by Laura Wiess
She doesn’t follow me.
I walk home by myself, past the deserted minimall and the dark woods, past cars whose headlights flare over me and either steer wide or, once, slow alongside. The middle-aged man driving rolls down his passenger window, leans across the seat and leers at my legs, saying a pretty girl like me shouldn’t be out walking all alone at night, and do I want a ride?
“No, but my father’s on duty so I’m going to get your plate number and report you for being a pervert,” I snap, stepping back and pulling my phone from my pocket like I’m going to take a picture of his car.
“Bitch,” he says, and speeds off, which is exactly what I was hoping he’d do.
I’m done with partying.
My father would be happy about that.
Chapter 36
July
Home is the loneliest place in the world, with the exception of my heart.
And yet it’s the only place I belong.
Chapter 37
August
Aunt Kelly sends us a huge basket of chocolate chip cookies and says she hopes they help.
I hope they do too, because the numbness is starting to wear off and the protective fog dissipating. What’s left of us is growing clearer and I really don’t like what I see.
Chapter 38
I wander out of the bagel shop empty-handed and in a daze, letting the door close behind me. Pause, squinting as my eyes get accustomed to the sunlight, as the shimmering heat burns the AC chill right off of my pale, indoor skin and fills each breath with the thick, mingled scents of onions, scorched grass and baking pavement.
I can’t believe Justin just asked for my phone number.
I start across the parking lot. Stop and shake a pebble from my sandal.
And I can’t believe I gave it to him. Five months ago he was just a guy who flirted and moved on; now he’s someone I smiled at and said could call me because . . .
I swipe the hair from my eyes.
Because it’s Sunday, the longest, emptiest day of my long, empty week, and every Sunday for the past month I’ve plodded down to the minimall, bought a dozen bagels for my mother, trying to cheer her up, and come home again, but this time, today, Justin was in there buying a bagel too, saying hi and smiling like his McDonald’s bail never happened, like running into me was a good thing, a normal thing, without any of that awkward, uncomfortable fake sympathy or trying to edge away as soon as he got the chance.
Smiling like I wasn’t Poor Rowan but just Rowan again.
And that casual pardon, that chance to forget everything, even if only for a little while, was enough for me to make a truly pathetic decision, a mistake so embarrassing that I can’t even stand being alone with myself right now.
And suddenly I want to talk to Nadia, am seized with the overwhelming urge to see her again and put everything behind us, to start my confession with the old, ever-familiar Oh my God, you’re not going to believe what just happened to me! and talk, laugh, hang out again just like we used to.
I pull my cell out of my shorts pocket.
One bar left but that should be enough. I can talk fast, spill it all before the phone goes dead . . .
No.
It’s been too long. I should do it in person.
I stick the phone back in my pocket and follow the sidewalk to the heart of town.
Pause, take a deep, steadying breath and turn onto Main Street.
I can do this.
I’ve walked this town my whole life, just not recently, so I make myself keep going, heart thundering, my gaze on the ground, moving as fast as I can without making it look like I’m running, trying to make it through without seeing the double takes as I pass, without hearing the murmurs that kick up and rustle behind me like brittle leaves swirling in the wind.
. . . that Rowan Areno?
. . . such a tragedy.
. . . the hell happened to them?
My sandal catches the edge of the sidewalk and I stumble. I right myself before I fall, face burning, and only the thought of seeing Nadia again after all of this time keeps me from turning and going straight home, the thought of showing up on her doorstep just like I used to, the resurrection of the long-lost me, of seeing the shock and excitement on her face and hearing her Oh my God, Rowan! shriek of happiness.
Of hanging out again with my best friend.
And hopefully her mother can drive me home afterward.
That keeps me moving.
