I drop the page with my father’s name on it. It flutters to the floor with some of the other pages I just read.
I push the manuscript off my lap and quickly stand up. I rush to my bedroom and opt for door number one. I take a shower, hoping to calm down enough to continue reading, but I cry the entire time. No sixteen-year-old should have to go through what Ben went through, but it still doesn’t answer all the questions I have about how this relates to me. But now that I know my father was involved with Ben’s mother at some point, I have a feeling I’m getting closer. And I’m not so sure I want to keep reading, but now that I’ve started, I can’t stop. Despite the fact that I feel nauseous, my hands have been trembling for fifteen minutes straight, and I’m too scared to read what my father has to do with any of this, I force myself to forge ahead.
It’s at least an hour later before I have the courage to return to the manuscript. I sit back down on the couch and pick up right where I left off.
Ben’s novel—CHAPTER TWO
Age 16
“When one burns one’s bridges, what a very nice fire it makes.”
—Dylan Thomas
Kyle finally made it to the house. So did Ian. We sit around the kitchen table and talk about anything except why our mother hated her life more than she loved us. Kyle tells me I was brave today. He treats me like I’m still twelve, even though I’ve been the man of this house since he left home six months ago.
Ian calls one of those companies that provide cleanup service after a death. One of the officers must have left their business card on the counter, knowing we would need it. I didn’t even know those existed, but Ian mentioned some movie he watched called Sunshine Cleaning a few years back about a couple of women who did it for a living.
The company sends two men. One man who doesn’t speak English and one man who doesn’t speak at all. He writes everything down on a pad that he keeps in his front pocket.
When they’re finished, they find me in the kitchen and hand me a note.
Stay out of the bedroom for at least four hours so the carpet can dry. Your total comes to $200.
I find Kyle in the living room. “It costs $200.”
We both look for Ian, but we can’t find him. His car is gone and he’s the only one with that kind of cash. I find my mother’s purse on the kitchen counter. “She has enough cash in her wallet. You think it’s okay if we use it?”
Kyle snatches the money out of my hands and leaves the room to pay the guys.
Ian returns later that afternoon. He and Kyle argue about whether or not he informed us he was going to the police station, because Kyle doesn’t remember Ian leaving and Ian says Kyle just wasn’t paying attention.
No one asks why he went to the police station in the first place. I think maybe he wanted to see the suicide letter, but I don’t ask him about it. After reading how in love she was with this guy Donovan, the last thing I want to read is how she couldn’t live without him. It pisses me off that my mother would allow the breakup over a man to devastate her more than the thought of never seeing her sons again. It shouldn’t even be a tossup.
I can almost see how her decision played out. I imagine her sitting on her bed last night, crying over the pathetic bastard. I imagine her holding a picture of him in her right hand and a picture of me, Kyle, and Ian in the left. She looks back and forth between the pictures, focusing on Donovan. Do I just end it now so I don’t have to live without this man for one more day? And then she looks at the picture of us. Or do I stick out the heartache in order to spend the rest of my life with three men who are grateful to have me as their mother?
What I can’t imagine is what would motivate her to choose the picture in her right hand over the picture in her left.
I know that if I don’t see for myself what was so special about this man that it will eat at me. A slow, painful gnawing that will chip away at my bones until I feel as worthless as she felt when she circled her lips around the tip of that gun.
I wait a few hours until Kyle and Ian have gone to their bedrooms and then I walk into her room. I search through all the things I read earlier, the love notes, the arguments, the proof that their relationship was as tumultuous as a hurricane. When I finally locate something with enough information about him on it to Google his address, I leave the house.
I feel odd taking her car. I just turned sixteen four months ago. She was saving up to help me buy my first car, but we hadn’t gotten there yet, so I just used hers when it was available.
It’s a nice car. A Cadillac. I sometimes wondered why she didn’t just sell it so she could afford two cheaper cars, but I felt guilty thinking that. I was a sixteen-year-old kid and she was a single mom who worked hard to get where she was in her career. It wasn’t fair of me to think we even remotely deserved equal things.
It’s after ten p.m. when I pull into Donovan’s neighborhood. It’s a much nicer neighborhood than the one we live in. Not that our neighborhood isn’t nice, but this one has a privacy gate. It’s not that private though, because the gate is stuck in the open position. I debate whether or not to turn around, but then I remember what I’m here to do, which is nothing illegal. All I’m doing is scoping out the house of the man responsible for my mother’s suicide.
At first, it’s hard to see the houses. They’re all really long driveways with lots of space between lots. But the further down I drive, the more sparse the trees become. When I close in on the address, my pulse begins to thump in my ears. I feel pathetic that I’m nervous to see a house, but my hand slips on the steering wheel from the sweat on my palm.
