Torn Away

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

When I got back to the bedroom after my shower the next morning, I found that my cell service had been turned off. I held the phone in my hand for a long moment and stared at it. I had expected it would be shut off at some point, but there was something so depressing and final about it. Like my last grasp on my old life had let go.

My grandmother had left a plate of Pop-Tarts on the dresser, along with a glass of apple juice. I wolfed it all down and sat on my bed, wondering what to do next.

I was well rested and my stomach was full. I didn’t want to watch TV, mostly because there was no TV in my bedroom, and I didn’t want to risk running into my grandparents in the living room. But I was getting bored and lonely with no entertainment, and though I wanted to make the statement that these people were to be loathed by me, I knew eventually I would have to come out and talk. I had nowhere else to go. Even I could admit, it wasn’t reasonable to believe I could live with my grandparents for the next year or more and not ever talk to them.

I grabbed the phone my grandmother had left on the dresser the day before and headed outside, where a striped patio swing looked out over an eager garden. I sat down, sinking my bare toes into the thick grass. I called Dani first.

“Do you hate me?” she asked.

“No. I wish you would have warned me, but I don’t hate you.”

She whispered into the phone. “It’s my mom. She thinks you’re going to have a mental breakdown or something, and she doesn’t want to have to be the one to handle it. Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Are you going to have a mental breakdown? I mean, your mom died.”

“I know she died, Dani,” I said, trying to shake the irritation. Why on earth would her mom pull away from me if she thought I needed help? My mom had been right—Dani’s parents thought like lawyers. “And I don’t think so. I mean, I’m not sure. What does a mental breakdown feel like?”

“I don’t know. Like you’re going to lose it? I think I would be losing it if I were you.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger. I was feeling a too-familiar anger welling up inside me. I’d never been an angry kind of person, and it didn’t make sense why it kept coming back. I was sad, not angry. I was scared and lonely, but I didn’t understand why I felt so mad. Being mad all the time did sort of make me feel like I was losing it. “I guess,” I said. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters.”

“Not to your mom.”

“Come on, Jersey. That’s not fair. My mom’s got a lot going on right now, too.”

Really? I wanted to scream into the phone. Like what? Did some shingles get damaged? Did she have to go without her blow-dryer for a whole week? Did the poor baby break a nail picking up a board in her driveway? How on earth did she possibly manage? Instead, I concentrated on my breathing, trying to will away the fury.

“Hello?” Dani said.

“I’m here.”

“Hey, um, not to change the subject, but I heard something about Kolby.”

I let go of the bridge of my nose and sat up straighter. “What?”

“It’s probably just a rumor, but someone said he got this weird infection in his arm.”

“Yeah. He did. I tried to call him a couple times. He was in the hospital over in Milton.”

There was a pause. “I heard it was pretty serious is all.”

“How serious?”

“I don’t know.”

But something in her voice told me she did know; she just didn’t want to say. I needed to talk to Kolby myself.

“Listen, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you back,” I said.

“Okay, but about my mom? Don’t be mad.”

Just let it go, my brain seethed. Let it go. “Yeah, it’s all right. I’m not,” I said. “I’m going to try to call Kolby again.”

“Call me back when you know what’s up,” she said. “Everybody’s wondering.”

“Okay,” I said.

I hung up and immediately dialed Kolby’s cell, pacing back and forth through the grass, kicking up swarms of tiny flying bugs.

“Hello?” Still not Kolby.

“Tracy? It’s Jersey. Is Kolby there?”

“Um. Jersey? Yeah, he’s here, but um… hang on.”

It seemed like it took a long time, but when the phone was finally picked up again, it was Kolby on the other end.

“Hey,” he said. He sounded bleary. “Are you back in Elizabeth?”

“No. I’m in Waverly with my grandparents. But what’s going on with you? Is it serious?”

“It’s fine. I got an infection in the cut on my arm. It’s some fungus spelled with about a thousand letters. The doctor said something about it being common after natural disasters.”

“Are you going to be okay?”

