Buzzing alarm clock. Bright red numbers. Because there’s always Work. Even the day after Christmas. Even the day after you’ve abandoned your sister in a cold, white hospital. Even when you know that--right now--she’s in hell and there’s nothing you can do about it. So after Brian clicked the button that made the buzzing go away, and after he rubbed his eyes against the dim morning sun, he did the only thing he could do to make everything else go away.

   He fucked me.

   Rough and noisy and sweaty and desperate. His eyes were open and he was looking at me, but he wasn’t really seeing me. Wasn’t really seeing anything. Fucking, not making love--even though I knew he loved me. A distraction. Something soft and wet and hot that feels good, feels so good, feels so fucking good. Fucking just to drown it out, wash it all away. All the words in all the voices that had never let him just live; guilt and burden and exhaustion that had been crushing him forever. And even though I understood, even though it was alright--because I’d been there before myself--I knew that it wasn’t really alright. Not for him.

   Because I’d been there before myself.

   He wasn’t alright after he was done and he wouldn’t be all day long. Because he’d swing his hammer and listen to its pounding, listen carefully to each strike against the wood, every thump-bang-knock-tap-smack. Then the power tools, because that was even better. Saws and drills and compressors, whining and hissing and whirring, and that was loud, too, but not loud enough. Because none of it would drown out the voices or wash away the burden.

   And after he was done working he pulled his truck into the driveway and burst through the front door. He looked at me without really seeing me, and his eyes were shrieking. I knew before I even saw them what he wanted, what he needed, but I couldn’t help him. Because Cassidy was there. She’d been there all day because it was Christmas vacation. And when he saw her sitting at the table, eating the second to the last of the Christmas tree cookies that Rachel and I had frosted only a few days earlier, he stumbled. Because he’d forgotten it was Tuesday.

   He made a recovery of sorts, the kind where you slip on a mask and smile, and he sat down beside her. Ate the last cookie. And I knew it was one that Rachel had frosted because it was red. Laura knocked on the door a little while later and when I let her in she asked about Rachel. Brian made a brief reply and stayed in the house while I walked Laura and Cassidy to their car. She asked if she should send Jeff over and I said, wait till tomorrow. Because today Brian needed something different. So I watched them drive away then I walked back into the house and gave him the Something that he needed.

   He fucked me again, right in the kitchen, right against the counter; the same place he’d threatened to do it our first night. His mouth tasted like sugar and he smelled like sweat and dirt and sawdust. And right before he came, which was right after I did, I felt his tears on my cheek. Then I cleaned myself up and drove into town. Because there’s always Work. Even when it’s the day after Christmas. Even when your boyfriend--even when the man you love--is being crushed under the weight of lives and responsibilities and problems that aren’t his. Even when you know that--right now--he’s in hell and there’s nothing you can do about it.

   And so I went to work. Bleach and brushes and dust rags and other chemicals that burned, always burned, my nose and eyes. Then the vacuum. The noise that used to drown out all the words in all the voices inside my head. But now it added another voice instead. Two of them and they were both shrieking. So I looked at the carpet, at the dirt that disappeared and at the lovely lined pattern that took its place. And still there were the voices. And the ticking clock. The clock that said:

   And that meant that it had been twenty-two hours and forty-seven minutes since Rachel had last swallowed the Something that made all the words in all the voices inside her head go away. And--right now--she was in hell. Because the voices were back, along with the shaking and aching and nausea and soon it would get even worse. And I wondered, not for the first time, if Wendy really was looking down on her. On Brian. On me. If her heart was shrieking, too. If she hated me for leaving her daughter alone. For letting my eyes get filled with sand.

   Then there was home. The front door. And I wasn’t sure what to expect when I opened it. Because he’d been alone, listening to the ticking clock; the sound that’s hard enough to bear when there are hammers and saws and flushing toilets and vacuums on top of it. But when all you can hear is the ticking...that’s when it’s just too fucking much.

   He was pacing around the kitchen, like a wild thing caged. When he heard the door shut behind me, he stopped his pacing and looked into my eyes. His were wide opened and wild, flashing with anger and sadness and pain. I took a deep breath and held it. Waited, shivering, to see what the words were going to sound like.

   “She stole your ring.”

   I let out the breath with: “I know.”

   “No. You don’t.”

   And that’s when I did. Even though I’d already known.