When I finally reach the house, I’m instantly unimpressed. It’s just like all the others. Pitched, pointy roofs. Two car garages. Manicured lawns and mailboxes encased in stone that match the houses.
I expected more from Donovan.
I’m impressed with my own bravery when I drive past the house, turn around, and then pull the car over a few houses down so that I can stare at it. I kill the engine and then manually switch off the headlights.
I wonder if he knows?
I’m not sure how he would, unless they have mutual friends.
He probably knows. I’m sure my mother had a multitude of friends and coworkers and a side to her personality I never saw.
I wonder if he cried when he found out. I wonder if he had any regrets. I wonder if he had the choice to go back and unbreak her heart, would he do it?
And now I’m humming Toni Braxton. Fuck you, Donovan O’Neil.
My cell phone vibrates on the seat. It’s a text message from Kyle.
Kyle: Where are you?
Me: I had to run to the store.
Kyle: It’s late. Get back ASAP. We have to be at the funeral home by nine tomorrow morning.
Me: What are you, my mother?
I wait for him to respond with something like too soon, man. But he doesn’t. I stare at the phone a little longer, wishing he would respond. I don’t know why I sent that text. I feel bad now. There should be an unsend button.
Great. Now I’m singing the words unsend my text to the tune of unbreak my heart.
Fuck you, Toni Braxton.
I sink down into my seat when I notice headlights coming toward me. I sink even further when I see them pull into Donovan’s house.
I stop singing and I bite the inside of my cheek as I wait for him to get out of the car. I hate that it’s so dark. I want to see if he’s good-looking, at least. Not that his level of attractiveness should have played any part in my mother’s decision to depart this world.
One of his garage doors opens. As he pulls in, the other garage door also begins to open. Fluorescent lights are beaming down on both vehicles in the garage. He kills the engine to the Audi he’s driving and then steps out of the car.
He’s tall.
That’s it. That’s the only thing I gather from this far away. He might have dark brown hair, but I’m not even sure about that.
He pulls the other car out of the driveway. Some kind of classic car, but I know nothing about cars. It’s red and sleek and when he gets out of it, he pops the hood.
I observe him as he toys under the hood for the next several minutes. I make all kinds of observations about him. I know that I don’t like him, that’s a given. I also know that he probably isn’t married. Both cars seem to be cars a man would own and there isn’t room for another car in the garage, so he probably lives alone.
He’s more than likely divorced. My mother probably liked the appeal of his neighborhood and the prospect of moving us in with him so that I could have a father figure in my life. She probably had their lives mapped out and was waiting for him to propose, when instead, he broke her heart.
He spends the next several minutes washing and waxing his car, which I find odd since it’s so late at night. Maybe he’s always gone during the day. That has to be irritating for the neighbors, although the neighboring homes are far enough apart that no one even has to notice what goes on next door if they don’t want to.
He retrieves a gas can from the garage and fills the car with gas. I wonder if it takes a special kind of gas, since he’s not filling it at a fuel station.
He sets the gas can down next to the car in a hurry, and then fishes out his cell phone. He looks at the screen and then brings his phone to his ear.
I wonder who he’s talking to. I wonder if it’s another woman—if that’s why he left my mother.
But then I see it—in the way his hand grips the back of his neck. The way his shoulders droop and the way his head shakes back and forth. He begins pacing, worried, upset.
Whoever is on the other end of that line just told him my mother was dead.
I grip my steering wheel and lean forward, soaking in his every movement. Will he cry? Was she worth dropping to his knees over? Will I be able to hear him scream in agony from here?
He leans against his precious car and ends the call. He stares at the phone for seventeen seconds. Yes, I counted.
He slides the phone back into his pocket and then, in a glorious display of grief, he punches the air.
Don’t punch the air, Donovan. Punch your car, it’ll feel much better.
He grabs the rag he used to dry off his car and he tosses it at the ground.
No, Donovan. Not the rag. Punch your car. Show me you loved her more than you love your car and then maybe I won’t have to hate you as much.
He pulls his foot back and kicks at the gas can, sending it several feet across the grass.
Punch your fucking car, Donovan. She might be watching you right now. Show her that your heart is so broken, you don’t even care about your own life anymore.
Donovan lets us both down when he storms inside his house, never once laying a finger on his car. I feel bad for my mother that he didn’t throw more of a fit. I’m not even sure if he cried, I was too far away to see.
The fluorescent lights go out in the garage.
The garage doors begin to lower.
At least he’s too upset to pull the car inside.
I watch the house for a few more minutes, wondering if he’ll ever come back outside. When he doesn’t, I begin to grow restless. A huge part of me wants to drive away and never think about this man again, but there’s a small part of me that’s growing more and more curious with every second I sit here.
What is so fucking special about that damn car?