He cleared his throat, his voice craggy and clotted. “I guess it damaged a lot of tissue. Real gross-out stuff. Looked like something out of a comic book. I half expected a bionic arm to pop out.” He laughed weakly.

“But it’s healed now, right?”

“Sort of. They had to do a skin graft.” He chuckled. “They took skin off my butt and put it on my arm.”

I stopped pacing. “Wait. You had surgery?”

“Yeah. But I’m getting out of here soon. I have to relax for a while, make sure it heals up and stuff. Not a big deal.”

“Sounds like a pretty big deal,” I said. Kolby, who played baseball in the street all summer long, who skateboarded and pushed his sister on swings and pulled his mother out through their basement window on the day of the tornado, had to have surgery? Because of a cut? How was this possible?

He yawned loudly. “So I should probably go. The pain meds are kicking in, and you never know what I’m gonna say on those. I might profess my deep abiding love for your toe lint, no joke.” I could hear the smile in his voice, but I couldn’t match it. It seemed like the hurt would never stop coming. I felt shaken, frail.

“Okay,” I said. “Let me know when you get out of the hospital. Take care of yourself. I mean it.”

“You keep being bossy like that, and I’ll be forced to touch you with my butt-arm.” He yawned again.

“I’m being serious, Kolby,” I said, though I couldn’t help smiling a little. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“Aw, Jers, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you miss me a little.”

I closed my eyes. “More than you could ever know,” I said.

After hanging up, I stood in the middle of my grandparents’ backyard, barefoot and shivering. The phone dropped from my hand and landed in the grass, but I made no move to pick it up. I was shaking so hard my fingers couldn’t hold the telephone. Maybe Dani’s mom was right—maybe I was losing it and I was too far gone to even know. Maybe this was what losing it felt like.

“Jersey?” my grandmother’s voice sounded from the sliding glass door.

I turned slowly. “Huh?” Speaking, without even meaning to.

“We’re headed to the grocery store. Why don’t you come along?”

I nodded. Despite myself, I freaking nodded. Sure, the grocery store, why not? My whole stupid world is falling apart, so why not the freaking grocery store, right? Because grocery stores, those are normal and those are sane and those might make me normal and sane.

Half an hour later, I found myself trudging down the cereal aisle, the bread aisle, passing the canned goods and the pasta. My grandparents chattered as if this were the most exciting day of their lives, reading labels and pointing at sale tags and asking, asking, asking me so many questions, until I felt like my brain might explode.

“Jersey, do you eat biscuits and gravy? Your grandfather makes wonderful biscuits and gravy, Jersey.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Jersey, what kind of deodorant do you wear, honey? What kind of shampoo, Jersey? Do you need a razor, Jersey, a hairbrush, Jersey, do you like these protein bars, do you drink a lot of milk, do you like oranges, Jersey, Jersey, Jersey?”

“Yeah. Okay. That’s fine. No. I don’t know.”

My grandmother stopped and talked to no less than ten other people, gave them all the same spiel: This is our granddaughter, Jersey. I’m sure you heard about the tornado up in Elizabeth. Such a sad, sad thing. Yes, we lost our only daughter. It’s very traumatic for all of us, but we’re muddling through, aren’t we, Jersey?

And then would come the introductions, as if we were at some stupid cocktail party: Jersey, this is Anna, this is Mary, this is Mrs. Donohue. Her son is a marine, her daughter teaches English at the community college, she used to babysit your mother, can you believe it?

To all observers, we were a reunited family on the mend. My grandparents, the saints, had taken in a sullen, sunken-eyed, purple-haired granddaughter they didn’t even know and were helping her rebuild her life. We shopped together. It was so cute.

I wanted to vomit.

I wanted to scream and run out into the parking lot and hurl cans of green beans through the windows. I wanted to bash the headlights out of Anna the marine-mother’s car. I wanted to lie down on the cool tile and press my cheek against it, fall asleep, cry, rage, rampage, hurt things, hurt myself.

But instead, I nodded. I answered questions.

Because I had no other choice.