I’m pretty sure I can fly, Ella May. The last words she ever spoke to me flow through my head. She had to be in the same mindset. Why didn’t I see it? Why am I such a bad daughter?
Why?
Why?
Why?
“Why did you think you could fly, Mom?” I whisper as I clutch onto a necklace that once belonged to her. “What went on in that head of yours?”
Setting the necklace down, I place the box on the unmade bed and open the nightstand drawer to take out the pills she once almost overdosed on. She took a few before she slit her wrists the final night she was alive—at least that’s what the medical examiner said.
Not truly understanding why I do it, I pop two of her pills into my mouth and swallow them, feeling the strangest bit closer to her the moment they slip down my throat and settle into my body.
As the pills seep through my bloodstream, I wander down to the kitchen to do the dishes, feeling slightly dizzy. The way the water moves is odd. The air smells weird, too, like grease and smoke.
Is this how she saw the world?
“I’m headed out,” my dad slurs as he staggers into the kitchen.
Elbow deep in pan grease, all I do is nod.
“I might not be home tonight, just so you know.”
I peer over my shoulder at him. “Okay.”
He lingers by the back door while he clumsily slips his jacket on. He hasn’t been sober since the night my mom died, and he has been binge drinking every night at the bar since the funeral.
“Be safe,” I feel the need to say.
He blinks at me like I’ve slapped him. “God, you look so much like her,” he mutters as he reaches for the back door. “It hurts to even look at you anymore.” Then he storms out, slamming the door behind him.
It seems like I should cry, but I think my tear ducts broke the night I found her.
Everything broke.
After I finish up the dishes, I trudge up to my room with my father’s words echoing in my mind.
It hurts to even look at you anymore.
Hurts.
Everything hurts.
I stand in front of the mirror on my wall, wondering if maybe he’s right. I do look so much like her. Leaning forward, I squint at my own eyes that are squinting back at me. For the briefest moment, something painful flashes across my expression.
The truth.
Of who I am.
My reflection can see it.
What I did.
Panicking, I rip the sheet from the bed and throw it over the mirror, breathing heavily. Is this what everyone sees when they look at me? What I did? What I caused?
“I need to get out of here.” I hurry out of my bedroom, bolt down the stairs, and then outside. I start to jog down the driveway—run, run, run away—when I hear Micha call out my name.
“What are you doing?” he asks over the sound of his boots thudding against the concrete as he jogs after me.
I almost keep going, keep running to the end of the driveway. When I get there, I’ll turn right and go to the bus stop. Then I’ll buy a one-way ticket out of here. Leave everything behind, including myself.
“Baby, did you hear me?” The sadness in his voice stings at my heart and my guilt.
I want to scream at him not to call me baby. I don’t deserve such an endearing name, don’t deserve him. Yet he seems to think the opposite, refusing to leave my side unless I lock myself in the house. Micha knows I’m breaking, and he wants to stop it, but I don’t deserve to stop breaking.
I halt and stare down the driveway at the neighbor’s kids across the street who are running through the sprinklers. Happy. He should be happy. Not sad.
“I don’t know.”
The fence rattles as he hops over it and then hurries up behind me. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes.”
“I ...” When he reaches me, he lowers his face and puts his mouth beside my ear. “What do you need from me? Please, tell me what you need.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. His nearness is painful. His nearness reminds me of the night two weeks ago when everything was perfect.
And then it wasn’t.
“I just need …” I open my eyes and dare to look at him. The worry in his aqua gaze makes me instantly regret it, though. Micha sees everything inside me. He has to see the ugliness in me right now.
I should run back into the house and away from him, but I don’t want to go back into that house. Into her house. Into the quiet. With myself and my stupid all-revealing reflection.
I’m pretty sure I can fly, Ella May.
She thought she could fly.
Why did she think that so much?
I need to understand.
And there might be a way.
“I need to go somewhere,” I say to Micha. “To the party going on. By the bridge.”
Chapter 11
Micha
For the first time in my life, I can’t help Ella. I’m trying the best I can, but she won’t open up to me. Maybe that’s why I drive her to the party, even though it’s clear she’s out of it, either drunk or on something. With the largeness of her pupils, my guess is the latter.
The ride up to the party is agonizingly quiet, nowhere near the comfortable silence we used to share. For most of the journey, Ella stares out the window with her arms crossed, watching the mountains, hills, and then the bridge roll by.
“My mom used to think she could fly,” Ella mutters suddenly as the car reaches the center of the bridge. “She would say so all the time. She even thought she could fly off that bridge.”
I open my mouth to say something, but I have no clue what that something should be. I feel so helpless all the time. I fucking hate it.
“You don’t need to say anything.” She shuts her eyes and rests her head against the window, curling up within herself. “I was just mumbling nonsense.”
My heart is breaking for her. God, I wish it was the only one breaking, wish I could bear her pain. She thinks it’s her fault. She told me that. I’ve told her a thousand times that it’s not, yet I can’t seem to change her mind. Her stupid, asshole father and brother aren’t helping at all, either. Both have put the blame on her.
Fucking bastards.
We make the rest of the drive in silence again. As soon as we arrive at the party, Ella hops out and heads straight for the alcohol. The party is going full force, music blaring, a bonfire blazing in the trees. Half the damn town is here. Mad chaos fills the air, but that’s typical. I used to love it, but right now, I’m starting to wonder if I shouldn’t have brought Ella here.