Nothing Matters (Family Matters Book 1) (14 page)

"You know what you need?" Ben says, and he goes to the back of the garage.  The garage has so much junk stored in it that none of the cars can get in it.  In amongst an old bed, a computer desk, Michelle's play house and four bikes, Ben pulls out Dad's old punching bag.  He calls Dad to hang it up for us.  Dad finds the gloves and also his weight bench and dumbbells.  They're about twenty years old, but he's reminiscing as he dusts them down.  "I use to lift everyday before you two came along," he says.

I ask him to show me some moves, and he snaps, "They're not moves."  Then he demonstrates to me and Ben a bunch of exercises, which I copy, while Ben punches away on the bag.  It seems like Dad is enjoying it, giving direction, "Lift slower, keep your arms close, keep your legs wide, that's too heavy for you, and don't drop the fucking weights!" which has both me and Ben in hysterics - neither Mom or Dad swear, at least when us kids are around.  After awhile Dad goes back inside, and Ben goes back to his basketball, but I stay in the garage and do another set of all of Dad's exercises, and the next day my chest and arms are so sore that it hurts every time I move.

But it's a pain, a soreness that's tolerable, and I keep going back to Mom's words, "Think about the pain Magdala is going through."  And lifting weights becomes a sort of salvation for me. I google, read a lot of websites, copy programs down and start a notebook.  Dad finds an old copy of Arnold Schwarzenegger's body building book, which I come to regard as a bible, and before too long I start to see my strength improve and my muscles grow, and it's like an addiction, and damned better than the alcohol one.

There's a time when Mom thinks I'm overdoing it.  I go to the garage just about every night, put my music on speaker, and do my workout.  Some days I've lifted so heavy that I've felt like throwing up.  To me that's good, that's pain.  But Mom freaks out, screaming and yelling, "You're obsessed, take it easy, you'll injure yourself!"  And Dad chips in with "Leave him alone, at least he's not on drugs."

And then I start to read up on nutrition and supplements and I'm suddenly spending my money on protein powder and pre-workout drinks, and though it seems narcissistic my focus becomes my body, wanting to push it, punish it, make it suffer, wanting it to know what pain feels like.

MAGDALA

I went back to school after spring break, but some days only doing half days.  For no real reason.  Sometimes I just couldn't stand being around people, so I'd leave.  One time I'd been in the cafeteria, waiting in line with my tray, when the smell of hotdogs, of mustard, assaulted my senses.   I'd rushed to the bathroom, my stomach heaving.  I'd knelt in front of the toilet, trying to throw up, tears and dribble mingling, staring at a stained toilet bowl.  I felt pathetic.  I hated that he'd made me feel that way.  Hated that he could still affect me, hated that he was still exerting an invisible power over me. 

I had started playing the piano again, and that's what I was doing on the afternoon during the holidays when Dad came up to me and said, "Come.  You have visitors."

I stopped mid note, sensing it was a command, and followed him to the front door.  It was open, but there was no one there.  Dad indicated for me to step outside.  There, to my surprise, were Tom and Dane.  Tom was holding a bunch of flowers.  Dane was wearing a long black coat and had his hands in his pockets.  They both looked embarrassed.  I'm not sure if it was from seeing me, or just being there. 

Tom speaks.  "Hi," he says, and out of Nathan's friends, he is the one I have talked to the most.  But he can barely look me in the eye, and says, "Hey, we just wanted to bring you these flowers, and see if you're doing okay."

"Oh," I say, still trying to process the fact that they are here, and vaguely wondering whether Nathan is here, or has sent them.  "That's really nice," I say, "thanks.  Thank you."  He passes them to me quickly, like he doesn't want to hold them for a second longer.

"So are you doing okay?" Tom asks, his hands in his pockets, now he has gotten rid of the bouquet.

I nod, "I'm going back to school." 

"Cool," he says and shifts from one leg to the other, "Hey," he continues, "you know we were there with Nate the night it happened."  There's a silence, an uncomfortable silence, that needs to be filled.  And I don't want to think about that night, to think that Nathan, Tom and Dane were together, and I'm not sure why he's said it.  I want to ask how Nathan is, but I don't want to have to say his name, don't want to think about him.  Dane looks at me, from under his long fringe that hangs in his eyes, almost like he's hurting.  I look down at the flowers, and Tom says, "We better go," and just like that they turn and leave.

