CHAPTER 42
I sit in the dark in my old familiar spot beneath the vent, curled up with a blanket, my teeth chattering. Numb. Mama and Dad arguing. And I can hear Blake up there too. Yelling and throwing crap around in his bedroom, stomping around. And then he’s crying, big coughing, angry sobs as Dad tries to talk to him.
“Give me the original photo!” Dad says.
“No. Then I don’t have any proof!”
After that, they lower their voices and I can’t hear them anymore.
Mama and Dad fight long into the night, and this time, they’re not even trying to keep their voices down. I can hear every word.
“It’s clearly photoshopped,” Mama says, her voice ragged. “And this is a horrible game. It’s not funny. I can’t believe he would do something so . . . so . . . mean. What kind of boy have we raised? Paul?”
“I don’t know,” Dad says. “He won’t give me the original picture.” And that’s about all he says. Over and over as Mama rants, he can’t answer her and he can’t support her. And when she finally winds down, he says wearily, “Maria, sweetheart. I know it’s really him. But what if it’s not?”
It’s eerily quiet for a moment. And then Mama speaks. “I. Know. My. Son.” She pauses. And then, “Get out.”
I hear footsteps above my head. The mudroom door closing. And the car starting. Finally, there is silence.
I have seven text messages from Cami and I can’t even comprehend them. I’m sick, my whole body aches, and I lie here on the floor, unable to move. Hating Blake with all my heart. Wishing I were Gracie, asleep and oblivious.
But knowing only one thing for certain. That truly, I am Ethan Manuel De Wilde, son of Paul and Maria Quintero De Wilde, born on May 15 in Belleville, Minnesota. I live in a white house on the corner of Thirty-fifth and Maple. And nobody’s going to drive me out.
I am Ethan De Wilde.
I am.
CHAPTER 43
I wake up, drool sliding down my chin, and all my muscles ache. I’m twisted up in a blanket on the floor in my original basement spot, and it’s quiet in the house for a bright Saturday morning. I wipe my mouth. My unbrushed teeth taste like cigarette ashes.
I hear a noise and look up. Mama’s sitting on the edge of the pool table, watching me. Her hair is a mess and she’s still wearing her clothes from last night.
“Sweetheart,” she says, and then her eyes flood. “I’m so sorry.”
My face screws up, and I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to be upset anymore and I don’t want to remember it. “Go away,” I say, softly. Gently. “Please don’t look at me.”
Mama brings her hand to her face and sucks in a shuddery breath. “Dad and I have no doubt that you are our son. And we’re dealing with Blake. He is being severely punished. I’m so sorry—I know it hurts.”
I roll over and look at the wall.
“We both love you very much. And so do Blake and Gracie.”
She needs to be quiet now or I’ll never believe another word she says. “Please, just go. I’ll talk to you later. I can’t talk about this right now.”
She’s quiet, and after a minute she slides off the pool table. “Okay.”
Later, I hear her on the phone with the therapist, setting up another appointment. As if the weekly visits weren’t wrecking things enough.
I have no thoughts. I just lie there for a long time, like I’m in a trance or something. Not feeling anything. Not knowing what to think. I hear people waking up, moving around upstairs, and I feel a buzzing in my pocket. But I don’t move. I can’t.
Gracie comes down when Mama’s not paying attention, and I don’t have the energy to send her away.
“Mama says you don’t feel good today.”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Did you frow up?”
“No, I just feel sick.”
She puts her hands on her hips and looks at me for a minute, and then turns around and runs up the steps.
I finally rouse myself enough to text Cami.
Bad headache, I write. I’m sorry. Going to sleep. Talk later, k?
Oh no! I’m sorry for all the annoying texts. I didn’t know. Feel better. Miss you.
I doze for a while, and then I hear Gracie coming down the stairs again. I open one eye and she sets something down by my head and tiptoes back upstairs. I sit up and look at it.
It’s her lunch box.
