AN: I don't own the characters or the song "Shotgun Down the Avalanche" by Shawn Colvin. I'm not too thrilled with this chapter, because I don't think I write from Jack's POV very well.
I'm riding
shotgun down the avalanche
tumbling and falling down the avalanche
so be quiet tonight, the stars shine bright
on this mountain of new fallen snow
but I will raise up my voice into the void
you have left me nowhere to go
I must have sat there for an
hour, maybe two. Waiting. Thinking. Trying not to think. I wanted
to kill him. I wanted to kill her. I couldn't figure out which
one of them I wanted to hurt more, but it didn't matter, because
of course I wouldn't do it. That's not the kind of person I am,
unless I'm provoked or threatened in some major way. Then again,
don't you think this would qualify as being provoked?
I guess they did a good job of hiding it. I hadn't even noticed
anything out of the ordinary until, at dinner, Fi suddenly turned
pale and withdrawn, both of which were very unusual for her. She
stopped participating in the conversation, which admittedly
wasn't that interesting, I mean, the Thelens aren't exactly
fascinating, but I'm her brother and I can tell when something's
up.
I volunteered the two of us to clear plates. She helped me
mechanically, gathering dishes without complaint. When we got to
the kitchen I abruptly set down the plates I had been carrying.
"All right, what's up?"
And surprisingly enough she actually told me. Everything.
When she finished, neither of us were quite sure what to do, or
what she had witnessed earlier might have meant. Should we barge
in on Carey, demand an explanation? Should we report Fi's story
to Ned and Irene, who would probably have some things to say
about all of this? More importantly, how were we ever going to
deal with this? Already I was having trouble thinking of her as
Mom. This was a betrayal. I wasn't sure either of us would ever
recover enough for things to go back to normal.
Fi decided to stay with Annie for the night and maybe come home
in the morning. And then I came here to sit and wait. I tried not
to think of it as "lying in wait." I didn't have some
evil plan. I just wanted to confront her. I wanted to find out
why. Wasn't it bad enough that she should go out and sleep with
some random guy who wasn't our father? Did it have to be him? It
was sick. I couldn't figure out which one of them I blamed more.
Sitting, not lying, in wait gave me more time than I had intended
to really think about the implications. The more I thought about
it and the more unsuccessful I was in my attempts not to think
about it, the more difficult it was to separate shock from anger,
until they fused into some kind of gigantic ball of resentment
that was just waiting for the right time to explode. I started
thinking about ways I could handle this that didn't involve
talking. On some level I knew that it wasn't all about me, that I
shouldn't take it so personally, but come on. Think about it.
Your mother-that term was really getting harder to use-is
sleeping, as in spending the night, as in having sex, with
someone up until now you thought was one of your closest friends.
Thinking about it was enough to turn my stomach. I didn't know
how Fi could have kept it a secret for so long. It must have been
so hard for her. I wished she had told me sooner; maybe I could
have helped her or been there for her. Already I was staring at
the phone, thinking of people I could call, ways to ruin their
lives.
By the time she finally got home, I had mostly succeeded in
clearing my head, calming down. At least, until I saw her. Then
it all came rushing right back, maybe even stronger than before.
When she saw me she just stopped. She stood there in the doorway
with the front door standing open, a silhouette. I couldn't make
out her face, and I was glad. It would only make this easier.
I love you so
much and it's so bizarre, a mystery that goes on and on and on
this is the best thing and the very most hard, and we don't get
along
after countless appeals we keep spinning our wheels
on this mountain of new fallen snow
so I let go the catch and we are over the edge
you have left me nowhere to go
She didn't say anything. I
decided to get the ball rolling.
"She told me the whole story."
"She doesn't know the whole story." On the defensive
this early in the argument? She closed and locked the door,
stepping tentatively toward me.
"She knows enough."
"Yeah, well, it doesn't matter. It's over now."
"She said you'd say that. But it's not, is it?"
Silence.
"Yeah. I thought so."
"What do you want from me?"
"That's a dangerous question." I couldn't help but
laugh a little, mirthlessly. What do I want? I want you to be
normal. I want you to tell me that it isn't true, that of course
it isn't true, and how could it be, because of course you aren't
the kind of person who would do something like this.
