Chapter 1—A New Ho
It's said that all manner of catastrophes come in threes. And call me a pessimist if you must, but I am inclined to agree.
When I was six, my mother and I were home alone and the victims of a violent home invasion. I don't remember much of the event, just waking up to the sounds of gunshots downstairs in our two-story suburban home. We had just been one in a string of serial home invasions in the area. My dad and brothers had been out at the time and I'm not entirely sure if it was ultimately for the best or not. One of them could have done something. Or not, y'know? Who knows.
Anyways, the robbers kill my mother. That was the gunshot that woke me up.
One.
When I was twelve, myself and two other girls from my junior high were kidnapped by this psycho math teacher at our school that turned out to be a convicted killer in twelve states. And when I mean psycho I mean straight up Looney-Toons. He keeps us for a week; only two of us made it out. It's an unspoken rule in my house that we don't talk about this.
That's two.
Then when I was eighteen—oh, wait I just realized I never introduced myself.
I'm Nancy Duke. Hi.
I don't know why my parents named me Nancy as a child in the twenty-first century. Nancy is the name of a fifty-year-old woman who wears plastic sun visors and gets all her jewelry from farmers market kiosks. Nancy wears spatula earrings and muumuus outside of vacationing in Kona, Hawaii.
I do not wear spatula earrings so I go by my middle name: Jade. Much cooler, right? I think so.
My dad's name is Jim Duke, you probably know him as the Duke of Hazard. He was a pretty popular pro wrestler back in the day before he retired to join the marines. We have a few VHS tapes of his fights from back in the late 80's and early 90's and I must say, he was pretty cool. But, my dad's all about 'civic duty' and when the Afghanistan war broke out, he enlisted. He served for five years before retiring.
Now he's a cop.
And yeah, he looks exactly like what you're picturing in your head right now. He's 6'2", 200 pounds and a tank of a man with thick, beefy biceps, buzzed orange hair with a light dusting of grey as he is now in his mid-fifties. He's the kind of guy you call Sir, even if you don't typically call anyone Sir.
My mom was Yellow Duke. She wasn't born with the name Yellow, she was born Allison and then had her name legally changed to Yellow because it was her favorite color. All our bedrooms were yellow growing up, too. She was one of those neo-futuristic hippies and was a potter by profession.
It must have been crazy to see them together back in the day. I don't have too many memories of them together, but I remember thinking my mom looked like a proper princess. This may or may not have been influenced by the fact that Shrek had recently come out and mom looked unmistakably like Princess Fiona pre-ogre, and dad was built like an ogre so in my child-mind it made sense.
Then you have my two older brothers. Theodore, long for Theo, is the eldest and is an assistant manager at a 24hour Fitness center. Second is Ben, short for Ben-hur, and he's currently away at college studying to be seismologist. Then there's me and my twin brother Nathaniel. Nathaniel Blue and Nancy Jade. Before you ask, yes. We do all have colors for middle names. You can thank my mother for that. Theodore Grey and Ben-hur Periwinkle (Ben usually just puts his middle name down as Peri when he can).
My dad's a good person.
I just feel like I need to say that, I need you to understand that before I go on.
My whole family is very loving and supportive and we're all very close. When mom died, dad took it really hard. It was clear he was hurting and he blamed himself for it. I mean, imagine spending your life serving and protecting and you can't even protect your wife and child when the time comes. It would mess anyone up. Some days he wouldn't leave his room and it would be Theo and Ben getting Nate and I ready for school. I remember Theo made really good peanut butter and banana sandwiches and would put a fruit roll-up and gushers in our lunches even though we were only supposed to have one or the other.
Then, six months after mom's death, dad was back to himself. He said that mom was dead, and we were alive so we better live. Dad then signed us up for counseling and life continued on. I did ballet and dad, Theo, Ben, and Nate went to all of my recitals. I was their little baby girl. Even Nate treated me like a baby, though he was only older than me by five minutes. I have very clear memories of dad, with his big square dad-hands fumbling around with the bobby-pins and hairspray, trying to make my wispy red baby hair resemble that of a ballerina bun.
Then I was kidnapped.
After that, dad became a little… paranoid. There was no more ballet for me and no more sports for my brothers; we were all thrown into my dad's own personal boot camp where we learned mixed martial arts, sambo, krav maga as well as a plethora of other skills like how to pick a lock, how to get out of handcuffs, how to tell when someone is following you, and what to do when you're stranded with no survival gear. Home was no longer a place of happy fun times, it was the barracks. If one of us was late coming home from school and sent no warning, we had to run five miles before we could eat dinner.
