The Hard Truth About Sunshine by Sawyer Bennett
She stops abruptly, and I can tell she was on the brink of sharing something she didn't want us to know about her. Instead, she surprises the hell out of me when she looks straight at Barb and says, "I'd like to get high at least once. That's on my bucket list too. I want to do it before I go blind, because I've heard it can cause paranoia, and I don't want that occurring without the ability to see. That would totally wig me out."
I can't help it. I bust out laughing, and Connor starts laughing right behind me. Sweet, innocent goody-two-shoes Jillian wants to smoke a joint.
She doesn't even bother to look at us. Instead, she keeps those lazy eyes on Barb. "Can I? Smoke one with you?"
I hear a cell phone ringing and pin it coming right from Jillian. She pulls it out of her pocket with one hand while the other holds an eggshell, looks at the screen, and then hits the button to send it to voice mail. Shoving it back in her pocket, she continues to break the remaining eggs into the bowl, and doesn't press Barb for an answer as to whether she'll let Jillian get high with her. But if she won't, I'll score something and give her that bucket-list wish.
It's silent for a moment until Barb says firmly, "I want to piss on a grave outside of Tulsa."
We stare at her with wide eyes and open mouths.
Although, it's to Jillian that she looks. "It's a bucket-list thing."
"Then we'll do it," Jillian says with a smile and nod of her head. She turns to me to ask my permission, but her tone says she expects me to agree with her. "We can budget that into the trip. Right, Christopher?"
Goddamn it.
That's going to add an entire extra day onto this craziness of a trip.
One more day than what I'd planned to spend with these losers, yet I'll have to admit... I'm not as angry as I could be.
Chapter 7
Two weeks ago...
"I had a sister who died," Jillian said in a quiet voice. Connor made a sound of distress and reached out to squeeze her shoulder. Those two had become thick as thieves during our group sessions, which wasn't surprising since the two of them did eighty percent of the talking.
The other twenty percent was either me or Barb lashing out with derision because we were both assholes, and it was the only way we apparently knew how to deal with our pain.
Mags had taken to ignoring us when we did that, as had Jillian if the scorn was leveled at her. But the minute Barb or I directed something at Connor, her claws would come out and she'd lay into us. This would embarrass Connor greatly as Jillian never even gave him the opportunity to stand up for himself, but she couldn't see that. She was too busy trying to put Barb and me into our places.
"What happened to her?" Mags asked softly.
I kept my head tucked down, staring at the tile floor, but I listened. I always listened when Jillian talked because she sounded harmonious, even otherworldly at times, with her sweet voice and cheerful disposition. There was no one in my world like that, and the oddity of it fascinated me.
"It was almost five years ago," Jillian said as she looked at Mags, one hand coming up to cross over her chest and pat Connor's hand at her shoulder in acknowledgment of his support. "We were vacationing in Emerald Isle, and she got caught in a rip current and drowned."
"I'm so sorry," Mags crooned at Jillian. "That had to be tough."
I'd looked up just in time to see Jillian nod in acknowledgment with a brave smile. "My parents took it really hard. They are still having a hard time with it."
"But what about you?" Mags pushed at her.
With a hard shake of her head, Jillian insisted, "It was worse on them than me. I mean, I loved Kelly and we were close, but she was their daughter. A parent isn't supposed to lose a child."
Connor bobbed his head in agreement at that.
"I understand that," Mags said in a deliberate voice. "But how did you grieve?"
"Silently," Jillian admitted. "Most of the time I had to bolster my parents."
"Almost like you became the parent," Mags observed. Barb let out a slight yawn beside me, and I had no clue if she was bored or just drowsy from drugs, but I kept my gaze on Jillian.
She shrugged. "I guess."
Connor pulled his hand from Jillian's shoulder, but I saw him give her another squeeze before doing so. "I have to do that with my parents sometimes. You know... put on the brave, happy face so they don't worry about me being scared."
