When We Were Bright and Beautiful(3)
“You’re not worried? Even a little?” My own stomach is in knots that keep tightening.
“No, I’m not worried. He’ll be fine. Just get in your car and come home. But do everyone a favor, Cassidy Cakes. Try not to drive like a maniac.” Nate’s voice is softer and more loving. Trust me. Trust Dad. “Cass, we’re talking about Diana Holly. It’s Billy’s word against hers. Who do you think people will believe?”
2
THE DRIVE FROM NEW HAVEN TO MANHATTAN TAKES AN hour and change, longer with traffic. But the last time I made this trip, I went door-to-door in fifty-six minutes. Afterward, when I sat down to Christmas dinner, I was full of myself. I flew here, I announced as I slid into my chair. I was unstoppable. But no one was impressed, Billy least of all. “What are you trying to prove, Cassie?” he asked sharply, puncturing my good mood. “You’re gonna kill yourself one day.” I started to protest, but the conversation had turned, and my voice got lost in the chatter.
It’s dark outside; rather, it would be if not for the spotlights shining through my windows at discreet intervals. Although it’s almost midnight, traffic is brutal. After Nate’s call, I decided to wait, figuring the roads would be clear, but, stupidly, didn’t factor in construction. So now I’m stuck in a long line of cars, unable to move, with nothing to do except agonize over Billy.
Diana Holly has been angry before, but this time she sounds unhinged. I feel a little unhinged myself, frankly. For me, going home is fraught. When I’m there, I not only have to deal with my family’s disappointment, I also have to ward off drama with my ex-boyfriend, Marcus, who can sense when I’m vulnerable. Managing both at the same time is exhausting.
So my nerves were jangled even before I pulled out of the parking lot, but this stop-and-go traffic is sending me over the edge. My foot hovers on the gas, and I’m aching to gun the engine and take off.
Let me stress one thing about Billy. My brother is a fighter. He’s overcome more challenges than anyone I know. When he was born, he was so small and sickly, no one thought he’d survive. He was slow to roll over, late to walk, and unable, or unwilling, to talk. When he finally did, he stammered so severely, he was unintelligible. By kindergarten, Billy had undergone a series of surgeries to repair his heart. Between his lousy health and stutter, elementary school was torture, and he kept falling behind. But with help from speech therapists and tutors, he caught up to his peers and eventually surpassed them. Children who stutter, particularly boys, often excel later in life. King George VI and James Earl Jones are great examples of this. So is my brother. At twenty-two, his repetitions (disfluencies, they’re called) are infrequent, and he’s mastered strategies for heading them off. Still, his impediment is a wily beast, ready to pounce at the slightest provocation. Certain words trip him up; and in moments of high stress, he’ll struggle to say simple sentences. It’s why his arrest, however bogus, is so terrifying. Like Nate said, if Billy is scared, he can’t defend himself.
Nate calls again. Seeing his name, I feel a weight press down on my neck and shoulders. We’ve already spoken several times, most recently an hour ago. He caught me just as I zipped up my bag. His timing is impeccable, as if he’s tracking my every move. There’s a fine line, I’ve come to realize, between loving someone and suffocating her.
A few minutes later, feeling restless and twitchy, I call him back. “I’m on the other line,” he says brusquely, like I’m the one stalking him. “It’s about Billy.”
“You told me not to tell anyone.”
“These are people I trust.”
I’m skeptical of Nate’s sources the same way I’m skeptical of Nate. My brother has a wealthy boy’s overconfidence, so he often misses the nuances in a conversation. The next time he calls, for instance, he tells me Billy won’t actually be home tonight. “The Bowtie does know a few judges in New Jersey, but they can’t release Billy.”
“They can’t or they won’t? Shit, this is bad.”
“It’s just a question of timing,” Nate assures me. “The Bowtie’s request came in too late today, so it’ll happen tomorrow. Definitely tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow is Sunday,” I remind him. “No one works on Sunday.”
“Prisons are like hospitals; they’re open every day.”
But there’s more, and it’s worse. Turns out Diana wasn’t the one who called 911. Two boys stumbled across her and Billy having sex in a playground. According to them, Diana was plastered, and Billy was being “forceful” or “aggressive,” so they called for help. When the cops showed up, Diana was hysterical and Billy was struggling. They put him in restraints and shoved him into a squad car.
As soon as Nate says “hysterical,” I’m reminded of another scene, a different dynamic: Billy’s Audi, a sexy two-seater, destroyed. Hood bashed in; headlights shattered. Glass awash on the pavement like water glinting in the sun. And there was Diana standing on the sidewalk, still swinging the bat, the textbook definition of hysterical. “You can’t leave me, Billy!”
What haunts me most about Diana Holly, even more than the violence, is her deceptiveness. When Billy first told me about her, I was thrilled. “She reminds me of you,” he said, to which I cracked, “That’s gross, Elmo,” and we both laughed. But he meant the way she looked after him. Between classes and labs, tutoring, twice-daily workouts and competing, every minute of Billy’s life is accounted for. Diana forced him to slow down, eat a decent dinner, relax in front of a movie. She was attentive and caring, which kept him balanced and sane. What a relief, I remember thinking, which of course I now regret; just as Billy probably regrets thinking she and I were anything alike.