Ballads of Suburbia (10 page)

“I don't know about that. But I'll see you in class at least.”

 

I mentally composed my apology to Liam as I walked home. Most of the houses I passed were dark or lit only by the flickering of a television. I expected to find the lights on at my house since it was only ten, but from the street it looked pitch black inside. Thinking my brother had fallen asleep in front of the TV and my parents had turned it off, I tiptoed to the living room, expecting to see Liam snoozing in the La-Z-Boy. Instead, I found Mom asleep on the couch with the pillows and blankets that belonged upstairs on her bed. Mom had never slept on the couch before and the sight of it made me so queasy that I could have puked the way Adrian had.

I hurried upstairs. The familiar click of keystrokes sounded from behind the tightly closed door of Dad's office. Liam's door was shut as well. He didn't respond when I knocked, but I decided to enter.

The reading lamp beside Liam's bed was on and Liam lay on his side under the covers, wearing headphones. He didn't respond when I called his name so I walked closer. An open notebook sat next to him. I couldn't read his tiny handwriting except for the words scrawled in capital letters at the bottom of the page: “Fuck this house!”

I heard the quiet strains of a Johnny Cash song as my brother removed his headphones. Liam closed his notebook and rolled over to face me in one fluid motion. “What are you doing in my room?” His throat sounded thick with mucus and his red cheeks and bloodshot eyes gave away that he'd been crying.

“I knocked but you didn't answer. Mom…she's sleeping on the couch. What happened?” I stammered, rubbing the scabs on my left arm through my blue cardigan.

Liam coldly stated the obvious. “Mom and Dad had a fight.” The tinny sound of applause leaked out from his headphones as Johnny finished singing “I Got Stripes.”

“But what about the date?” I asked urgently.

Liam answered in a monotone, squeezing the foamy earpieces of his headphones. “She wanted to have coffee and talk. He wanted to see a movie. She gave in. He fell asleep at the movie. They had a fight. You weren't here. I was. Same old story.”

Instead of being a bystander for the stupid drama at the park, I should have been protecting my brother. “Liam, I'm really sorry. Do you want to talk about it?”

Liam angrily punched the stop button on his Walkman and tugged his covers up to his neck. “No, I want to go to sleep and fuckin' forget it. I was almost asleep when you barged in.”

“I'm sorry,” I murmured again.

“Good night, Kara.” Liam snapped off the light on his nightstand, plunging the room into darkness.

Tears spilled down my cheeks as I stumbled over Liam's books and dirty laundry on my way to his door. I stood in the hallway, looking helplessly in the three directions my family had split into. I considered waking Mom, but imagined that she'd cried herself to sleep and didn't want her to have to do that all over again. My gaze landed on Dad's office door. I walked past my bedroom toward it.

Our two rooms sat catty-corner from each other, precisely three steps apart, but the distance between us had grown so vast. It started when I was in fourth grade. He'd helped create a program for terminally ill children and worked long hours to get it off the ground. I wrote a paper about him being my hero and said that even though I missed him tucking me in at night, I knew he was helping so many sick kids.

I put my hand on his door, listening to him type faster and louder than ever before. I wanted to bridge that gap between us.
I wanted to walk in and ask, “Daddy, are you okay?” But then I thought about how he'd never come to my room to ask me that. He'd only come to lecture me about studying harder or to tell me that I couldn't do something even though my mother had said I could: “No. Absolutely not. Turn that music down and study.”

My parents most likely hadn't noticed I wasn't home when they'd returned from their doomed date. But if I made Dad aware of it, I'd probably get chastised for going out without permission instead of reassured that he and Mom would be okay.

So I retreated to my room and got out my knife. I drew blood for my mother, sleeping alone and angry on the couch. I drew blood for Liam, who'd had to seek shelter in his room alone and angry yet again. I drew blood because I was the one who'd abandoned him. I drew blood because my father didn't care about any of us. I drew blood because I hated myself for cutting. It didn't fix anything or make me feel any less guilty.