"Thanks," I say, and repeat myself.

"You're welcome," they both say, and suddenly Dad is behind me, and he says something to the boys, but I don't hear it.  I get a vase from the kitchen and take the flowers to my bedroom.  There is only one other bunch which is still alive, and it's in the lounge.  Nathan's bunch is long dead.  In my room, I open the card that has been stapled to the paper.  It has a bunny on the front and printed inside are the words, Hopping you get well soon!  It's signed, in each person's handwriting, by Tom, Dane, Jose, Luke, Stevie, Kara, who has drawn a heart, Amy, who has drawn a smiley face, Lizzy and Ryan.  I stand it on my bed stand, my eyes watering up.  I feel quite emotional, moved that Nathan's friends have done this.  I don't even know who Lizzy is.

I look in my top draw, where I have stored the other cards I received, and flick through them until I find the one from Nathan.  I remember it, the picture of a puppy on it, just a cheap 99 cent card, but so cute.  And I imagine him standing in the store, picking it out specially.  It was blank inside, but he'd written, in his scribbly, untidy handwriting,

Dear Magdala,

Get well soon,

Love you forever.

He had signed it Nate, but then had gone over the e with an h, a, n.  And added a double x.  I start to cry.  I miss him, and right now, I want him.  I want to feel his touch, his kisses, his body, but it's a place I can't go back to.  I'm damaged now, I can't go back.

Dad pops up to my room a little later.  I've stopped crying, I'm watching tv. 

"They're nice boys," Dad says, "they were at the hospital."

I raise my eyebrows.  Is that what Tom meant - that they had come with Nathan to the hospital that night?  Is that what he was trying to tell me, that they knew what had happened, that they'd gone through it all with Nathan.  I show Dad the card, and he reads it, nods and says, "That's a really nice thing."  I give Dad a hug, and he says, "You'll be all right, my princess, everything will be all right."  And I so want to believe him.

NATHAN

I drop Tom off after school and he invites me to hang out for awhile.  So I do, I have nothing else planned.  It looks like his Mom has just gotten home from work, she's in her nurse's uniform, and she pours us both a juice and puts some homemade brownies on a plate.  Then she leaves the kitchen.

We sit down at the kitchen bar and Tom looks slightly apprehensive, then says, "Dane and I went to see Magdala."  It throws me, big time. 

"Like when?" I demand to know, this unreasonable anger building in me.

"Last week, during break.  We took her some flowers, from the Team."  That's what we call ourselves, Team West.  I glare at him.

"Why didn't you fucking tell me?  Why wouldn't you fucking tell me?" I feel like he's been disloyal to me, gone behind my back.

"Nate," he says calmly.

"Why the fuck wouldn't you?" I say, pissed.  I rest my forehead in the palm of my hand, don't look at him.

"We just wanted her to know we were thinking about her," he defends.  "It was just a bunch of flowers."

I try to absorb this information, my best friends going to see Magdala without telling me, without wanting me to know.  I wonder what Dane's going to say about it.

"She said she's going back to school," he says, his voice brightening..  "And it sounded like she was playing the piano."

I raise my eyebrows, but he can't see that, though I'm thinking to myself that it sounds positive, that she's pulling herself through this.

"Did she ask about me?" I say, only finding the courage to look at him after I've said it. 

He shakes his head, and there's a sinking feeling in my chest and it's like if she didn't ask about me, then she doesn't care about me, that she's hating me, over me.  I try not to show his words have affected me.  I haven't tried to contact Magdala since the day my nose was broken.  Every fucking day I think about her, whether I should reach out to her, get her number off Cassian. But surely if she wanted to talk to me she would get my number from Cassian.  Surely she has a new phone by now.  Her old number just goes dead when you ring it, believe me I've tried countless times, hoping for some minor miracle that it might magically reconnect.

"Nate?" Tom says gently.

"I'm gonna go," I say, standing up.  I haven't even finished my drink or eaten a brownie. 

"I can't believe you'd see her without telling me."  Suddenly Tom's Mom is back in the room, now changed into a dress.  She puts her hand on my shoulder, maybe she's been standing there awhile.

