In Our Bones

She didn't like to hear that there were no communists holding her against her will, but she was okay with letting you distract her. The nurse and technicians backed away as I led Barbara to the door that opened to the little yard where we exercised each morning and held the five smoke breaks throughout the day.

"Why's Barbara get an extra cigarette?" asked Paige, another patient. She was wearing her usual pink smock, dried paint splatters still speckled across it from the painting she'd done earlier that afternoon.

"No one's getting an extra cigarette," I said. "Now, go back to your games."

Paige shuffled back to her checkers game in the main room.

Another technician, my friend Kevin, appeared with a set of keys to let us into the yard. He unlocked the door, giving me a grateful smile for helping calm another one of Barbara's episodes. Barbara and I stepped into the cold, crisp air of a cloudy winter in Southern California. January in SoCal is just sun-soaked windows that penetrate the chilly air.

"Do you want a blanket, Barbara?"

"Communists," she mumbled.

"Barbara, you know that isn't an answer to my question."

Her green eyes finally settled on me. "No," she said stiffly.

"That's good," I said. "Good answer. No blanket. Let's take a walk, huh?"

Barbara was a little shifty as we walked, but that was pretty normal for her. She was on the constant lookout for communists. She'd grown up with a father who'd virulently opposed communism and had put all sorts of ideas in her head. She was a sick woman, old with brittle bones, but her mind was alert and her imagination quite active. I liked her, even though she was one of our more difficult patients. There was something satisfying about getting through to a person with a mental illness, finding a way to connect with them and help them.

It made my day to know that Barbara wouldn't be sedated because of me. She was going to take this relaxing walk with me and then I was going to take her to the main room to play some games. It was Friday, which meant games all day. Barbara liked Candyland, so I'd have to find her a partner if I was going to be able to change the sheets before my shift was over.

"Nice weather, isn't it?" I commented.

"Nice weather," Barbara agreed.

We took a stroll around the yard and then made our way back into the building. Barbara lived at the psychiatric ward for a few weeks out of every year when her nursing home was at their wit's end with her. They'd send her here, almost as if they were shifting their responsibility to us because they just couldn't be bothered with her anymore. I thought it was a shame. I wished there was someone at that nursing home that understood Barbara like I did. She just needed some patience and understanding.

Barbara sat down at a table in the main room while I found her a partner and the Candyland board game. Paige volunteered at first, but I knew she was just going to pick on Barbara to try to find out if we'd given her an extra cigarette. I declined her offer and found a new patient, Yolanda, a young girl, barely a week over eighteen who was in the psych ward for a suicide attempt. She wouldn't be here long because she was mostly of sound mind, just depressed. She was sweet though, and I knew she'd be patient with Barbara.

"How about a game of Candyland?" I asked Yolanda.

"Let me guess, you need me to babysit Barbara again?" she guessed, a grin spreading across her lips.

"I'll get you a phone call with your boyfriend," I said. Everything here worked in favors. That's how we made things run smoothly behind the administration's back.

"You got it, sis," Yolanda said, rising to her feet and walking over to Barbara with the board game. "Hey, Barb, how 'boutta game?"

I busied myself with changing the sheets, helped with serving during dinnertime, and cleaned up the paints from the craft room. Before I knew it, my shift at Anaheim Global Medical Center was over. I grabbed my lunch bag and purse from my locker, hugged some of my coworkers goodbye, and headed out into the night.

I started up my faithful white '96 Toyota Camry and began to drive home, playing a Britney Spears CD and singing along. It was her Everytime album from 2003. I was listening to "Toxic" when my cell phone began to ring. I opened my flip phone and pressed it to my ear with one hand and controlled the steering wheel with the other.

"Hey, Juno!"

It was Kansas.

"Hi," I said. "Just got off work. What's up?"

"Do you have dinner plans yet?"

"Nope."

"Come by, if you're not too tired. Cas and I have something to tell you." Ever since Kansas had become Mrs. Booker, she'd started calling Booker by his first name, Caspian, which she sometimes shortened down to Cas. He, of course, hated it.

"I'll be there in ten," I said, making a U-turn to head toward Downtown Fullerton. Booker and Kansas lived in a cute modest three-bedroom house off Raymond Avenue and Dorothy Lane, which was only a five-minute drive from the rustic old-town atmosphere of the downtown bars, restaurants, and shops. They were renting the house, but they were hoping to buy it from the owner soon.