I fell asleep bleeding and had to throw my sheets away.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
I
AWOKE TO
the smell of eggs frying. When I was little, breakfast smells roused me every Saturday morning. Dad would be in the kitchen making pancakes, scrambled eggs, and bacon. Well, he'd be trying. Mom would have to rescue the food before he burnt it. Then we'd all sit down in front of the TV and eat together while watching cartoons. I hoped my dad had woken up feeling guilty and gone downstairs to cook for Mom.

I dressed quickly, but carefully concealed my injured arm under a long-sleeved shirt and my cardigan. On my way downstairs, I noticed Dad's closed office door, but since I didn't hear any typing I hoped he wasn't inside. Passing the living room, I was glad to see that the couch was no longer made up as a bed, but grew disheartened at the sight of Liam watching music videos alone, an empty plate in his lap. My fantasy was completely shattered when I reached the kitchen and found Mom making omelets by herself. She offered me one, her voice oozing with fake cheer.

“I was hoping for pancakes,” I complained. “Why'd you make omelets? Only Dad likes them and it's not like he appreciates you making breakfast for him.”

Mom blinked several times. I saw a couple tears fall and felt kind of bad, but hoped it would force her to talk to me about
what had happened. Instead, she scooped food onto my plate and told me, “I used plenty of cheese for you. Why don't you go watch TV with your brother?”

I did as told. Liam glanced over at me when I entered the room, but said nothing. We watched videos in silence while Mom cleaned, filling the house with a Lysol stench. When she started to vacuum the dining room, I sighed and asked Liam to turn up the volume.

“You do it. I'm out of here. I can't fuckin' take this.” He tossed the remote at me and headed to the front door, grabbing his skateboard.

I followed him outside without putting my shoes on, worried he was about to take off. He'd stopped on the first step and stood there, board hanging limply at his side. “Where are you going?” I asked softly.

Liam spun around, glaring, and spat, “Nowhere. I wish I could skate till I ran out of concrete, but there's fucking nowhere to go.”

“Yes, there is,” I told him.

 

Since it was a dreary Sunday morning, no one was at Scoville Park. I sat on a bench and watched Liam circle the statue, grinding his sadness and frustration into the steps that led up to it.

He skated for an hour before rolling over to me and bumming a cigarette. We smoked in silence for a few minutes, staring up at the angel part of the statue.

“Is this where you hang out now?” Liam asked. I shrugged, not sure how much I liked Scoville after what had taken place there the night before, but Liam pressed, “Tell me about it?”

Seeing as how I'd ditched him for two weeks, I owed him that much. So I sighed and told him about Maya and how much fun she made everything, and about hilarious Harlan, and about Cass, who was the kind of person I wished I could be: tough,
honest, and fair to everyone, even the people who didn't deserve it. Then I explained the cliques. Liam smiled when I mentioned the skaters, but grew somber when I told him about tattooed Adrian in a puddle of his own puke and Jessica lashing out at Cass instead of caring for her drunk friends.

“I don't know if I'm coming back here,” I concluded. “If I wanted backstabbing friends and drunken drama, I would have joined the cheerleading squad.”

Liam shook his head in disagreement, his shaggy bangs flopping in his eyes. “But that's high school. You're gonna have to put up with that shit no matter who you hang out with. Maya and Cass sound really cool. Just hang out with them and ignore the rest.”

“But I can see them in class and hang out with you after school, go back to our simple, drama-free life of watching MTV.”

“Until Mom and Dad come home screaming at each other.” Liam flicked his cigarette butt at the base of the statue. “Life at home isn't simple and I'm sick of being there.” He took a deep breath and asked, “Do you know what I wanted last night, Kara?”

I rubbed the new scabs through the sleeve of my sweater and hung my head like a shamed child. “Me to be there and I wasn't.”

“No, I wanted you to take me away.” Liam's voice squeaked, causing me to look up and see the tears clinging to his long eyelashes. “Every day for the past two weeks I hoped that you would invite me to come with you.”

Blinded by my own tears, I threw my arm around his shoulders. “Liam, I want you to meet me here after school tomorrow. I'm not coming back for Maya and Cass. I'm coming back for your sake.”

