If We Had Known

by Elise Juska

  That night, Luke was in his room, the dogs asleep at his feet. Brent had left an hour earlier, headed to a party at Layton’s, and the house was silent, a silence so complete it almost hurt. When his father knocked, Luke jumped. “Yeah?”

  His father opened the door. Luke couldn’t remember the last time his father had stepped foot into his room. He stood just inside the doorway and for a minute said nothing, simply scanning the room like a searchlight, rubbing at his jaw. “What are you up to?” he asked finally.

  “Nothing.”

  “Did you eat?”

  “I wasn’t hungry.”

  His father just kept looking around, and Luke felt a small, hopeful movement in his chest. Then he said, “I hear you stopped showing up for work.”

  Luke had known, in theory, this conversation would be coming, but he hadn’t done anything to prepare for it, and now he had nothing to say.

  “Brent told me you quit,” his dad said, and Luke felt a flash of hatred for his brother. There were a thousand things Luke might have ratted him out about and never had. “Then I talked to Ray,” his father went on, “and he said he heard you stopped going. Which one is it?”

  “Stopped going.”

  His father frowned. “And you think that’s the right way to treat an employer?”

  “No,” he admitted.

  “Then what? You just don’t need a job all of a sudden?”

  “No. I just don’t need that job.”

  “Oh?” He raised his eyebrows. “You have a side career I don’t know about?”

  Luke shrugged. “I have some money saved.”

  “I guess you would,” his father said, with a chuckle. “Seeing as you live here rent-free.”

  “Actually,” Luke said, gathering his nerve. “I’m going to move soon. To Portland.” But just saying the words out loud made him go rigid, spine tightening like a row of screws—he wasn’t at all sure it was true, that he could do it even if he wanted to.

  “What are you going to do there?”

  “I’m figuring that out,” he said. “Matt’s there. He has an apartment. I can crash with him while I find something.”

  “And how are you getting there?”

  “I’m looking for a car.”

  His father didn’t forbid it, didn’t laugh. He looked like he didn’t believe it, which was worse. “You know I see used cars come through the shop, right?”

  Luke nodded, barely.

  “So if you were really serious about it, you’d let me know.”

  Luke didn’t reply. He felt chastised, the flimsiness of his plan exposed. But his father looked uncomfortable, hands sunk in his pockets, gaze roving around the room. “What do you do in here all the time, anyway?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Brent says you stay in here all day—”

  “Brent said?” Luke replied, with a sudden burst of indignation. “Did he ever think maybe that’s just so I don’t have to be around him and his asshole friends?” He met his father’s eyes. “You do know Brent’s a total fuckup, right? He’s a slacker. He’s a pothead. And he’s an asshole. And his friends are all assholes.”

  He was faintly trembling with anger. He could see, though, this had made a small impact on his father, the slash mark deepening between his eyes. Then his father seemed to reset himself by inches. His jaw loosened, nostrils expelled a stream of air. The groove between his eyes disappeared, like a dent banged smooth.

  “But at least he has friends,” his father said calmly, and Luke felt dread, like a thick oil, filling his limbs. His father had hit him only a few times in his life, and each time Luke felt that same slow-filling sense of fear, but he reminded himself that this was different. He was almost as big as his father now.

  “At least he leaves the house,” his father said. “At least he’s normal.” He paused then, mouth twisting. His words were hurtful but they didn’t sound angry; they sounded regretful, resigned. “This thing on the Internet you got caught up in—I don’t get it. I don’t get any of it. And I don’t know what you get up to in here, by yourself day after day, on the computer. But I know it isn’t good, Luke.”

  His father’s eyes held steady on his face, and Luke could see then that he wasn’t going to hit him. His father looked worried about him, which made Luke feel like he might cry. “That kid you went to school with,” he said. “That shooter. His mother didn’t have a clue what he was up to.” He paused. “I’m not saying— You’re a good kid. I know that. But from now on, I want you to stay off the computer.”

  Luke let out a short, high-pitched laugh. “How are you going to make me do that?”

  His father looked at him, then at the computer, as if sizing up a big fish he might try to catch.

  “It’s mine,” Luke said, panicky. “It belongs to me. You can’t just take it. And it wouldn’t matter anyway. I could get online on my phone—I could get online anywhere.”

