The Love That Split the World (8 page)

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,
all
of my subjects have post-traumatic stress disorder, but not
all
PTSD patients have seen the orb. I mean, your PTSD may be real, but that doesn’t mean Grandmother isn’t. I mean, maybe the EMDR banished her because the trauma really is at the root of your ability to see her—perhaps it stimulates your dream life so thoroughly that it causes you to tap into something else entirely. And the fact that you’re having the visions again indicates there’s something else—a remnant of the anxiety attached to the memory or some forgotten bit of it, another negative self-belief you haven’t dealt with, or even another cataclysmic event you haven’t processed—allowing a tenuous connection to continue.”

I shake my head. “I went over this with Dr. Langdon. There’s nothing else, just that one memory.”

Alice looks skeptical, but she lets it drop. She turns toward her desk and digs a calendar out from under a leaning stack of notepads. “Okay, Natalie,” she says. “I think, unfortunately, the way we’ll be most productive is to go by the book. Start with twice-weekly sessions and see how we do. It’ll be
important that you talk about whatever you want to talk about, at least
at first, because later you might have to talk about some stuff you
don’t
want to talk about. I’d also like you to write down all the stories Grandmother told you, as well as you can remember them, so we don’t lose any of the details. Sound good?”

I shake my head. “I can’t.”

“Can’t what? Do twice-weekly?” she says.

“No, I mean, I can’t write the stories down. Grandmother didn’t want me to.”

“She . . . didn’t want you to?”

“She wanted me to remember them,” I explain. “And she wanted me to
hear
them.”

One dark eyebrow arches over one of Alice’s green eyes, demanding more of an explanation. This is the exact sort of thing I dread talking about—or, rather, I guess I dread the rolling eyes, the uninterested shrugs, the blank looks that might follow. Despite how much I used to tease and hassle Grandmother, I’ve always held the things she’s taught me close to my heart. They are a part of me I keep, and nothing makes you more vulnerable than sharing something you care about. “Most of them are stories from the First Nations. They’ve been shared orally for generations and generations. She wanted me to experience them like that, how they always have been. “

Grandmother wanted me to love the stories, to take them into my heart through my ears and let them become a part of me, connecting me to all the people who told them before. It feels disrespectful just to give them away on a sheet of notebook paper. It feels wrong not to be able to include or incorporate the way she said certain words, and where she paused, in
her retellings.

My retellings should be wrapped in my voice, cradled as carefully as water so that no word spills. “If you want Grandmother’s stories, they should be told how she told them. They’re sort of hers, you know?”

They’re yours too
,
Natalie,
Grandmother used to tell me.

Alice considers me for a long moment before her head does that wobbling thing again. “Well, what if I send a voice recorder with you? You could tell the stories and record them.”

I think it over. “Yeah, I think I could do that,” I say. “But don’t write them down. Just listen. That’s how you’re supposed to experience them.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal—we don’t want to piss off the person we’re trying to find. Will Tuesdays and Thursdays at nine work for you?”

“Yes.” I’ll be dropping Jack off for early morning conditioning every day of the week anyway. That’s the deal with Mom and Dad paying for my car insurance and gas—while they’re at work, I’m the twins’ chauffeur.

“In the meantime, try to get as stressed as possible. Reeeeally get your trauma to the surface—know what I mean?”

“Oh, I think so,” I tell her.

Maybe that’s why I agree to go to Matt’s birthday-slash-graduation party with Megan the next night. Or maybe I’m a masochist when it comes to Matt Kincaid. Maybe, even though it doesn’t feel right to be with him, I’m too scared to let him stop loving me, lest cutting that last tether sends me floating away.

8

“Remember: You were going to have to talk to him eventually,” Megan says gently. With the Jeep in its geriatric state, we decided to take her Civic instead, and it’s rumbling from the little Presbyterian church’s parking lot to the Kincaids’ connected gravel driveway, the one they open to visitors every fall for their corn maze, and when they host weddings. “It’s not like you and Matt have never fought before.”

“We’ve
argued
before,” I correct her. “And even that was mostly just us sighing back and forth until someone gave up. This was different. More like he verbally poked me in the rib cage a couple of times and then I verbally beheaded him.”