He hugged me, pressing his head to my chest like he had done when he was a little kid, smaller than me. “Thanks, Kara,” he whispered.

O
N
T
UESDAY,
J
UNE SEVENTH,
M
OM LEFT
a note on the kitchen counter instructing Liam and me to be home by six for a family meeting.

Liam had been coming to Scoville with me for over a month. I also took him to Shelly's parties on Friday nights and we'd snuck in drunk after curfew on more than one occasion. Mom and Dad must have finally noticed.

“Crap,” I told my brother. “Get ready for the crackdown.”

Liam dismissed my concerns. “Nah, they probably just want to talk about family vacation.”

We met in the living room, where Dad claimed the La-Z-Boy, relegating Liam and me to the couch. Mom sat in her rocking chair, staring blankly at the photographs on the mantel.

Dad cleared his throat and began with, “Your mother and I have something to tell you…Rachel, do you want to start?”

This was when I let myself realize what was happening. Some tiny part of me had known all along, had been waiting for this conversation since Liam had first mentioned the D-word in relation to my parents, but I'd worked slavishly to deny it. Sure, Mom had slept on the couch, but only once. Things had gone back to normal after that. Of course, “normal” consisted of my parents barely speaking…

The icy front Mom had maintained for months finally shattered. Her face went fuchsia and she said with a sob, “No, Jack, I will not tell them. It's your decision and you will tell them.”

“Rachel, we agreed to do this together.” There was a slight waver to Dad's voice, but that was all. He didn't yell. He didn't break down. He never did.

Mom, on the other hand, clawed at the air hysterically. “Well, I'm here, aren't I?”

“Rachel—”

“Tell them, Jack. Tell them!” she spat through gritted teeth.

My father removed his wire-framed glasses and daubed at his hazel eyes. “Uhhh…” His voice cracked. Finally, evidence of pain. “Your mother and I…we're separating.”

Memories played out like home movies, but not the good ones, not the times when Dad helped Liam and me pitch a tent in the backyard and stayed out there all night with us. No, those times were long gone.

I visualized Dad's closed office door and heard that clicking keyboard. I imagined Mom alone in her room, wishing her husband would talk to her. I imagined Liam at the table, struggling with his homework, wishing his father could help him without yelling. I imagined me in my room slashing at my arm with the X-ACTO blade that had belonged to Dad, wishing he would come in, rip it out of my hands, and hug me. But instead he'd sat in that office typing, raising money for needy families while ignoring his own.

I kicked the pop can that I'd carefully placed on a coaster per Dad's rules. Coke splashed across the coffee table as I shouted at my father, “This is your fault!”

“No…no one's to blame,” he stammered.

Angry tears blinded me. “You're moving out, though, right? I hope so because I want to stay here, but I don't want to be near you!”

Dad closed his eyes, long and hard, like my words were a knife slowly severing his muscle from bone. “Yes. I got an apartment—”

“You got an apartment? You planned this?” I screeched.

He blinked in slow motion again, but kept talking over my objection. “I got a two-bedroom apartment near the high school…”

Mom blew her nose and cried harder.

“I hoped you and Liam will visit.”

I faced Mom. “Why are you letting him do this?”

“Honey, it wasn't my—”

“You can't tell them that! It was
our
decision!” Dad protested.

And then Liam, who had said nothing, who had been utterly invisible since the meeting started, suddenly shouted, “Fuck all of you!” He pointed at my parents. “Fuck you two for not even trying.” And then he turned to me. “And fuck you because you'll be out of here in two years when you graduate. You'll leave me like always! Every one of you is selfish! Fuck this family!”

I reached out to him, but he jumped up and kicked the coffee table over with a magnificent crash. My mother grabbed for him, too, but he dodged her and went for the mantel, sweeping down all the photographs. Glass flew everywhere and Liam grabbed his skateboard and ran out the front door.

Dad immediately started in on Mom. “If you had just gone about this like we discussed—”

“Like we discussed? You discussed, Jack! You begrudgingly went to one counseling session and made it your divorce planning session instead!”

“We've been miserable for years.”