I pulled into their driveway, parking behind Booker's black Camaro. Kansas's mint Mini Cooper was parked on the street right in front of the house. She'd probably planned for me to come over so she'd parked on the street before it filled up from neighbors coming home. Their cars were pretty new, looking freshly-waxed under the street lamps.

Booker was a chemical engineer and Kansas was a teacher so they were doing pretty good with money. I was lucky if I crossed into $20k a year. It made for a comfortable life, but I couldn't afford a lot of the luxuries that my friends could. They'd gone to universities, and I'd completed a program in a community college. I didn't regret my choice, though. I loved my job.

I'd barely shut my car door when the porch lights came on, nearly blinding me. The front door opened and standing there waving was Kansas.

"Hey, Juno! Hurry up, the roast is going cold!"

Once inside, I washed my hands in a bathroom and joined her and Booker at the dinner table. Their eight-month-old golden retriever puppy, Max, was begging by Booker's seat. I knew he wouldn't be able to resist. He kept sneaking Max pieces of roast beef when Kansas wasn't looking.

"So, what's the news?" I asked.

"Do you notice anything different about what's on this dining table?" Kansas asked excitedly.

I looked around. "Uh, new placemats?"

"The placemats are the same," Kansas said with a laugh. "Look at the glasses!"

"You got new wine glasses?" I asked.

"Jesus," Booker said under his breath, laughing.

"You're getting warmer. What's in the glasses?" Kansas said.

"Well, there's red wine in mine. There's red wine in Booker's. There's... is that water in yours?"

"Yup," Kansas said, grinning. She had a protective hand over her belly and just like that, it clicked.

"YOU'RE PREGNANT?" I screamed.

"Finally," Booker said, grinning.

"YES!" Kansas screamed back.

I hopped up from my chair and rushed to Kansas. She got up from her chair and we celebrated by dancing, jumping up and down and screaming and screaming and screaming. Max started barking, which was probably dog-speak for "shut the fuck up."

I hugged Kansas, still jumping up and down. "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!" I was still shouting. If only the hospital staff could see me now; they'd probably sedate me. But who gave a fuck? My best friend was pregnant! A baby!

A baby. Holy shit.

"Are you scared?" I asked.

"Terrified," Booker said immediately.

Kansas laughed nervously. "Kinda. I dunno. I'm mostly excited."

One of the things I was scared of was growing old. I didn't like it when kids called me "Miss" or "lady" and I was half-uncomfortable with the thought that people my age—only twenty-two—were having a baby. It aged us instantly. I couldn't pretend that we could cling to our youth. The same stars twinkled in the night sky, the same sun turned us in space, and all the dust of darkness and light had not yet settled—and through it all, despite it all, time moved forward for us humans. It was a linear thing for us, one chronological moment following another.

And here we were, getting old.

A baby.

Fuck.

—

Bad News and I kept dating, even a year after the Booker wedding. We were a good fit. Neither expected too much from the other, and we had set our boundaries early on. He wouldn't disturb me when I needed to be alone, and I wouldn't deny him when he wanted to fuck me senseless. Hell, it was mostly a win-win for me. On the off-chance that I'd be too tired to move, he'd let me lay there while he ate me out. Then he'd make love to me.

But the thing was, I still didn't love him.

Thankfully, he was okay with that. He didn't love me either. There was a girl he was still pining after, some chick who'd dumped him years ago. She was the reason he drank so much. My loneliness was my reason, but his was a lot more pathetic and I guess that made me feel a little better about being so fucked-up. I drank with him, a lot more than I should be drinking. My poor liver.

Poor, poor thing, I'd think as I took another sip of my Jägerbomb, cackling at the way Jamie was putting on a show of puffing up his chest like a rooster to hit on the bartender. He liked doing that, getting in their good graces so they'd be a little heavy-handed with our drinks. This time the bartender was a red-haired woman with a voluptuous body and ice-blue eyes; she was extremely pretty and had a sort of grunge quality about her. She'd introduced herself as Saoirse, like the actress Saoirse Ronan (who I was a little bit obsessed with, by the way), except she looked nothing like her and about the only thing they had in common was their first names.

"Another one, doll?" she asked when I'd downed my entire drink.

"Oh, fuck yeahhhh," I slurred. "I'd love anotherrr."

"Er, maybe not," she said, looking concerned.