But when I finally turn onto her street it looks different from the last time I was here. I don’t know if the trip through town rattled me and my perception is still skewed or if the pristine, white sidewalk really is tilted and endless, stretching on and on in an unnerving gauntlet of perfect suburban normalcy. Don’t know if I’m just hypersensitive or if the neighborhood really is disturbingly chaotic, with kids darting and shrieking and playing everywhere, if it really is as smug as it feels with all these happy, two-by-two parents standing out in their driveways socializing without a care in the world, if the houses really are as neat, the lawns as lush and tidy, the flowers so brilliant they don’t look real . . .
My footsteps slow to a stop.
I don’t belong here. I’m not that girl anymore, the one who ambles confidently down the street with her chin up and her shoulders back, sure of her place in the world and the welcome waiting for her at the end of the cul-de-sac.
I’m not sure of anything anymore, and it paralyzes me.
A car creeps by, and the old lady in the passenger seat gives me a curious look.
But I just can’t stand here forever.
I force myself to take a step, then another, passing house after house, feeling the weight of the neighbors’ startled gazes, hearing the animated chatter die and the wave of silence that billows in my wake.
It’s worse than I thought it would be.
I fasten my gaze on her mailbox, reach her walk. Pavers, set in an intricate box pattern. Nadia hates them because her stilettos get caught in the gaps.
I ring the bell, heart pounding.
The door opens and I step forward, knees shaking, and say, “Hey, guess what? I’m—”
But it isn’t her.
“Whoa,” her father says, eyes widening and falling back a step at the sight of me. “Uh, wow.” He’s wearing swim trunks and the blue print pool shirt that Nadia’s mom always says matches his eyes, and carrying a mug of coffee. “Uh, hey, Rowan.”
“Surprise,” I say, forcing a smile and pushing my sweaty, tangled hair back from my face. “Hi, Mr. Kovalcyzk. It’s been a while, huh?” I reach for the handle of the screen door, push the thumb button and start to pull it open but he fumbles for it and grabs it too, pulls it right out of my hand and shut again.
“Uh, sorry,” he says, flushing and grimacing down at the coffee splashed across the front of his shirt. “We uh, can’t let the cat out. Heh heh.”
“Oh.” I didn’t know they had a cat and so I wait, still expecting him to invite me in, but he doesn’t. “Is Nadia here?”
“I . . . uh . . . well . . .” He brushes at his shirt, his gaze flickers over me and suddenly I’m all too aware of my baggy shorts and tank, bought back when I was ten pounds heavier, my bedhead hair and my eyelids still puffy from months of crying. “You know, I uh, don’t actually know. If she’s here, I mean. Heh heh. You know Nadia, miss social butterfly, always running in and out with her friends . . .” His voice fades into a brief, uncomfortable silence. “Hey, let me go check for you.” He steps away, then sticks his head back around the door, his gaze focused somewhere past my ear. “And uh, nice seeing you again. Give our best to your mom.”
“I will,” I say, but he’s already disappeared back into the house.
Okay, so that was weird, even for him.
I wait on the porch, stomach quivering, trying not to think, listening for the happy shriek of surprise, the thunder of Nadia barreling down the stairs to greet me, but something’s wrong, it’s taking too long, and I’m ju
st about to try the door again when she appears at the screen, head cocked, chin high and arms folded across her chest.
“Hi,” I say faintly, thrown by her silence. “You look great.” And different. Distant. Glossy. Her skin is flawless, her nose smooth and unscarred, her makeup perfect. Her tan is deep, rich, and makes the new blond streaks in her hair look even lighter. She’s wearing tiny pink shorts and a white bandeau bikini top, a style she always said she hated. “You got a new bathing suit. It looks good.”
“What are you doing here?” she says, like she didn’t even hear me.
I blink, at a loss.
“You can’t just show up like this. I have stuff going on.” She meets my stricken gaze and grows instantly defensive. “No. Don’t even give me that look. I tried to help you, Row. You know I did. What was I supposed to do, just sit around all summer and wait until you decided you were ready to like, live again? Oh my God, it’s been three months. You’re the one who blew me off, remember? So don’t stand there acting like this is my fault.”