“But I wanted to
fix
things.”

They entirely forgot me as they yelled at each other. And more important, they forgot about Liam.

“Hey!” I stomped on a vase that had toppled to the floor dur
ing Liam's dramatic exit. “Are you going to go after him or do I have to? Can you do one last thing together?”

Dad said, “I didn't expect him to—”

“Shut up and get your keys, Jack. I can't drive like this!” Mom's face was a wreck of mascara and snot.

So they left me there alone with the worst pain I'd ever felt in my life. I picked up one of the ceramic vase shards, rolled up my sleeve, and desperately slashed at my scarred arm. The result was scrapes, not the smooth, easy slices that brought me the usual wave of relief. I barely bled from the ragged, disconnected lines. Tears blurring my vision, I swiped at my forearm a few more times before tossing the shard to the floor in frustration. I stumbled upstairs to my room, seeking my faithful knife, and used it to cut deeper than ever before.

The blood wooshed to the surface like a geyser. I felt lightheaded and scrambled for a dirty towel on the floor of my bedroom. I was still trying to stop the bleeding when the pounding at my door began.

“Kara, please, you gotta help us find him. We drove around the block, but he's gone and I have no idea where he went!” Mom sobbed through the heavy wood.

I threw on a flannel shirt, not caring if the blood seeped through and they saw that I'd been cutting. It was their fault. They ought to feel bad about it. Besides, I knew no one would notice. I knew that as soon as we found Liam, Mom would cry herself to sleep and Dad would straighten up the living room. Actually, since he was selfish and the cleanliness of the living room was no longer his problem, he would probably begin to pack his things.

When I opened my bedroom door, Mom nearly toppled into the room. Dad stood a few feet down the hall, rubbing his temples like he did right before a proposal was due. I considered holding out my hand and demanding the car keys. I'd gotten
my license a few months ago, and Liam would be more likely to come along with me than with either of them. But I knew Mom wouldn't go for it, fearful that she wouldn't see either of us again. So I informed her, “I'll take you to find Liam.
He”
—I glared at Dad-“can stay behind.”

Mom was still too messed up to drive, so I drove us to Scoville Park. “I think I know where he is, but you should wait in the car so he doesn't run off again,” I told her when we got there.

She didn't have the energy to object. She remained in the passenger's seat and watched me get out and walk toward the statue.

At first, when I didn't hear the whir of skateboard wheels, I thought I was wrong, but then I spotted him, skateboard propped against a bench, sitting with Christian of all people. I hung back for a moment, watching them.

“I just don't know what to do,” Liam was saying.

“At least you have your sister, man. When my dad got divorced, my stepmom took my little sister, Naomi. I only see her like twice a month. She's eleven years younger, but having her around would've made it easier. The two years that my dad and stepmom were married were the only stable years of my life. You and your sister should stick together. Get each other through this.”

Christian's eyes met mine over the top of Liam's spiky ginger hair. He flicked his chin upward at me, indicating that I should come to them. I walked slowly, feeling a little sheepish since he was aware of my eavesdropping.

My brother-his back to me, eyes on his ratty Vans-didn't notice my approach or Christian's gesture. “I want to…I mean, Kara and I are close, but there's always been a gap between us. She has her own issues and sometimes she forgets about everything else around her. Not that I blame her or anything.”

“Liam,” I whispered, trying not to spook him, but he turned with that expression an animal gets when it's about to bolt.

Christian murmured, “It's okay,” not to either of us in particular, but it seemed to settle both Liam and me. Liam stayed where he was and I kept talking, my eyes leaking tears. I don't know if I'd been crying the whole time or if Liam's words did me in.

“It is my fault. The gap, I mean. But there's nothing bigger than this. And I'll be there for you. Just please come home with me. Don't leave me alone with them.”

My brother cried, too-I hadn't seen his eyes that red since the summer he'd practically lived at the pool, refusing to wear goggles. Liam didn't usually cry. When Stacey and I messed with him or the kids at school teased him relentlessly about his Johnny Cash act, he hadn't cried. But this…this was different. This was more painful than either of us wanted to admit.