At least once a year, dad would tear-gas us and it was always random with no warning. It was a tactic they use in the actual marines to help you practice operating under stress but god, does tear-gas burn.
He basically turned us into a squad of mini-marines.
Well, that was a really long tangent but hopefully you know me a little better now. So now, where was I? Oh yeah.
It was a Wednesday. On Wednesday's Nathaniel drives me to group therapy at the Sundance Home. The Sundance Home is a safe space for kids who have experienced intense trauma at a young age and at eighteen I technically shouldn't still be going but these days I go more to help out Diane, the head of the home, than to actually participate.
"Hey dad?" I bound down the stairs and into the breakfast area. Nathaniel is at the breakfast bar eating an omelet and playing some game on his phone, his trademark Duke bright red hair was long and floppy making him look like a ginger Shaggy from Scooby-Doo, complete with the baggy green shirt and sparse facial hair. My dad is at the stovetop scrambling some more eggs. He's wearing a faded green shirt that says "Gils Gone Wild! Raw, real, uncut!" underneath a depiction of three fish lifting up their shirts—their fish titties censored out. Dad doesn't fish, but he does like a good pun.
"JD, just in time. Get your eggs." He says, setting down a steaming pile of scrambled eggs topped with two fat slices of tomato. I make a face when his back is turned. I don't like eggs. They have a weird texture and make your farts smell really bad but I sit down and eat them anyways because 'they are a good source of protein and energy, JD, stop complaining'.
"Dad?" I try again, sitting in front of my eggs.
"Hm?"
"I was wondering if I could go with James to therapy today," I bite my lip, hoping he won't immediately shoot me down. James So is my boyfriend. I met him at group therapy and we've been together for nearly three years. He's got curly blue hair and black eyes and his dad was the I-5 strangler. He used to use James as bait because hitchhiking women were more prone to trust a man with a kid in the backseat. Fourteen confirmed kills.
You could say he's kind of messed up, but hey, so am I.
Dad looks up, catching my eye and I know not to look away as I continue. "It's Valentine's Day."
That's right, it's Wednesday. And Valentine's day. And my geek-boyfriend wants to watch the original Star Wars trilogy because I've never seen it.
Oi, I can hear you judging me through the screen.
I've been around the sci-fi block, just not extensively. I've always leaned more toward the historical fiction like Outlander, Murder on the Orient Express or Memoires of a Geisha and the occasional fantasy like Harry Potter, Neverwhere or His Dark Materials. They feel more weighted in reality when compared to science fiction. I was bawling when Jamie and Claire are torn apart at the end of book two when they think they'll never see each other again, and I think every child that read The Amber Spyglass still feel what Lyra and Will felt in those last three chapters.
I've seen every episode of Red Dwarf which doesn't entirely help me, because even though it's sci-fi, literally nobody else in the sci-fi community has heard of it. I've seen every episode of Matt Smith and David Tennant's Doctor on Doctor Who, and I've seen a handful of episode of the original Star Trek but I remember next to nothing about them. My knowledge of Star Wars only extends to what pop culture has deemed important enough for me to know: "help me obi-juan, you're my only ho", the truth universally acknowledged that Jar-Jar Binks is the most annoying character ever, and "Luke, I am your father"—"NOOOOOOOO!"
Or something along those lines.
Anyways, he's been trying to get me to watch the movies for ages and since it's Valentine's Day and I'm a good girlfriend, I will do this.
"Nathaniel can still drop me off at his house," I offer. Dad doesn't like me traveling alone even with all my training and I try not to hold it against him.
"Alright," dad allows and I grin, leaning over to kiss his clean-shaven cheek. He chuckles, patting my head.
"Thanks, dad," I say. Underneath all those war scars and tattoos and solid muscle, he really is just a pile of puppies and kittens. A soft-hearted man at the end of the day.
I quickly shovel my eggs into my mouth. I want to leave as soon as possible.
"Nate, let's go." I order, whacking my twin upside the head. He grunts, eyes still glued to his phone. I rinse off my plate before dumping it in the dish washer and when he still hasn't moved, I resort to chucking the dish rag at him. It lands with a floof on top of his head. "Nathaniel Blue!"
"Yeah?" He finally looks up, unfocused, foggy green eyes, the color of sea glass, meeting mine. "What? Oh yeah, okay. Let's go Jade." We exit our house and head towards Nathan's 2000 Toyota Camry parked on the street in front of our house.
"Do you wanna drive?" Nathanial asks. I laugh.
"Absolutely not."