I pick it up and turn it over in my hands. And then I open it up. It’s lunch. A bologna, butter, and potato chip sandwich, a granola bar, a cheese stick, and a juice box. And a folded piece of paper.
I unfold it. It’s a drawing of the two of us in the living room, Gracie standing on my knees, playing elevator.
And it kills me. It really does.
I eat the lunch, and then, after a while, I hoist myself up, go into my room, and find some colored pencils, and I sketch a picture of us too. We’re sitting on the sled, with matching red-and-white-striped knit caps . . . like Waldo. I fold the paper and put it into the empty lunch box, and then I leave it at the top of the steps for my sister.
And then I take a shower and get cleaned up.
Before I leave, I go upstairs and find Mama washing windows in the living room. “I’m going out for a while,” I say. “I’ll be back by eleven, and I have my phone on. Okay?”
Mama nods. Her eyes are rimmed red and she still looks like hell. “Will you please tell me where you’re going?”
“Just over to Cami’s.”
“Thank you.”
“Where’s Dad?”
“He’s around. Working in the garage.”
I’m glad. I thought she might have made him leave for good when she told him to get out last night. “Okay.” I turn to go, and then I hesitate. “Hey, Mama?”
She rests her arm and turns to look at me. “Yes?”
I press my lips together. “I’ll take a DNA test if you want me to.” My voice chokes on the words. “If that will fix things.”
Mama’s face grows hard. “Absolutely not.”
“But why? If it’ll stop all of this . . .”
“Because, Ethan.” Her tone doesn’t waver, but it grows softer. “Think about it. How would you feel if I say okay?”
She doesn’t wait for me to answer, and I’m glad, because truth is I’d feel like shit.
“If I say okay,” she says, “your whole life, you’ll never forget that once, your own mother doubted you.” She gives a little one-shoulder shrug and her voice is thick. “I wouldn’t be able to live with that.”
She touches my shoulder and makes me look her in the eye. “Hear me, son: I don’t doubt you. Okay? You want to do a test for yourself, or for Blake, I won’t stop you. But don’t do it for me.”
My eyes burn. I blink hard for a second, thinking I should say something loving, something thankful, but I can’t. I try a smile, but my lips aren’t working right either—it comes out crooked and quivery, but it’ll have to do. And then I turn and go.
I knock on Cami’s door. She opens it and flings herself into my arms. Almost knocks me off her front step. And then she’s kissing me, hard, and I forget everything except how fucking in love I am. She pulls me into her house and we go downstairs to their rec room and then we’re on the couch, making out, and I just hold her tight, feel her body against mine, and all I can think about is how much I want her.
I slip my hand under her shirt, tentatively, and she sucks in a breath. “My parents are upstairs,” is all she says, but it’s enough. I pull back and slow down. Hold her. We have plenty of time.
“I don’t want to mess this up,” I whisper.
“Neither do I,” she says.
We both breathe and sigh, and then we laugh at our synchronicity.
We take a walk. It’s thawing, some. Spring comes so late here, but it’s coming. The snow along the side of the road is hideous in its old age, graying all around from dirt and exhaust.
“I hate this part of winter,” Cami says. ?
??I mean, I like that it’s not so cold, but it’s so ugly.”
We turn down an unfamiliar street and Cami takes my hand. “You’re quiet. Are you still feeling sick?”
I don’t want to think about it. “Just really mellow today,” I say. “Entertain me.”
Cami grins. “Okay, a duck walks into a bar—” She looks sidelong at me. “Stop me if you know this one.”
“I know this one,” I say. I grin and tickle her. I want to tell her so much that I love her, but I can’t. It’s way too soon.
We spend Sunday together after church, and it’s awesome being at her house, where I don’t have to always be on guard for Blake. There are no fights here. Her parents are easygoing and Cami’s mom is always shoving food at me, which is never a bad thing. We watch movies all together, and Cami and I snuggle up by their fireplace. It feels great to be here, like I’m on vacation or something.
