Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 145746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
“I’m not… no, I’m not like him,” I croak, shaking my head from side to side furiously. “Aunt Roz, you know I would never… do what he did. I’m not him.”
And yet the picture Dr. Simmons painted makes sense of everything that happened from the time I had to leave USC to last week’s disastrous episode. If she’s right, if I have bipolar, then as shattered as my heart is now, leaving Wright Bellamy was the kindest thing I could have done. I’ve seen how a love like this—tethered to something wild and dark—decimates. I saw it in the charred rubble of our house and in my parents’ gravestones planted in the earth, set together like two lovers.
I love Monk too much to ever let that be us.
Movement Two
“A burnt child loves the fire.”
—Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray
EIGHTEEN
Verity
Eleven Years Old
“Bernadette!”
My mother’s name bellows throughout the house, slamming against my bedroom wall.
I jerk awake in bed, my night-light offering the only break in the room’s darkness.
“Will,” Mama says, her voice quiet, but not so quiet that I don’t hear. “Verity’s asleep. Calm your ass down before you wake her up.”
“Fuck that! Ain’t no calming down when you cheating on me!” Daddy’s voice lifts and breaks. “I knew it. I been asking you and you been lying.”
“I haven’t,” Mama says in that way I think is supposed to soothe my father, but when he gets like this, especially if he’s been drinking, there is no soothing. Mama says he’s not a mean man, but he gets mean ways at the bottom of a bottle. He’s a storm you just have to ride out.
“Gimme that phone!” Daddy shouts, his words sharp, but a little sloppy like they’re sloshing in his mouth with tonight’s liquor.
“Now I told you there’s no text from nobody, Will!” Mama yells back.
I huddle under the covers with a pillow wrapped around my head, praying for Daddy to pass out or for the sun to rise, whichever comes first. Sometimes it seems like there’s two of him. The one who walks me to the bus stop at the end of our long gravel driveway and takes me to the library and helps braid my hair on days when Mama’s running behind, and the man in the front room now—accusing Mama of things that aren’t true and throwing stuff. When he’s not like this, they’re all cuddled up at the sink, Daddy’s hand on Mama’s butt. Mama whispering in his ear and giggling. Daddy kissing her neck, grossing me out. When they fight, it’s Bernadette. When he’s himself, she’s back to being his Bernie. Not many Bernie days lately.
Glass shatters, the sound piercing my cocoon of fluff and cotton.
“Motherfucker!” Mama screams, her voice loud and shrill. “That was Granny’s china.”
“Fuck Granny.” Daddy’s harsh words are followed by the sound of more glass shattering.
“I’m calling Roz. You’re paranoid and you drunk, and I ain’t taking it tonight.”
“You ain’t calling nobody. Gimme that phone.”
Tonight’s a bad one. Maybe the worst they ever had. If I had a cell phone, I’d call Aunt Roz myself, but Mama says I’m still too young. There’s an awful sound, like something ripping from the wall, and then a faint ding.
“Son of a bitch!” Mama screams. “Now who gon’ pay for a new phone? You feel big and bad? Ripping my phone out the wall?”
“You weren’t calling Roz,” Daddy says, his words strung tight and high. “You been calling him on that phone. And on this one, too.”
Another crash and thump.
Cautiously, I poke my head out from under the pillow and stare at my closed door. Worry and nosiness compel me to fling back the comforter, swing my feet over the side of the bed, and slide out. Barefoot, I tiptoe to my bedroom door and crack it open to step into the narrow hallway. It’s illuminated only by the spill of light from the living room. Inch by inch, I sneak up the hall. The smell of the vanilla candles Mama lights every night when she gets home from work grows stronger the closer I get. Sliding along the wall like I’ve seen cops do in movies, I slink toward my parents and glance around the corner.
Even though we’ve been through dinner, homework, and bath time, Mama hasn’t changed from the slacks and button-down shirt she wore to her job at a small clothing store in town. The heart-shaped pendant they gave her as employee of the month is still pinned to her chest. My parents stand close enough to kiss, but they spit and snap at each other, practically nose to nose.
“You buying me a new cell,” Mama screeches, pointing to the floor where her flip phone lies crushed and scattered into pieces. “Worked all day and gotta come home to this shit.”
“Worked all day.” Daddy pitches his voice higher in an imitation of hers, clutching the phone he ripped from the wall in one hand. “This ’bout me not working, ain’t it?”