The Mason List (28 page)

Thank
you.  I'm really sorry.  Please call me.  We need to talk.

Sitting
on the edge of my bed, I waited for Jess.  The screen stayed blank.  I waited. 
I waited until I got anxious.  Five minutes turned into ten, which slowly faded
into an hour.   I curled into a ball under the comforter, clutching my phone. 
It was a cave from the rest of the world, filled with the rotten cloud of my
unbrushed teeth.  Three hours later, I climbed out knowing the truth.

I chunked
my phone against the wall, sending parts in every direction.  I got chills
hearing the sound.  Grabbing the laptop off my bed, I hurled it through the air
too.  The HP made direct contact with the mirror above my dresser.  Shards of
glass exploded all over the room.  The computer landed with a thud, still
intact.  I picked up the laptop and flung it again, this time watching the
screen break into pieces as it hit the closet door.

I sank to
the floor, feeling the sobs shake my body.  Nothing was making it better.  I
noticed the tattoo on my wrist.  Scratching at the design with my nails, I
wished it would go away.  I wished I could just scrap it off my skin.  It
reminded me of everything horrible.  It reminded me that he was gone.  If I
wouldn't die in a puddle of crimson blood, I would just cut the damn thing off
with a kitchen knife.

The truth
hurt.  I deserved every piece of this grief for what I did to my dear friend. 
All these months, I knew where he stood and I chose to ignore and pretend his
feelings were not real.  He
should
hate me.  Yet, he saved me once
again.  Jess fulfilled his last promise before exiting from my life.

Yanking
open my desk drawer, I pulled out my list and studied all the varying degrees
of charity from the Mason family.  The latest entry always seemed inevitable. 
Clenching the pen between my fingers, I wrote
Jess Mason
in big letters
taking up three spaces.  Tears fell on the page.   I shoved the old piece of
notebook paper back in its hiding place.

Pulling
out my iPod, I flipped through the country playlists created by Jess. I found
the one in question that contained just the right amount of twangy sap.  Keith
Urban knew just how bad I felt tonight.  His soft voice brought me no closer to
the person who gave me the disc; it just made the pain worse. 

I turned
up the volume, knowing I deserved to hurt.  Stretching out on my back across
the floor, I let the shards of glass poke and cut my skin.

Chapter 32

When
I was twenty…

Today was
my birthday.  I waited and waited and waited.  Jess didn’t call or even text,
let alone bring me a giant bag of sugar-coated, orange slices.  He had started
the tradition on my tenth birthday when Mrs. Mason took him to this candy store
in Dallas.  The next year, they brought me to the actual place.  It was a
two-story building that was every kid’s fantasy.  Jess got me a bag of orange
slices every year from that store; every year until today.

Sitting
on the floor of my bedroom, I took another drink of tequila.  It was only four
o’clock, but I was already drunk.  Pulling open my dresser drawer, I exchanged
the tequila bottle for vodka.  I had learned that vodka didn’t make me quit as
nauseous, but I’d grown to like the taste of tequila, so I usually switched
midpoint.

I tipped
back the bottle, feeling it trickle into my stomach and spread like fire
through my veins.  Tears fell down my cheeks, but the alcohol made it not hurt
quit so bad.  I fell back against the carpet, spilling some on the floor.  My
room already smelled like liquor and vomit and sweat.  I lived in filth and I
really didn’t care; it wasn’t like it was the first time.

Sadie
opened my door without knocking.  She came over and yanked the bottle out of my
hand.  “That’s enough self-pity.”

“Whatever.”

“Get off
that disgusting floor.  I got you a birthday cake.”

“I don’t
want cake.”

“Well,
you are not sitting in here drinking yourself into oblivion tonight.  Get up
and eat the cake I bought you.”  She stomped her foot against the carpet.

I crawled
up the side of my bed, using it as a crutch.  Stumbling into the kitchen, I saw
a gourmet cake with writing that said,
Happy Birthday Alex
.  The happy
letters made me want to smash it.

“You
better not sing to me.”

“I won’t
sing,” she smiled as she opened some party plates.

I was
dizzy.  I was drunk.  Reaching for the edge of the cabinet, I tried to steady
myself.  Instead, I accidently grabbed the side of the cake box and fell
backwards into the floor, bringing the beautiful creation down with me.

I
laughed.  Lifting my arm, I licked icing off my fingers.  I laughed and I
laughed.  I had cake in my hair and on my face.  I laughed, and I wondered if
it was the one that Jess liked to hear.  I laughed some more as I licked the
icing off that damn tattoo.  I laughed as Sadie’s face exploded into a red,
angry demon.