But when I go home at night, it all comes flooding back. The tension in the house is heavy. And when I’m alone and I let my mind go, a little bit of doubt starts to creep in, like maybe I’ve gone completely batshit crazy or something. Like maybe Blake’s right and I’m not really Ethan. I touch my earlobes, and they are still attached, like always. Finally, I get brave enough to look through all my remaining photos, trying to get a good view of my ears. But there are none that give me an earlobe close up enough to tell. Blake has them all.
I find out Sunday night from my little informer friend that Blake got his precious computer and iPod taken away for what he did. And Mama lets us know via a note on the table that all of us except Gracie will be going to family counseling on Wednesday after school.
“You’re going to luck out again, little sister,” I say. “Can I go to Grandma and Grandpa’s with you instead?”
“Yeah!” she says. “They have weird snacks and Grandpa won’t play elevator with me ’cause his knees are fake.”
I laugh. I’d much rather play elevator than sit though another hour of hostility. “I wish I could, actually. But I can’t,” I say. It sucks. But maybe, eventually, the shrink will help. We can’t get any worse.
CHAPTER 44
It’s so hard to look at Blake out here at the bus stop. So hard to pretend like nothing happened. I stand with Cami and we hold hands now. It’s been long enough. And I’m not afraid of J-Dog anymore. Nobody can hurt me more than I’ve already been hurt.
I haven’t told Cami what happened. I can’t. I tried yesterday, but I just couldn’t get the words out. Maybe it’s best if nobody else ever finds out. Maybe that will make it go away.
Blake mostly looks angry. Sometimes I think he even looks a little bit sad. He doesn’t look at me. Not ever. I wonder if we’ll ever speak again.
I’ll tell you one thing: if we do, it’ll be because he’s apologizing. But even then, I don’t think I can ever forgive him. It feels to me like what he did was a crime, like he should go to jail for that, you know? For trying to make me into an imposter, into someone I’m not. What’s the word for that, anyway? I don’t think there is one.
I watch him at the bus stop, working his jaw, his eyes cold. And sometimes I think, What kind of life will we have as brothers? Will he come to my party when I graduate? Will we ever talk over waffles at the toaster again? I try to picture him and me, slapping backs and laughing about this mess later, going out to the beach with our friends and . . . whatever. I just can’t see it. Will he keep everything, everyone, away from me forever because he’s such a petty, jealous dickhead? Will he ever believe me?
I don’t think he ever will. Sometimes, when you see someone has made up their mind about something, you know they won’t even listen to reason. You see it on TV all the time, on the news, the talk shows. People sticking to their ridiculous beliefs because they made up their mind a long time ago and refuse to hear anything else, no matter how logical, no matter how thought-out, no matter how true. People get brainwashed in all sorts of ways. Not just me.
Blake is like that. He’s so bitter he convinced himself he’s right, and I don’t think he’ll ever change.
At school, I hold Cami’s hand proudly and I don’t flinch when J-Dog sees us together before the bell rings. I see his face blanch and I nod to him and keep walking to my locker. Then I walk Cami to her first class and I kiss her right there in front of everybody, kiss her like I love her, like I do, and I don’t care if anybody sees me or wants to punish me for PDA or fight me for getting the best girl in school. I’m not afraid. And I think J-Dog can tell I’m not afraid, because he never comes to me, never talks to me about it. And the sad thing is, he never tries to get Cami back. If it were me, I’d sure as hell try. I guess that shows you what kind of guy he really is.
After school, I do my homework at the kitchen table and I eat a snack with Gracie and talk with Mama and even Dad, when he gets home. What else am I supposed to do? When Blake is around, I politely ignore him, because everything between us is completely broken. It’s over. I don’t know what a counselor is going to be able to do about that. But I’ll still go. I’ll go because I am Ethan Manuel De Wilde, and I am a part of this family, no matter what anybody says or does to make me feel small. There’s nothing Blake can do now to make this worse.
Nothing.