   Rings. Plural. Because he’d had that piece of jewelry, the one that was really a question. But before he could ask it there was another one he had to ask; a question about saving and building and The Future. Our future. And when he had asked it I’d said yes. But I’d hesitated.

   He kicked the wall. Kicked it again. Kicked it until his foot went right through. He yanked it out, left behind a huge, gaping hole, and when he did he fell back against the table. His empty supper plate fell onto the floor and broke into three pieces. He looked at them, at the pieces of blue and white plate, for just a moment before he exploded again.

   “God damn it! God damn it all to fucking hell!”

   He stepped on them, hard, crushed the three pieces with the heel of his boot until they were in dozens. Of pieces. Just like he was. Then he kicked aside some of the plate rubble and looked at me with deep, hurt eyes.

   “It was my mom’s ring, Tess. It was her grandmother’s, Memé Rose. And it belonged to her mother first. She gave it to my mom because my grandparents were fucking assholes and they kicked her out when she got knocked up. Because my father was such a goddamn loser that he couldn’t afford to buy her one.”

   Not a loser. A broke teenaged boy who’d gotten his girlfriend pregnant. A boy with no one to turn to because his family was too busy worshipping at the altar of Jack Daniels to have the time or the money--or the inclination--to help him out.

   “It’s not like it was a huge diamond or anything. Probably not as good as the one Saint Jason got for you--”

   “Brian, please. Let’s not go there…”

   “--but it was a nice enough ring. It was pretty. It was silver and it had this...it had a...” He struggled to think of the words to describe whatever it was. “I don’t know. Some sort of scroll or something. I don’t know what the fuck it’s called.”

   I knew what it was called. I cleared my throat. “Filigree?”

   He took a step back. Blinked. “Yeah. I think so. Maybe.”

   I could almost see it, or at least I had a general idea. Quick backwards math. Memé Rose’s mother; Brian’s great, great grandmother’s ring. That would have been in the early 1900’s, probably. I knew a little bit about that era because of Jason. He had always loved going to the antique shops on the coast, even though we rarely bought anything; certainly never any jewelry. But I’d seen enough of it to know that Brian’s ring was probably platinum, not silver. And he had no idea what he’d had in his possession. Depending on how intricate the filigree, how big the diamond--depending on a lot of things--that ‘nice enough ring’ was probably worth a couple thousand dollars at least. And it didn’t matter. The money wasn’t the point. Neither was the diamond or the platinum or the filigree, although it was probably a beautiful ring. Probably the most beautiful ring in the world.

   It was the History. Family. Memé Rose. She had loved her granddaughter and wanted her to have something that was beautiful. Even though she was a teenager and pregnant. Even though the boy she was marrying was broke and came from a bad family. Maybe that’s why she’d given it to Wendy. Because she was beautiful and wild and deserved so much more than what life was about to give her. At least she could have that one lovely, rare, expensive thing...

   And Rachel’s pawn shop guy must have known how much the ring was worth, knew exactly what it was he’d had in front of him. How much had he given her for it? The druggie loser girl who was back with her second stolen ring in as many days. Shaking. Desperate. He’d given her fifty for mine, so he may have gone as high as a hundred. But probably not. And it was long gone by now. Sold to an out of state antique dealer. Or maybe it was up for bid on Ebay. And soon someone else would be wearing it. Instead of me.

   But Brian had already moved on, back to Rachel, which is where my mind needed to be. And he was still pissed, pacing and ranting all over the kitchen. She didn’t have to steal it. He’d asked her if she wanted it. Asked her. Because it was her family, too, and she should have it if she wanted it. But she’d said, No, what would I do with the fucking thing? Then, less than a week later she’d looked where she knew he must have hidden it, the only place in the world that was safe from my eyes and my ever-present dust rag. In the food cupboard, behind the Chef Boyardee. She’d stolen it. And sold it. For a couple days of haze.

   He wanted to call the cops. Call them about his mom’s ring--the one he’d called mine only a few minutes earlier--and about the other one, too. Because that’s what Rachel really needed. Consequences. If she didn’t learn some time then she’d end up a fuck up for real, just like their father. Maybe, he said, she already was and he’d just been fooling himself. Because she’d acted just like Rick already, and even worse. Stealing and lying. Fucking lies. Every word from her fucking mouth. Ungrateful and selfish. She had no idea of what he’d done for her, didn’t give a shit about what he’d given up. Family and love and Sticking Together. Those things had meant something to her, once. What had happened to that girl? Where the fuck had she gone?

