How it Ends (12 page)

When my mother came home, I asked her to make me a psychologist appointment.

Crystal keeps saying I have to go out sometime, but it’s easy for her to say, as she’s not the one who was attacked and almost died.

Plus, I’ve been eating so much ice cream that I’m starting to gain weight. I should stop because it isn’t making me feel any better but I don’t have anything better to do.

Pathetic.

I don’t feel very “chin up” at all.

I feel lonely.

I told the psychologist that life keeps moving for everybody but me. I’m stuck. There’s prerobbery Hanna and there’s postrobbery Hanna; my life is halved now. Pre Hanna was so sure of her world she just, like, I don’t know, strode through it like there was nothing she couldn’t find a way around, like there was nothing she couldn’t handle.

Post Hanna knows better. She doesn’t stride, she hesitates, because now she knows what it feels like to be hit in the face by a guy who thinks she’s less than nothing.

These are the kinds of thoughts I have now, like nothing is certain anymore, like I could peel up a thousand layers for answers and still never find one absolute.

The psychologist, an older guy with a potbelly, ragged cuticles, and a waiting room full of twitchy people, yawned and said how I feel is perfectly natural and that I must grieve for the Hanna I lost and learn to love the more experienced Hanna I’ve become.

Normally I would have told Gran what he said and we would have spent time dissecting it and trying to turn it into something I could actually use, but she was still in the hospital, so I told my mother instead.

She frowned slightly, as if trying to make sense of it and said, “Well, he
is a
psychologist, so I have to assume he knows what he’s talking about, although I was hoping for something a little more concrete.”

Talking to my mother is just not the same as talking to Gran.

Gran is home again. My mother said she was so shaky because she has Parkinson’s disease and the doctors diagnosed her within half an hour of her getting to the hospital. She’s starting medication and is going to be okay.

Good.

Now Grandpa doesn’t have to worry anymore.

I wish I could stop worrying, too.

My mother took me to see little Antonio, who is out of the hospital and back at work. She didn’t want to take me—I think maybe she thought I’d go catatonic or something, but I didn’t.

We went right before lunch when I knew the construction guys would be showing up because I wanted to thank them for the big bouquet of wildflowers they sent, but all that went out of my head when I walked in and saw Antonio, looking so small and fragile, sweeping near the jukebox.

“Hey, look who’s here,” he sang out, and then he set the broom aside and turned so I could see his black eye patch. When I started to cry, he gave me a big grin and said, “What, you don’t think I’m cute like the pirate Johnny Depp?”

And that made me laugh, tearfully, yeah, because he’d lost his eye, but then he came limping over and wrapped a gnarled hand around my mother’s arm and the other around my hand as if drawing us all together, and looking hard into her face, he said, “You’re a lucky lady, Mrs. Thury. This nice girl, she makes the whole place bright like the sun.” And then he looked at me and said, “So, when you coming back to work?” And there was a smile in his voice but the look in his eye was serious, like he was saying a lot more, and my mother said, “Well, school starts soon so I don’t think—”

And he said, “I’m sorry for interrupting, but I gotta say that
figlio di puttana
took my eye and stole a young girl’s…” He paused, struggling for words. “Peace of mind. That’s not a man, that’s a
stronzo
and you don’t let a
stronzo
tell you how to live.” He released us, hands shaking, his eye fierce and the scar puckering his cheek red and angry
looking. “You hear me? You don’t let him win! You say”—he slapped a hand down into the crook of his bent arm—“right here and put it behind you and keep going.”

I nodded, even though I didn’t know what half of his words meant, and he nodded in return and hobbled back to his broom. We said good-bye to Olympia, who was kind of reserved because my parents had asked her to pay my hospital bills and her insurance company was giving her a hard time, so she was really worried that we were going to sue and she was going to lose the sub shop. (We didn’t and her insurance company finally paid. I was glad because it wasn’t her or Antonio’s fault that some shithead kid lost his mind.)

He’s the one that should be sued.

Too bad they’re probably never going to catch him.

On the brighter side, we ran into the construction guys in the parking lot and it was cute how polite they were in front of my mother. Ronnie gave me this awkward hug and they all wished me well, smiled, and then went in to eat because even though I might have died, they still had only an hour for lunch.

My psychologist visits are over. The psych told me he was proud of how well I was doing, which I guess was good because the HMO insurance paid for the appointments but not an unlimited number of them, so we both knew I had only like six visits to get right with everything.

I could have said a lot more, but time ran out, so I guess I’ll just have to live with it.

Sammi came over and surprised me with a pair of excellent new shades she said I was going to wear to Crystal’s brother’s party to cover my eye so I would have no excuse not to go. She’d already talked it
over with Crystal and they both would watch out for me and leave whenever I was ready, but since I was going to have to get out and catch the school bus within the next two days, they figured I had better have at least one dry run getting off the couch, away from the TV, and into real life again.

