Split by Swati Avasthi Read Free Book Online Page A

kneeling beside her, putting his head on her lap. She might stroke his hair and then, with her hands on his cheeks, lift his head and kiss him.
    Through the wall, I hear Mirriam moan.
    O-kay, if I stay in this closet any longer, I’m going to require therapy. That is, more therapy.
    Is that what a fight is like for normal couples? Is this what people are supposed to do to make up? I remember Lauren and I making up after our first and second breakups. It was probably as loud as our fights. We were so driven about it. In our hurry, our teeth clanged against each other, and I backed her against a wall. I pressed hard against her while her teeth drew blood from my shoulder. Come to think of it, I’m not sure we weren’t still fighting.
    I push myself off the wall, shove through the clothes and out of the closet. The pink shag brushes my feet as I walk to the living room.
    The apartment suddenly seems cramped. There’s nowhere to move. I try walking a loop from the couch to the desk to the kitchen and back again, but they are only about six steps apart.
    In Chicago, I knew everything. I could look at the sky and know how warmly to dress; I knew where every street led, and where every fight would end. I could look at my father and know when to keep my mouth shut, when to piss him off so I could take the hits for my mother, and when only his wife–punching bag would do. I understood when a fight was coming, how fast it was going, where it was going, everything. Fights have a rhythm; they do. I swear it. And they don’t end up like that. Not where I’m from.
    What am I doing here? I can’t even breathe right in this too-thin air.
    Should I drive nineteen hours straight back and apologize until he opens the door?
    My brain jumps to the night I left. My father said, If you come back, I’ll kill her .
    I look at the phone on Christian’s desk. Can’t go back, can’t go back . But I can talk to my mom. I can hear something I know, something I recognize. He never said I couldn’t call, and it’s not like he’s looking for me.
    I pick up the phone, turn it on, and dial my home number. Out the window, I stare at a swimming pool in the courtyard. I haven’t seen or heard anybody use it, even though it’s Sunday. Maybe it’s because of the green patches of growth on the bottom.
    Ring. Ring. Ring .
    Maybe she’s not home. I glance at my watch. 2:08 here, 3:08 in Chicago on a Sunday. Where is she?
    Ring , says the phone.
    Thu-dump , says my blood.
    Do I leave a message?
    Ring .
    It’s not like my father would call me back and invite me home.
    What could I say on the machine? “When, when, when?” That would do the trick if I wanted him to break her arm. Or worse.
    Ring. Click . “You’ve reached Judge Witherspoon and his family. Leave a message so one of us can get back to you,” comes my father’s mechanized voice.
    I hang up as I hear the beep.
    I go to Christian’s computer and wiggle the mouse. Before his homepage is even open, my fingers go on autopilot, calling up my e-mail. Where the hell is my mom?
    New Mail! it tells me. I click on it and find four e-mails. Two are junk. The other two: one from Edward, RE: Monday after school by the fields. The other from Lauren, RE: Shithead.
    Nice.
    Should I open Lauren’s and reply? I hesitate. That blister is still too sore. I don’t want to read it, don’t want to think about our fights, making up. None of it.
    Maybe I don’t have to. Look at how Christian did it. He never looked back. That’s what I need to do. Forget about Lauren, forget about Starbucks, forget the whole thing. If you leave a blister alone, it disappears eventually; its fluid gets reabsorbed, and no mark is left. I’m here now. That’s all that matters. Yes, a new life. Out with the old. I trash both the e-mails, hit Compose, and start writing to my mom.
I made it here okay. He looks good, different, older. Come see? When? Can’t keep tabs on you from here. Reply ASAP or I’ll drive back and