Illumine: The Saving Bailey Trilogy #3

There are two kinds of light—the glow that illuminates, and the glare that obscures

—James Thurber

Part I

Intervention

Chapter 1

"This is an intervention, Bailey."

The worn couch cushions curl around my body, holding me in place. I bury my nose in them and smell the history of cigarette smoke, alcohol-induced retching, and bodily fluids that created my baby brother Indy—all woven into the hideous, blue plaid fabric.

That’s not how it works, Mom, I say. You don’t plan your own intervention.

My mother, with bloodshot eyes and hair pulled into a messy bun, bounces my wailing brother on her hip. His head rolls from side to side.

No, this is an intervention for you, she says. You’re going back to school.

I lift my gaze to the ceiling and hold it there. I have heard this lecture more than twenty times since summer ended. Only this time, there is a change in Mom’s voice, a wearing around the edges. It grips me.

I get up and cross the small living room, taking Indy in my arms. I cradle him against my chest and his wailing dies down. Why? I ask. Why are the two of you so damn persistent that I return to that hell-hole?

Dad takes in a small, calming breath. Bailey, what happened at Surfside will never happen again. It was a freak accident, he reasons with me.

I wonder if he’s saying Miemah—the dead girl—or me—the girl who should be in prison—were freak accidents. Neither of us were though. We were more of a synchronized disaster. There was nothing accidental about the methodical way I wrote a kill list of my least favorite teachers and classmates. And absolutely nothing accidental about the way I showed up to school one morning with a Whalther in my possession and just enough rounds to pierce the cruel hearts of every person on that list. And surely, Miemah’s ten year reign as a super-bitch was anything but accidental.

Miemah’s death was a freak accident.

Alana’s death was a freak accident.

I’m a freak accident.

I rock Indy, yet another accident, in my arms, and study his pink little face dotted with Baby acne. Dad, I’m going to be bullied no matter what. I’m too weird and unlikeable, I say, playing the poor-little-friendless-freak card.

It would take a hell of a lot more than a milk carton thrown at my back and some hair pulling to set me off this time. Be that as it may, I’m a distorted version of the girl who hid in janitors’ closets and wrote quiet little lists of people she wished were dead. I have pole danced at Indigo, held my dying best friend in my arms, been initiated into a gang, drugged and molested. My skin hadn’t grown thick; it had metamorphosed to lead plated with copper—a cartridge containing my affliction. I don’t rely on bullets anymore. I am ammunition designed to kill.

All you do is eat, sleep, and hang out with that boy all day. What are you planning on doing with your life? You need a life plan. What about college? Mom says.

I draw in a snarky laugh. "You drank my college fund. Remember?"

Bailey, cut the attitude, Dad says.

He’s been leaning dangerously close to Mom’s side since she moved in with us.

Apparently, writing a kill list and then attempting to follow through with it, isn’t enough to allow me to be homeschooled for the rest of my life. What am I doing wrong?

I’m not going. That’s that.

Dad and Mom share a look. "You are going—that’s that," they say, leaning toward me, wearing the expression of a snotty, teenage girl on their faces. I know I don’t look like that.

Indy starts to cry again. See, I say, even Indy hates the idea. What do you think you’ll accomplish by sending me back? That I’ll suddenly realize not all teenagers are ruthless scumbags and not all teachers harbor a death wish for their students?

Dad shakes his head. We just want you to have a normal life. And going to school is as close to normal as you’re going to get. You could continue on the path you’re on and it will lead to nowhere… Nowhere good. If you graduate high school then at least you’ll have a diploma, which is more than your mother or I ever had.

So that’s what this is really about; my parents are afraid I’ll end up in prison, or flaunting my assets at a nightclub. Well, the latter had already happened, but how can I learn without making mistakes? Isn’t that how they learned? And shouldn’t I have the freedom to fuck up my life as I see fit, and then be forced to fix the wreckage later?

They don’t get it, I’m not the kid who eats her lunch in the restroom, or buries her face in a locker as someone passes by. I’m the girl who wrote the Bullet List and took her mother’s gun to school. I’m not the girl who has a hard time fitting in—I’m the girl who clears halls with gunfire, carving a place for herself.