Now, if you've never driven through Seattle or any large urban city, then consider yourself lucky because it is the most anxiety inducing thing that a person is forced to do. The streets are too narrow with cars parked on each side. You can barely drive safely down any of the residential streets and god forbid another car is coming down the street from the opposite direction. The you have to do this awkward dance where the smaller car has to find somewhere they can pull over to let the other pass. One-way streets, the 3-6pm bus only lanes except on Sundays, the parking meters that won't accept your card for some reason forcing you to go find free parking probably ten blocks away from your location.
Basically, driving in Seattle is hell on earth and probably the reason we have so many serial killers here.
James's dad is currently serving ten life-sentences in jail and his mom is dead so he lives with his mother's mom—his grandmother—who he calls Dame Judy which I've always found funny. Her name is Judy, but she's not a Dame—however, she does hold a striking resemblance to Judi Dench.
When she answers the door I present her with a small box of chocolates.
"Happy Valentine's Day, Judy!" I sing and she claps her hands in excitement. I'm great with old people, it's like my mundane superpower.
"Oh Jade! Good to see you, James is up in his room." Judy says, her heavy Sicilian accent coating the words. She takes the box and ushers me inside but does not follow me once we reach the stairs. I think she's a little scared of James because she never goes up to his room on the second floor. If she needs him for anything she'll stand at the bottom of the landing and call for him.
I make my way up the polished oak stairs, passing family photos of James as a baby with his mom and dad. It's weird to see Gerard So, famous I-5 strangler, looking normal next to a baby James, arm in arm with his wife, Marzia Piccini.
Marzia Piccini was a foreign exchange student studying nursing at the University of Washington Tacoma when she had met fellow med-student Gerard So. But details about her were sparse; nobody in the Piccini household was want to talk about her or her unfortunate suicide after the revelation of what her husband Gerard had been doing with their son on their long drives together. She had been beautiful though, tall and dark haired with full lips and an archipelago of moles on her face.
"Hey, baby," I greet him, crawling onto his bed. James is sitting in his computer chair playing the Oregon Trail, and his desk is littered with empty Cheeto bags and ramen cups and I can tell he's been playing for a while since he is often so meticulous about keeping his room clean. He grunts in response. "Happy Valentine's Day. D'you wanna watch Star Wars?" This gets his attention. He looks up, his dark eyes meeting mine.
"Okay." He flashes me a crooked smile. He doesn't mention the fact that it's Valentine's Day.
Okay. If it's just between you and me, James is a pretty shite boyfriend. He doesn't hug me back, or kiss me back, or really reciprocate any form of physical affection—I'm actually okay with this because surprise physical affection that I don't initiate usually sends me into a panic attack, or at least, it used to. I've gotten better.
Also, there was this one time we got into a fight and I went to the bathroom and when I came out he was holding a fishing knife—one of those serrated ones that end in a hook—and I think he was thinking about killing me with that knife. It wasn't a big deal though, it was a small knife and I could mop the floor with him if it came down to a fight. Besides, we all have our different quirks. Like for instance, I like to eat my Flamin' Hot Cheetos with chopstick, and will pretend to not speak English just to avoid interacting with strangers sometimes.
Okay maybe not the same. I'll acknowledge that.
James moves to the bed once he's put on A New Hope and I curl up into his side. He doesn't put his arm around me so I do it for him, placing his arm around my shoulders like so.
This is how we watch the first Star Wars movie, or at least I try to watch the movie but it's just so dated and the acting is so mediocre and someone really needs to get Leia some contour, her face looks so flat in half her scenes. I could also tell James was getting annoyed with me and all my questions, like: "Why was the first film episode four? What was George Lucas thinking?" "If the storytelling was chronological, then they wouldn't need to do such a huge exposition dump at the beginning of the movie." "You realize seventy percent of A New Hope is exposition and thirty percent plot, right?" "Why is Luke so quick to get over the death of the only family members he's ever know? Why does he not emote?"
These are valid questions, in my humble opinion.
About half-way through I mute the movie and take my top off. Now nobody is paying attention to the movie and we pass the rest of our time ignoring Star Wars until it's time to go to therapy.
.
If you've never been to any form of group therapy, there is this weird air that always hangs around. Everyone knows why everyone is there, but it's never directly addressed. Like it's all our unspoken secret that we all politely pretend not to notice.
Or maybe this is just Sundance Home specific.
You don't go to therapy here unless you've had something reaaaaally effed happen to you. That's also why the Sundance Home is an actual home. It's a buttercream one story house complete with peaked roof, a living room, kitchen, two bathrooms and a backyard with a playset. It's supposed to make kids feel more at ease than they would in a hospital or an office.
At the Sundance Home, they split up the kids from twelve and under to thirteen and up. The twelve and under kids don't participate in the actual group therapy session unless they expressly ask to join. For the younger kids this is mostly a place where they can play and heal and the therapists can watch them.
