JENNIE
I trip over my bare feet while rushing behind Lisa into the front yard of the house where she spent her painful childhood. One of my knees lands on the grass, but I quickly steady myself and get back on my feet. The front screen door is pulled open, and I hear Lisa fumbling with the doorknob for a moment before she pounds her fist against the wood in frustration.
"Lisa, please. Let's just go to the hotel," I try to convince her as I approach.
Ignoring my presence completely, she bends down to grab something from beside the porch. I assume it's a spare key but am quickly proven wrong when a fist-size rock is pushed through the glass pane on the center of the door. Lisa snakes her arm through, thankfully avoiding the sharp ridges of the broken glass, and unlocks the door.
I look around the quiet street, but nothing seems amiss. No one is outside to notice our disruption, and no lights have flickered on at the sound of the breaking glass. I pray that Chit and Mike aren't staying next door at Mike's house tonight, that they've gone off to some fancy hotel for the night, given that neither of them are well-off enough to go on an extravagant honeymoon.
"Lisa." I'm walking on water here, trying my hardest to keep from sinking under. One slipup, and we both will drown.
"This fucking house has been nothing but a tormentor of mine," she grumbles, stumbling over her boots. She catches herself on the arm of a small couch before she falls. I survey the living room, and I'm grateful that most of the furnishings have been packed into boxes or have already been removed from the house in preparation for the demolition following Chit's move.
She narrows her eyes and focuses on the couch. "This couch here"—she presses her fingers against her forehead before finishing—"that's where it happened, you know? That exact same fucking couch."
I knew she wasn't in her head, but her saying that confirms it. I remember her telling me months ago that she'd destroyed that couch—"the piece of shit was easy to shred," she bragged.
I look at the couch before us, the newness of it evident by the stiff cushions and unmarked fabric. My stomach turns. Both over the memory and the thought of what this mood of Lisa's is building up to.
Her eyes close momentarily. "Maybe one of my fucking fathers could have thought to buy a new one."
"I'm so sorry. I know this is so much for you right now." I try to comfort her, but she continues to ignore me.
She opens her eyes and walks into the kitchen, and I follow a few feet behind. "Where is it . . ." she mumbles and drops to her knees to look inside the cabinet under the kitchen sink. "Gotcha." She holds up a bottle of clear liquor. I don't want to ask whose liquor it was—or is—and how it got there in the first place. Given the thin layer of dust that appears on Lisa's black T-shirt when she rubs the bottle against the fabric, I'd say it's been hiding in there for at least a few months.
I follow her as she returns to the living room, unsure of what she will do next.
"I know you're upset and you are completely justified to be angry." I stand in front of her in a desperate attempt to gain her attention. She refuses to even glance down at me. "But can we please go back to the hotel?" I reach for her hand, but she pulls away. "We can talk, and you can sober up, please. Or you can go to sleep, whatever you want, but please, we need to leave here."
Lisa ducks around me and walks to the couch, pointing. "She was here . . ." She points to the couch with the bottle of liquor. My eyes prick with tears, but I swallow them down. "And no one came to fucking stop it. Neither of those fuckups." She spits and twists the top off the full bottle.
She presses the bottle to her lips and tips her head back, gulping the liquor down.
"Enough!" I shout, stepping closer to her. I'm fully prepared to yank that bottle right from her hands and shatter it against the kitchen tile.
Anything so she doesn't drink it. I don't know how much more alcohol her body can stand before she passes out.
Lisa takes another swig before stopping. She uses the back of her hand to wipe the excess liquor from her mouth and chin. She grins and looks at me for the first time since we entered this house. "Why? You want some?"
"No—yes, actually, I do," I lie.
"Too bad, Jendeukie. There isn't enough to share," she slurs, holding up the large bottle. I cringe at the use of my father's nickname for me. It has to be over a liter of whatever liquor it is; the label is worn and half-torn. I wonder how long ago she hid it there—was it during those worst eleven days of my entire life? "I bet you're loving this."