Parents could be an interesting dynamic in any family.
It seemed Jillian's were mired in grief and couldn't see past it.
Connor's parents, who admittedly were trying hard to make his remaining months as normal as could be, were forcing their kid to hide his true feelings because he loved them so much.
And my parents?
They were pieces of shit.
They came to visit me in the hospital one time when I got transferred from Landstuhl to Walter Reed. They took one look at me, and I could see the naked fear on their faces. Fear of a son on the verge of death with whom they weren't overly close to begin with. Fear of him dying, and, just as pronounced, fear of him living. I was sure I looked terrifying with tubes coming out of me all over the place. My mangled leg had been wrapped in heavy gauze oozing with blood because none of the surgeries to try to piece it back together were done overseas. My hand had been operated on to close the wounds after losing my last two fingers, and my ma had just fixated her stare there. She couldn't look at my leg or my face, but she could look at my bandaged hand.
They never came back after that.
Not for the entire thirteen months I was in the hospital and the rehab facility.
They sent cards, but I had the nurses throw them away without opening them.
Hank, my brother, had visited me a few times over the course of my recovery. He'd always say that Ma and Pa missed me, laying out every excuse in the book why they couldn't make the trip. But I knew those were all lies. They'd already written me off.
"Barb," Mags said loudly. From the corner of my eye, I could see Barb sort of jerk in her seat at being called out. For the most part, the two of us were left alone, but occasionally, Mags would try to force us to participate. "What do you think of that role reversal?
"What?" she asked aggressively.
"When the child has to take care of the parents," Mags prompted her.
"I think most people are douches and shouldn't be allowed to procreate," she'd said with a sneer.
Now that was interesting. Pretty much what I thought about my parents, but I hadn't voiced that out loud. Seemed like Barb and I had something in common besides a love of grass.
"Is that your experience?" Mags asked her very quietly... almost like she was tentatively reaching out to a wild animal.
Barb's eyes glittered with hostility as she replied through gritted teeth. "You know it is."
I supposed that was true. Mags had all our files and the reasons we were in group therapy. She knew each of our backgrounds and used her knowledge to gently poke at the important stuff. Apparently, she decided to poke a bear that day.
"Why don't you share with us?" Mags bluntly suggested, all pretense at geniality swept aside.
Barb gave a shrill laugh. "What? You think sharing's going to make me feel better or something?"
"It might," Mags offered.
Barb gave a bark of a laugh this time, full of skepticism and ire, and I half expected her to storm out of the room. To my surprise, though, she leaned forward in her chair and pinned her eyes hard onto Mags. Her voice went so quiet I had to strain to hear it, but the malice I heard caused a shudder to run up my spine.
"Fine," she said in that eerie voice. "You want me to talk about how my uncle abused me from the time I was about eleven until I was sixteen? How he would sneak into my room at night and just help himself to a little bit of Barb? Or would you rather me focus on the parental unit, because that was what you wanted to know originally, right?"
It was almost as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. This was the most Barb had e
"Well, my parents failed miserably to protect me," Barb murmured, but with no less hatred in her voice for them. "They refused to believe that dear Uncle James would ever do such a thing. After all, he was such an upstanding member of the community. And when they refused to believe me, I gave up on caring about anything."
"You're very angry at your parents," Mags said, sounding supportive to show Barb it was okay to feel that way.
No shit, Dick Tracy.
"I wasn't angry at them then," Barb admitted, her voice now losing some of the heat. "I was sad, and letdown, and completely alone. The anger came later."
"Would you like to share that?" Mags asked, skirting around what I thought was going to be even more of a bombshell than what Barb just laid on us.
Barb shrugged and got that bored look on her face. I recognized it for what it was... her walls were going back up. To my surprise though, she went ahead and shared in a detached, impersonal tone. "One day, I came into the kitchen. My mom was laughing with my dad as she cooked dinner. They were sipping wine and gave me bright smiles when I came in. My mom asked how my day was, and I told her point blank I wanted to kill myself. You know what she said to me?"