Megan rolls her eyes. “You could’ve nonverbally castrated him, and he’d still want you here.”

“The point of breaking up was to not have to fight anymore.”

“You mean
argue
,” she teases. “And I thought the point of breaking up was so you guys didn’t drag things out until you ended up hating each other. The point was saving your friendship.”

I shrug. “Maybe it would’ve been better to let him hate me.”

“Then you should’ve tried getting a worse personality and an uglier face.” She reaches over and squeezes my hand in the dark. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

The lot beside the barn is already full, so we park just off to the side of the gravel drive instead, where we can hear music blaring from the house. Matt’s parents are out of town this weekend, ensuring 1) this party will get out of control and 2) I won’t have to hear the phrase
I’m
so heartbroken my grandbabies won’t have your coloring
from Joyce Who Only Eats Beige.

“This will be fun,” Megan insists. We get out of the car, climb the last few yards of the upward sloping drive, cross the
lot, and are met by a cheer rising up from the people perched along the edge of Derek’s truck bed. Even Rachel seems genuinely happy to see us, like old times.

“Happy birthday, Matt. We come bearing Heaven Hill,” Megan says, holding up a bottle of bourbon.

Matt stands up, grinning and swaying like a stalk in a stiff wind. “Whoa there, cowboy,” Rachel says, grabbing a fistful of his shirt to steady him. “Try not to break your neck on your birthday.”

“Come up, come up,” Matt says to us, waving his arms wildly. I’ve never seen him quite this drunk before, and I’m not sure what to think about it. Still, after our fight, I’m just relieved he’s happy to see me.

“You’re in rare form,” I say, trying to sound lighthearted.

Derek guffaws. “Rare? This is classic Matty Kincaid. Now
he’s off your leash, boy likes to party.”

“Oh, shuttup,” Matt says, clumsily slugging Derek’s arm. “Come up here, girls.”

“Is there room?” I say, scanning the packed truck.

“Course there’s room, Nat,” Matt says. “Come ’ere.”

“You two,” Rachel says, pointing to two juniors. “Get out. Sorry, birthday boy’s wishes.”

The girls exchange affronted looks but ultimately obey, and Matt helps pull us up—or at least, he’s sloppy enough to think he’s helping.

“Can’t believe it,” Derek says. “Baby Matty’s eighteen. We’re all grown up.”

“Are you kidding me?” Rachel says. “Five minutes ago you asked me to take a picture of your bare butt with Matt’s donkey.”

“Oh yeahhh,” Derek says, hopping up. “I almost forgot about that. Come on, let’s do it.”

“Dude, no.”

“Why not?”

“
Why not?
Because I’m not an ass photographer, and all you’re gonna do with that is send it to some poor freshmen girls and scar them for life.”

He lifts her hand up and gives it a courtier’s kiss. “My beautiful, wonderful Rachel. Would you please make me the luckiest man on Earth by taking a picture of my ass with that ass?”

“Fine,” she groans. As they serpentine toward the barn, I see Jack and Coco standing off to one side with a semicircle of freshmen and sophomore girls. As usual, the group’s unanimous attention is fixed on Coco and her best friend, Abby, and Jack’s just goofily grinning along. He’s always been able to
run with the girls as well as Coco’s been able to run with the boys, and, being four minutes younger, he’s always let her call the shots on where, how, and with whom they spend their time. The second I became a big sister my job as such was already obsolete. Watching from afar has always been my M.O.

Megan lies down in the truck bed beside me, and I realize the rest of the group has split off. It’s just the two of us and Matt now, how it used to be. I lie back too, then Matt does, and the three of us look up at the sky.

“Look,” Megan says, “the Big Dipper.”

“What’s a
dipper
?” Matt slurs. “I mean, think about it.”

“It’s a ladle,” Megan says.

“It’s a boat,” I disagree. At least that was my favorite of the explanations Grandmother gave. “It carries the souls of good people across the Milky Way, the
so-lo-pi he-ni,
to the City in the West when they die.”

“So-lo-pi he-ni,” Megan repeats dreamily.

“Sssolopahennu,” Matt says.