“No, I . . .” I don’t know what to say. “I’m sorry. That’s not what . . .” I wish she would open the door. “I didn’t do it on purpose.” My voice wobbles. “I couldn’t help it. You don’t understand—”
“You’re right, Row, I don’t understand, and you know what? It’s fine. I don’t want to. Here.” She thrusts open the door and shoves a plastic Macy’s bag at me. “That’s all your stuff. I don’t even remember what I left at your house but I don’t care. I don’t want it back. Just pitch it, or whatever.”
I stare at her, speechless.
She hesitates, glances over her shoulder and then back at me. “Just go, Row,” she says in a softer, pleading voice. “I’m serious. My mother thinks something really bad was going on in your house and she doesn’t want me anywhere near you guys. I’m not even supposed to be talking to you right now.” Her voice drops another notch. “She wanted to sue you for what you did to my nose, but me and my father talked her out of it and I had to swear to her that I wouldn’t . . .” She shakes her head and for a moment I see the old Nadia in her face. “I just didn’t want to do that to you. Your life sucks bad enough now as it is. So I’m not mad or anything, okay? I’m really not. You just did what you had to do, and so did I. I don’t hate you. Shit happens. People change. It’s okay. I’ve moved on.” She has one hand on the door and pity in her eyes. “You should, too.”
“I’m trying,” I say in a thick, rusty voice, but even as I say it I realize we’re talking about two completely different things. “I really am, and I thought maybe—”
“I have to go.” She steps back, won’t look at me again.
“—we could talk,” I say, knotting my hands together.
“I can’t. I have to go.” The door shuts softly but with a firm click of finality.
Chapter 39
Tears fill my eyes but I don’t wipe them away, will not give anyone the satisfaction of saying they saw me crying right out here in broad daylight.
I’m not numb enough for that anymore.
The neighbors automatically part for me now, and as I plod past a high, piping, little-kid voice says, “Is that lady hurt, Mommy?”
“Shh. No, honey.” Hushed and low, tinged with embarrassment. “She’s a friend of Nadia’s.”
Was, I want to say. She was a friend of Nadia’s.
“But she looks sad,” the kid says insistently.
“Yes, she probably is. Something sad happened. We’ll talk about it later. Now shh!”
Something sad happened. It sounds so simple and falls so far short of even beginning to explain that I almost laugh out loud, but I don’t, I can’t, because if I start I’m not going to be able to stop, and that’s the definition of hysteria.
I trudge back down Main Street, around an empty trash can lying in the middle of the sidewalk, right through the middle of a swarm of yellow jackets buzzing around the dirty red juice stain running down the side, and keep going.
Walk past the florist, the sub shop, the side street where the coffee shop is (don’t look, don’t think) and on toward the end of town.
Something sad happened.
. . . such a tragedy.
I will not cry here.
I pass the bank and feel like putting my foot through their shiny glass doors.
I’ve moved on. You should, too.
Should I? Should I, Nadia? Gee, why didn’t I think of that instead of spending the last ninety fucking days of my life in pure and total agony? Why, I’ll just do what you say and move on. Wow, who knew?
It’s so easy to talk when it isn’t happening to you.
And her mother sure as hell didn’t think there was anything bad going on in my house all those times she let Nadia eat or sleep over, do homework or spend half her life up in my room talking, laughing, sharing clothes and makeup, dreams and secrets . . .
Only now.
There’s an empty Frosty cup rolling in the gutter. I step off and give it a savage kick. It lands in the road and a car flattens it.
Good.
I pass the senior citizen center, hesitate, and take the shortcut across the police department’s pristine front lawn, through the long, sharp shadow cast by the late-afternoon sun, around the marigold bed and the flagpole, the snap hooks on the flag clanging against the metal pole in the quiet. Catch a choking whiff of fresh, hot blacktop hanging heavy on the breeze and, glancing around the side of headquarters, see the unused patrol cars parked up on the grass along the driveway, the orange cones guarding the empty, newly paved parking lot, the old potholes, stains and painted lines buried beneath the smooth, flat, glistening new expanse.