“Give it
to me!” she yelled.

“Give
what?”

“Damn
it!  Get your ass up and give me that fake ID.  I’m not putting up with your
self-loathing, drunken fits anymore.  This stops tonight, Alex!”

I stopped
laughing.  Sadie never cursed.  She said it was an
inappropriate crutch of
someone who lacked a vocabulary
.  Sadie cursed, which meant she officially
had enough of me.  Good.  I didn’t deserve someone as nice as Sadie.

She left
the room and came back with some book in her hand.  Sadie handed it to me as I
used the cake as a pillow on the floor.  “That’s your birthday present.”

The cover
mentioned something about the art of expressing your feelings in constructive
ways instead of destructive outbursts.  “S
uper exciting
!  You got me a
self-help book.”  I threw it across the room.

This
would not make a damn bit of difference.  I was alone.  I was sad.  Jess hated
me.  His parents still made weekly deposits into my bank account.  My title
grew to poor – homeless – charity case – angry – shitty friend – slut girl.   

I missed
him.  He walked around on campus every day, just a few steps out of reach.   I
wanted to see Jess, not read some nonsense about coping.  I cried again, making
snot drip to the floor and all over the cake.  Jess’s absence made a crack in
my heart; a deep, jagged hole that could only be filled by the one who created
it.

Chapter 33

Today,
3:37 a.m.

I open my
eyes just enough to see that my father’s truck is still on the interstate.  The
trip to Dallas was like a never ending roller coaster, teasing into the pit of
hell.

“Alex,
you awake?”

“No,” I
mutter.

I watch
the white line on the side of the asphalt.  The headlights from the truck make
it sparkle.  Just yesterday, I drove down the same highway to Arlis.  It seemed
like a million years ago.  His cell phone rings and I sit straight up in the
truck.  He answers and I know immediately the caller is Caroline.

“We’re
about twenty minutes outside of Fort Worth.”  He pauses and I hear her voice
but not the words.  “Ok.  That’s fine…Ok…Bye…Love you too.”

He clicks
end on the screen and glances over at me.  His face seems tense, so I look out
the window.  Something catches my attention.  In the depths of the dark sky, I
see a shooting star.  As always, I clench my eyes tight.  I say the same words
I have muttered for years.  Opening my lashes, I gaze into the darkness.  The
glittery image is gone from the night as if it never graced us with its
presence.

“Alex?” 
My father speaks from the driver’s seat. 

I didn’t
want to know about the phone call.  I didn’t want to know what she said.  I
pretend to be asleep.  I pretend to not be here.  I pretend to disappear like a
shooting star in the night.

Chapter 34

When
I was twenty…

At the
butt-crack of dawn, my alarm blared in the distance. 
Wake up!  It’s a
beautiful morning!
 I pulled myself from the dark trenches of sleep,
remembering I was going to Arlis today.   The little voice inside the clock
screamed the words once more, sending a sharp chill through my shoulders. 
Wake
up!  It’s a beautiful morning!

I
carefully disarmed the little monster.  The alarm clock from hell was a gift
from Sadie.  She said if I smashed it, she would smash me.  I chose not to
cross those hazel eyes; she was evil these days and might smother me in my
sleep.

Check
List Item One: You must wake up on time each morning.

Reaching
behind my head, I fluffed the pillow and leaned back into the feathery softness. 
My father was getting married to Caroline today.  I was happy for him, but the
trip to Arlis was another story, bordering on slasher-film-level.  I would
rather take on Leatherface, in
Texas Chainsaw Massacre,
than what I had
to face today. 

Check
List Item Two: You need to think before you react today.

Taking
out my yellow journal, I scribbled across the pages and contemplated the start
of my morning ritual. 
A constant routine is everything,
said the stupid
self-help book.  After my birthday, this so-called five-step routine had pulled
me up, and then pushed my sorry ass forward when nothing else seemed to
matter.  The whole concept was ridiculous, but it was at least enough to make
me leave the front door and go to class.

I knew
this book of annoying crap would never make me truly feel better.  Step two
suggested setting aside twenty minutes each morning for reflection time as a
way to control your thoughts for the day.  It recommended that I s
tart at
the beginning
.  I wasn't sure what this stupid book considered
the
beginning. 
So on the first day, I scribbled my last tranquil, Norman Rockwell-painted
memory. 