"I told you, it's over. Just don't don't push--"
She sounded tired now, more than before, but I needed to keep
pushing.
"I think I have a right-"
"No, you don't," she says matter-of-factly.
"I think I have a right," I continued, as I had been
practicing, "to tell you that you need to choose."
"Fine. I've chosen. I'm here, aren't I?" She came in
all the way now, leaning against the wall opposite from me.
I lifted an eyebrow. "Are you?"
"Please don't be obnoxious."
"Stop avoiding the question."
"Stop pressing the answer. Yes! Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. Can
I go--" She had never been good at arguing. I remembered the
way her fights with Dad used to end; he'd still be talking or
yelling and she'd just walk away. Later he'd come back, or she
would, and then they'd talk in low tones, so low I couldn't hear,
until it was over and everyone was happy again. That wasn't going
to happen this time.
"No. We have to talk about this."
"I really don't want to talk about anything right now."
"Well, that's just too fucking bad, isn't it?" I stood
up, getting closer to her now. The force of my own anger
surprised me, though, and I couldn't come up with any more words
for a minute.
I'm riding
shotgun down the avalanche
sometimes you make me lose my will to live
and just become a beacon for your soul
but the past is stronger
than my will to forgive
forgive you or myself, I don't know
"Okay," she said
calmly, which was actually more infuriating than if she'd gotten
angry, yelled back, swore. "What do you want to talk
about?"
"How could you do it?"
"You can't possibly understand. God knows I don't. It just
happened."
"Things like that don't just happen," I said through
gritted teeth.
"Look, frankly, I'm not sure what you have to be so--"
It was a weak argument, and she knew it.
"You don't know why--"
"That's not I just don't--"
"You don't think I have a right to be a little bit upset
when I find out that--I can't even say it."
"Well, you won't have to think about it anymore." But I
will. Don't you get it? Every day. Every second.
She was quiet for so long that I wondered if she'd fallen asleep.
I didn't know what I was waiting for.
"Did you even think--did you even think about how we would
be affected?"
"I didn't plan on you finding out," she answered
quickly, too quickly, and I could tell right away that she
regretted it. "That's no. I did think--I don't
know."
"I just--"
"No, that's enough." She came closer, close enough to
touch, and it seemed like something had finally snapped, though I
couldn't tell whether whatever it was had snapped in her or in
me. "I don't feel like sitting here and being berated by you
right now about my bad choices. I'm more than capable of
punishing myself for it, okay? Just-go to bed," she ordered,
as if she still had motherly jurisdiction. But she didn't, and I
wasn't sure she ever would again.
I'm riding
shotgun down the avalanche
tumbling and falling down the avalanche
so be quiet tonight be sure to step lightly
on this mountain of new fallen snow
but I will raise up my voice into the void
you have left me nowhere to go
I was tempted to go like she'd
said, to sleep and pretend that none of this happened in the
morning, just keep pretending until it became true. But something
possessed me, to use Fi's terminology, and I grabbed her by the
wrist.
"We need to talk," I told her. She didn't look
surprised. She didn't look hurt. She just looked tired, as if the
life inside her was simply gone, and she was just a body going
through the motions now. She pulled her arm back but I gripped
more tightly and she stopped struggling.
"Okay," she said, calmly, infuriatingly, again.
"Let's talk. Go ahead," she encouraged tolerantly. I
could feel my anger rising. She knew, too. She knew the effect
she was having. Suddenly it hit me: this was her method of
fighting back. Maybe it had been the way she won her fights
against Dad. No raised voices, just these mind tricks. I just
stood there for a moment, frozen, staring at her. Finally I let
go, stepped back, and she sighed heavily. "Look, it is over.
I'm sorry. It was just a mistake."
I couldn't form any coherent sentences, so I stayed quiet.
"It might be hard, but we'll get through this, okay?"
It was her turn to come closer to me now. "We will. I
promise. It's over."
She reached out to put a comforting hand on my shoulder, but I
stepped away. "Don't touch me."
She just nodded, a little sadly, and retreated to her bedroom. I
heard the door close and lock. I decided to go to sleep, too,
wash the aftertaste of this whole night away. Maybe in the
morning she would be right. Maybe we would get through it. Right
now, though, I really couldn't see how things could ever be the
same.
I'm riding shotgun down the avalanche