This isn’t even about me, I say. "Clearly, you both regret the poor life choices you’ve made. But I’m my own person and my life is mine to eff up. School just isn’t my thing. Couldn’t you just let me be a model, or something? You’re always complaining how I’m too thin. I wouldn’t even have to eat cardboard or tissue paper to achieve a perfect model physique."

You are not your own person, Mom says. "You are our person. Our sixteen-year-old person, and you are going back to school, whether you like it or not. I have half a mind to cart you off to some mental hospital after the crap you pulled this summer… don’t think I haven’t considered it."

Awesome, I say. You and I could share a room.

The doorbell rings before Mom can summon a comeback. I hand Indy to her and turn to answer it.

Standing on his longboard, with a black snapback pulled down over his mass of blond hair, Holden leans into the apartment. Grinning, he waves at Mom. She scowls and waves back, her middle finger saluting him. Then she shifts her bloodshot gaze to me and mouths, we’re not done here.

Meet me around back, I say to Holden and then turn to my dad. Can Holden and I jump on the tramp?

Mom glares at me. She hates it when I call the trampoline that. Dad glances at Mom, who shakes her head no. Of course, sweetie, he says. Have fun.

Okay, so maybe Dad is still salvageable. We will have to wait and see on that one.

I run into my room, which I now share with Indy, and slip into my boots. When I turn to leave, a low snarl carries out from under the bed. Getting on my hands and knees, I feel around until my fingers brush against the furry, snarling ball.

Angel zips out and snaps at me for disturbing him. The day we brought Indy home, Angel started acting wounded, whimpering and following me around the apartment like a lost shadow. At first, he was envious of all the attention Indy was receiving, but then as he realized Indy would be crying more than anything else, his jealousy turned to annoyance.

Seeking refuge from the incessant wailing, he dove under the bed, nudged open cabinets, and buried himself beneath my pillows. I give him a quick scratch behind the ears, and then leave to join Holden outside.

Walking around the corner of the apartment complex, I head for the trampoline. I place my palms flat on the mat and use my upper body to kick myself up. Straightening my knee-length floral print dress, I sit cross-legged while Holden jumps in circles around me.

What was that all about? Mommy seems extra pissy today, he says, his snapback flying off his head and becoming lodged between two rusted springs. He bounces on his knees to retrieve it.

Oh, you know, I say, the same old crap she’s been going on about for the past friggin’ month. About how I’m going nowhere and need to start school again. Blah blah blah.

You could, he says, landing next to me, pretzel-style. Go back to school. We both could.

Holden, are you retarded or something? I say. I tried to shoot up the school!

Tried and failed. Plus, no one knows about it. He pushes a curtain of sweaty hair out of his face.

School gives me bad vibes. I shudder.

It could be a new start for you, Bailey. He takes off his snapback and, holding it by the visor, fans himself. The trampoline is covered in a thin blanket of dead slash-pine needles; I poke them through holes in the mat, losing interest in the conversation. Are you even listening?

Christ, you sound like my mother, I say, snapping out of it. I wipe my hands on my dress and stand.

I moonwalk around, clutching the hem of my dress to keep from flashing him. But my modesty feels out of place around Holden—it’s not like he hasn’t seen my underwear before.

It might be fun. He shrugs. You could cut your hair or something, like when you joined the Allie… and pretend to be someone different…someone sweet.

I stop moonwalking. "Oh, and I’m not sweet?"

"You are. But lately you’ve been acting kind of…oh, I don’t know…hard."

Hard? I snort. Hard is the male genitalia after arousal. I’m not hard. I’m just a jerk.

REALLY? Holden says with disdain. You throw around sexual innuendos like they’re going out of style.

I open my mouth to respond and he cuts me off.

And actually, they are. It’s getting old fast. You’re not gonna like what I’m about to say but— he shifts his eyes to the little patch of woods skirting the property, Alana’s dead. Don’t you think she would’ve wanted you to make something of yourself? He shifts his gaze back to me. And Clad’s in prison. You need to get your shit together. He tugs his snapback down over his eyes.

