I need to sleep,” she mumbles, and looks away.

And so I sit her up and I get off the sofa and then I lay her back down on the sofa, with her head on the ugly cushion, and I tell her to get some sleep. And she closes her eyes and I think, great job, Ethan.

I sit in the chair opposite her, and I watch her for a while. I decide she’s only pretending to be asleep. But that’s okay because eventually she’ll really fall asleep. That’s what happens when you keep your eyes closed for so long. That’s what happens when something huge and scary or exciting happens. You might pretend to sleep, but eventually you really do fall asleep. That’s how I used to get to sleep in the hospital. I’d pretend to sleep so my roommate wouldn’t talk to me anymore.

I’d listen to him touch himself, coming into his own hand while he cried out “mom,” and then I would try to ignore the arguments coming from all the other rooms. Our room was always quiet. We were a good team—until we weren’t, of course.

Kind of like Carrie and I, really.

Eventually, Carrie really does fall asleep. I know she is because her erratic breathing steadies out and her face goes slack. And then I try to sleep too. Because I really am exhausted. It’s been a crazy and exciting day, and that will take it out of anyone. But I find I can’t sleep. Knowing that she’s there, so close that I could touch her—it keeps me awake. Because I’ve waited so long for this moment, and now it’s here.

I open my eyes every once in a while to make sure that this isn’t just one big dream, and sure enough, every time I open my eyes, she’s still there. I take out her phone and I look through the pictures of her naked body, and I start to grow hard in my pants again so I turn it off and put it in my pocket.

It’s no good, I decide, and I stand up and go to the kitchen. I go quietly, because I don’t want to wake her up. She deserves her sleep. I get that. I look through her cupboards again, because I’m really hungry now, and I give in and open the tomato soup, but when it’s cooked I can’t actually bring myself to eat it, so I tip it away. And then I wash the pan, and then I clean the rest of her pots and dishes, because her kitchen really is disgusting.

You need to take better care of yourself, Carrie.

And then I remember that I’m here now, so she doesn’t need to worry about that, because I can take care of her from now on. I smile and I take a deep breath, the smell of bleach reaching my nostrils and making me feel even better and more clear-headed. I’m tired but not sleepy now. And I honestly, truly, can’t wait until tomorrow when she wakes up because then we can start planning our life together.

I can tell her all the ideas I have for us.

All the plans.

Plans that had all been make believe up until yesterday, but are now going to be our reality. A house, some kids, and our dog called Shep.

I can show her my apartment. It’s in a shitty neighborhood but it’s much cleaner than this place. And I’ll tell her she’ll have to get a new phone and come and live with me because I don’t want Adam trying to contact her. And I wonder what she does for a living now?

I wonder if she ever grew up and became the painter that she hoped to be.

Is it wrong that I kinda hope so but I also hope not? It probably is, and that makes me bad. But I’d like to be there to help her achieve that dream. I’ve missed so much of her life, and I don’t want to miss any more.

I won’t miss any more, I think with a smile. That’s it now, me and you kid, me and you against the world.