Anyone who just received news as devastating as he did would want to lash out at the thing closest to them. Any normal man in love would have bashed their fist onto the hood of the car. Or, depending on how much you loved the woman, maybe even bashed their fist through a windshield. But this asshole grabs a rag to throw on the ground. He chose to get his aggression out on an old, weightless rag.
He should be embarrassed.
I should help him grieve properly.
I should punch the hood of the car for him. And even though I know nothing good will come of this, I’m already out of my car and halfway across the road before I tell myself it’s not a good idea. But when it comes to a battle between your adrenaline and your conscience, adrenaline always wins.
I reach the car and don’t even bother looking around me to see if anyone is outside. I know they aren’t. It’s after eleven at night by now. No one is probably even awake on this street, and even if they were, I wouldn’t care.
I pick up the rag and inspect it, hoping there’s something special about it. There isn’t, but I decide to use it to open the car door. Don’t want to leave fingerprints behind if I accidentally scratch up his car.
The inside of the car is even nicer than the outside. Pristine condition. Cherry-red leather seats. Wood grain trim. There’s a pack of cigarettes and some matches on the console, and it disappoints me that my mother would love a smoker.
I look back at the house and then I look back down at the matches. Who uses matches anymore? I swear I keep finding more and more reasons to hate him.
Go back to your car, Ben. There’s been enough excitement for one day.
Adrenaline beats down my conscience yet again. I glance back at the gas can.
I wonder . . .
Would Donovan be more upset over his precious little classic car going up in flames than he was over my mother’s death?
I guess we’ll soon find out, because my adrenaline is picking up the gas can and pouring the liquid over the tire and up the side of the car. At least my conscience is still alert enough to know to set the can back right where he kicked it. I strike one and only one of the matches, and then I flick it out of my fingers—just like they do in the movies—as I walk back to my car.
The air makes a quick whoosh sound behind me. The night lights up like someone just turned on Christmas lights.
When I reach my car, I’m smiling. It’s the first time I’ve smiled today.
I crank my car and patiently drive away, feeling somewhat justified for what she did to herself. For what she did to me.
And finally, for the first time since finding her body this morning, a tear falls out of my eye.
And then another.
And another.
I begin to cry so hard that it’s too hard to see the road in front of me. I pull over on a hill. I lean across the steering wheel and my cries turn to sobs, because I miss her. It hasn’t even been a day and I miss her so fucking much and I have no idea why she would do this to me. It feels so personal, and I hate that I’m selfish enough to believe that it had anything to do with me, but didn’t it? I lived with her. I was the only one left still in that house. She knew I would be the one to find her. She knew what this would do to me and she still did it and I’ve never loved someone I hate so much, and I’ve never hated someone I love so much.
I cry for so long that the muscles in my stomach begin to ache. My jaw hurts from the tension. My ears hurt from the blare of the sirens as they pass.
I glance in my rearview mirror and watch as the fire truck makes its way down the hill.
I see the orange glow against the dark sky behind me and it’s much brighter than I expect it to be.
The flames are way higher than they should be.
My pulse is pounding way harder than I want it to be.
What did I do?
What have I done?
My hands are shaking so hard, I can’t get the ignition to switch back into drive. I can’t catch my breath. My foot slips on the brake.
What did I do?
I drive. I keep driving. I try to suck in air, but my lungs feel like they’re filled with thick, black smoke. I grab my phone. I want to tell Kyle that I might be having a panic attack, but I can’t calm my hand long enough to dial his number. The phone slips from my hands and lands in the floorboard.
I only have two miles left. I can make it.
I count to seventeen exactly seventeen times and then I’m pulling into my driveway.
I stumble into the house, thankful Kyle is still awake and in the kitchen. I don’t have to try to make it upstairs to his room.
He puts his hands on my shoulders and ushers me to a chair. I expect him to start panicking with me when he sees the wide-eyed, tear-filled look on my face, but instead, he gets me water. He speaks calmly to me, but I have no idea what he’s saying. He keeps telling me to focus on his eyes, focus on his eyes, focus on his eyes.
“Focus on my eyes,” he says. It’s the first sound I process.
“Breathe, Ben.”
His voice becomes louder.
“Breathe.”
My pulse gradually begins to find a rhythm again.
“Breathe.”
My lungs begin to bring in air and dispel it like they’re supposed to do.
I breathe in and out and in and out and take another sip of water and then as soon as I can speak, I want nothing more than to get this secret out of me before I explode.
“I fucked up, Kyle.” I stand up and begin pacing. I can feel the tears on my cheeks and I hear the tremor in my voice. I squeeze my head with my hands. “I didn’t mean to do it, I swear, I don’t know why I did it.”
Kyle cuts me off mid-pace. He grips my shoulders and dips his head, looking me hard in the eyes. “What did you do, Ben?”