At eighteen, I'm right on that cusp of being kicked out because I'm too old and forced to attend the group therapy at the psychiatric hospital but since I've been coming here since I was twelve, I guess Diane just doesn't have the heart to kick me out. I think I'll do it for her one of these days soon and announce that I'll no longer be participating in the groups.
I plop myself down on the ground next a little girl that looks to be about five or so. She has scraggly blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail and she is sitting on the floor, hunched over a plastic Fisher Price telephone.
I've never seen her before, she must be new.
"Hey, I'm Jade," I introduce myself to her, "what's your name?" She looks up at me with big blue eyes. Ugh, I'm a sucker for blue eyes.
"My daddy shot himself in the head." The little girl puts her finger to her temple and mimes blowing her brains out. "Like that," she says.
"Is that your name?"
"No. I'm Lydia."
"Nice to meet you Lydia, what are you playing? Can I play with you?" She nods.
"I'm playing 9-1-1." She picks up the little plastic phone and pretends to dial the number 9-1-1. "Hello 9-1-1? My daddy shot himself in the head, please send help." She then proceeded to hang up the phone and then pass the little Fishers Price telephone to me. I copied her, dialing 9-1-1 before lifting the phone to my ear.
"Hello, 9-1-1? I'm being held captive in a cabin in the words. Please come rescue me." And then I hung up and passed the phone back to Ana. We go on like this for a while, taking turns calling 9-1-1 and it's kinda cathartic, I can see why she plays this game. I kinda just want to stay there for the rest of the day and play 9-1-1 with Ana, but group is starting soon so I excuse myself.
Diane stands at the front of the room, welcoming people in and making sure to hug or shake the hand of everyone who walks in. Diane is a tall, wispy woman in her early forties with sandy blonde hair, a freckled face and smile lines around her mouth. She's nice; her voice has a slight southern drawl because she's originally from Kentucky before she moved up here to Seattle, Washington, the land of seasonal depression and black coffee.
"Good t'see ya, Jade," Diane says kindly, opening in her arms and allowing me to choose whether I wanted to hug her or not.
"Hi Diane," I greet her, pulling her in for a quick hug. She smells like tangerines and cardamom.
"Did you experience anything new today?"
"Uh, James and I watched the first Star Wars movie before coming here?" I offer.
"Oh? How did you like it?"
"Uh, yeah," truth be told I hardly saw anything but I wasn't about to dispel my sex life with James right here right now. "Mark Hamill was pretty cute it in, I guess."
The goal behind the Sundance is to help youths come to terms with their trauma and find the strength to grow beyond it. Diane has a plethora of catchphrases that she likes to use in group, like: "You Are More Than the Things That Happen to You", or "I Am Not Okay and That's Okay, Because I Will Be".
The worst thing is when you let trauma define who you are entirely; I've seen some kids become consumed by it and it's never pretty. That's why they ask us questions like "what shows are you watching?" "What did you learn this week that you really found interesting?" Light questions that help us feel like normal people for a second before we go diving into the nitty-gritty. Almost always someone ends up crying and I don't know how Diane is able to do this for a living and not be an emotional wreck twenty-four seven.
By the time we get out, it's completely dark out even though it's only 5:30. But that's the pacific northwest for you. It's raining steadily and I'm suddenly regretting my choice in shoes: a pair of worn black ballet flats with a hole in the toe of the left shoe. But there I am, standing grumpily in the mid-February rain in my black flats with a hole, and oversized parka that sometimes made people mistake me for a homeless person.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a text from Nathaniel: 'Leaving now.' Seriously? I stamped my foot, making a disgruntled noise in the back of my throat as my shoe squelched spongily on the pavement. Therapy has already been out for ten minutes and I shoot back what was probably the last text I'd ever send to my twin.
It's funny how so many last times happen without our noticing. Like there was probably a last time that your parents picked you up but you don't even remember it, do you? Or a last time you actually played a proper game of make-believe as a child. If I had known this would be the last text I'd ever send to my brother, I probably wouldn't have sent the grumpy cat face. I probably would have sent a way funnier gif of like Oprah looking displeased or something instead. But hindsight, right?
I hear car tires squealing and I look up to see a 2003 Volvo S60 fishtailing, completely out of control down the slick pavement. I am rooted to the spot as I watch the car spin wildly.
There's screeching, screaming, and really bright headlights. I feel as though I've just been body slammed by a—well, a car—and I am acutely aware of the fact that I am sailing through the air.
I can feel the rain on my face, it's cold and gentle and there's a light breeze.
And then I remember nothing at all.