“Hey.” A new voice comes from the foot of the truck. I look down toward my feet and see Brian Walters, of varsity soccer fame, with his pretty blue eyes fixed on Megan.

Megan sits up quickly, pulling the strap of her tank top back up her shoulder and brushing her bangs aside. “Hi.”

“Did you go see the animals yet?” he asks, awkwardly shifting his weight between his feet.

“No, not yet,” Megan says, as if we haven’t all seen Matty’s cows and goats and donkey a thousand times.

“Me neither,” he says, nodding.

I look back up at the sky, cringing. “Well, what are you
two waiting for?” I say. “If you hurry, you might get to see the extra ass that’s in the barn right now.”

Megan scoots to the end of the truck and hops off, hiking her jeans up by the waistband and brushing stray bits of hay from her clothes. “Can’t miss out on that.”

I watch them make their way toward the open barn doors, the golden light spilling out over the soft wispy grass and the gravel lot, suddenly wholly conscious of the fact that Matt and I are alone. “Well, that made me want to scratch my face off,” I say. “Since when is Brian so shy?”

Matt doesn’t answer, and we lie there for a while longer, contemplating the stars and all their stories in utter silence.

“It wasn’t all bad, was it, Nat?” he says finally.

“What wasn’t all bad?”

“Us
.
”

“Of course not,” I say. “Hardly any of it was bad.”

“Thasss what I thought too,” he slurs. “I donwanyou to think I love you despite things. I hate that I made you feel like that.”

“Matt,” I say. “You were a great boyfriend. That wasn’t the problem.”

“You always looked so cute over on the sidelines with that little ponytail,” he murmurs. “Made me wanna win to make you proud.”

“I always was proud,” I tell him. It’s the truth. “You play football like it’s a science. You made me love the game.”

He laughs. “You don’t love the game.”

“Fine, tolerate it,” I amend. “Sometimes even enjoy it.” It’s true I’ve never loved, and probably
will
never love, football. But watching Matt play—and Jack too—always fascinated me.
The thing about football is once you get past the point system and general cultishness, it’s exactly like any other hobby or skill: There’s a generally agreed-upon technique, and then there’s personal style
.
The latter, for those who look, is a window to a person’s soul. Personal style is my mom, after some red wine, walking like she intends to restore order and beauty to the world with her posture alone. It’s Rachel dancing like she’s fighting her way out of quicksand, Megan running across the field like she’s floating on her back in the ocean. And it’s Matt Kincaid playing football tidily, like he’s checking off boxes.

He’s always in the right place at the right time, rarely too fast or too slow. He runs, looks up, finds the open teammate, and sends the ball soaring toward him at the exact right moment; he doesn’t have to speed up or slow down or backtrack, even when he sneaks it forward. He just clutches the ball like it’s a brick of gold as he dodges beefy linemen and jumps over fallen bodies as if they’re narrow streams and he’s a gazelle. He breezes through tackle attempts and scores as the last buzzer sounds. Practically every play he makes resembles the hundredth take of a choreographed sword-fight scene.

“I was thinking,” he mumbles, and his unfocused eyes wander over to me. “Do you remember the firsssong we danced to?”

I sift through my memory. “It doesn’t even feel like we
had
firsts sometimes. I don’t think I even realized we were dating for, like, the first six months.”

“Well, I remember it,” he tells me.

“You do not.”

“Yeah-
huh
.”

“Sing it,” I say.

He starts humming something that sounds like a few different songs mashed together, and I start cracking up beside him, until I feel the back of his hand graze mine. We both fall silent, and after a second, he slides his fingers through mine. I’m so shocked I freeze.

“Why did you push me away, Nat?” he asks. “You were everything to me. I loved you
so
much.”

“It’s not that simple,” I say shakily. My heart is pounding as if I’m sprinting, and I’m just praying someone interrupts us fast, because I don’t want this to happen. I don’t want to keep putting him through this.

“I love you,” he says. “It’s so hard, Nat, not being able to talk to you about everything. I don’t even feel like myself lately. It’s so hard, and I love you.”

I love him too. I don’t think I could know a person as well as I know Matt and not love him. “Matt,” I plead.

“I could be better,” he says. “I could make you happy, if you told me what you needed.”

