Page 30 of Play Nice

I fall asleep reading, and when I wake up it’s dark. It’s night.

The house is different at night. Or maybe it’s just harder to be brave in the dark.

I grab the vape I bought before I left the city, my phone, and my wallet, slip on my shoes, and walk over to Austin’s.

It’s no longer raining, but there’s a dampness in the air, and it stinks of summer-ripe earth. Grass and mushrooms and geraniums and dirt.

I call Austin.

“Hey,” he says.

“I’m coming over. Okay?”

“Okay.” He hangs up first, which I don’t like.

“Look who’s back in the neighborhood,” he says, meeting me at the end of his driveway a minute later.

I hit my vape, exhale into the space between us.

“Do what you want, but those things will destroy your lungs,” he says, pointing to the vape.

“Appreciate your concern,” I say, hitting it again.

He tosses his car keys up and catches them in the other hand. “Let me buy you some disco fries.”

“My Prince Charming. My knight in shining armor.”

“All right. I’ll throw in a milkshake.”

—

It’s a rare occasion that I don’t want to think or talk about myself, but tonight is one of those rare occasions. Instead, I ask Austin questions about himself. He shares and I listen. Really listen.

His father’s death was unexpected and hard.

His older brothers are overachievers, both assholes but in different ways.

His mother was diagnosed with MSwhen he was a sophomore in college.

He’s got an insane amount of student debt that he’s doing his best to chip away at.

He’s had two long-term girlfriends—one in high school and one in his early twenties who he thought he’d end up with.

They lived together. He was the one to call it off, which he claims is worse because now he has to live with wondering if he did the right thing.

She just got married to a guy in his second year of residency.

After they broke up, Austin moved in with his mom.

“It’s not easy to meet people when you live with your mom,” he says, shrugging, then sucking down the last of his milkshake.

Maybe, but women don’t care. It’s a confidence issue. Charlie Manson didn’t own property, and he was only five foot two. But he had charisma. And good hair.

I think I might think about Charlie Manson too much.

“Are you on the apps?” I ask him, stabbing at a soggy fry.

“I was,” he says. “It’s demoralizing. Are you?”

“God no,” I say, laughing. “I have no trouble meeting people.”

The way he looks at me, I understand that he’s sincerely invested in whatever this is between us. It’d be so much simpler if he wasn’t.

I resent him for not being able to keep this casual.

Why, as a man, wear a slim gold chain if you’re open to commitment? That’s the universal symbol for fuckboy. A chain like that comes with a box of ribbed Trojans and a habit of liking Instagram models’ bikini pics.

I know what to do with guys like that. I don’t know what to do with him.

Never fall in love. It’ll ruin your life. More motherly wisdom. Funny, what memories stick.

“How’s your milkshake?” he asks me. “I’ve never had a strawberry milkshake before.”

“You’re missing out,” I say. “You want a sip?”

He shakes his head. “That’s okay.”

There’s an awkward pause as I fiddle with my straw.

“Hey, can I ask you something?” he says. He doesn’t wait for me to respond. “Are we hanging out because you like spending time with me or because you don’t like being alone at the house?”

I take a beat. “Both.”

He laughs. “Fair enough.”

Another beat. “I…I got that other copy of my mom’s book. I started reading it today.”

“What’s that like?”

“It’s pretty…I don’t know. It’s whatever. I can’t figure out if it’s me, in the book, or some fictional character named Cici. I can’t…I can’t remember a lot from that time. I mean, I was seven. How much do you remember from when you were seven?”

“You. I remember you.”

“Wow. Cute.”

“Sorry.” He looks up at the ceiling, runs his hands through his hair. “Um, I haven’t really thought about it. Some, I guess?”

“Some. I have some memories. And then I have my sisters and my dad telling me what happened. I’ve been hearing their versions for so long, believing their versions for so long.

And now, now I have my mom’s book. And then, even if I said or did any of the things she wrote about, it could have just been for attention. But…”

A chance to tell him—to tell someone—the truth. Here and now. It’s not all fiction. The haunting is real.

“But…?”

“Nah. Never mind. The whole thing is so cliché,” I say, throwing my hands up.

“It’s every trope. And I’m that trope of the creepy kid.

The kid with terrible vibes. That’s not me.