"Oh, come on, don't cut me off this early. It's not even eleven yet."

Jamie piped in with, "Let her have another, sweetheart. I'm her ride."

"Yeah you are," I said, then snorted as I laughed.

"You should be just as wasted, if not more," Saoirse pointed out, raising an eyebrow. "You've easily drunk double what she has, and believe me, she's drunk a lot."

"Time to hop to another bar, babe," Jamie said, helping me to my feet. I teetered a little and Jamie steadied me.

"Show chiverous," I said, then frowned and shook my head. "Chilvarous?"

"Chivalrous," he corrected, an easy smile on his face.

"How'm I gonna ever thank you?"

"I can think of a way... or two... or maybe three."

I licked my lips. My memories from my nights with Jamie were always hazy, liquidy moments of cohesiveness mixed with confusion, a cocktail of good times and bad decisions that culminated in a tangle of sheets. The memories weren't always clear, and they weren't always correct, but the faint love bites speckling my breasts the next morning and the aching echo of fingertips digging into my hips were clear enough.

Jamie paid, left the waitress a nice tip, and then we bar-hopped until 2 AM. By the end of the night, we were both piss-ass drunk.

"Your ride, m'lady," he slurred as a cab pulled up.

"Ours, you mean?"

He shook his head, grinning as he mashed his face to mine.

"Think you might pass out before I'm done," he teased. "You can pay me back for my chivalry tomorrow."

I snorted with laughter as I fell into the backseat of the taxi. Jamie stuck his head in, kissed me one last time, then shut the door behind me.

"Address?" the cab driver asked, and though it took two or three tries, I managed to tell him.

Five minutes later, I got out of the cab, waved cheerfully at the driver as he drove away, and then turned around on the sidewalk. For a moment, I stared in confusion.

"This isn't my apartment," I whispered, staring in horror at a house. "Why did I come he-" I tripped over a tree root in the front yard and fell flat on my ass. "Shit!" I hissed.

A moment later, the porch light came on and the door opened, revealing a very tired-looking Booker in a white t-shirt and a pair of gray flannel pajama pants. He didn't look all that surprised to see me, like I was so fucked-up that he just expected this from me.

"June?" he said.

I was going to answer. I opened my mouth and everything. I looked at Booker, he looked at me, and then I sighed as I slumped over onto the plush, cool grass.

The next thing I knew, Booker was hovering over me. The air around his head was shimmering like ice beneath the moonlight. He was kneeling on the grass beside me, eyebrows furrowed.

"How drunk are you?" he asked.

"Go back inside," I muttered. "I'll be alright."

"I can't just leave you out here."

"I'm gonna call another taxi. I got mixed up. Don't know what I was saying. Actually, will you call them for me?" I asked, showing him my cell phone.

"Come on," Booker said, taking me by the elbow and helping me to my feet.

"Call my taxi."

"You don't need a damn taxi," Booker snapped. "Come inside. It's freezing out here. You can spend the night in the guest bedroom."

"I can't let Kansas see me like this," I said. She was six months pregnant. This would just stress her out.

Booker's face was unreadable. No, not unreadable. It was torn, reluctant, far too contemplative for someone who was just supposed to call me a cab and let me go home. What the hell was there to think about?

Deep inside, I knew the answer, but before it could bubble up, Booker spoke.

"How drunk are you?" he asked again.

"I'm fine," I spat.

"This has to stop," he said bluntly.

"You have to stop," I mocked.

"June, this..." He sighed, then shook his head. "Come on, I'll drive you home."

"You can't leave Kansas alone here," I protested half-heartedly.

He took my elbow, guiding me towards his car in the driveway.

"She'll be fine. She's sleeping and I have my phone."

"But-"

"June," he said tiredly. "Come on. I'm not in the mood for games."

"I'm not a game."

"I know you're not."

We were at his car by then. Apparently, only my words were protesting the decision. My body had followed his, toddling across the yard beside him like an obedient child. He led me to the passenger side, opened the door, and grabbed a blanket off the back seat. When he tried to wrap it around me, I batted at his arm.

"Don't," I said.

"You're freezing," he said. "You're always cold. Just take the damn blanket, June."

