Beautiful Together (13 page)

Never.

In that moment, I thought about Arielle's kindness. I thought about Donna and her constant, persistent, magnanimous efforts to provide for Mason. Both people were unequivocally good, and nothing ever changed that.

"You don't have to leave," he said. "You can stay here."

"I can't," I said, staring down at the floor.

"You
can't
?"

"I
won't
," I said defiantly, maybe even proudly. "Not after what happened yesterday."

"Naomi—"

"No, dad," I said, "it's just too late. You
never
stood up for me. You
never
defended me from her hostility. Maybe she would have changed her ways if you actually
did
something instead of just going behind her back and saying you were on my side. That doesn't stop the emotional abuse. You're just unwilling to upset anyone. You're like a politician—on everyone's side and
no one's
at the same damn time."

I couldn't believe how angry the words were coming out of me. But this had been bottled up for so long that it basically felt like I was reciting a speech I had practiced a hundred-thousand times in my head.

He seemed to squint at me, actually, like what I had said was so overwhelming that he was blinded. "Naomi, please," he said. "I'm sorry you're upset, but I—"

"No," I said sharply. "You
let
her say those things to me, and that makes your intentions clear. I'm just a kid for crying out loud. I'm barely an adult at all and you let her... you let her say..." Tears were streaming down my cheeks again, and a powerful sob escaped my throat, interrupting the flow of speech. "Mason is
dying
and you let her say that stuff. You let her! No kid should
ever
have to deal with that."

I walked past him into the bathroom and grabbed a huge wad of tissues. He remained silent, his expression stoic, stagnant. I don't think he ever expected me to blow up. "It's too late," I murmured almost under my breath. "It's too late."

Again, I walked past him, and this time, I stopped and grabbed my backpack. "Bye, dad," I said, trying to leave before more tears came. I rushed toward the front door.

"So you're staying at Arielle's?" he called.

"Yes," I said weakly.

"For how long?"

"A
long
time," I said.

I opened the glass door and stepped outside into the familiar cold.

It was over.

15

I did my best to quickly acclimate to my new life. Arielle let me borrow her car sometimes, and when I couldn't, I used her bike to get to school. It was a pretty short journey either way, but I was still thankful I had options.

That meant I also had a convenient way to get to the hospital to see Mason.

And so the sadness continued.

He kept dying, and I kept coming to see him. Arielle came with me a couple of times—she mostly did it out of respect since he had stuck up for her against Daniel—but told me it was too upsetting in private.

"He was just so... strong, y'know?" she admitted one night. "I can't see him like that. It's too much. It's like a cruel joke by the universe."

I semi-reluctantly accepted her reasoning, because soon, I feared it would be the same for me.

It was also happening with Donna and Dennis to a lesser extent. They kept coming because they had to, because there was no choice. Obligation by blood. Donna seemed to spend the same amount of time outside the hospital smoking as she did in the room with Mason.

There were more strands of grey in her hair than ever. She was clearly deteriorating, not as fast as Mason obviously, but definitely at an accelerated rate.

Watching your own son die did that to you.

I never told them that I had gotten kicked out of my house; I acted like everything was normal. I knew it would stir up sympathy if they found out, and I didn't want to steal any of their energy from Mason.

He deserved everything he could get.

Mason grew quieter all the time, more reflective than talkative. His voice became weak and hoarse, like it was a huge struggle for him to speak at all. It basically reduced him to someone who merely accepted influence, never giving any back other than through his fragile appearance.

The painkillers made him delirious sometimes, but other than those drugged-up moments of strange lucidity, he usually stayed consistent.

His mom brought him books on world religions, and he finished them unbelievably fast. Her spiritual side seemed to flourish as his life faded away, and she tried to share that with him. She wanted him to feel like his death was serving some bigger purpose.

Maybe it was, or maybe it wasn't. I didn't know.

I never spoke of my religious beliefs because that same guilt was still present all the time, wrapped around my neck like a noose. It was hard to enjoy anything.

The rest of February passed in a blur. Soon, it was March. Mason had outlived all prognoses once again. I finally met Curt, Arielle's dad.

