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.He just picked it up, its neck broken and dangling, the strings slack, and carried it out like a child in his arms.“Nice, Char,” Rick had chastised.“I didn’t mean it,” she’d said, looking after him helplessly.She still felt bad about it, wondered how much it would cost to buy him a new guitar.This happened to her a lot.She acted out of passion, sometimes hurting people, and then felt horrible about it later.But she never seemed able to make things right again.She had a gift for creating damage that couldn’t be undone.She sat in her ticky-tack room, in her ticky-tack house, painting her nails iridescent green.She hated the tract house with all its perfectly square rooms and thin walls, identical to every third house in their development.It was like living in the box of someone else’s limited imagination.How could someone reach the height of her creativity in a drywall cage? She couldn’t.And she wouldn’t.She would be eighteen in six months.After graduation, she was so out of here.College? Another four years of indentured servitude, living by someone else’s arbitrary rules? No way.Where do you think you’ll go? her mother wanted to know.You think you’ll survive on minimum wage in New York City? Because without an education you’ll be working at McDonald’s.But Charlene had an escape plan; it was already under way.You can always stay here with me, Charlene, when you’re ready.He’d promised her this the last time she’d seen him.You can stay as long as you want.She was smiling to herself when she heard the slow rise of voices downstairs.She stopped what she was doing, poised the tiny, glistening green brush over her big toe and listened.Sometimes she could tell by the early decibels and pitch whether there would be a quick explosion of sound that ended with a slamming door and the angry rev of an engine, or whether it was going to be a slow movement, picking up speed and volume, moving from room to room until it reached a crescendo and someone got hurt.Might be her mother, might be her stepfather, Graham—might even be Charlene if she chose to get involved.Which she wouldn’t today; after the last time, she’d promised herself never again.She’d had to cake makeup and black eyeliner over her eye for a week.She’d let them kill each other first.And it sounded like a bad one.She couldn’t make out the words, just that near hysterical pitch to her mother’s voice.Charlene reached for her iPod, tucked the buds in her ears, and turned up the volume.The Killers.She tried to sing along, to reach a place of blissful indifference.But her heart was thumping, and she could feel that dry suck at the base of her throat.She finished painting her nails with a hand that had started to tremble a little, then capped the bottle and put it down hard on the bedside table.She hated the mutinous actions of her body.Her mind was tough, not afraid of anything.But her body was a little girl shaking in the dark.Charlene reached over and paused the music, listened to the air around her.She exhaled.Silence.For a moment, she was almost relieved.But the silence didn’t sound quite right.It wasn’t empty, void of energy.It was alive, hiding something.She got up from her bed, walked with her toes flexed and separated, mindful of the slime green polish.She listened at the cheap, thin door with its flaking gold knob.Nothing.Not even the television, which her mother had on perpetually—morning shows, game shows, on to soap operas, then the afternoon talk shows—Oprah, Dr.Phil.How could the woman even hear herself think?Charlene found herself feeling the door, like they teach you to do if there’s fire.If the door is hot, don’t open it—they drill this stuff into you.Stop, drop, and roll.Endlessly, your entire school career, they sent you out single file with bells ringing.But the petty suburban abuses, a terrible marriage polluting the air you breathe, a stepfather’s inappropriate glances and crude offhand remarks making you feel small and dirty, a selfish, silly mother who couldn’t seem to decide between the roles of harsh disciplinarian and best girlfriend, leaving you wary and confused.Nobody tells you what to do about those things.Nobody rescues you with a big red truck, sirens blaring.You’re supposed to live with it.But it hurts, damages, like a toxin in the water you can’t smell or taste.It’s only later that its pathology takes hold.You wind up on some shrink’s couch for the rest of your life.She was thinking this as she pushed the door open and walked down the hall toward the unfamiliar silence, wet nails forgotten now, leaving a smudge of green on the carpet with each step.At the top of the stairs, she stopped.“Mom?” she called.There was no answer, but she heard something now.Something soft and shuddering, irregular in pitch and rhythm.Weeping.Someone was weeping.She moved slowly down the stairs.“Mom?”3Marshall Crosby was sinking into depression again.Maggie could clearly see that.All the physical cues were there.His hair hung limp and unwashed over his thick glasses.It was one of the first things she’d noticed about him when he began his sessions with her, that he rarely bothered to brush the hair from his eyes.Instead he peered out from beneath it with a variety of expressions—disdain, defiance, shyness, or, like today, a kind of morose sadness.Something invested in itself.His bony shoulders slouched inside a threadbare navy hooded jacket; his knees were spread wide, hands dug deep into the pockets of his jeans.He had the purple shiners of fatigue under each eye.“So how’s it going today, Marshall?” Maggie said.She sat in the leather chair across from the couch where he sat.She smoothed out her skirt and laid her notebook on her lap.“Good, I guess.”“You seem tired.”“Yeah.I guess.”“Up late with something? Or having trouble sleeping?”A shrug.He turned to glance out the window as if he were expecting someone, then leaned back again.“It matters,” she said, trying to catch his eyes.But he stared now at the low coffee table between them.“We might need to alter your meds if you’re having trouble falling or staying asleep.”“I was up late.” Was there the slightest edge of impatience to his voice?“Studying?” she said.Marshall gave Maggie a sneer.“Studying is for pussies.”“Who told you that?” As if she had to ask.She knew Marshall’s father well enough.Marshall offered another shrug.She examined him for a moment, then let her eyes drop to the notebook on her lap.On the pad, she saw that she’d scribbled “Slipping away.” She didn’t remember writing it, but that was exactly how she felt about him.Years ago, a frustrated teacher had pegged Marshall as learning disabled, and the label had followed him through grammar school, on into middle school and high school.For years, bored, miserable, abused at home, bullied at school, he’d floundered [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]