I must have been ready because I didn’t need too much bullying to go take a shower, and get ready.

And the party was easier than I thought, with no crying or extreme paranoia or anything bad.

I didn’t drink, so I was more aware of what everyone was doing, though, and maybe somewhere in the back of my mind I was listening for that cold “I’ll kill you, bitch” tone, but of course it wasn’t there. That would have been too easy.

Nobody made a big deal about my shades either, so I ended up taking them off and just hanging out, watching everybody party.

That’s what I like about Crystal’s.

You can just be.

My parents are starting to get on my nerves. They’re being too nice, like I’m some kind of freak who’s going to implode at any second. My mother keeps trying to get into discussions with me and even suggests more counseling, saying we could pay for it ourselves, but I’m like,
Mom, I’m fine, will you just let it go already? It’s over, okay? I don’t want to think about this forever, I just want to move on and live my life.

God.

Then my father asked if I wanted to go to self-defense classes and I was like, no, because I don’t want to be where people are fighting all the time, okay?

It gets tense, and the best thing I can think of to do is either read or go hang out at Gran’s. It’s like my refuge and we can get into good
conversations if we want to, not like we
have
to. She always looks out for me but she doesn’t try to make the world pretty and bright when it’s not always that way. She’s honest and when I told her how much I’ve always loved that about her, she started to cry—I mean really cry—and then I started crying, too, and it felt great to just let go.

After Hanna leaves I go inside,
sit with Lon, and tell him I can’t take it any longer, that our secrets can’t stay secrets, and even if it destroys us, I have to find a way to reveal the truth because we cannot die and leave Hanna with nothing but lies.

And Lon, who has loved me steadily and completely, who has never once let me down, and who has kept good care of my heart even when it cost him everything, dries my tears, eases my anguish, and says,
All right, Helen.

All right.

Writing the truth is hard.

I sit at my desk every day, force myself to place my fingers on our old computer’s keyboard, and order myself to start.

The words don’t come.

Not like the memories do.

They break in waves, in waking nightmares, and often I push away from the desk and pace the house, telling myself I have to begin but not doing it. Instead, I fret and walk, holding on to the backs of
chairs, door frames and countertops as I go because my legs have become untrustworthy and I don’t want to fall again.

At one point I decide I will never be able to write the truth and, maybe, if Hanna will come and sit still long enough I could speak it to her, but when I call she’s out, and the relief is so intense it makes me weak.

I will write it. I will tell her all I’ve been ashamed of and all I’ve lied about but I have to do it in a way that she will listen to without prejudice. I couldn’t stand seeing her get up and walk out before I finished explaining.

So I make myself begin and write every day I am able, shaking, weeping, raging, and missing Hanna, but at the same time glad she isn’t visiting as often or staying as long because the stress of confessing has accelerated my illness.

I am disintegrating, losing control, and there is no hiding it anymore.

Hanna doesn’t know I am dying, but that, I think, will be the least of the revelations.

I got into a wicked fight
with my parents and now I’m grounded.

Seems my father ended up behind Crystal’s brother in 7-Eleven yesterday, and of course Crystal’s brother had been drinking, so he smelled like it, and then he was dumb enough to say something to the counter guy about throwing one more kegger in the woods before it got too cold, so my father came home and started questioning me about what type of behavior went on at Crystal’s house, anyway.

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Me and Crystal have our own stuff to do.”

Then he said, “Well, I don’t want you going down there for a while. If you want to see Crystal, you two can hang around here.”

And I should have let it go, because it probably would have slipped his mind, but like a jerk I didn’t. “I don’t want to hang out here. There’s nothing to do.”

“You can do the same things here that you do there,” my father said, and now he was starting to sound testy because it was suppertime and he was hungry and tired from work and, I don’t know, maybe he just expected me to fold and turn into some meek kid, but that’s not how I felt.

“Why are you punishing me? I didn’t do anything wrong! God, what am I supposed to do, just die here alone? ”

“Hanna,” he said in a warning tone.

I glanced at my mom and she gave me a look that said,
Be quiet,
but I couldn’t. “It’s not fair! You guys already
chose
your life, and now what, I’m not allowed to go out and find mine? I don’t want to get stuck here doing stupid boring things! I want to go out!”

“I know you do,” my mother said. “We understand, Hanna. We were young once, too.”

I hate when adults say that. I do. They always say it when they’re trying to shut down your life and stop you from having fun. I mean, if they know what I want, then why do they keep getting in the way?

I could be so much worse, and it’s like they don’t even
know
it. They get so surprised whenever they realize that I might not be exactly who they think I am, that there are parts of my life that are
mine, my
secret hopes and dreams and hurts and tragedies, things that, if the robber guy had killed me that day, they would never have known because I’ve never even said them out loud, or that there’s stuff about me that only Crystal and Sammi know, or experiences I’ve had that only Jesse or Seth know about.