A lump forms in my throat; I fall on my butt beside him. Tears cloud over my vision and I squint at the back of the complex, which kind of looks like the face of SpongeBob SquarePants if you stare hard enough.

Bailey?

I pull my knees up to my chest. I thought I could hide from it all… I say softly, tears coursing down my cheeks.

Oh, Bailey, Holden says, his voice tender. I didn’t know. I’m sorry.

I turn to him. I wish I was the one who died, Holden. I wish I was the one in prison.

He exhales and rubs his eyes with his fingertips. Me too, he says. If I could take Alana’s place I would. But that’s not an option. All we can do is keep living…and maybe turn our shit around while there’s still time.

Holden?

Yeah?

You’re my best friend.

He laughs half-heartedly. How did we get to this? When just months ago I was threatening to punch you in Drama class.

To be fair, you did knock me flat on my ass the night before Alana’s death, I say. But we’re definitely an unlikely pair.

Well, I’m glad, he says. You’re too awesome not to be friends with.

I smile through my tears. You too.

He leans toward me and brushes my wet cheeks with his thumbs. Grabbing my arms, he pulls me close and holds me tight to his chest. I start to cry again.

The endless summer had finally run its course, leaving a shaken, disturbed girl behind in its wake.

Chapter 2

Sydney

Bailey tests a bottle of formula on her wrist. A white drop slides over the fleshy scar where she cut herself. I imagine it is a drop of blood, the bottle filled with it.

He was supposed to be mine. I went through twenty hours of labor and carried him in my bulging stomach for nine months. My breasts sag and leak with milk to nourish him. My blood courses through him. He has my light blue eyes and blond hair. He has my nose and pouty pink lips. Yet the child who ruined my life, took away my husband, and turned me into a coldhearted monster, is holding my only gift to myself. My escape and second chance at life.

She feeds him, coddles him, teaches him to love her instead of me. Feeds him her blood, so that he will be made of her.

And I don’t even try to stop her. Not directly, anyway.

Tomorrow she starts school at North Fort Myers High. I arranged everything, right down to making sure I had a print-out of her schedule and a map of the school. I purchased binders, and loose leaf paper, and red ballpoint pens, and I even got a couple of those cute paper folders with pictures of kittens and puppies in baskets. I’m such a thoughtful, loving mother… I’m just doing what’s best for her.

While Bailey was hanging out back with her boyfriend, I took the liberty of emptying her bike of fuel, and then hiding the key. This way, if she tries to run off later when I tell her she starts school tomorrow, she won’t get very far.

It all seems cruel. However, given my history, I guess anything I do comes across as vindictive and harsh. But letting your sixteen year old daughter run wild all over Fort Myers, raising hell, is not exactly good parenting. Neither is bashing her over the head with a frying pan and slapping her till you’re both blue in the face, but hey, I try to make up for it where I can. Although not often, I do ponder Bailey’s future and if she’ll ever get the chance at one at all.

Just the fact that she isn’t a human vegetable, communicating by use of a Portable Talking Keyboard and hooked up to a ventilator, is a miracle in itself. How much brain damage can one person suffer before they start twitching and foaming at the mouth? She is a freak of nature.

*     *     *

I’ll be the one taking you to school tomorrow.

That’s how I break it to her. She practically chokes when I say it, and Angel leaps out of his chair ready to perform the Heimlich maneuver on her.

Tomorrow? Her eyes water from choking. Angel holds a glass of water to her lips and she pushes it away. Is there any way out of this? She looks to Angel and he shakes his head.

It’ll be good for you, Bailey. I promise, he says.

Yeah, that and I’m tired of you manhandling my baby, I say, stabbing my green beans with a fork.

Manhandling? she asks, her voice breathy with anger.

You know what I mean, I say.

Sydney, honey, Angel says gently, Bailey has been very helpful with Indy since we brought him home. How often does she stay up at night while he’s crying and you’re knocked out on the couch?