"Nate," she says, "you have to give it time, love."  I turn and look at her.  "Rape doesn't take weeks to get over, it can take a long, long time."  I'm guessing because she's a nurse she knows these things, but it hardly gives me any comfort.  "Come on, stay awhile, have something to eat," she says, and her hand guides me back to the stool I'd been sitting on, but I don't sit down.  "Hopefully she'll get some counseling," she carries on, "because right now she's probably going through a lot of blame and guilt about what happened.  And it's only natural that she disconnects from everything.  She needs time to come to terms with everything that's happened."

It's all valid stuff and I should take notice of what Tom's Mom has said, but his going behind my back has me pissed, and again I say, "I gotta go."  And I lean past him and grab my keys off the bench.

"Hey, Nate?" There's a plea in his voice, that I shouldn't go.

"How long have we been friends Tom?" I say viciously, wanting him to know that he's let me down, wounded me.

"Nate, we just wanted to show her we were thinking of her," he explains.

"So why couldn't you fucking tell me?" I snap back.  I know I shouldn't swear in front of his mother, but I feel so angry, so betrayed.

"Nate, come on," his Mom says, "the boys were just trying to show their support."

But my heart rate has gone through the roof, and the anger, the irritation, the hopelessness is just rising up, consuming me.  I stare at Tom, my supposed best friend, and say, "I fucking hate my life," and I storm out the door, letting it slam behind me.  I can feel myself close to tears, and I race to my car and get out of there as quickly as I can.  I catch a glance of Tom standing by the gate, his hands behind his head in frustration.  I drive home, thankful no one is there yet.  I go into my room, lie on my bed, put my earphones in and turn up some music. 

But it's true.  Two months ago I was the happiest guy in the world, I had it all, everything.  And now nothing matters.  My life is completely fucked up.

MAGDALA

Cassian and Jakey are trying hard, I know they are.  They say they'll go surfing with me, tennis, swimming, shopping, whatever I want.  But I know Cash is busy now he's got a job and Jakey always has a hundred things happening.  Even Raff calls and wants to hang out and he helps me with homework.  So I make the effort and go surfing when they suggest it, even go to a music recital when my music teacher gives me a ticket.  But I feel like a burden, like a baby.  I want to snap out of it, but it doesn't seem to be that easy.

At school my friends were only told I was attacked, stabbed. I don't correct them, and I stay distant, aloof.  They can see the scar on my neck, which I learn to cover with a heavy concealer and make up.  I'd been drifting away from then ever since meeting Stacey, and now I'm even more remote.  It's good for me, I don't have to talk, explain.  I don't care if they think I'm weird or rude.  I have Jakey, I have Cassian and Raff.  I'm not a girlfriend girl, I don't know why.  Probably just the product of growing up with Dad and Cash, it was never Barbies, fairies or tea parties.  It was horses, tennis, surfing, Lego.  But it's no big deal, I don't want to analyze it.  I don't crave talks about boys, make up, fashion or celebrities.  I had tried all that when I dated Stacey Portman and hung out with his friends, thought that I'd become cool, part of the in crowd.  But  it had all been false, a facade, and the moment I'd been dumped, cheated on, my status had dropped like a lead balloon.  I talk music with my school friends, recitals, how difficult Beethoven is.  I'm happy to revert to my piano playing nerd role.  Superficial, that's me.  That's how I survive.  That's how I make it through each day.

NATHAN

Dane says he needs support - his brothers and him are all getting a tattoo, but he's a bit nervous about it, so Luke, Jose and I go with him.  He's getting it done on his side, the words, Brothers in Arms written upwards.  Dane can't decide which side it should be on, right or left.  He changes his mind like twenty times before choosing his right.  He closes his eyes as the tattooist starts, but it turns out to not hurt as much as he's expecting, but as he says, "It still fucking hurts."  I'm curious about the pain, and we get talking and we decide that we should all get a tattoo, something to unite us.  We're a pretty close pack, most of us have been friends since junior high, Tom, Dane and I since fourth grade.  Next time we are all together we try to decide on "Our brand" and eventually come up with a tribal band, thick lines that kind of look like barbed wire, and we add Team West and our initials.