“An email once every six months or so. We’re like that; the Harts are sort of brutal. My grandfather once made my father spend an entire summer pulling rocks out of the yard because he got a C on his report card. Each day, as the story goes, my dad squared off six by six feet of yard and on his hands and knees picked out every stone and rock under the turf. It took him sixty-six days to finish it off. When he was done, he brought my grandfather the bucket of stones and my grandfather tossed them into a river and then said, ‘Study harder next time,’ and walked away.”
“Wow.” I think about it. “My mother never punished me, really, for anything.”
“I suppose he had it tough,” Paul says, placing his whole hand on my cheek. “But he was worse on me. His dad, at least, gave a damn.”
We settle in and finish off the Raisinets. My stomach roars with the expectation of more food. Paul’s is even louder, and I feel a tinge of guilt over splitting the food evenly.
Total darkness descends quickly and the wind picks up, howling past us, but our cave provides a lot of protection. There’s a long stretch of silence, his warm breath on my neck. I’m afraid to speak, to say the wrong thing after his confession. My head throbs and muscles I didn’t even know I had are aching. My head feels weirdly off-kilter.
Paul grasps my left hand and for a split second, I know he can feel the scars from where I tried to hit the switch last year.
“I’d never ask,” he whispers.
“I know. I know you wouldn’t.”
“I don’t like knowing other people’s shit.”
“I can tell. You’re too mean.”
“Am I?”
“I think you threatened to leave me for dead back there.”
“I did, didn’t I?”
“Yes.”
“But I melted water for you and you did end up climbing a really big-ass mountain.”
“Yes,” I say, squeezing his hand.
He holds my other hand in his and he squeezes back. Not in a stay-warm kind of way, but more in the I-like- you kind of way. Maybe these aren’t the best conditions to try to discern those types of messages, what with the weather, the medication withdrawal, the hunger, the layers of random outerwear, and the darkness, but I feel a change in the air and something like affection rises in me.
“I was turning fifteen,” I say into the darkness. “I had lived in New York City my whole life, but we had just moved to New Jersey. My father had been dead for nearly four years and money was tight, or that’s how my mom would describe it. And that didn’t matter. None of it did. I’d never had many friends anyway. I’d been a loner since high school started.”
I stop talking for a minute. Paul doesn’t say anything, but he puts his left hand through my hair and I can hear his heartbeat. I take a deep breath. Then he stops.
“You don’t have to talk about it.”
“No one’s ever touched them before. I mean nobody I didn’t pay to touch them.”
“You employed some male hookers to touch your scars?”
I laugh. The dumb jokes are starting to grow on me.
“Yeah, I liked to make them dress up like doctors.”
He laughs. “You’re funny, for a girl.”
“Most girls are,” I say.
“You’re probably right,” he whispers. “That’s the kind of thing my dad would say. I hate when I sound like him.”
I clear my throat and think about the words I want to use. I think about how my first impulse is always to lie or obfuscate the truth, but how with Paul I just want everything to be honest and straightforward.
“Let me start over. My father shot himself on Christmas Eve. He didn’t just die-that’s how I talk about it, like he died the way people normally die. My great-grandfather hit the switch too, and my grandmother spent the last decade of her life in a house for crazy women in Vermont. My dad never told me this, but my mom let me know after he died that his mother killed herself inside that home-she hung herself. Being crazy is a family hobby.” I laugh a little as I say this.
“Well,” he says, interlocking our fingers. “I guess we’ve gotten kicked around by the same shit, in a way.”
“Yeah, I guess,” I say.
He leans in and kisses my forehead. “I’m sorry. I really am.”
“Thanks,” I whisper. I feel a flood of emotion come up and settle in my throat and chest.
“It was the beginning of September and I was standing in the kitchen, making lunch. I started slicing some tomatoes. There was something about the way the knife went through the skin of the tomato that caught my eye. Then, in a moment of what felt like crystal clarity, I decided to slice my fingers and then my palm. The first cut felt like euphoria. Then the blood poured out of me, and it felt like liquid relief as every ounce of anxiety burst out of my veins. Blood was everywhere but I didn’t care, and then I made the cut you just traced with your fingers. It could have killed me, but my mother came in and stopped me.”
“Were you really trying?”
“That’s the big question, isn’t it?”
“I suppose it is.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Bullshit.”
I’m silent for a while.
“How very Hart of you,” I say. “That’s sort of harsh to say to someone.”
“Wouldn’t you be happier if you owned up to it and moved on? Whether you were serious or not doesn’t matter, really.”
I want to be mad and angry, but I can’t ignore the blunt truth, that I think he’s right.
“The other night on the plane,” he said, “were you going to cut yourself too?”
I shake my head. “No. Pills. A concoction of things I researched and put together. They spilled on the floor during the crash before I had taken very many.”
I stop talking. I am unable to speak as the enormity of what has happened-what could have happened-hits me.
Then Paul lightly touches my neck with his fingertips and gently pulls me to him. He kisses me. His lips are open and wet. My mouth opens and our lips slide together without hesitation. Then he pulls back for a moment, and we lock eyes. In that instant I know he knows my heart. He kisses me again. I can’t speak. I can barely think. My body tingles with hope and lust and love and desire.
We kiss over and over again, and then he gently bites on my ear. I want to explode out of this bag. I turn toward him, ignoring the pain that shoots through my back when I move, and our legs get all tangled up. He kisses my mouth and I hear a rushing sound in my head. My left arm reaches around and underneath his shirt, rubbing his hip bone and belly. He groans softly. And then just as suddenly, the day weighs on me and I curl deeper into his body and hold his hands and arms against my body. He kisses my neck a few more times, and then we fall asleep.
Chapter 25
I dream. I am in the hospital and Old Doctor stares at me, but when he talks, I hear my mother’s voice. He asks me the same question over and over, like he doesn’t hear me. Finally I scream.
“You don’t fool me! You don’t fool me!”
Old Doctor stands and walks to the window. He stares out into the courtyard for a moment and then he turns back to me and beckons me to come over. I do and it immediately starts to snow and I smile.