I glare at Bailey. If she wasn’t so damn protective of him maybe I could do more. But she guards him like I’m some kind of baby-hungry cannibal. You’d think she gave birth to him, the way she acts. I watch Bailey’s face fall apart; her eyes glaze over with tears and her nose starts to run. Great, Angel is really going to hand it to me now.

She just loves her new baby brother, he says.

I smile to myself victoriously. Maybe he’s still salvageable, only time will tell.

Bailey pushes back her chair, walks over to the trashcan, and scrapes off her plate. She goes to her bedroom and slams the door. A second later, she opens it again, pokes her head out, and slams it shut with more vigor. The apartment shakes and so do I.

*     *     *

It’s two AM and Indy has been crying non-stop since nine. I lift Angel’s arm off my stomach and roll out from under the covers. Taking the duvet off the back of the couch, I stuff it under the crack of Bailey’s door. She never liked sleeping anyway.

I crawl back under the covers and snuggle up to Angel. He wakes enough to kiss the top of my head and caress my arm with his fingertips.

Babyyy, I whisper.

Me or Indy? he murmurs.

You, Angel. I press my lips to his and then pull away. He opens his eyes.

Yawning, he says, Maybe I should go help her. The poor girl has bags under her eyes and she’s only sixteen.

She’ll be fine, I say. I’m sorry I was so hard on her tonight, but she’s been way out of control. I was just being a concerned mother.

His eyes search mine, and I try to make my face look as kind and earnest as possible. I don’t know if I do it right.

You do care about her, he says. Because how can a mother not love her child?

And there’s the kicker. How could a mother not love her child? With ease, actually, I have been doing it for sixteen years, though I managed to convince Angel that I loved Bailey for five of those years. In my defense, I never drowned her in the bathtub, or drove us into a lake. I just don’t love her.

I can’t wait for her to start school again. She’s going to come to life. I can picture it already, her doing homework at the kitchen table and asking to go out with friends at the weekends, Angel says.

I picture Indy and me watching soap operas until Bailey comes home and I can hand him off to her. I picture walking around in my pajamas all day, piling dirty dishes into the sink, and the trashcan overflowing with dirty diapers for Bailey to take care of.

I picture Angel coming home from work, sweaty with dirt under his nails, kissing me passionately with his rough, chapped lips.

She’s a smart girl. She’ll do well, I say.

If Bailey had any idea how smart she is, I would be in trouble. We would all be in trouble. If she ever sought payback for my abuse I could be locked away for years, maybe lifetimes. I sigh in the darkness. Indy has stopped crying, but I can still hear his whimpers and Bailey soothing him with her voice.

Angel is snoring with his mouth cracked open, his garlicky breath saturating the air. I breathe it in and wonder how bad my own breath smells from the garlic mashed potatoes I whipped up for dinner tonight. Bailey’s breath must smell like mint, after her choking incident and running into her room, she never came back out to finish eating.

Shhh, she hushes Indy. Daddy and Mommy are sleeping. You don’t want to wake them.

I shake Angel’s shoulder. He chokes and stops snoring.

I’m here, Bailey whispers. I’m not going anywhere. I love you. Then she cries so softly I almost don’t hear it between the air conditioning clicking on and off, and the hum of the refrigerator making ice. But if you hear something enough times it becomes palpable, you stop hearing with your ears and start feeling it in your bones.

I imagine I am Indy. Cradled safely in Bailey’s arms, warm against her rising chest, my hand resting on her collar bone. It juts out from under her skin, sharp and beautiful.

Baby, if all you do is cry, you’ll never learn how to smile, she says.

I close my eyes, grinning as I fall to sleep.

Chapter 3

Indy is a white little bump in his crib; his blanket rises and falls ever so slightly as he breathes in and out. The moon emits a blue ethereal light that illuminates the white furniture and paint on the walls. Everything is painfully bright. My eyes burn from lack of sleep, but when I try to keep them shut for any longer than a minute, knots of tension form between my eyebrows.

It’s four AM and I have cried myself dry. I’m cracked and peeling on the inside, like the sun-parched desert ground. I ache with exhaustion. Giving up on sleep, I sit upright and scoot back to the headboard for support. I lean my head against it and let it roll from side to side, as Indy does when Mom holds him. How in the world am I going to make myself look new within the next couple of hours, when I can barely keep my head up?