They only know the Hanna I
want
them to know; they’re only allowed to see what I show them, and all the life-changing stuff—except for being robbed—is my own personal business.

I’m not a little girl anymore.

I want my
own
life and yeah, I’m probably going to make mistakes, but they’re
my
mistakes. I don’t try to hurt anybody or lie or anything, but sometimes I
have to
just to get what I need.

And if they really remembered what sixteen was like, they’d remember that, too.

Anyway, the argument got stupider and I got more frustrated and
really mouthy and my father got really mad and grounded me for a week.

Joy.

I’m still grounded but I’m allowed to go over to Gran’s to help feed the animals, so today I did because I ran out of stuff to read and figured I’d see if she had anything good, because she belongs to like five book clubs and gets books in the mail almost every day.

Well, I found out she had to quit all of them because she doesn’t have the money thanks to crappy insurance and her medication being so expensive, which really sucks because now all she’s reading are Parkinson’s real-life stories and back-to-the-land biographies written by people who ditched civilization and were apparently supremely happy living independently in the country.

I
already
live in the country and right now I’m not very happy, so I borrowed a couple of old murder mysteries from the bookcase instead.

When we wandered outside, Serepta came, too, although she gave me a puzzled look like she’d never seen me before and crept under a shrub.

“She’s getting old,” Gran said, holding on to the porch railing and gingerly lowering herself to the step. Her knees crinkled and crunched and her hand was making this unnerving rolling motion that I was trying to pretend I didn’t notice until she noticed me not noticing her.

“Horrible, isn’t it?” she said, holding up the hand and watching it quiver. “I hate it.”

“Does it hurt?” I said cautiously.

“What doesn’t?” she said and shrugged.

I didn’t know what to say, so I just leaned against the railing and gazed out at the pond. “Look, the does are back there.”

“They don’t even know how little time they have left.” She scratched her knee. “Do you think it’s worse to know it’s coming even
though then you have time to make arrangements and say good-bye, or is it worse to die quick and unexpected?”

“Quick and unexpected,” I said without hesitation, adding silently,
And in a greasy Olympia’s Sub Shop apron.
“I would rather have time to say good-bye.”

“I guess so,” she said and, sighing, glanced at the hunting cabin next door. “I hate knowing there’s nothing I can do to save them, not even for an hour, not even for a day.”

“At least they’re safe here,” I said and then finally remembered to tell her about feeding the deer hay instead of corn in winter. She didn’t get as upset as I thought she would, only nodded and so we hung out a little longer, but we were both in quiet moods, so I left soon after that and followed the path through the break in the woods separating our back acres from theirs.

There was no wind and I could hear my footsteps. I could hear each falling leaf touch down. I could hear the wasps buzzing as I passed the dilapidated old wood barn. The sunlight was thin and the air still, the trees still, and I got the oddest thought—
It’s a helluva thing
—but I didn’t know what that meant, only that it felt like the land was waiting. Just waiting, like it knew everything was changing, and that was a dumb thought because of
course
it did, the birds knew, the animals knew, and so did the plants and trees, because it was autumn for God’s sake, and soon it would be winter…but still.

By the time I made it up our back steps and into the house, I’d started feeling like I was waiting on the change of season, too.

Last day of grounding, so I took the books back to Gran. It was chillier today, there was a wind, and the wasps were gone. I passed her garden and scared up a flock of finches who must have been feasting on all the flowers and weeds and old tomatoes gone to seed.

This was the first time I can remember that Gran didn’t open her
door wide and automatically invite me in. She was in sweats and slippers and she looked like she’d been crying, which freaked me out because I’m so used to her being strong that I didn’t know what to say.

It didn’t really matter, though, because she took the books—she was shaking bad—and said she hoped I didn’t mind but she wasn’t feeling up to company. So of course I was like, No, no problem, and on my way back I walked up on a doe standing motionless in the tree line without even seeing her until she broke and ran, with her big white, fluffy tail waving to signal danger. I wanted to tell her, No, stop, I’m not one of the dangerous ones, but she didn’t give me the chance.

It’s a weird time. Or maybe it’s just me.

I sliced a chunk of skin off my shin this morning shaving my legs. It bled and hurt so bad that I can’t even imagine what it must feel like to have a razor-tipped arrow slice right into your guts.

I hate bow-hunting season and I hate waking up in the dark. I hate walking down the driveway and the wooded parts of the road to the bus stop in my stupid pink hat, afraid that someone just a little sleepy or nearsighted might mistake my hair for a deer and draw a bead on my spine. (Because for some reason, that’s always how I think of it, as an arrow shattering my spine.)

I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

I don’t know why I’m thinking of the robbery again now, too, when the mornings are so cold and dark, and triumphant hunters drive by the bus stop hauling bloody carcasses with lolling heads in the beds of their pickup trucks.

Grim.