"What did she say to you?" Mags asked to push her forward.
"She told me to stop being so dramatic," Barb choked out, almost as if she couldn't believe her mom had said those words. "So you know what I did?"
Mags just inclined her head, never letting her gaze waver from Barb. This conversation was really between the two of them, but Mags was very much aware that there were three other people listening intently.
"I picked up the butcher knife from the counter. My mom had just cut some onions with it, and I placed it on my wrist. I had every intention of showing my parents just how dramatic I could be."
I could see it happening as Barb laid it out for us. I'd thought there weren't any parents out there worse than mine, but I'd been wrong. At least mine had just slipped away quietly. Barb's had actually mocked her pain.
Her voice gentled, went almost childlike. "My mom told me to stop being a drama queen and to put the knife down. And I remember asking her in total disbelief, 'You don't think I'm serious, do you?'
Barb stared hard at Mags but she was talking to all of us. "My mom just rolled her eyes at me and said, 'I think you're just looking for attention.'"
She gave a half laugh, not really like she found humor at what her mother said, but almost in disbelief that a parent could be that heartless to their child who held a knife to their wrist.
"What did you do then?" Mags asked in a firmer tone than what she'd been using. I knew she could sense Barb slipping away and wanted her to finish what she started.
"I cut my motherfucking veins open and bled all over her pretty, white-tiled kitchen," Barb said gleefully, and I know it was a moment of deep vindication for her.
Jillian gasped, visible tears in her eyes. Mags gave Barb an encouraging smile, but Barb was done. She'd shared more than she'd ever intended, bringing up all sorts of feelings I was sure she'd rather kept deeply buried. With a quick heave out of her chair, Barb stomped out of the therapy room, slamming the door behind her. She didn't come back for the rest of the session.
Mags, Jillian, and Connor talked about what they'd just heard discussing ways they could be sensitive to Barb's issues when she returned. I quickly tuned that out because Barb hadn't said a damn thing that would make me treat her any differently. She was still a bitch, and yeah... rightfully so, but the reasons for it weren't my concern. As I'd said... got my own fucking problems.
But I was quite fascinated with her suicide attempt. I wanted to ask her more about it--try to understand the depth of darkness she had to have been in to make that decision.
Because I'd thought about it quite a bit. Granted, I thought about it most when I was in the hospital and then rehab, but since then, I'd continued to consider the option.
Except I wouldn't use a knife.
I'd use a gun.
Single bullet to the side of my head was how I'd do it.
Chapter 8
Present day...
Since it seems I can't say no to Jillian, we're headed to Tulsa. It will end up adding more than a day. I figured that out quick enough when I pulled out the map after breakfast as Barb and Connor washed dishes.
My original plan had been to head due west from Louisville, straight through to St. Louis and into Kansas City. From there, the interstate went straight to Denver, our next big stop. It was the most direct route to the West Coast, and I chose it as the fastest way to get to our destination.
But now because Barb wants to piss on someone's grave--still not sure if that's a metaphorical pissing or a literal one--we're heading southwest toward Tulsa. When I looked at the space between Tulsa and Denver, I'd cursed out loud to see there was no real direct route to cut back northwest once Barb emptied her bladder. We'd either have to travel a little further southwest before cutting up to Denver, or we'd have to backtrack into Kansas. Either way, it would be another twelve hours of driving time.
After a few hours of driving, we decide to stop somewhere on the other side of St. Louis to eat lunch. I find a barbeque joint off I-44 that everyone agrees on, because why not enjoy something original and unique to the place? It's really kind of funny, but through all the shit I've been through... from the surgeries and rehab and total depression manifested in extremely rageful fits and the resulting melancholy from them, my appetite had never suffered. I'd eaten heartily before I'd gotten blown to bits, and I still do the same now. I'm lucky I'm tall and have good metabolism because I certainly don't work out the way I did when I was active duty. I'm fortunate that nothing has settled around my midsection yet.