My vibes have been impeccable since birth.

And what’s even more frustrating is that the footage, from the paranormal investigators or whatever, is nowhere on the internet.

I checked. Mom was telling the truth about the lawsuits against them, that weird married couple.

Their scandals are well documented. Plenty of detailed information available on how they took advantage of the mentally ill and financially desperate.

But there’s only one mention, one blog post on their website, about their trip to Edgewood.

Our suffering must not have been interesting enough for them because it’s a meager three paragraphs.

And there’s nothing specific about me. Nothing to prove or disprove how I really was.

Woof. My bad. Let’s talk about something else,” I say, finishing my milkshake. He stares at me. “What?”

“Nothing. Just…I’m sorry. That’s shitty. If it helps, I remember your vibes being good. That I remember. One hundred percent.”

“Impeccable,” I correct him. “Impeccable vibes.”

He nods. “Not creepy at all.”

“Thanks,” I say. I always forget that he knew me back then, that he has some context. Limited context, yeah, but still. “It does, actually. Help. Thank you.”

“Anytime,” he says, grinning.

He pays the check and takes me back to his house. We have tea with his mom, and the two of them gang up on me for having never seen Game of Thrones .

“I’m just not into hobbits,” I say.

“There’s no—” Dawn starts.

Austin cuts her off. “She knows, Mom. She’s messing with us.”

“Oh!” Dawn blows a raspberry at me, and I give a devious little laugh. I fit in so well here, I wonder how my photo isn’t already on the wall.

Austin and I go to bed around midnight, and it’s the first time we’ve slept next to each other without hooking up. He kisses me good night and that’s it.

He falls asleep right away, but I can’t get there.

Panic throbs through my body, rattles my bones, makes my heart ache.

Right now, it feels scarier to be beside him than anything else I’ve experienced over these last two months.

To be so close to someone who might care about me.

Who might be trying to get me to care about them, who might be trying to earn my trust, who might be succeeding in those endeavors.

I’m losing my grip. On this. On the house. On my family. On my mind. My life.

I don’t know how to not be in control.

I close my eyes, and I see the moldy bread, the mess in the fridge, the frowning face on the wall. I hear the echo of that horrible laughter. There’s nothing to drown it out. It’s inside my head.

Austin rolls over and puts his arm around me. He reeks of antiseptic and old lady perfume and diner, and I wish I could bottle it—his scent right now—and the way it feels to be held when I’m afraid.

—

The morning is all sunshine and blue skies. Austin leaves for work, and I go back to the house. The first thing I do is search for signs of mischief, but nothing is out of place. Everything is exactly as I left it. The book is on the coffee table.

My heart sinks.

Wow. Am I… disappointed ?

I realize some part of me was hoping for another grand gesture. For more proof. Maybe even more fear.

Fear is new and exhilarating. Addicting.

I walk over to the wall I patched yesterday, run my hand over the dried Spackle. I’ll need to sand and repaint today.

All that awaits me are ordinary chores, ordinary problems.

I change into my paint clothes and touch up the wall in the living room, then start cutting in. I listen to the music Mom used to play for us. Heart, Linda Ronstadt, Sade, Kate Bush, Cher, Fleetwood Mac.

She used to dance around the kitchen while she was cooking, glass of wine in her hand. Back at the old house before Dad left. After Dad left, there was no more dancing. Only more wine.

One time I caught her here at Edgewood with a bottle of vodka and a pack of cigarettes out on the deck. Not dancing but swaying.

“Ya…ya should be…a…sleep,” she said, slurring, lighting a cigarette with a hot pink Bic.

The memory begins and ends there.

But the lighter…

I look down at my arm, at my scar from the burn.

I step back from the wall, dripping paint on the carpet.

“Shit.” My brush goes in the kitchen sink. I seal the can of paint using my new mallet, feeling like a Looney Tune for an amusing few seconds.

While the paint dries, I go out to the deck and call Daphne.

She doesn’t pick up and neither does Leda.

Or Veronica. Or Hannah.

I suspect I’m being avoided because now I’m someone with problems.

No one wants to talk to someone with problems. Especially not the person they’ve always relied on to not have any. My brand is fun and glamour, so it’s unsurprising this pivot isn’t going over particularly well.