They’ve moved on.
Paved right over the past, like it never even happened.
I walk faster, heart pounding. Pass the last house in town and then the little park, the minimall with the bagel store that closed at noon and the dry cleaner’s I haven’t been back to yet, and finally reach Victory Lane.
I’ve moved on. You should, too.
I hate that phrase, hate it more than any other, but . . . at least she told me.
I have to give her that.
At least she didn’t look right into my eyes and lie, making me think there was still a reason to hope. It’s better to just say it, to get it over with no matter how much it hurts.
I trudge past the woods.
I’ve moved on. You should, too.
Brutal but honest. It lets you know where you stand instead of leaving you all naïve and happy, and holding on to a dream that will never come true.
Shit happens. People change.
Yes they do, and not always for the better.
Chapter 40
Our lawn needs mowing.
I go up the driveway past my mother’s car, and then, parked half on the grass near the side of the house under the apple tree, my father’s. The Chevy Blazer, once an immaculate, shiny black, is now dusted with a layer of grainy, greenish-yellow pollen. Three months’ worth of bird crap has dried on the windshield from the robins nesting on the branch above and the tires have gone soft, sunk in the cushiony clover springing up all around them.
The sight of it still surprises me sometimes, usually when I’m lost in thought and come around the corner. I catch sight of it and for one breathless, heart-stopping moment I forget he’s dead and think he’s home, and all I have to do is tear into the porch and yell, “Dad?” and he’ll be there, sitting at the kitchen table, drinking his coffee and talking with my mother just like he used to.
I drop the Macy’s bag, pause at the driver’s window, close my burning eyes and rest my forehead against the glass. It’s warm from the slant of the late-afternoon sun. My prayer is the same simple Please, God I’ve said a thousand times before, leaning against the driver’s door and pleading, apologizing, praying, because this was the last place on earth my father was alive, the last place he ever drew a breath, and if his spirit or his soul or his love is lingering anywhere, I figure it would be her
e.
I’ve haven’t climbed into the Blazer though.
His car keys are still hanging on the hook in the kitchen but I’ve never taken them, unlocked the door and gotten in.
I’m afraid to.
Even though it’s spotless now, scrubbed and rinsed, I’m still afraid that if I do get in, instead of finding comfort I’ll end up freaked by the sight of a faint, lingering bloodstain or stray bone fragment, nauseated by a hint of that thick, metallic smell. I’m afraid that the dent in the door frame behind the driver’s seat, the place where the bullet struck after it passed through him, will not just be proof of his end but will somehow push me even farther away, horrified and sickened, and I couldn’t bear if that happened.
So here it sits, and here I stand.
Death knows exactly how to break your heart, over and over again.
I gaze at my reflection in the smudged and dusty glass.
Dark, wet eyes; long, tangled brown hair. Nose red, runny.
What a mess.
I heave a shaky sigh and step back. One of the robins swoops past and its fledglings cheep like crazy in the branches above me. I don’t want to go inside yet and tell my mother I got distracted and didn’t bring the bagels, which was something my father used to do for her every Sunday brunch when he wasn’t on duty, so I wander across the side lawn bordering the highway below and plop down on the bench under the enormous old copper beech tree. Glance back at the house and then out at the overpass.
No cars, no joggers, nothing.
Good.
I pull out the cigarette I stole from my mother, smooth the wrinkles and light it.
Exhale a stream of smoke and stare at the overpass.
I flick my ashes and take another drag. The smoke curls up and burns my nose, brings tears to my eyes.
What a stupid day.
You’re right, Row, I don’t understand, and you know what? It’s fine. I don’t want to.
She never did, either. Lucky her.
I’m stuck in the middle of it and I still don’t understand it, hate the endless speculation, the fact that I’ll never know anything again for sure. Hate the random memories that come back to me bit by bit, as if shock has given me some kind of temporary amnesia, making me forget, letting me remember.