I suck in another huge breath and I release it as I pull away from him. And then I tell him everything. I tell him about how her bloodstain looked like Gary Busey’s head and how I read all the letters Donovan wrote to her and how I just wanted to see why she cared about that man more than us and how he didn’t get angry enough when he found out she died and how I didn’t mean to catch his house on fire, I didn’t even mean to catch his car on fire, that’s not why I went there.
We’re sitting now. At the kitchen table. Kyle hasn’t said very many things, but the next thing he says terrifies me more than anything has ever terrified me in my life.
“Was anyone hurt, Ben?”
I want to shake my head no, but it won’t move. My answer won’t come, because I don’t know. Of course no one was hurt. Donovan was awake, he would have gotten out in time.
Right?
I gasp for another breath when I see worry in Kyle’s eyes. He quickly pushes away from the table and stalks toward the living room. I hear the TV click on and, for a second, I have the thought that this is probably the last time that TV will ever click on to the Bravo channel now that my mother won’t be watching it anymore.
And then I hear the stations change and change again. But then I hear the words “fire” and “Hyacinth Court,” and “one injured.”
Injured. He probably tripped running out of the house and cut his finger or something. That’s not so bad. I’m sure he had house insurance.
“Ben.”
I stand up to join Kyle in the living room. I’m sure he’s summoning me to tell me it’s okay, that everything is okay and I should go to bed.
When I reach the entryway to the living room, my feet stop moving forward. There’s a picture on the TV in the top right-hand corner. A girl. She looks familiar, and I can’t place her right away, but I don’t have to because the reporter does it for me.
“Latest reports indicate that Fallon O’Neil, sixteen-year-old lead actress in the hit TV show Gumshoe, has been airlifted from the scene. No word as to her condition, but we’ll keep you updated as reports come in.”
Kyle doesn’t tell me it’ll be okay.
He doesn’t say anything at all.
We stand in front of the TV, soaking up news reports that break in between infomercials. At a little after one in the morning, we learn that the girl was taken to a burn center in South Bay. Ten minutes later, we learn she’s in critical condition. At one thirty in the morning, we learn she has suffered fourth-degree burns over thirty percent of her body. At one forty-five, we learn that she is expected to survive, but will undergo extensive reconstructive surgery and rehabilitation. At one fifty, reporters state that the owner of the home admitted to spilling fuel near a car parked outside his garage. Investigators state they have no reason to believe the fire was caused intentionally, but a complete investigation will follow up to corroborate the homeowner’s claims.
One reporter insinuates that the victim’s career may be put on hold indefinitely. Another says producers will have a huge decision to make when it comes to either recasting the role or putting production on hold while the victim recovers. The news reports transition from updates on the victim to how many Emmy Awards Donovan O’Neil was nominated for during the height of his career.
Kyle turns off the television at approximately 2 a.m. He sets the remote down carefully—quietly—on the arm of the couch.
“Did anyone witness what happened?” His eyes lock with mine, and I immediately shake my head.
“Did you leave behind anything? Any possible evidence?”
“No,” I whisper. I clear my throat. “He’s right. He kicked over his gas can and then went inside the house. No one saw what I did after that.”
Kyle nods and then squeezes the tension out of the back of his neck. He takes a step closer. “So no one knows you were there?”
“Only you.”
He then closes the distance between us. I think he might want to hit me. I don’t know for sure, but the anger in the set of his jaw indicates he might want to. I wouldn’t blame him.
“I want you to listen to me, Ben.” His voice is low and firm. I nod. “Take off every item of clothing you’re wearing right now and put them in the washing machine. Go take a shower. And then you’re going to go to bed and forget this happened, okay?”
I nod again. I might be sick in a second, I’m not sure.
“You are never to leave the slightest traceable connection to what happened tonight. Never look those people up online. Never drive by their house again. Stay away from anything that can trace you to them. And never, ever speak another word of this. Not to me . . . not to Ian . . . not to anyone. Do you hear me?”
I’m definitely about to be sick, but I still manage to nod.
He studies my face for a minute, making sure he can trust me. I don’t dare move. I want him to know he can trust me.
“We have a lot to do tomorrow to prepare for her funeral. Try to get some sleep.”
I don’t nod again, because he walks away, turning out the lights as he goes.
I stand in the dark for several minutes. Quiet . . . still . . . alone.
I should probably be worried that I’ll get caught. I should probably be upset that from this point forward, I’ll always feel a sense of guilt whenever Kyle looks at me. I should probably be worried that this night—coupled with this morning and finding my mother—will screw me up in some way. If maybe I’ll suffer from PTSD or depression.
But none of that matters.
Because as I run up the stairs, swing open my bathroom door and expel all the contents of my stomach into the toilet, the only thing my thoughts surround is that girl and how I’ve just completely ruined her life.
I drop my forehead to my arm as I sit here with a death grip on porcelain.
I don’t deserve to live.
I don’t deserve to live.
I wonder if my bloodstain will look like Gary Busey.