The words
had poured out about a girl who sat laughing in the trees.  I wrote about my
garden.  I wrote about Digger.  I wrote about my mother.  As the entries
progressed, the words had changed to something more cryptic and angry until
they turned into pain and remorse.  One morning, I wrote
I’m sorry
until
I had blisters.

I looked
over this morning’s entry; twenty minutes of damn reflection time complete. 
Ripping the pages right out of the journal, I stumbled to my bathroom with the
writing clenched in my hand.  I stared at myself in the mirror, barely
recognizing the person I saw in the reflection.   

Moving on
to the next step, I pulled out my hidden book of matches.  It was time for my
morning routine of pyrotechnics.  I touched the glowing stick against the
notebook paper.  Orange flames ate up the sides as I dropped the journal pages
in the metal trash bucket.  The fire demolished my transposed feelings into a
pile of ash with a devil’s tail of smoke.  I pulled in a deep breath, letting
it scorch my lungs.  I smiled; very therapeutic, just not on the level Sadie
intended, or the people in the self-help book.

Check
List Item Three: You must take a shower each day. 

Turning
on the hot water, I crawled inside, begging the spray to melt away the knots of
internal pain.  The idea that a loss will get easier as time passes, is
complete bullshit.  It doesn't get easier; you just learn to function while
balancing the large burden on your shoulders.  I leaned against the wall and
eventually sank to the floor.  I cried.  It was the only time I allowed it to
happen these days.  For twenty minutes each morning, I let myself crack while
alone in the shower.  This was my
real
reflection time.

Check
List Item Four: You must wear clean clothes each day.

Turning
off the water, I crawled out, feeling no more refreshed than before the hot
blast.  I tied my hair in a messy wad on top of my head.  I grabbed a decent
looking t-shirt from a hanger and pulled some faded sweats on my tall frame. 
The gray fabric had a gaping hole in the knee.  I no longer cared if I looked
like shit or a runway model; either way this day would have the same outcome. 

Check
List Item Five: You must eat breakfast each day
.

Pulling
my suitcase to the living room, I smelled a dark, sweet aroma coming from the
kitchen.  At least something seemed bright this morning; Sadie had already made
coffee.  I wished for deep, mind-blowing sludge, knowing I would get a hit of
watered-down caffeine from the natural energizer bunny.

“Hey,” I
said, pouring a cup.  I took a sniff and grumbled, “Decaf again?”

“Stop
being temperamental.   I know you can’t taste the difference, let alone smell
it.”  She flashed an annoyed look over her shoulder while prepping a travel
mug.  “You don’t need to be wired today.”

“It’s
just the principle.  It’s like drinking O’Doul’s.  What’s the point?” I took a
swig straight black, feeling the hot liquid slide down my throat with a slight
burn.

“Well,
you are most certainly not having that either.” 

She would
never let it go even though I had been sober since my birthday.  Sadie should
have left me.  I wasn’t a good friend or roommate to her.  She should have
thrown my shit on the curb.  I deserved it, yet she didn’t leave or kick me
out. 

I watched
Sadie take another sip of coffee.  She looked up, allowing her eyes to flicker
over my attire.  I saw every bad thought floating around in her head.   As
usual, Sadie looked beautiful today, wearing what I called The Power Suite: a
dark black pencil skirt and jacket complimented with a starched white shirt and
tiny pink scarf tied in knot around her throat.  Her hair was swept in a formal
twist, giving the pearl earrings perfect exposure.

“Is that
what you’re wearing today?” she asked with pursed lips.

“It
doesn’t matter what I wear.”

“It
matters, sweetie.”  She sat her cup down, I assumed to offer a lecture.   “It
will be fine.  It’s just a car ride followed by a beautiful wedding.  Try to
say that to yourself over and over again.  It will be ok.”

I bit
down on my lip and swallowed hard.  “It will be ok.  It’s not like he will hurt
me.  The whole thing will just be uncomfortable.”

“I’m
sorry I can’t take you.”

“It’s not
your problem.”

“You are
my friend.”  She came over to give a quick hug.  “Call if you need to discuss
anything.  I’m here for you even if I can’t physically come to the wedding.”

“Thank
you.”

“Bye,
sweetie.”

Her heels
clicked down the apartment steps.  I heard a pause, followed by a quick march
back to the door.  Sadie made a beeline to the kitchen and opened the
dishwasher.  She took the coffee spoon out and reversed it to be silver scoop
side up in the tray.

“Much
better.  It would have bothered me all the way to San Antonio thinking about
that dirty spoon just sitting in the tray wrong.”

“You’re
so weird.”

