Days Like This Page 10

  It was quiet for a minute, and then McCoy ordered us all another round from Lou, and this time, I stayed.

  23.

  Cassie

  WHEN I GOT home, Mom was already asleep. Her meds made her tired, and I was grateful I didn’t have to explain my evening. I didn’t want to be reminded—again—of all my mistakes. Mom didn’t understand it, not really. How did I explain everything without making her feel bad? It was her bipolar disorder that made me afraid, her mistakes. In being so scared of them, they became mine. I was destined to be like her, if for no other reason than I made myself like her.

  I put on some pajamas and debated calling back June. She called again during dinner, but I didn’t answer. To call her meant I had to tell her everything. Starting at the beginning of Graham and me would take hours, and I wasn’t in the mood.

  I went to a blank page in my notebook and let the pencil slide across it until more of my own notes appeared. In Indianapolis, I kept myself busy so I didn’t have to think. But here there was nothing else. I tapped into that part of me and let the notes pour on to the page.

  You show up at my door // The first thing you say // is I’m beautiful and you miss me // I push you away and say you shouldn’t be here // it’s a lie and all I want is you near // you beg me to tell you // what can you do to make me come back to you // You say you didn’t even know how much I wanted to go // And if I love you all I have to do is say so…

  Sometimes love is not enough // when it means losing // I can’t watch you walk away // love doesn’t always build a dam // sometimes it’s not enough // cause love means you stay // and I can’t let you hurt that way

  I threw the pencil down. That is not forgetting, it’s remembering. It was exactly like they’d said: Graham came to me at school and I made him leave. I did this to us, and that wasn’t something I wanted to deal with either. Had it really been that bad for him? No wonder they all hated me. I hated myself for it.

  Instead, I went to the record player and combed through other people’s music. I had no idea what I wanted to listen to. Soft crooning? Loud metal? Jazz? The options were limitless. I scanned the collection and put on Bob Dylan. Blood on the Tracks seemed fitting. The record popped as it started to play, and I turned it up enough to hear it through the house, but low enough that it didn’t wake Mom.

  The doorbell rang, and I saw the top of Graham’s head through the little window on the door. I pressed my head against the wood of the door. I didn’t want to answer because I was weak and afraid of what he’d say to me, or worse, what the words would do to me. We’d come so far in the last few weeks.

  Graham knocked on the door, and it echoed in my ears. I sighed before answering.

  “Hey, ” I said. Graham stood on the porch, hands in his pockets. His eyes were glassy, like he’d drank too much. I squeezed my fingers into a fist at my side in order to keep them from reaching out.

  “Got a minute?” he asked. His voice was lower and rougher than usual.

  I stepped out onto the porch. The May air was warm, but not too hot yet. He stepped back and leaned against the railing of the front porch. I bit down on my lip. We both stood there in silence. This was becoming a thing between us—silence—and I wanted to fill it. Words didn’t seem to work, though. There were only so many ways to apologize and so many ways to pretend. Only so many ways to hold myself back from what I really wanted.

  “I’m sorry about that,” Graham said. “I didn’t think it would be like that.”

  I shook my head. I only wanted to forget all about the night out with my old friends. Trying to forget was my theme song. “I don’t blame you—or them. I knew they hated me.”

  “They don’t hate you,” he said.

  I crossed my arms. “Really, Graham. Come on.”

  He smiled and leaned into me. It was one of those incomplete, sloppy smiles; he’d definitely had a lot to drink. “Okay, they aren’t your biggest fans but—I think they’re wrong.”

  “It’s fine. You should hate me, too, really. I don’t know how you don’t.”

  I didn’t want him to hate me, but how could he not? I’d destroyed him.

  Graham grew quiet and ran a hand through his hair. “I did. For a while.”

  “What changed?” I whispered.

  He shrugged. Wrong question, I guess. “You’re Gonna Make Me When You Go” seeped outside through the cracks. I could only hear the irony. Did he hear it too? Graham looked at me as the song played and neither of us moved, stuck in that moment between so much to say and no clue how to say it. Between wanting to touch him and wanting to run away.