He was suave and sophisticated, almost obnoxiously progressive. He smoked weed with her sometimes, often acting more like a friend than a parent. I
wanted
to be judgmental of his behavior by default—not many responsible parents did drugs with their kids, after all—but I couldn't.

I still felt he was a better father to her than my own dad was to me.

Curt kept her happy. After he graduated high school, he backpacked Europe for a long time, and he said it helped him figure out what he wanted to do with his life. So he never pressured her to go to college, just to seek out new experiences.

He took us out to fancy dinners and always ensured that Arielle had enough money for the both of us. I was insanely lucky to get kicked out of my own house at eighteen and not have to work nights at a gas station or fast food restaurant to pay the rent for some god-awful one-bedroom apartment overrun by cockroaches.

I still had support. However, not having to worry about finances just made even more room inside of me for emptiness, pure, unadulterated blackness. My classmates didn't ask me about Mason all that much anymore, because when they did, I kinda freaked out.

One day in the hall, Carla Voss surprised me at my locker.  "Hey, Naomi," she said quietly.

I turned around, shocked once I realized who was there. "What the hell do you want, Carla?" I hissed. "If you and Jesse are trying to—"

"I'm not even with him anymore," she retorted. "We broke up months ago. I just wanted to see how Mason is doing."

I clenched my teeth.
Was this some kind of joke?
Even if it wasn't, my self control was gone. "Well, he's a little more dead today than he was yesterday. And tomorrow he'll be even worse."

"Jesus, Naomi," she said, taken aback. "I was just trying to be your friend. I know it's probably hard, but—"

"I'm not your fucking friend, Carla!" I shouted.

I got sent to the principal's office, but Mr. Brown let me off with a warning, thankfully, since he knew what was going on.

So after word of the incident with Carla spread, people mostly stopped asking.

There were never any good updates, anyway.

Around mid-March, I felt worse than ever. Even though I had grown even closer to Arielle, I was still hiding my own conflicted feelings, always putting on a weak, fragile smile around her.

I figured she knew what was up and chose to give me space instead of forcefully inquiring or trying to solve everything.

I did plenty of thinking about my mom's words and my own beliefs. I thought a lot about my desperate prayer.

A lot about Mason's impending death and what it meant in the long run, too.

Yeah, I thought a lot, but I was too embarrassed of my own weakness to actually speak.

After one particularly harsh week in the middle of March—Mason had been about to die yet again, but miraculously pulled through—Arielle and I were settling down to watch movies on Friday night.

Curt had left the day before to go to Hong Kong. As usual, it was just the two of us alone in that giant house.

And as always, Arielle pulled out her bong and started smoking. I carefully watched her do it, just the same as she always did. Lighting up the bowl, sucking air, releasing her finger, inhaling, and then releasing a smelly cloud into the room. Sometimes coughing.

I watched her childlike giggling at the movie, her uncontrollable laughs filling the air. I felt a wave of powerful jealousy. Here she was, escaping from everything while I was miserable and stuck on repeat.

"I wanna try," I said abruptly. If I could have looked back at myself in shock, I would have.

"You
do
?" Arielle asked, grinning from ear-to-ear. Her arm was buried in a huge bag of Cheetos all the way up to the elbow.

"Yeah. I want to see what it's all about."

"Okay, okay," she said, repacking the bowl with utmost stoner precision. "Do you know what to do?"

"I think so," I said. "I've watched you do it like a million times."

"Right," she said, giggling, shoving her mouth full of Cheetos. "Just take it easy on that first hit. Once you lift your finger, it's all gonna rush right in. This is smoother than a pipe though."

I nodded in agreement, obviously a total neophyte and trying to pretend otherwise. With shaky hands, I lit up and sucked until the chamber was filled with smoke. Then, I let go, breathing in a huge hit all at once.

Boom.

My eyes watered from the hot smoke in my lungs. I tried to hold it for as long as I could, but seconds after it went in, I started coughing uncontrollably and lost it all.

"Dammit!" I muttered between coughs.

Arielle started laughing again. "Drink some water. I told you
not
to do that, dude!"

I drank two whole cupfuls in the kitchen before sitting back down.

"Feel anything?" she asked.

"Not really." I opened and closed my eyes a couple of times and wiggled my fingers. Although I felt
something
, it wasn't much.

