Damage - A. M. Jenkins [41]
“What do you mean?”
“My mom and I were just getting back from grocery shopping, and right when we pulled up in the driveway we heard this popping noise from the garage. It sounded like a firecracker. And I was just six, you know? I thought he had some firecrackers out there. So then—” She touches the paper with the tips of her fingers, pressing the black-inked letters as if there’s something between the lines that can’t be seen, only felt. “God. This is so useless to talk about. What happened was, my mom went to see what the noise was, and it turned out he had shot himself.”
It’s too tremendous an effort to think of even a single word to say. You can’t even manage to raise your head again and look at her; you just keep staring straight ahead through the doorway into the dark hallway, watching the walls flash day bright, then gray for a split second, then dark, then gray again, because the television is still on in the room down the hall.
You sit there, letting the bed hold you up. Heather’s frowning down at the paper in her hand.
“He was so selfish. And a coward. All he had to do was stick around a stupid garage apartment in Ohio. I mean, he had a kid, and it’s not like he had to climb a mountain or do something hard. All he had to do was stay alive.” Her shoulders give the slightest of shrugs. “So now you know. I wasn’t even enough to make my own father want to stick around. Hold it over my head all you want.”
She gives the note one last look before she crumples it into a hard little ball. She tosses it toward the corner wastebasket; it falls about two feet short, but she’s already sitting—collapsing, really—next to you.
You put an arm around her.
“I love you, Austin,” she says, just like before.
Only this time she looks at you, waiting for a reply.
Of course you have to say it. You must love her—you need her more than you’ve ever needed anybody. You’re so addicted that you’ll die if she withdraws. And she just told you she loves you. Of course you have to say it back.
She sits there with those big blue eyes, bright and clear as a little girl’s eyes, as a doll’s eyes, waiting to hear them: three, short, one-syllable words. Three little words—how hard could it be?
“Me, too,” you finally manage. Too late. She’s already shriveling a little and looking away.
You shrivel a little, too. You always figured that when you finally said that to a girl you’d feel great about it. All you can feel is that Heather Mackenzie tossed you something, and you were supposed to make one of those diving midair saves. But you—Pride of the Panthers that you are—fumbled it.
“It doesn’t make any difference,” you hear her say.
The two of you sit there. Heather’s so still that you can’t even see her breathe. You feel bad for blowing it, and after a few minutes when she turns and slides her arms around your neck, you’re ready to make it up to her, thinking she just wants to be held.
But what she wants is to take back control; her lips are everywhere, fierce, marking territory, and they follow her fingers as she releases each button on your shirt. Nipping, sucking kisses as she spreads your shirt apart. And the next thing you know her hands are pushing you backward and her fingers are tugging at your belt buckle.
You are not in the mood—of course you’re not, after everything that’s happened. But you don’t want to hear or feel any more and you don’t want to think, and you sure don’t want to talk; and she’s determined, insistent, and after awhile the parts of you that Heather is touching begin to insist as much as Heather herself, and it’s much easier just to go along and try to comfort her this way.
Except that she won’t let you kiss her. And she won’t let you touch her. She just wants you to do it.
So you oblige.
It’s not till near the end that you look down to see tears in her eyes—and you