  Graham’s fingers grazed my cheek, and my stomach folded in on itself. At least that’s how it felt. Like I was falling. He pulled his hand away quickly. “Anyway, sorry for tonight. I really don’t hate you, Cassie. They just don’t want me to get hurt.”

  They think I will hurt him, like before. Maybe they’re right to think that.

  I nodded. “Goodnight, Graham.”

  He surprised me by hugging me. Graham squeezed me tight, and the full length of my body was pressed against him. His arms held me closer, and every cell tingled. I wanted to stay there close to him. I wanted so much more, and he was right there. It wouldn’t take much to have it again, to lean in and close the space between us.

  He pulled away. It was probably best since he’d been drinking and I was obviously out of my mind.

  Graham went the rest of the way down the steps, and then turned to me again. His eyes were dark. “Tell me one thing: were you happy? After you left, were you happy?”

  “No,” I said, not even stopping to think about what that meant for him. But I thought I could be. I wanted to be. When I found out about my dad, I thought if I left and started over then I could ignore it all. All it did was make it worse.

  He nodded slowly, and looked away from me. I could tell it wasn’t the answer he wanted by the way his whole body tensed. I wished I had been happy after I left. Part of me knew he wished the same because even though I hurt him, he’d always wanted me to be happy. It was all he’d ever wanted, except he’d always thought it would be him to make me happy. Maybe it could be, someday.

  “I think I could be, though. Someday,” I said. It was low, but he heard me because he looked at me again. The music played around us and I knew that I meant it. Whatever I went to Indiana searching for, I hadn’t found. Maybe it had always been missing. Or maybe it had always been right here and I hadn’t seen it.

  “What will it take for you to get there?” Graham asked.

  What would it take? I wanted to say it was him. That before I left, he had made me happy. He was the only bright spot in my life, and that was terrifying. I wanted to say that he was right, that my mom was right, and I had come home a little for him. Probably more so than I even knew, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t do that to him when he was someone else’s. Someone who wouldn’t break him.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  Graham nodded. “I hope you find it.”

  24.

  Graham

  I PUT THE key in the ignition. I had twenty-five minutes to pick up Molly and get us to Hixton’s Corner for brunch with her aunt. I’d never even met her aunt, and that wasn’t how I wanted to spend my Saturday morning. My head was pounding; I guessed I drank more than I realized. If not for the three texts from Molly, I probably would’ve forgotten all about brunch. I barely remembered it, but when I thought really hard it was in the back of my head, vaguely—right next to the vibrant image of Cass in that green dress last night. The way she looked with her hair like that and her jacket and her eyes sparkling.

  I shook my head and rolled down the window so the sun could hit my skin and wake me up. It was bright outside. We had a hot summer ahead. I started to back out of the spot when Cassie’s voice floated to my ears. I froze there for a second, glancing at my mirror while she sat outside on the porch. I waited to see what she would do, but she was still and silent, staring over the horizon. I don’t kno
w if she saw me, but she didn’t look my way.

  I kept seeing her like she was last night. Not before dinner when she looked beautiful or during when she looked uncomfortable. But after. When I stood on her porch and asked her if she was happy.

  There was something in her eyes, something written on her face, that seemed hopeful. Something that seemed like she knew there could be something to make her happy, but she didn’t know how to say it. Or if she wanted to. Like breathing its name would burst the dream. I felt it between us in the air, that hope.

  Music started and Mrs. H yelled, “I love this song!” I was too far away to make out the lyrics, but I strained my ear to listen. I wanted to hear it, to be part of a moment with them like I used to be. Even for a second.

  What are you doing? Go get Molly.

  I put the truck in drive and started down the street, but even when I turned the corner, I still felt that hope. It was the last thing I expected to feel last night, the last thing I understood, but I knew it was mine as much as it was hers.