I take a step back and try to think of a plan of action. I don't have many options right now, and I'm becoming a little frightened. I know she would never physically hurt me, but I don't know how she'll treat herself—and I'm not emotionally prepared for another lashing from her. I've gotten too used to the somewhat controlled Lisa that I have been graced with lately: sarcastic and moody, but no longer hateful. The gleam in her bloodshot eyes is all too familiar to me, and I can see the malice brewing behind them.
"Why would I be loving this? I hate seeing you this way. I never want you to be hurting like this, Lisa."
She smiles and softly chuckles before lifting the bottle and pouring some liquor onto the couch cushions. "Did you know that rum is one of the most flammable of spirits?" she says darkly.
My blood runs cold. "Lisa, I—"
"This rum here is one hundred proof. That's pretty damn high." Her voice is hazy, slow, and frightening as she continues to douse the couch.
"Lisa!" I exclaim, my voice growing louder. "What are you going to do then? Burn the house down? That isn't going to change anything!"
Waving a dismissive hand toward me, she sneers, "You should go. No kids allowed."
"Don't talk to me like that!" Feeling brave, and slightly afraid, I reach for the bottle and grip the handle.
Lisa's nostrils flare and she tries to loosen my grip. "Let go of it. Now," she says through her teeth.
"No."
"Jennie, don't push me."
"What are you going to do, Lisa? Fight me over a bottle of alcohol?"
Her eyes go wide; her mouth opens in surprise when she looks at both of our hands playing tug-of-war.
"Give me the bottle," I demand, tightening my grip on the handle of the large bottle. It's heavy, and Lisa isn't making it any easier, but my adrenaline is pumping, giving me the strength I need. Cursing under her breath, she pulls her hand away. I didn't expect her to give in that easily, so as her weight is removed, the bottle slips from my hand and topples to the floor in front of us, spilling onto aged wood.
I reach for it as I suggest the opposite: "Leave it there."
"I don't see the big deal here." She grabs the bottle before I can and pours more liquor onto the couch, then walks in a circle around the room, leaving a trail of flammable rum behind her. "This shithole is going to be demolished anyway. I'm doing the new owners a favor." She looks at me and shrugs playfully. "This is probably cheaper anyway."
I slowly turn away from Lisa and reach into my purse to find my phone. The battery warning symbol is flashing, but I pull up the only number that could possibly help us at this point. Keeping the phone in my hand, I turn back to Lisa. "The police will come to your mother's house if you do this. You will get arrested, Lisa." I pray that the person on the line can hear me.
"Don't give a fuck," she mumbles, her jaw clenched. She looks down at the couch, her eyes piercing the present to stare into the past. "I can still hear her screaming. Her cries sounded like a wounded fucking animal. Do you know what that sounds like to a little girl?"
My heart aches for Lisa, for both versions of her—the innocent little girl who was forced to watch her mother beaten and violated, and the angry, hurt woman who feels like her only recourse is to burn down the entire house to rid herself of the memory.
"You don't want to go to jail, do you? Where would I go? I would be stranded." I don't give a damn about myself, but hope that the idea will make her reconsider her actions.
My beautiful dark princess stares at me for a moment, my words seeming to have rattled her. "Call a cab now. Walk down to the end of the street. I'll make sure you're gone before I do anything." Her voice is clearer now than it should be, considering the amount of alcohol in her blood. But all I hear is her trying to give up on herself.
"I don't have any way to pay for a cab." I make a show of digging out my wallet and showing her my American currency.
Her eyes pinch closed, and she chucks the bottle against the wall. It shatters, but I barely flinch. I've seen and heard this too many times in the last seven months to be shaken by it.
"Take my goddamn wallet and get. Out. Fuck!" In one swift motion she pulls her wallet from her back pocket and tosses it onto the floor before me.
I bend down and shove it into my purse. "No. I need you to come with me," I say softly.
"You are so perfect . . . you know that, right?" She takes a step toward me and lifts her hand to cup my cheek. I flinch at the contact, and a deep frown sets on her beautifully tormented face. "Don't you know that? That you are perfect." Her hand is hot against my cheek, and her thumb begins to move across the skin.
I can feel my lips trembling but I keep a straight face. "No. I'm not perfect, Lisa. No one is," I quietly reply, my eyes staring into her.
"You are. You're too perfect for me."