“Matt, you can’t make everyone happy. You can’t be everything everyone expects you to be, and you especially can’t be what I need
and
what everyone else needs, because what I need is to stop trying to make myself fit here and go somewhere new.”

“You’ll find someone else,” he says quietly, “at school. I know you will. But I won’t.”

“Of course you will, Matt.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Eventually you will.”

“No one will be you,” he says.

“We have to move on, Matt. It’s only going to get harder.”

“It doesn’t have to,” he says. His eyes are soft on me, much too close to my face. The next thing I know, he’s kissing me. Still, my brain is caught in a panicked frenzy in which part of me almost thinks it would be wrong or rude to stop him, while the rest of me knows I don’t want this. It must feel like kissing a dead fish to him, but he doesn’t seem deterred.

Finally I push lightly against his chest, but he either doesn’t feel it or ignores it, and now I’m freaking out. “Matt,” I say, but my voice is mostly lost in his mouth. I push harder, and this time I know he feels it, but he just keeps kissing me. I say it again—push again—and he pulls me closer, one hand skimming the hem of my shirt much too aggressively.

“Matt,”
I snarl, but then he pins my hip down when I try to sit up. I shove him backward, hard, and he rolls away from me and sits up, blinking at me in the dark.

“I—” I don’t know what I’m going to say, but I don’t have time to figure it out before he half-falls off the truck and storms toward his house.

My whole body is shaking, my mind throbbing and reeling with waves of hurt and confusion.

Why did I do that?

I don’t know how long I sit there shaking, caught fast in a cycle of unanswerable questions, before I finally snap out of it and realize that
I
did nothing. And now I’m mad.

It’s only the second time I’ve ever been truly angry with Matt. All I want to do is go home, but there’s this voice in my head that says,
no
.
You can’t let him get away with that
. Because it wasn’t my fault, and he shouldn’t have kissed me, and most of all he shouldn’t have made me afraid. I shouldn’t have felt
afraid in the arms of my first love.

The angry tears begin again as I scramble out of the truck and start toward the house. I vaguely hear Jack call after me, but I ignore him. There are people in Joyce’s cutesy-country-crafty kitchen, a few lounging on the soft floral couch in the living room, but Matt’s not with them. I head down the hallway toward his room, trying to keep myself from crying as I knock on his door.

He doesn’t answer, but he didn’t respect my space—why should I respect his? Matt Kincaid hurt me, and this night can’t get any worse.

So I throw open the door, and oh my God do things get worse.

My eyes land on Rachel as she shrieks in surprise and scrambles sideways off Matt, halfway off the bed. She bounces back onto her feet quickly, clutching her arms around herself self-consciously, but Matt’s still sprawled out on the comforter unconcerned, and I wish I had turned away as soon as my eyes registered them, but there was something so impossible about the situation that I’m completely frozen.

“Jesus, Natalie!” Rachel yelps, face flushed and eyes wide and white-rimmed. “Ever hear of
knocking
?”

The look on Matt’s face is the worst part. He looks pissed but sort of happy about it, like he couldn’t have planned this any better. I turn and run back down the hall, and this time, unlike all the rest, Matt doesn’t follow me.

I run through the living room and kitchen and burst back out into the lot, sobs breaking out of me like splintering wood.

I have to get out of here.

I spin, searching for Megan, someone to hold on to. But
everything’s suddenly different, and I can’t get my bearings. The old red barn I’ve always known is gone, and in its place there’s a looming, powder blue and white storehouse that looks brand new. There are still people here, but the details are completely wrong. Derek’s in the cab of his truck making out with Molly Haines, a girl who’s loathed him since I misguidedly set them up in the ninth grade, and if that weren’t strange enough, he’s parked in a different spot. I run toward the mouth of the gravel driveway, but I can’t find Megan’s Civic anywhere. Everything’s wrong, in a nightmarish way where it’s not so wrong that I can be sure I’m sleeping. In fact, I’m sure I’m awake, but I’m also sure the world isn’t right, and the people and parked cars and music are closing in on me, and I can’t breathe. I’m no longer in control of my body, and I’m turning in search of help, then running, trying to put as much distance as possible between me and that sinister blue storehouse.