I close my eyes a few times, only to have them pop back open moments later. My body and mind are at war. But I know which will win. My mind has the power to override any deficiency my body suffers.

Peeling away the covers, I pad across the cool wood floor into the bathroom. I silently shut the door, so the light will not wake Indy, although the light of the moon is just as bright tonight. One eye at a time, I adjust to the bathroom light.

I take a peek at myself in the mirror, starting with my hair. Long, stringy, and dark with grease. All it needs is a good shampooing. Next, I examine my face. I have dark shadows beneath my eyes from so many sleepless nights and the whites of my eyes are pink and swollen from crying. Okay, so I’m going to need a lot of concealer and Visine. On the upside, my skin is blemish free and slightly golden from summer.

I run the shower and tug Mom’s nightgown over my head. It’s child sized and barely covers my underwear, but it’s one of my favorites. The silk stays cool against my skin even when it’s hot and humid outside. I step out of my underwear and kick it behind the bathroom door.

I test the water, then pull back the curtain and stand under the stream of fiery rain. My skin burns and flushes a bright pink. I wash my hair and body. Then I sit down in the tub and let the water burn my face until it’s numb. Until I’m numb.

I dry off, put my nightgown back on, and fall asleep on top of the covers.

*     *     *

Morning comes too soon. Dad softly calls my name and rubs my arm, until I am sitting up staring groggily at him and blinking away sleep.

Did you sleep well? he asks.

I look around the room. Indy is crying in his crib, his mit covered hands balled into little fists and waving through the air, tears streaming down his face. For an hour or two, I say. I’ve got to feed him. I get up to go to the crib but Dad holds me back.

Let me take care of him, he says. You need to eat too. I made pancakes.

I run my fingers through my damp, knotted hair. I’m too tired to eat, I say lying back down on the bed and closing my eyes.

Sweetie, you have to get up or you’ll be late for school. After you get something in your stomach you won’t feel so sleepy.

Food doesn’t cure exhaustion. Sleep does. And I don’t mean two lousy hours of it. I need a week straight of uninterrupted sleep to make up for all the nights I’ve stayed up, rocking Indy to sleep as his wails pierce my ears.

Without saying a word, I go into the bathroom and close the door. I brush my teeth and detangle my hair. Now, how am I going to make myself look new? Oh yeah, makeup; CoverGirl’s gift to bedraggled girls all around the world.

I smear primer over my eyelids and swipe varying shades of brown eye shadow to make my blue eyes pop. I draw black eyeliner over my waterline and brush bronzer on my cheeks.

I stare into the mirror. I look human. No not human, beautiful. I almost don’t recognize myself. Or maybe it is that I have only come to recognize the battered, starving version of who I once was—the girl who ran with an unlimited supply of energy and danced to music in her head, the one who smiles back at me in the mirror. I’m not new, I’m old.

I put on the floral dress I wore yesterday and a pair of white flats. I try to wiggle my toes like I do in my boots and only manage to lift my big toe. My feet feel claustrophobic.

When I emerge from the bedroom, Indy is in his swing with the setting on high and Dad is at the table sipping hot chocolate, alone. Mom is spread-eagled on the pull-out bed; she looks like she fell off the Empire State Building and landed that way. I join Dad at the table and take a sip of the hot chocolate that he has poured for me.

You look pretty, he says.

Thank you. I fork soggy pancakes into my mouth. For a few minutes, we both just chew in silence, the clicking of Indy’s swing in the background. I stare at my dad with a hollow feeling in my gut, despite the enormous amount of food I am stuffing myself with.

Why do you need her? I am aching to ask. You have me. Aren’t I enough? You promised to protect me. You promised I was saved.

I stood on the edge and he pushed me off. I grabbed for his hand and he pulled away, like we were playing a game of not so fast. I hate him. Not like before, when I hated him because he was too far away to help me. Now I hate him because he is right within arm’s reach, yet would rather watch me fall.