   And then he remembered. He picked up a chair and hurled it at the wall. The two front legs busted off and it landed on the floor in a heap. But it wasn’t enough. He picked up his glass and just before he hurled it to the floor I noticed the white ring of milk clinging to the bottom. It shattered as it hit, but neither of us flinched. And he stood there for a long time, surveying the destruction. First the chair, then the pieces of broken glass and broken plate. They mingled together in a spiky, warped mosaic on the linoleum. He swore again and kicked it out of his way. Most of it went under the stove. Then he grabbed his coat and his keys.

   “I’m gonna kill that fucking bastard.”

   “No! Brian...stop…”

   But I knew it was a futile mission. I followed him out to the truck anyway, pleading and begging and pulling at his sleeve. For a brief moment I debated whether or not I should stand in front of the truck and try to block his way out. But even in that moment I knew.

   It wouldn’t stop him.

   I ran back into the house, even before he was out of the driveway, and grabbed the phone. Dialed the number of the only person in the world who might be able to stop him from killing Tim. And when I hung up the phone I knew it would be alright. Jeff could do it. He’d either talk some sense into Brian or he’d beat him senseless. But either way it was going to be alright.

   And while I waited I swept the floor. The glass made a clink-crash-smash sound as it slid across the floor that almost--if I concentrated on it hard enough--sounded like bells. And when I moved the stove away from the wall it made a louder sound, almost like a car horn. Then more bells, because of the glass underneath the stove, and more honking as I shoved the stove back against the wall. As I dumped the glass into the trash can it still sounded, in my mind, like bells...

   I knew I should clean, because it’s what I did. What I did best. But there was nothing, really, to clean. Not downstairs. So I went upstairs to the apartment that wasn’t mine anymore, because I knew that there’d be something to clean up there. Something. And when Rachel got home, once she was better--which wouldn’t be too long a time, after all--then she’d want a clean apartment.

   Up the stairs, fourteen of them. I counted them all out loud because the sound of my voice helped to block out the sound of hers in my mind.

   And I had believed her.

   I did. I knew. I just didn’t want to know.

   I started in the bathroom. Toilet-shower-sink. But before I mopped the floor I checked the medicine cabinet. There was nothing in there. And after I mopped I checked the kitchen cupboards. I made the bed, then checked the nightstand drawer and the dresser. I finally found something in the underwear drawer, but it wasn’t what I thought I’d find. It was a wire-bound notebook, a journal. A pretty pink cover with tiny white flowers…

   But now I needed to listen, to hear Rachel’s voice. The real Rachel. Not the girl who stole and lied to keep the demons away, but the one who had lived behind all that. Hiding. Scared. Alone. And I found her in the words she’d written.

   Some of it was just mundane, daily routine. Observations on life and people. Customers who’d been rude and guys who were cute. But most of it was deeper; almost like poetry. Lovely and heartbreaking words. Donny was there and I discovered she’d really liked him after all.

   A few days later she fucked him. And then she let him go. Even though he was nice and good in bed and even though she thought she could fall in love with him...

   Her father was there, too.

   And, of course, Brian. She’d written about him a lot. And he was wrong, because she knew too well what he’d given up for her. Education and money, girls and fun. Freedom. Careless youth. Having a life, a real one. And it was more than she could bear.

   After she started up with Tim most of the words didn’t make any sense, because she’d written them in the haze. Not words about beauty and rainbows and stars. They were dark and menacing. Vermin and rodents that lived in the walls, just waiting to bite. Branches that came to life after the sun went down. They scratched and scraped on windows and doors, trying to get inside the house, the house that was locked up tight and wouldn’t let her out. The house where she’d been left to suffocate and die. All alone.

   And then there were passages she’d written after she’d moved into my apartment. It was a history of her summer with Tim. Drugs and sex. Violence and humiliation. Lucid confession. A message. To me? Brian? God? Whatever the case, it was painful to read.

   When Tim was with her she got it for free…at first. Until she was hooked. And then he made her beg for it, beg him please, please, Daddy, please, and that was good enough for a little while. Then the pain started. But always, after the pain, was the haze and that meant the pain didn’t matter. It didn’t exist. And when that got old he made her take it in the ass because he knew she hated that. But even that wasn’t enough and it got worse, so bad I had to skip three full pages. And then, two times, he’d whored her out. The first time to some guy she didn’t know, to pay off a bet. The second time was one of his buddies. He made her fuck him just so he could watch. Just to get his kicks. And she did. Because if she didn’t it meant there was no more haze.

