“I didn’t, Becs.” I approach her with careful, heavy steps. Did you?”

She looks at me a beat, as if coming to terms with her actions. Then her head moves from side to side and she steps away from me. Her hands come up between us, shielding her from me. Tears fill her eyes, and a moment later she’s on the floor, her hands covering her head, her body rocking back and forth like she’d done in the past when a nightmare had taken her down to the depths of her hell. Only this isn’t a nightmare. It’s real. And it’s happening right now.

“Becca.” I rush to her but I don’t dare touch her. I know enough not to.

For minutes, she stays that way, her cries silent, and her thumb between her teeth. Finally, she looks up, her eyes void of any emotion. She looks through me, her hands raised, shaking as she signs, “She’s dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead—”

I cover her hands to stop her from repeating the word, and I use my chest to cover her face, cover her pain. Then I find the strength to pull away and I kiss her. I kiss her, I kiss her, I kiss her, until the trembling stops and she kisses me back, her hands desperate as they wander over me. We stand together, our lips locked and movements frantic as we strip out of our clothes and make our way to the bedroom where we both know that we need the physical pleasure to take away at least some of the torment. And with tear-soaked eyes, and broken hearts, we do what we can to protect our broken, shattered souls.

36

—Becca—

crazy

'kreɪzi/

informal

adjective

1. mad, especially as manifested in wild or aggressive behavior.

My grandmother loved summer storms. From the very little, yet random things I knew about her, that was one of them.

One night during the summer I stayed with her, she jerked me awake just so we could stand out in the rain and listen to the thunder and watch the lightning turn the world white. “Some people believe that storms are God’s way of showing us his anger,” she’d shouted. “But I don’t believe it. God can never truly be angry. It’s just his way of reminding us that we exist, not just in ourselves, but as an entire race. That’s why the heavens open, Becca. So we can celebrate life together.” She danced in the rain that night, her bare feet stomping, splashing water around her while her laughter outweighed the claps of thunder.

I’d stayed on the porch, protected by the roof, completely mesmerized by her movements, her words. Just her.

I never got the chance to dance in the rain with her.

Never got the chance to celebrate life.

But I am now.

I spin in circles, my feet splashing, my head tilted back letting the rain pour down on me. Thunder cracks, and I flinch. But then silent laughter bursts out of me and I widen my spins, my arms slicing through the air, through the heavy sheets of raindrops.

My therapist says I control who I am and who I want to be. My mother was crazy. So was my grandmother. But my mother was crazy in the evilest form, while my grandmother was a million different shades of it in all the best possible ways.

If I got to choose which brand of crazy I’d end up being, I’d choose to be like Grams.

“What the hell are you doing, Becca?” Josh shouts, standing just outside his apartment door. He’s wearing nothing but boxer briefs, exactly the way I’d left him in bed a couple of hours ago. He squints down at me through the darkness of the night. Another clap of thunder, followed by a flash of lightning. “Jesus Christ, you’re going to get yourself killed!”

I don’t know why he’s yelling at me. I’m just celebrating Grams’s life like she’d have wanted. I sign up at him, “Dance with me!”

He charges down his stairs, only slowing his steps when he’s a few feet away from me. He’s so beautiful, so graceful.

“Becca, it’s too dangerous to be out here,” he says, his voice laced with pity.

A gush of wind almost knocks me off my feet, but he holds me steady, saving me.

He’s always saving me.

Always taking care of me.

“I love you,” I sign.

“I love you, too, Becs. But we need to get inside.”

“Just dance with me,” I sign, pouting up at him. “One dance.”

He shakes his head.

I swing my camera behind my back, the strap spinning around my neck, and wrap my arms around his waist. Settling my hand on his chest, I let the wind control our movements. We sway together, awkward in our soaked embrace. But it’s perfect. Because it’s him and it’s me, and we’re dancing in the rain, doing what Grams would be doing. Until he grasps my shoulders and gently pushes me away. “I’m going to get sick, Becs. I can’t afford to get sick right now.”