"Hit it again," she said playfully. "You'll love it. Just go easier this time."

Emboldened by my failed first attempt—and also by the fact that I still didn't feel anything—I lit up again. I limited the hit this time, and held it inside for a long time. After exhaling, I leaned back. My whole body started to feel tingly. "I feel something," I said excitedly.

I repeated the process once more and then set down the bong. The feeling spread all through my body until suddenly, I was fighting back the urge to grin uncontrollably, like a mirror image of Arielle.

"Are you
stoned
?" she asked.

"No!" I said. I kept fighting the urge to smile, but it kept winning. I sat back against the couch and started laughing. "Okay, maybe I am stoned." The high was so new and fresh, a sensation I desperately craved after so many months of numbness and constant fixation upon death.

"That first huge hit came back and bit you in the ass," she said, still giggly. "Congratulations, Naomi."

"What, for getting high?" Although I felt kind of comically lethargic, it wasn't unpleasant at all. I liked it. "I deserve an award or something. Now gimme those Cheetos," I ordered.

We started laughing uncontrollably, and that was that.

I pigged out on junk food until I feared my stomach would actually rupture, and then I passed out next to Arielle on the couch.

***

One try was all it took for me; I quickly became a stoner, almost outdoing even Arielle. It wasn't that the weed itself was addicting—just the feeling of escape.

It dulled the pain.

I mean, if you couldn't stop yourself from smiling, how miserable could you be? It's not like I didn't have
any
dark thoughts while smoking, but they were suppressed. And it didn't help that Arielle just gave me weed whenever I wanted since her dad knew some top secret organic grower in town.

If I actually had to go out and find it myself, I probably never would have gone so far.

I smoked when I got up. I smoked before school. I smoked at lunch. Arielle would meet me in the parking lot and we'd drive off campus and light up right away. And then I'd drench myself in
Love Spell
and head back for the second half of the day.

Anything to lessen the pain.

I smoked before going to see Mason. Although I didn't get
as high
those times, I was still definitely high. We mostly just stared at each other since he barely had the strength to talk and I was pretty much reduced to an equivalent level of functioning.

I tried not to act stupid around him, which I assume just made me seem more reticent than I really was. As much as I wanted to tell him I was smoking pot to combat my anguish—it was making me happier in some superficial way at least, and the idea of sharing that with him seemed appropriate—I didn't, fearing that he would frown upon my behavior.

One evening, high and depressed, I was walking down the hall toward Mason's room, barely looking at anything or anyone. And suddenly, I saw
him
.

And he saw
me
. It was Jesse, approaching Mason's room from the opposite direction. I didn't know what he was doing.

Our eyes locked for an uncomfortable moment, and then boom, he turned abruptly, acting like he was reading a piece of paper on one of the doors. Like he hadn't seen me.

I felt way too weird, and being high didn't help. I stood there for a second, staring at my cell phone before entering Mason's room, watching the digital clock hands tick away the seconds. I didn't know what to do. When I looked up again, Jesse was gone.

Should I have said something? Should I have invited him in?

I had a million questions and no answers.
Had he just bailed out of seeing his dying, former best friend because he saw me?
Was he in the hospital for a different reason?

I kept the incident to myself, never telling Mason. No need to stress him out about little things.

Maybe I had behaved wrongly somehow, too.

***

As Mason slowly faded away, so did my grades. I was still showing up to class, but my performance had become substandard at best.

Not having any parents around permitted me to more or less totally disregard my reputation. I didn't care about college anymore. I barely cared about anything except getting high.

It felt like a lifestyle, even though I had only been doing it for around a month.

One day Mr. Brown called me into his office for seemingly no reason, closing the door behind me. "What's wrong?" I protested instantly. "I've been going to class, Mr. Brown!"

"Sit down," he said, his expression stern and a little scary.

I complied, finding the plastic chair actually quite comfortable. "What is it?"

He stared down at his desk for a minute, and then he finally looked up at me. "Your grades are falling, Miss. Miller. Several of your teachers have contacted me, concerned. Other than art class, you're basically failing across the board."

I let out an awkward giggle. Of course I was doing well in art class! It was, after all, the only class in which I didn't really have to remember anything to do my work.