   And then came the kid who died of an overdose. The funeral had brought her a glimpse into the future, and that brought the Great Debate to her door: Die in the haze or live in the cold, scary world? And before she’d even made her decision Brian and Jeff made it for her, the day they gave Tim a taste of violence and humiliation. Then he’d taken it out on her. I skipped over that part, too, because I could still hear the way that story sounded in her voice.

   And that’s when she wanted Change. Wanted it badly, and she tried to stop. But she couldn’t. She used her rent money and food money and bill money. Everything she could scrounge up. Stole from the tip jar, other people’s tips, then the cash register. Little bits, here and there, covered over with cash out receipts. But it was just a matter of time, she knew, before Zeke figured it out.

   And then the day she discovered she was pregnant. By the time she noticed she’d missed her period she was already nine weeks along. And no money. She’d tried to save, but she needed it for the haze. And if Zeke hadn’t found her, if he hadn’t called me, if I hadn’t taken her to Portland, taken her into our home…

   I probably would have just killed myself. Maybe I should have anyway…

   And that’s when I knew what the journal was for after all. Because that’s where she’d scribbled a note to herself:

   It was the last thing she’d written. And then she’d hidden it away in her underwear drawer. And sometime later--maybe even the next day--she’d gone out. And she fucking did it again.

   That was her summer. For Brian and me it had been the birth of everything beautiful. Love and joy and sex and fun. For her it was months and months that were worse than hell. And she’d gone back for more anyway.

   I should have known. She was right upstairs, right here. Right above me while she was suffering. She was angry, too, so it was easy for me to keep my distance. But I should have known. Even if she’d used my words to comfort herself during that time of withdrawal it wasn’t enough. She should have heard those words in my voice, for real, every day. Ten times a day, a hundred. Every time I saw her. Or maybe if I’d told her about the soil, told her the same thing I’d told Cassidy...maybe then she’d be alright. Maybe she would have opened up. Let me have a glimpse of all of these powerful and vulnerable feelings that had been inside her, underneath the tough, angry, irreverent mask. Underneath the hard ground.

   And that’s when I began to pray, for the first time since the night I’d screamed at Him in the woods. And even as I did I knew God wouldn’t hear. Because this is what it sounded like when I prayed:

   I knew the moment my prayer was finished that it hadn’t been answered. Because that’s when I heard it. Brian’s truck. I looked out the window. Jeff’s car was right behind it. I tossed the journal underneath the couch, ran down the stairs without counting them, and met Brian and Jeff on the porch. They were both bruised and bloody but it was obvious that Jeff had won. Because Brian looked worse. And because he was home.

   Brian gave me a quick kiss and said, “I gotta take a shower.” Then he turned back towards Jeff. “See you tomorrow.”

   Jeff only nodded. He waited for the front door to close behind Brian before he said, “He’s gonna get drunk tonight.”

   “I know.” Because sometimes you really do need the haze. “Are you okay?”

   He grinned and touched a deep cut on his forehead. “Oh yeah. This is nothing.”

   “You should clean up before you go home. You’ll scare the shit out of Laura and Cass.”

   He washed his cuts in the kitchen sink--the same sink that Brian had used just a few months earlier to wash his father’s blood off his hands. Then I gave him a quick, tired hug and thanked him for kicking Brian’s ass. And after I watched his tail lights fade away I looked at the clock. Again. Because I still heard the ticking.

   Twenty-five hours and twenty-four minutes. And Rachel was still in hell. So was Brian. And when he was done with his shower he opened his liquor cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Jim Beam. We drank it together in bed, because it was much too cold to sit on the lawn outside. And there were no stars out anyway. I let him drink most of it and before he got too drunk I told him I was sorry I’d hesitated when he’d asked about building our future. Told him I loved him, more than anything. He said it was alright. And that he knew I loved him.

   And as he got drunker he talked about Rachel. She’d always been angry and sad, ever since he could remember. He should have done more, he said, to help her. Should have told her he loved her because he didn’t think he had ever said it. So I told him that next week, next Tuesday, he could say it. Because that would be the first day we could go see her. Our first visiting day. And he said I was right. And that he loved me.

   “You’re so smart,” he said. “You’re wicked fucking smart.”

   Except that he really said smucking fart. And so we laughed, like drunk people laugh. Laughed for a long, long time. Just like it was the last time.