Ruined

chapter 9

Roseanne.

Exhausted, numb, and penniless, I find a dumpy motel near the MSU campus in Bozeman, Montana. In lieu of my empty wallet, I peel the Help Wanted sign off the door and approach the thirty-something attendant at the front desk. The lift of his eyes begins the skin-crawling greeting I've come to expect from men between the ages of sixteen and death. The head to toe perusal, fluttering nostrils, heavy breaths-whatever happens in the male brain that triggers these responses doesn't seem to care that it's rude and uncomfortable.

I wait for him to finish the creepy ritual before saying, "I need a room."

"How many hours?" He licks his lips.

"The rest of the summer."

He asks for a credit card, and I give him the Help Wanted sign. The conversation that follows would make Susan B. Anthony roll in her grave. He needs a handyman and thinks that job requires a penis. I grew up on a ranch and can do anything with my hands. When I phrase it that way, his gaze latches onto body parts I will not be using, but whatever. He gives me the job and a room. I don't have the same confidence when it comes to visiting my brother. Reconstructing myself into an impenetrable, unfeeling robot takes constant effort. I'm a work in progress, raw and untested, and Felix has the power to disassemble me.

I expect the same reception from him that Lisa and Bambam gave me. He received my messages and chose not to respond. I'm not ready to experience his rejection in person. So I put it off and bury myself in distractions. I apply for college loans. Acquaint myself with the campus. Buy a prepaid phone. And fix everything that needs fixing around the motel.

It takes me a month to work up the courage to drive to Montana State Penitentiary. Then I sit in the parking lot for an hour, reminding myself why I came.
He's my brother.
I love him.
I have to know if he loves me back.

Razor wire fences, armed towers, drab white paint, tiny windows-this is where all the executions for the state are implemented. I block it all out as I enter the visitor door. When I give my name at the desk, the guard turns to the computer.
He's going to tell me I'm not on the visitor list.

I filled out the visitor application two years ago, but Felix has the right to refuse me. I know he doesn't want to see me.

"Right this way, Miss Park." The guard leads me to a bay of elevators.

Stunned, I move through the prison, pause for the security check, and follow the signs and commands from the guards. Since Felix's unit has non-contact visitation only, I'm escorted into a small narrow room. Plastic chairs sit in a row, each in a separate booth. I lower into the one I'm directed to and wait.

A moment later, he appears on the other side of the glass partition in a periwinkle blue jumpsuit.
He's thinner. Older. Hard brown eyes. Black hair that crops close to his skull. He carries himself with a severe edge of intimidation. Still handsome, but unsmiling, in a deadly way. And not a hint of surprise on his clean- shaved face. I'm sure they gave him my name. He steps into the booth, and I harden my spine, steeling myself for a brush-off. Safety glass prevents him from touching me. Conversation requires the use of a telephone. I don't reach for the receiver. He lowers into the chair, his unwavering stare never leaving mine. An eternal moment passes, the silence hovering like a timekeeper.

Is he thinking about the ravine? That's the last time he saw me. Naked. Violated. My body used in ways a brother should've never been forced to witness.
If I hadn't sneaked off with Lisa that night, if I hadn't been such a rebellious little slut, Felix wouldn't be sitting on the other side of that glass. God, how he must hate me.
He picks up the phone.
I don't move. It's too scary. Too painful.
He flattens a hand against the glass partition.
I stare at the scar on his palm, at the fingers that used to hold mine when I cried. I don't trust what he's offering. I can't reach for it. He waits. Then he mouths, "I love you."

I close my eyes and block out the rising burn in my throat. I block out the partitions and the guards' squeaky shoes and the ten years my brother will spend behind that glass in that stupid blue jumpsuit. I block it all out and open my eyes. Because I'm happy to see him. He didn't turn me away. With a steady inhale, I lift the receiver and bring it to my ear.

"Roseanne," he breathes, and his hand makes a winding slide down the glass, as if tracing my outline.

"Felix."

"God, you..." His gaze roams my face, softening with each pass. "You're so beautiful. You look just like Mom."

I don't remember her, but I used to have pictures. I've seen the resemblance.

"You're not answering your phone." Lines appear on his brow. "Do you have a new number?"

"You called me? When?"

"Every day for the past week."

My hand clenches around the phone, my voice low. "You haven't tried to reach me in two years."

"I know." A muscle bounces in his jaw. "You were supposed to stay in Chicago."

I clamp my molars together, vibrating with things I refuse to feel. "I know why you didn't stay." His gaze lowers to my ribs. Then my stomach. He stares so hard it's as if he can see the faded bruises beneath my shirt.

I suck in a breath. "Lisa told you?"

He nods, curling fingers into a fist on the counter.

"She visits you?" I ask.

Another nod. "Roseanne, I'm so fucking sorry."

"Sorry for which part?"

"For Dad. If I'd known-"

"You're sorry for Mason?" I tilt my head, swallowing against the sharp pain in my throat. "What about for ignoring me? For not calling? For not taking time out of your busy schedule to ask how I'm doing?"

"I couldn't, Roseanne." He averts his eyes and twists a finger around the phone cord. "I can't keep in touch with you because it reminds me that I'm in here and you're out there and I can't protect you. I can't hear the sadness in your voice and maintain the air of confidence I need in here to survive."

He's talking with his tongue out of his shoe. He's always been a terrible liar, and I know all his tells-the looking away, the fidgeting, the rambling on with too many words.

"You want me to leave," I say quietly. "You don't want me here."

"You're right. I want you to leave Montana. Start over. Go to school in Illinois where you qualify for in-state tuition and-"

I lower the phone from my ear, and a hollow thump echoes in my chest. He knows Montana State University has always been my dream. Why does it matter to him where I go?
Because he doesn't want me near him.
With numb fingers, I move to put the phone away.

"Wait," he mouths, surging from the chair.

He presses a hand against the glass then holds it up, extending his pointer finger. One second. His eyes widen with urgent demand. I return the phone to my ear and meet his gaze.

"Chicago Mercy Hospital contacted me last week." His palm flattens against the glass, his tone dropping to a cautious hush. "Dad's landlord found him."

"Found him?" Something cold and hard forms in my stomach.

"Dad's dead, Roseanne." His throat bobs. "There was so much alcohol in his system it shut down brain function and other things, like his gag reflex. He vomited..."

"He choked to death." I stare at the floor.

"Yeah." Silence whispers between us. Then his voice crackles through the phone. "Say something. Tell me what you're feeling."

"I feel nothing."

Returning the phone to the cradle, I walk away.