In the Marine Corps, I was a buff dude. My friends and I spent a lot of time in the gym lifting, and Maria certainly made it clear she liked the six-pack abs and bicep guns I'd created from hard work. Since my injury, that muscle definition is long gone, but at least I'm not fat yet.
I'm sure that's coming though as evidenced by the fact I order ribs, brisket and pulled pork along with French fries, coleslaw, and banana pudding.
We eat quickly and head back to the car. It isn't long before Barb and Connor are sound asleep in the backseat, each of their heads resting against their respective passenger windows. We drove through a heavy rainfall after leaving the restaurant, and between the pattering on the roof and the swish of the wipers, it was enough to put anyone out.
It's since calmed to only a sprinkle, and the sky in front of us looks to be clearing of the gray clouds. I take a quick peek at Connor through the rearview mirror, noting he actually looks pretty good today. Maybe it's the excitement of going egging or something. Or maybe it's because the remainder of the poison from his last round of chemo has exited his body.
Jillian has assumed the role of the front passenger again. She's named herself the assistant navigator and uses a paper map to ensure we're getting off at the right exits, despite the fact I have the travel directions programmed into my phone and some female voice telling me when to turn.
Truth be told, I like Jillian's voice better. It's sweet, lilting, and light on the ears.
Right now, she's got her bare feet on my dashboard, legs slightly bent as she plays on her phone. I'd be dead not to notice how gorgeous those legs are. Tan and perfect in every way. Even her feet are fucking pretty. She's got on a pair of white shorts that come to mid-thigh and a Carolina Tarheels t-shirt. Her long, wavy hair is pulled into some kind of messy concoction on top of her head, and she's just fucking stunning.
"How much of a dork do I look in these?" she asks out of the blue, and I turn my head to look at her briefly before giving my attention to the road again.
&nb
"Yeah, these glasses," she explains.
I give another quick look and can't help but chuckle. She looks like a complete dork wearing black plastic frames with lenses as thick as Coke bottles to help her failing eyes, which are hugely magnified when she looks at me. In the Marine Corps, we called those "beat me, fuck me" glasses.
"I look like a dork, right?" she asks with a smile.
Turning my gaze back to the road., I have to admit, "Yeah... a bit of a dork. But those thick lenses really make the blue of your eyes stand out."
She doesn't say anything for a moment, and then her sweet voice floats across the cab to my ears, "Christopher Barlow... that's the absolute nicest thing I've ever heard you say."
The skin around the left side of my mouth pinches, indicating an involuntary smile has come to my mouth as it's pulling at the scar there. Still, I tell her, "Well, don't expect it too often. Haven't you figured out I'm an asshole?"
I reach into the center console and grab my Marlboro Reds in an easy pinch between my thumb and the two remaining fingers I have of my right hand. Such an easy task now, but fuck if it didn't take me weeks to learn how to pick shit up with a hand that was missing the ring and pinky finger. I tap the pack opening against my left hand as it rests on the top of the steering wheel, my eyes dropping to my right arm for a moment.
Even after almost eighteen months, the damage to my arm sickens me. I have no clue what did it, but I assume a piece of sheered metal, possibly the floorboard or something blowing upward. Almost the entire muscle from elbow to wrist on the top of my forearm shredded so badly that most of it couldn't be salvaged. They were able to repair and connect the remaining thin shreds of tendon and muscle with thousands of micro-sutures, and then they grafted skin from my left hip over the top. It's grotesque. It looks as if there's a long concavity running down my forearm with my radius and ulna bones standing out in stark relief. The transplanted skin is shiny with some puckering around the edges, but the missing muscle is what makes it look so hideous. I'm self-conscious about it, no doubt, but not enough to wear long sleeves. It's high summer and hot as fuck outside. Besides... no one here I'm trying to impress.