Liam bit his lip. I could tell from the way it trembled that he was glad to see me, but he was still pissed. “Who's with you?” He half growled the words, sounding like a dog tired of barking.

“Just Mom. I wouldn't let Dad come.”

He gave me a sharp nod of approval, but scanned the car in the distance warily.

“I won't let either of them bother you, I promise. And I won't bother you either, but whenever you want you can come to my room. We'll listen to music. We can even get high and cover up the smell with my incense.”

“I don't know.”

Worried, I dug my fingernails into my palm and asked in a small voice, “Where else are you gonna go?” Cass's brother had left her, but mine couldn't possibly, right? He'd just graduated from eighth grade last week.

Liam shrugged. “I guess I don't really have a choice.”

“You just have to sleep there, man,” Christian encouraged. “I'm sure you'll be able to get away with almost anything now. At least that's how it was with my dad after the divorce.”

“And I'll be there,” I added.

Liam finally looked at me instead of my mom's parked car and bit his lip again. “I guess I'll come home. For you.” He turned to face Christian. “Thanks, man.”

They did a halfhearted skater-boy handshake-a cross between a low five, a handshake, and a finger snap all at once. “No problem,” Christian told him. “If you ever need anything, you know where to find me.” He extended his arms as if Scoville was some great prize he was presenting, a living room set on the Showcase Showdown of
The Price Is Right.

My brother cracked a smile. Then he put his board down on the cement, opting to take the path instead of cutting through the grass like I had.

Left with Christian, I felt awkward. We suddenly knew way too much about each other. “Thanks for looking out for Liam.” I leaned in the direction Liam had exited in, tugging on my frayed sleeves.

“No problem. I was just here skating, waiting for Maya. Liam showed up, he was upset, and I've been there.”

“Well, thanks. I better go. Tell Maya I said hi.”

But as I turned, he stuck his hand out, grazing the inside of my forearm, fingers lingering over the flannel. The sticky, bloody flannel. “If you ever need to talk sometime…well, you know where to find me, too.”

Had he noticed the blood? Was that what jarred his speech? I couldn't look at him, my face hot with embarrassment. “Yeah, thanks. Bye.” I waved lamely over my shoulder.

“Bye.” I could feel his concerned eyes on me as I scurried off.

Liam waited for me where the grass met the sidewalk, still hesitant to face Mom. I got in beside her, but that didn't prevent her from sliding between the two front seats and grabbing for Liam.

Through her tears, Mom apologized for things she couldn't change or make up for in any way. “I'm so sorry,” she choked. “I
tried…he's just so unhappy…I wanted us to be a family…I want to fix it.”

“Mama, we don't blame you,” Liam assured her.

And with that, we chose a side. We took care of our mother and refused to speak to our dad. He moved out just three days after announcing the divorce. Even though I hated malls, I went shopping with Mom all over the place-Oak Brook, Yorktown, and Woodfield-to buy crap to fill the holes where Dad's books and knickknacks had been. But Mom still cried herself to sleep that night, like she had been doing every night since the family meeting, so Liam and I went to one of Shelly's parties and stayed out until two in the morning.

Like Christian said it would, the divorce gave us a free pass to do what we wanted. There was no talk of curfews. I only got lectured halfheartedly when I started smoking in my bedroom. Liam's sudden use of incense wasn't commented on at all, even though it barely veiled the reek of pot smoke. Maybe we were taking advantage of Mom's depression, but we didn't think about that. We did what we needed to get through the loss of our family. By the time Mom had the strength to try to rein us in we ignored her, no longer used to rules.

There are so many ballads about divorce. Achy-breaky country songs about the cheaters. Mournful pop songs about the heartbroken. Then there's the rare punk song that tells it from the view of the kids. Feelings aren't laid bare in those particular ballads. There's no crying and moaning. Divorce is shrugged off like it's no big deal, just a messy part of so many kids' life stories.

That's how I treated it. When my friends asked if I was doing okay, I waved off their concern and said, “Whose family isn't fucked-up, right?” I didn't admit to anyone that the divorce totally, irreversibly changed me.