Kim Karr - Mended

“What the fuck are you doing?” I yelled.

“Teaching your sister how to play correctly.”

My jaw clenched tightly. “The hell you are. Bell, go downstairs with River.”

She looked at me, sobbing.

“No, Bell. Stay here,” he ordered, glaring at me.

“Go. Now!” I yelled to her as River came racing up the stairs. “Take her now and get her out of here,” I told him.

My hands were shaking as I took another step toward my father. It was strange, because he looked at me with vacant eyes, but I could have sworn I saw a flicker of fear in them. I had a feeling in the pit of my stomach that I couldn’t explain. It made its way through me as an urge to kill him. I lunged at him. He went flying backward and hit his head against the wall. A few of his framed Sound Music Magazine covers came crashing down. He scooted away from me, but my fists moved toward him in a hard, thrusting motion. He didn’t duck, he didn’t move. Hit after hit, my father just took it.

“I hate you! You’re a worthless excuse of a man!” I screamed.

“I know,” he cried. “I tried, I did. I tried to protect you all. But now with Damon Wolf, he . . .” The rest of his response was incoherent. I had no idea what the pathetic man in front of me was trying to say.

“Xander, stop it!” my mother screamed. She wrapped her arms around my waist and pulled me back.

She leaned down to him but looked toward me. “What’s going on? What happened?”

I stiffened and took a deep breath, but he blurted out what had happened himself. Through his incoherent mumblings, he finally managed to make my mother see him for the worthless piece of shit he really was.

Without tears, she stood tall and told my father, her husband, the almost famous Nick Wilde, that it was time for him to leave.

He didn’t even plead for forgiveness. He didn’t say anything. He just stood and weaved down the stairs with his head down—a drunken mess. My mother pulled me to the kitchen and put ice on my hand. She finally broke down and cried. She asked me questions I couldn’t answer because my mind was jumbled with all kinds of thoughts—good, bad, love, but mostly hate.

Then out of nowhere an earsplitting bang rang through the air for a good thirty seconds. I knew immediately what it was. Running to the bedroom, I saw him lying unconscious on the floor in a pool of blood with his gun next to him. The sight filled me with as much rage as sorrow. He was dead—I knew he was. I could hear my mother’s shoes in the hallway and I ran over to the door, slamming it closed and locking it.

“Call nine-one-one now!” I screamed to her.

She beat on the door, tormented screams coming from her mouth. I heard River’s voice in the background and yelled to him to make the call and to call Grandpa too. I didn’t know what to do—I couldn’t let her see him like that. I scrambled to pull a sheet off the bed and that’s when I saw it—his suicide note.

It read, “I love you all. Boys, take care of Mom and Bell and don’t ever settle for not being at the top, because I know you can do what I couldn’t.”

As I covered him, both pain and contempt rushed through me. I slid down the wall and cradled my head in my hands. “What did I do?” I sat there with him for what felt like forever, blocking out my mother’s cries. When the fire department arrived, I was forced to unlock the door. The police and the coroner arrived at different times, asking the same questions, making us tell the story over and over again. The medics gave my mother something to calm her hysterics. My grandfather showed up and, even grief-stricken, he took charge. He always did; that was who he was—a man in control. He made my brother go back to the neighbors’ to stay with Bell until my grandmother got there to take them to their house. He talked to the police, the coroner, made a million other calls, and then finally he took my mother and me back to his house.

The next few days passed in a blur—the arrangements, the wake, the funeral. River, Bell, and I didn’t finish the last few days of the school year. I skipped graduation, much to my mother’s and grandparents’ dismay. But the funeral was the day before, and I couldn’t face anybody or even attempt to act normal. I was too broken. We were all broken—even my strong grandparents.

I remember the last night I talked to Ivy. The conversation was short. She wanted to see me, but I said no. I couldn’t do anything but think about what I’d done, what I’d caused. She begged to come see me, but I said no. She’d offered to take her mother’s car once her mother fell asleep, but again, I said no. She didn’t need to piss that witch off. I couldn’t deal with that shit. As it was, my “I” trip to Paris became a “We” trip to Paris—the family was going. So because I couldn’t pull myself out of my own sorrow, Ivy and I said goodbye over the phone, and her sadness ripped me apart.

I look up at the dim lights through the window in the grim waiting room, and a shiver sweeps through me as I remember how it happened. Our summer trips were both over and it was the night we had planned to meet again. I hadn’t yet told her I wasn’t going to the University of Chicago with her, and I wasn’t looking forward to it. I couldn’t go that far—I couldn’t leave my family when they needed me most. But it never mattered anyway, because instead of being the night we reunited, it was the night we ended. We never formally broke up. We were just no longer together. I loved her, and that was it—I loved her enough to do what was best for her. So even though we were a part of each other, when I got the opportunity to set her free—I did.

My eyes fly open when the overhead lights come on and pull me out of my own darkness. The only person who knows the truth is standing in the doorway of the waiting room. To everyone else I was a cheater, but I didn’t care what people thought because leaving LA made her who she is today—I know it without a doubt. Standing up, I approach my brother. He looks exhausted. Clapping my hand on his shoulder, I ask, “Is she okay?” I want to ask if the baby is okay as well, but I’m afraid.

“Dahlia and the baby are fine.” The relief in his expression can’t be denied, but his voice is strained.

“What happened?”

He sighs. “She has something called placenta previa.”

I give him a questioning look.

“It means her placenta is lying unusually low in her uterus.”

“But you said Dahlia and the baby are okay?”

“They are for now. The doctor did an ultrasound and said the friction of the two organs being so close is what caused the bleeding. There is a chance as the pregnancy progresses the uterus will lift and there won’t be any more bleeding, but there is also a chance it won’t.”

I can see his throat working to fight back his fear. “River, plain English, please.”

He clasps both his hands around his neck. “The doctor advises that she take it easy. Avoid activities that might provoke any more bleeding.”

His green eyes assess my reaction. He nods and I do the same. Both understanding what this means . . . he won’t be going on tour. I pull him to me and hug him—something I can’t remember doing since our father’s funeral. “You do what you have to do. I understand.”

The moon hasn’t quite disappeared, but the sun hasn’t yet risen—it’s dawn and the streetlights are still on. I exit the cab with my bag in hand and climb the steps lit by the faint glow from the road to my condo in Beverly Hills. A car drives by, tossing the newspaper in the driveway, and I just leave it—I’ll catch up later. I stayed at the hospital all night with my brother, and now I’m contemplating the phone calls I’ll have to make later today. I’ve been taking risks, learning things, and making new relationships since I started to manage the Wilde Ones. But this—being left without a lead singer in the middle of a tour isn’t an evolution, it’s a regression, a detriment . . . it’s the end.