I want to cry—are we back to this? "I'm not going to let you push me away. I know what you're doing: you're drunk, and you are trying to justify this by comparing us. I'm just as fucked-up as you."
"Don't talk like that." She frowns again. Her other hand moves up to my jaw and pushes into my hair. "It doesn't sound right, coming from that beautiful mouth." Her thumb runs along my bottom lip, and I can't help but notice the contrast between the way her eyes burn with dark pain and rage and her light and gentle touch.
"I love you, and I'm not going anywhere," I say, praying to break through her drunken haze. I search her eyes for any hint of my Lisa.
" 'If two people love each other, there can be no happy end to it,' " she softly replies.
Instantly recognizing the words, I tear my eyes from her. "Don't quote Hemingway to me," I snap. Did she think I wouldn't recognize it and know what she was trying to do?
"It's true, though. There's no happy ending—not for me, anyway. I'm too fucked-up." She drops her hands from my face and turns away from me.
"No, you aren't! You—"
"Why do you do that?" she slurs, her body swaying back and forth. "Why do you always try to find the light in me? Wake up, Jennie! There isn't any fucking light!" she screams, and slams both of her hands against her chest.
"I'm nothing! I'm a fucked-up piece of shit with fucked-up parents and a fucked-up head! I tried to warn you, I tried to push you away before I destroyed you . . ." Her voice gets lower, and she reaches into her pocket. I recognize the purple lighter as Judy's from the bar.
Lisa doesn't look at me as she strikes the flame.
"My parents are messed up, too! My father is in rehab, for God's sake!"
I shout back at her.
I knew this would happen—I knew Christian's confession would be Lisa's breaking point. One person can only handle so much, and Lisa was already so fragile.
"This is your last chance to go before this place burns to the ground," she says without looking at me.
"You'd burn down the house with me in it?" I choke out. I'm crying now, but I don't remember when I started.
"No." Her boots are so loud as she crosses the room; my head is spinning, my heart is aching, and I'm afraid I've lost my sense of reality.
"Come on." She lifts her hand to me, asking me to take it.
"Give me the lighter."
"Come here." She holds both arms to me. I'm full-on sobbing now.
"Please."
I force myself to ignore her familiar beckoning, no matter how much it hurts to do so. I want to run into her arms and take her away from here.
But this is no Austen novel with a happy ending and good intentions; this is a Hemingway at best, and I can see right through her gesture. "Give me the lighter, and we can leave together."
"You almost had me believing that I could be normal." The lighter still rests dangerously in her palm.
"No one is!" I cry. "No one is normal—I don't want you to be. I love you now, I love you and all of this!" I look around the living room and back to
Lisa.
"You couldn't. No one would, or ever has. Not even my own mum."
As the words leave her lips, the sound of the door slamming against the wall makes me jump. I look toward the noise, and relief floods through me when Christian rushes into the living room. He's out of breath and panicked. He stops in his tracks when he takes in the state of the small room, liquor covering nearly every inch.
"What—" Christian's eyes narrow at the lighter in Lisa's hand. "I heard sirens on my way here. We need to leave, now!" he shouts.
"How did you . . ." Lisa looks back and forth between Christian and me. "You called him?"
"Of course she did! What was she going to do? Let you burn the house down and get yourself arrested?" Christian yells.
Lisa throws her hands in the air, still holding that lighter. "Get the fuck out! Both of you!"
Christian turns to me. "Jennie, go outside."
But I stand my ground. "No, I'm not leaving her in here." Has Christian not learned that Lisa and I shouldn't be separated?
"Go," Lisa says, taking a step toward me. She flicks her thumb across the metal of the lighter, igniting the flame. "Take her outside," she slurs.
"My car is parked in the alley across the street—go to it and wait for us," Christian instructs. When I look at Lisa, her eyes are set on the white flame, and I know her well enough to know that she's going to do this whether I leave or not. She's too intoxicated and too upset to stop now.
A cold set of keys is placed into my hand, and Christian leans in close.
"I'm not going to let anything happen to her."
After a moment of internal battle, I wrap my fingers around the keys and walk out the front door without looking back. I run across the street and pray that the sirens in the distance have another destination in mind.