He smiles at me and I return it, twisted and spiteful. I finish eating, scrape off my plate in the trash, and set it in the sink. Mom has let the dishes pile up past the rim; pots from two dinners ago sit beneath a tower of plates and bowls; spoiling clumps of food float in the stagnant dishwater. The smell is overwhelming.

Dad wakes Mom while I fill my tote bag with the school supplies she bought me—minus the first grade puppy folders. Then I sit on the corner of the pull-out bed, waiting.

I’ll get my keys, Mom mumbles, padding into my bedroom. Dad leans against the kitchen table, smiling at me, pride in his eyes. He winks when he catches me staring. I slide my gaze to the bedroom. Mom walks out with her hands empty. She stalks around the small apartment, searching for her keys in the strangest of places: the freezer, the sink, lifting all of the dishes up until she can clearly see the garbage disposal, inside one of my boots, and beneath the doormat.

Can Dad take me? I ask with hopefulness.

Mom puts the mat down and rises with a hand on her back. Her stringy blonde hair falling around her face, she looks to Dad and says, Do you have time to drop her off before work?

Dad, still smiling (his face probably got stuck that way) says, I’ve always got time for my favorite little lady.

Gag. Whatever. Beats showing up to school in Mom’s 1996 Oldsmobile Aurora with her sucking on an unfiltered Marlboro, white slip completely see-through in the sunlight.

It’s settled then. Better get a move on, don’t want to be late on your first day, Mom says. She squeezes me and kisses my forehead. Just… don’t try and kill anyone, all right?

Dad gives me a bizarre look and I try not to laugh. I’m not making any promises.

That’s my girl, she says, smoothing my hair.

I give Indy a kiss goodbye, find Angel under the bed and attempt to kiss him too, and then follow Dad outside to his truck. He holds the door open for me and offers me a hand up, I reject it. The truck smells of ketchup and sweat, an aroma that is strangely comforting to me.

Dad starts up the truck and pulls out of the driveway. Hot, stale air blows in my face and makes my stomach churn. I focus on the rear of the car ahead of us, careful not to look out the side windows at the things rushing past.

So, eleventh grade, huh? Dad says.

Yuh.

Awesome…

Uh huh, I say, clicking my tongue.

So, are you excited?

I stare at him intently. "Do I look excited?"

That shuts him up.

*     *     *

Once a Red Knight always a Red Knight – Class of 2008 is painted in black on the peach brick exterior of North Fort Myers High. A knight in red armor stands below the quote with a shield and sword in his hand. I find the door to the front office and enter; Dad instructed me to go directly to the principal’s office.

I shift my bag and clear my throat. Two girls with matching blond ponytails working at the front desk glare at me. Can I help you? one of them asks, not bothering to conceal the agitation in her voice.

I’m here to see the principal.

Actually, I’m here to go to school and hopefully have a shot at a future that doesn’t involve criminal activity or stripper poles.

You can have a seat over there, the other blond ponytail says. He hasn’t come in yet.

I sit on a red upholstered bench and nibble at my nails. When did that start? I don’t ever remember biting my nails before. Christ, I’m nervous as hell. Eating a ginormous breakfast this morning was not the best of ideas.

A man sporting a forest green suit, clashing blue tie and black, shiny loafers steps in the door. He has a Venti Starbucks coffee in his right hand and a stack of folders in his left. He lifts his coffee lid and blows into the cup. He glances over the lip of the cup, in my direction. Bailey Sykes?

He pronounces Sykes as sicks. I nod.

Follow me into my office.

He hands me his coffee and unlocks the door. Holding it open, he ushers me in. I duck under his arm and sit on a stiff, cold leather chair. His office is more CEO executive than high school principal. A sole poster on the wall reads, ‘Our North Fort Myers we honor thee, for memories we hold so dear, ideals we’ve learned and friends we’ve made, oh, may they guide us on our way, so forward ever be our aim, our Alma Mater HAIL TO THEE!’

We honor thee, for memories we hold so dear. Alana. I gulp and the principal looks my way. I like the Alma Mater, I say, placing the coffee on his desk. I lean forward in