I glared at him. Stupid Booker being stupid right all the time. I was cold, and the blanket was soft. Sighing, I shrugged the blanket around my shoulders as he withdrew a sweater from the back and put it on. Grumbling unintelligibly, I got into his car. Booker got into the driver's seat and the car purred to life. I closed my eyes, listening to the sounds of the wind as he drove with the windows cracked just enough to let in some fresh air. I needed it and he probably knew it.

"Jamie still making you drink into oblivion?" Booker asked, his jaw hardened.

"No," I said defensively. "I did this to myself."

"But Jamie taught you because he's—"

"Bad news, I know."

"...an asshole," Booker finished.

I laughed, but Booker didn't seem to find it funny.

"When are you gonna grow up, June?" he asked, but it was not a callous question. He just sounded tired.

"Never. I'll never grow up."

"We're not kids anymore, June."

"Speak for yourself."

"We all have grown-up jobs, and we live grown-up lives. Hell, Kansas and I are having a baby. It's time for us to grow up."

"Who do you think you are?" I asked icily. "Lecturing me like you're my fucking father or something?"

"You think your dad would've wanted this life for you? Getting wasted and passing out on people's lawns at two in the morning?"

Tears sprung to my eyes. "You don't know a damn thing about—"

"Don't I?" Booker stared straight ahead, avoiding looking at me, concentrating on driving. I always forgot that Booker had lost his dad too.

"I-I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Booker said. "Just—Just get it together, okay? Kansas can't see you like this, and I'm already sick of seeing you like this."

"What are you talking about?"

"Damnit, June!" he said. "I'm not in the mood for games, I just told you that."

I stared out the window silently.

"How many fucking times have you passed out on our lawn?" he asked

"Once," I said, my voice cracking. "Tonight."

"Bullshit. You just black out and I drive you home, without fail, every single Saturday in the early hours."

I wiped away the tears in the corners of my eyes and looked out of the window, watching the world speed by. Every Saturday. Every fucking week. And he couldn't even do me the courtesy of pretending it was the first time.

"Aw hell, don't cry," Booker said gently. "I'll help you, June. We'll get through this."

"I don't think I can," I whispered. "I don't think I'm meant to."

"Why not? You have your entire life ahead of you. Why would you just throw it away?"

"Because I'm broken, Booker! I'm lost. And I'm... done. I'm over it. I give up," I said, wiping away more tears that were streaming down my face.

Moments later, he pulled over, and I realized we were parked in front of my apartment.

"I'm good from here," I said, sniffling.

"I'll walk you up," he said.

"I don't want you to."

"And I don't want you to get hurt."

Well, it was too fucking late for that.

At least this time he didn't hold onto my elbow as I trudged up to my apartment. He just made sure I got there, watching as it took three tries for me to get the key in the door. Before I twisted it open, he reached out and touched my arm.

"Hey, listen to me. You are stronger than this. You are the strongest fucking person I know. You've gotten this far. You've made it all these years. We'll get you help and everything will be okay."

"Are you saying I need professional help?" I let out a laugh.

"June, you know you do."

"I work in the damn field. I would know if I was crazy and I'm not. I'm fine, Booker."

"Who the fuck called you crazy? You're not crazy, you're depressed. You've been depressed for years."

"And you with your degree in chemical engineering would know all about that, wouldn't you?" I spat.

"June, just for once in your life, listen to me. You're a fucking treasure. I can't lose you. I refuse to."

"Booker—"

"No, June, listen to me," Booker said. "I can't see you destroy yourself like this."

"How is this any of your business?"

"Are you fucking joking? You're one of two women that I love more than anything in this cosmic universe. Watching you destroy yourself is destroying me."

There are cracks in every soul.

That's how the dark gets in.

The dim yellow light in the apartment hallway made Booker's skin glow, and his honeyed eyes stared back at me with so much love and adoration that it made my eyes water again. No one in the world was going to love me like Booker did.

No one.

I didn't think about it, didn't leave myself any time to talk myself out of it; I just did it because I wanted to—because in that moment, I wanted it more than I'd ever wanted anything in my life. I was old shoes over a powerline, a pothole on a busy street by an elementary school, a squatter in a house that wasn't mine. I was wrong, so fucking wrong.

But I didn't care. I didn't think. I just lurched forward and I kissed him.

Again.

Booker loved me, and he needed to know that it mattered. I kissed him, the rapturous feelings taking over every cell in my body. He was warmth, hot chocolate on a cold winter night, a band aid for when you skinned your knees, a man in a house that was his. He belonged here, lived right here in my heart.