“Says the
person wearing ripped pajamas as an outfit.”

“Whatever.”

 “Bye,
sweetie.”

“Hey…um,
good luck with the debate.”

“You
too.”

The door
shut again, leaving me alone with my pathetic thoughts.  Chigger was dead. 
Jess was driving me to the wedding because Sadie had a debate competition in
San Antonio.  I had called my father yesterday, with selfish hopes he would
suggest coming to get me.  After all, Caroline and I had a mega list of items
to complete before the ceremony. 
She needed me
, I stressed to him. 

He said
it wasn’t necessary to come early and wanted me to get a ride from Jess the
following day.  I didn’t say a word.  My father had known for a while something
was wrong between us.  He had fished around a few times but I never said
anything.   I would never be able to explain why Jess was absent from my life
without revealing the truth.  So I finally agreed to contact him for a ride. 

I knew
Jess would never miss Henry and Caroline’s wedding.  Yet, his attendance never
felt real until that very moment.  Clutching the tiny black phone, I had stared
at the text message for at least thirty minutes before hitting send.  

Sorry
to ask.  My car is dead.  Can I ride with u to Arlis tomorrow?

I had
waited, feeling scared that he wouldn’t answer just like last time.  Instead, I
got an immediate response.

Ok. 
Pick you up at 8.

He had
said yes.  Part of me had wanted to jump up and down.  Jess had answered yes,
but the revelation also meant I had to see him in person.  Part of me had
wanted to crawl under the covers and not come out.  I finally had some form of
communication with Jess after three horrible months.  Actually, three months
since he had walked out of my apartment and a little over four since he had
left me at Rochellas.  I was nervous.  I was scared to see him.

I sat
down on the couch to wait, drinking my stupid decaf coffee.  I had packed my
suitcase last night so he wouldn’t have to wait on me this morning.  Now, I was
stuck waiting on
him
with only my thoughts to entertain me.  I took a
deep breath; counted to five and let it out.  I did it over and over again. 
Jess knocked a little after eight.  Getting up from the couch, I went to the
door.  My hand shook as I turned the knob.

“Hey,” I
muttered.

“Hey.”

He didn’t
smile and neither did I.  Jess wore a blue plaid, pearl-snap shirt that fit
snug against his chest.   In that instance, I regretted not changing like Sadie
suggested.  Jess avoided my gaze and looked past me for the familiar brown
suitcase.  He walked through the door unannounced while my fingers clenched the
knob for moral support.   In one swoop, he took my bag and left the
apartment.  

His eyes
barely touched me as I stood in the doorway.  Following him down the stairs, I
knew the memories of my indiscretions were still visible in his mind.  Jess
could not bear to look at me.  Instead of gangly Alex wearing the extra-large
Black Keys t-shirt, he saw that strung-out girl in the red dress with Dutch.

I stared
at the cab door for a moment before climbing inside the truck.  I shut the
door, feeling uncomfortable after riding hundreds of times in this seat.  This
was going to bad; three hours of gut wrenching silence.  I stole a few glances
in his direction.  He looked as bad as me with dark circles under his blues
eyes.  I think Jess lost some weight too.  His cheek bones stuck out and his
chin was a little more cut.

We got on
the interstate.  I pressed my body tight against the passenger door, wishing to
fade into the tan exterior.  It was eerie quiet in the truck.  I fell into a
hypnotic trance as I watched the white line on the side of the road.

About
half way there, I looked at Jess, seeing his jaw clenched tight and his
knuckles white on the steering wheel.  In a brave attempt to break the silence,
I spoke with a small, hesitant voice like a child asking permission.  “Can I
turn on the radio?”

I asked
but didn’t dare reach for the dial.  His tense composure offered no response
while his hand flipped on the stereo from the steering wheel.  He let the
channel stay on one of the many programmed country stations.  I rested my head
against the window, feeling the awkward tension suck the air from the tiny
space.

My mind
flashed back to all the times we had bickered over the radio station and who
was in control.  I felt a rush of sadness; I deserved every painful piece of
this trip.  Closing my eyes to keep from crying, I listened to the words
filling the cab; a Brad Paisley song was better than the suffocating silence.

The
ceremony was a beautiful display of fall flowers that covered the grounds of
Sprayberry.  My father carried a blissful look, absent since the days before
Arlis.  Caroline floated around with a huge smile as she talked to the guests. 
Their happiness radiated out to everyone, giving me an inner peace toward my
father.  I dabbed a small tear in the corner of my eye.  His days alone in the
old farmhouse ended today.