Still, that night, after I brush my lips against Cami’s and hold her close in the dark, cool evening, and then make my way home to my basement and listen to the icy-cold argument in my parents’ bedroom, going on and on about me again, the doubts find their way into my head. No matter how much I push them aside, it takes everything I have inside me to stop them. I lie on my stomach, arm dangling off the side of the bed, practically daring Gracie’s momsters to come out from under it and snatch me away, and I can’t stop thinking. Little questions slip out through the cracks of the dam I have built in my brain to keep the bad shit away. Why can’t I remember anything before the abduction? Why? Was it because I wasn’t really here? I can’t get the nagging thoughts out of my head. This might kill me if I let it. I can’t let it.
In the morning, I find Gracie’s lunch box outside my bedroom door. It’s been there three days in a row now. Every day there’s a drawing or knickknack inside, or one of her starred or smiley-faced worksheets from school. Today it’s a photo of us from my coming home party. She signed her name over it, doing cursive all totally wrong, just connecting the letters and adding curly lines around it. I take it out and slip it into my wallet. Then I put the blue race car and some marbles inside the lunch box, and leave it for her in the same spot. We don’t talk about it, not to anyone or to each other. It’s our own private, secret, made-up game, and we both instinctively know the rules.
After school is counseling again. And it’s hard. Really, really hard. We sit there, stone-faced, refusing to talk about anything, as Dr. Frost thoughtfully taps a pencil to her lips and Mama fidgets with her purse strap, running it over and over between her thumb and forefinger, trying not to interrupt, trying to let the doc handle it. I’m sure she wants to smash our heads together, but I don’t trust Blake and I’m not giving in, and neither is he, no matter how hard Mama pleads. No matter how sternly Dad stares at me.
And Dad looks at me differently now. He does. More distant. He still hugs me and says he loves me, but I know that he doubted me once. And he knows I know. That look on his face at the table when he saw Blake’s photoshopped picture was a real killer. When he looks at me, I look back, focus on a point in the center of his forehead, try to let it go. It’s not doing me any good.
I can’t blame him. I really can’t. He can’t help his feelings. That’s what Dr. Frost says. She says we’re all okay having the feelings we have, and that what we need to do is to communicate them and work through them. That’s what Dad did that night when I overheard what he said to Mama. But the bad thing about communication is that when you say something, you can’t take it back. It’s forever entered into memory, and you can try to dilute it all you want with opposite words, but you can’t make it disappear. So no matter h
ow many times Dad says he believes I’m his son, those words he said to Mama will always be echoing back at me.
It’s okay. It is. It has to be. I think the thing that is keeping me together is what Mama did. Or rather, what she didn’t do. She’s convinced that I am her son, and she never doubted me. She believes in me—that’s what’s giving me hope right now that we’ll all get through this alive. And I hang on to it. Because if you don’t have at least one person believing in you, then there’s not much reason to give a shit about anything.
CHAPTER 45
At least nothing else bad happens, unless you count silence. Today with Blake looks like this: we don’t acknowledge each other at breakfast, we don’t look at each other at the bus stop or on the bus or anywhere. At least he stopped yelling. Though his silence is almost a little scarier than the yelling. It makes me wonder what he’s up to. But I remind myself that I am new now. I’m different. I don’t let him rule the way I feel anymore. I just go to school, hang out with Cami, play the lunch box game with Gracie, help my parents. Try to be normal for once, feel like a normal kid in a normal family, and it’s finally working, sort of. In spite of Blake trying to wreck it all. I’m even getting decent grades. Mostly B’s and C’s. Not bad.
I get my first A- in English class for a paper I wrote, and that totally makes my day, it really does. My teacher said it was compelling and it would have been an A except for some misspelled words and passive sentences. It was one of those five-paragraph personal essay assignments, and I wrote about how I found my family using the computers at the library in St. Louis. It’s weird how much easier it is to write all the junk down than it is to talk about it. I show the paper to Cami on the bus ride home.
She reads it right there, holding tight to my hand. Her eyes dart back and forth. One-handed, she flips the page really fast to read the rest. “It’s really good,” she says.