  MOLLY KISSED ME as she got into my truck and she smelled like vanilla. It was making my hangover worse. Don’t vomit. That was all I could think about.

  “Aunt Kat’s really excited to meet you,” Molly said, her fingers on my shoulder as we drove.

  I nodded. “I’m sure it will be great.”

  “How was last night?”

  In my mind, I see Cass’s face when she saw me in the parking lot. The way her hand bumped mine while we walked. She never smelled like vanilla that made my head spin.

  “Fine,” I said. It wasn’t really fine. Not at the end. That conversation with her had me so confused. She left to be happy and she wasn’t, so why did she stay away?

  Stop thinking about Cassie.

  Stop caring. I needed to stop caring. To stop worrying about her family, to stop listening to her music. To stop wanting to be in her moments because I wasn’t in her life. I’d been down that road and I knew where it ended. I needed to clear my head.

  I took a deep breath and cringed at the overwhelming scent of vanilla.

  “Are you even listening to me?” Molly asked, poking my shoulder.

  I parked the car. “What?”

  She huffed and crossed her arms. “You weren’t even listening. Where is your head today? The whole way here you’ve been somewhere else.”

  My head was in places it shouldn’t have been. I knew that, but I couldn’t keep it grounded. I couldn’t focus on Molly when I kept hearing Cass’s laugh, and seeing her smile, and listening to her pronounce every word like it was the most important thing I had ever heard.

  What was happening to me?

  I knew what was happening. This was the same way it felt when I was fifteen and I wanted to kiss her for the first time. This was how it was before I fell the first time.

  Molly stared at me, arms across her chest.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Seriously?” she yelled. Molly jerked the door open and stormed around the front of the truck. Her blonde head bobbed in front of me and I jumped out too.

  “Sorry,” I said, pulling at her arm until she stopped walking. “I’m tired. I drank too much last night.”

  Even saying that made me feel like an ass. Maybe all of this was because I drank too much. I didn’t have any feelings for Cass. Last night was an illusion, a haze of alcohol. Cassie was a friend, kind of, and that was all. Molly was my girlfriend. Cass was my past; Molly was now.

  “I’m really sorry,” I said.

  “Is something else going on that we need—”

  I shook my head. “I’m really looking forward to meeting your aunt.”

  Molly raised an eyebrow. “You’re sure? You don’t have to do this.”

  “I’m sure,” I said, taking her hand.

  She smiled, and I knew this was where I needed to be. Molly was solid and real. I never had to wonder what she was thinking because she told me. We were still getting to know each other, instead of hiding pieces. She knew how to surprise me, how to live life unafraid. She’d spent the last few months showing me what I really wanted and helping me reach out to grab it. That was the truth, and truth was stronger than hope.

  25.

  Cassie

  THIS OFFICE STILL looked the same as it had the first time I met Dr. Lambert four years ago, back when we found out Mom was bipolar. I crossed my legs, uncrossed them, and rested my hands at my side. Next to my seat was a side table covered in little random items. Rubber bands, stress balls, little toys, a Zen sand garden with a mini rake thing. I debated picking one up, but settled on the pillow and clung for dear life as the door closed.

  “Thanks for coming, Cassie.”

  I looked around the office, and followed Dr. Lambert’s movement. “Why am I here again?”

  Dr. Lambert grabbed a pen, and sat across from me with a smile. “Joyce and I have been speaking a lot about how all this has affected you. She told me a little about your discussion with her a few weeks ago.”

  I shifted in the seat. “Discussion?”

  “The one when you tried to get her to take her meds and recounted a few of your childhood disappointments.”

  Mom told her all that? “Was I not supposed to say that to her?”

  Dr. Lambert crossed her legs in her chair. “On the contrary. Cassie, no one knows your mother’s illness better than you. You’re the one who is best suited to help her.”

  “I can help her?”