It’s annoying nonetheless.

There is someone else I can call. Someone I was convinced not to trust by people I trusted. Since I was a kid, I was told to be wary of her biases, of her hatred for my father, of her version of events as told to her by my mother, her sister.

I’m beginning to understand that it’s no longer about whether I trust her. I’ve just been afraid to hear what she has to say, afraid of what it could unravel.

But everything is already unraveling. So I call Aunt Helen. She answers.

“Hi, Clio,” she says. “How are you doing?”

There’s concern in her voice, and it bothers me. Between Mom’s death and the fire, I’ve actually become more than just someone with problems. I’ve become someone perceived as a victim.

It occurs to me now that so much of my life and my persona has been constructed to war against this.

I didn’t want to be the sad woman on the deck with a bottle of wine and pack of cigarettes.

I didn’t want to be my mother. I also didn’t want to be Cici, the child caught up in a horror story. Now I’m in danger of becoming both.

“I’m good,” I say, artificially cheery.

“Good,” she says, her voice leveling. Even through the phone she can read me, like she did at the funeral. She knows I don’t want fuss. Pity.

“Thank you for the money,” I say. “That was generous.”

“You’re welcome. I’m sorry that happened to you,” she says. “I had a friend lose a place in a fire. Faulty electric. Awful. Just awful.”

“Yeah,” I say. “So, did Mom ever mention to you how I got my burn?”

A few seconds pass. I hear her breathing. “Where is this coming from?”

“I just remembered something,” I say. “She had this hot pink lighter. I think that’s what burned me. But I have no recollection of how it happened. Who did it. Dad said it was Mom. The judge seemed to believe him.”

Another pause from Helen. “He wouldn’t know because he wasn’t there.”

“Right,” I say, sitting down in one of the plastic Adirondack chairs. The only time I remember him being in the house was when he yelled at Mom about the church thing. And she was so worried about losing us, why would she suddenly be so stupid as to abuse me in front of him?

Though she wasn’t exactly operating on logic by that point. She was wrapped up in her demons.

“But,” Helen starts, “your sisters were.”

“What?” I ask, startled. I’d forgotten I was on the phone.

I hear her light a cigarette. I close my eyes and see my mother. “Clio, I have to ask. Is this a door you want to open?”

“It’s already open,” I say, wishing I had my vape. It’s somewhere inside, but I’m too lazy to get up. “It’s been open. Since…”

“Since Alex. Died. Since she died,” Helen says, exhaling. “She wanted you to know the truth. I want you and your sisters to be able to forgive her. Understand her. Be able to move on. What I don’t want is chaos.”

“What’s wrong with a little chaos? Keeps things interesting.”

“Leda told me about what happened with your father and the book,” she says, that seething anger of hers seeping through the phone, making it hot to the touch. “I wanted to call you, but I wasn’t sure it was my place.”

“Yeah,” I say, relieved to finally be connecting with someone sympathetic about the incident. Someone to validate me. “I still can’t believe he did that.”

“I can,” she says. “Clio, listen. There’s no love lost between me and him, as I’m sure you’re aware. He’s perhaps the one person on this planet I can confidently say I despise. And your little stepmother…”

She takes a drag, composes herself.

“And still, it didn’t bring me any comfort or peace to hear about what transpired between you.

Even Lex, she never wanted you or your sisters to hold any animosity toward your father.

She was grateful for the relationship you had with him.

All she wanted was for you to see her and for you to know that she loved you. ”

“Okay,” I say, irritated by this unexpected kumbaya bullshit.

“My point is, as much as I want you to come to terms with Alex…she’s gone. Your dad, your sisters, they’re still here. Those relationships aren’t worth damaging in pursuit of truths of the past.”

I push myself to stand, turn around to face the house. My gaze shifts to the sliding glass doors. The reflection of the deck, the surrounding woods. “All due respect, Helen, that’s not your call.”

She’s quiet.

I move closer to the sliding doors. It’s me in the reflection. But I look like her.

I repeat my initial question. Slowly, enunciating each word to make my point. “Did Mom ever mention how I got my burn?”

“She didn’t know. Your sisters told your dad about the burn. They said they saw Alex do it.”

“Oh. Okay, yeah. Wow. Let me call you back.”