  She focused her eyes on me. Therapists were amazing with the way they could zoom in, like they found that one flaw on perfect skin and made a target out of it. It was unsettling. “The next time I saw her that moment was all she could talk about. She didn’t know about all of those moments, not consciously, not in a way that meant anything to her. Part of her recovery, part of her journey to self-sufficiency depends on you being honest with her, on being vulnerable.”

  I wanted to laugh because that wasn’t something I did well. “Self-sufficiency?”

  “Bipolar disorder isn’t the end of a life; it’s the beginning of a new one. Joyce has the capability to take care of herself, to be on her meds, to work if she wants, but she lacks currently the drive and the understanding. That’s our job. Yours and mine.”

  Our job. The only real team I’d ever been on was with Graham. He’d said “we” a lot. Eventually, it did feel like we until eventually we weren’t. Now we were on opposite teams or even different games, maybe. I grabbed a small squishy ball from the table and squeezed it in my hands.

  “So what—you want me to tell Mom all the ways she’s disappointed me? That doesn’t seem helpful.”

  “Not exactly,” Dr. Lambert said. “I want you and I to have a discussion right now, that’s all. I want you to tell me about yourself.”

  I dropped the ball back down. This whole table next to my seat was an arsenal for avoidance. “You know me.”

  “I used to, but you’re not the same girl who visited me in this office a year ago. Are you?”

  I laughed and squeezed the pillow. “I definitely am not.”

  “So, tell me who you are. Tell me something real,” she said, uncrossing her legs. I tried to find somewhere to focus on in the room. Somewhere not Dr. Lambert. Something real about myself. I wrapped my finger around a frayed thread dangling from the pillow. “You’re nervous?”

  “I don’t really talk about myself much at school. I’m a little out of practice.”

  “Why don’t you talk about yourself?”

  I shrugged. “I went there to reinvent myself.”

  “To change?”

  I nodded. “I left everything because I thought I could escape who I was there, who my mom was, what her past was. I wanted to be happy.”

  Dr. Lambert clicked her pen, but she didn’t write anything down. She didn’t look away from me in case moving her gaze meant I would disappear completely. “I remember that you were conflicted, unsure, a little stressed. You never mentioned anything about happiness. You weren’t happy he
re?”

  “I was.”

  “But you wanted a different happiness? What were you really trying to find?”

  “I wanted to stop it from repeating.”

  “Stop what from repeating?”

  I stared at Dr. Lambert. Her eyes were wide and brown, open like she really did care. I took a breath and picked up one of the rubber bands off the table, wrapping it around my fingers. I didn’t look up at her, just watched the green band twist around my fingertips.

  “I was five and we spent all day in the car. I remember the metal seatbelt was hot on my skin because she didn’t like to use the air conditioning. Mom always preferred the purity of the wind. ‘Everything in its natural state.’ Before we went, she bought me this set of brand new crayons and a unicorn coloring book. The picture I remember the most had a unicorn trying to eat the moon, and I colored it pink,” I said. I was already smiling at the memory. I hadn’t thought about that day in so long, but I could recall a lot of details. “All day we were in the car. It was hot, I was hungry and Mom told me, ‘It will all be worth it when we get there, Cassie. You have to wait for good things.’ We ended up at the beach in Wilmington. It’s like a four-hour drive and when we got there I cried because I didn’t want to get out and she made me anyway, dragged me through the parking lot while I was screaming.”

  The rubber band stretched as I pulled it across both my hands. I had to focus on it. I didn’t want to see her face. I didn’t want to see pity there, or something worse.

  “But then we got closer and I saw these lights from this Ferris wheel. The whole boardwalk was a carnival with rides and games and food. She knelt down, a big smile on her face, and wiped my eyes. ‘You want to have some fun?’ I remember everything about that day. I won a stuffed mouse that was white with a red-and-white lollipop and floppy ears, which is still in my bedroom. We played games, ate lots of food. At the end of the day, there was a concert once the sun set. I have no idea who they were. I just remember her singing, swaying with me on her hip, and me playing with this glow stick necklace she got me. I fell asleep on the ride home.”