  Luke saw something pass, unguarded, across his father’s face, like a ripple in still water—helplessness, or fear. “I just don’t want you turning into one of those kids,” he said.

  “What kids?”

  “You know what I mean,” his father said. “Those kids. Weird kids.”

  An hour later, Luke was driving. He hadn’t asked his dad if he could borrow the truck though no doubt he’d heard him leave. He’d probably be in trouble later. Or maybe his father would be glad that his son—a loner, weird, not normal—had finally left the house. Luke felt raw shame, and anger, but underneath those things, the fear that his father might be right.

  He rambled over the bridge, pointed toward the center of town. The road was dark, shadowy and tree-covered, and he narrowly missed a bunch of kids spilling along the shoulder. A few looked like they were wearing masks—costumes, he realized. Halloween. A night when other people, normal people, dressed up and went to parties. Sorry, he said out loud, though of course they didn’t hear.

  As he approached a red light, the truck swerved slightly. Luke pulled to a stop, wiped hard at his face. The light turned, but still he sat there, engine chugging. A block ahead was the town center: auto body, Dunkin’ Donuts, Hannaford—the sadness that rose into his throat was so thick he thought he’d choke. He turned left, toward Layton’s. It was only three blocks away, in a shitty row of apartments next to the fire station, a little grassy lot behind it surrounded by a metal fence. As Luke pulled in, he saw a bunch of cars parked haphazardly under some trees. He shut the engine off, facing the backs of the houses. At one of them, a few girls were smoking on the steps under a weak yellow porch light. A cowgirl, a cheerleader. Costumes—this was a fucking costume party. For a minute, Luke sat there, trapped. He didn’t want to wear a costume, didn’t have a costume, but he couldn’t be the guy without a costume because then he’d have to hear about it all night. He flicked the overhead light on and rummaged in the backseat. It was all hunting stuff from that afternoon. Balled-up tinfoil, thermos, shirt, vest, hat, guns. He threw on the camouflage shirt, the orange vest. They almost fit. They smelled like his dad. He pulled the hat down to his ears. Then he climbed out of the truck and stumbled toward the porch, the ground carpeted with dead blue-black leaves.

  “Luke?”

  It was one of the girls. The cowgirl. Limp blond pigtails, brown hat, bad skin. Heather, from Dunkin’ Donuts.

  “I didn’t recognize you,” she said.

  “Oh. Hey.”

  “I didn’t expect to see you here.” She sounded confused, though not particularly disappointed; there was a jump in her voice, like she was glad he’d come.

  “Yeah. Well, me neither.” Luke stepped up to the porch, maybe a little too close. He felt out of practice being in the world, around actual people, gauging where to sit and stand.

  “What happened to you?” Heather asked, and Luke felt alarmed—what had?—then refocused. She was asking him about work.

  “Oh, right,” he said. “I quit.” His head felt hot. “Can I have one of those?” he asked, reachin
g down to grab a can of beer from a bucket of melting ice.

  “You quit?” Heather asked, watching as he snapped the can open. She seemed to be studying him closely—did she not believe him? Had she heard a different version?

  “Basically,” he said, drinking fast.

  “Where are you working now?”

  “I’m not,” he said. “I’m moving. To Portland.” Every time he said this it felt a little more true.

  “Oh, really?” Heather replied, and this time he thought she did sound a little disappointed, but Luke felt encouraged that she believed he was really moving. The truth was, it wasn’t that big a deal. People moved all the time.

  “Hey,” the cheerleader spoke up. “I know you.” She had small, pinched eyes and a raspy voice, long purple nails. Luke had seen her before, waiting to pick up Heather when her shift ended, smoking out front or picking at a doughnut in the corner of the store.

  “Yeah, I’ve seen you at work, I think,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He chucked his empty can on the grass.

  “No, not that,” she said, eyes narrowed to dimes. “Weren’t you all over the Internet or something?”

  “Nope,” he said, and fished out another can.

  “Yes, you were, Luke,” Heather said, turning to her friend. “He was. He’s being modest.”

  “Yes,” the girl said, nodding slowly. “You wrote that thing on Facebook. I read it. I think we’re friends.” Which made Luke laugh out loud—the sound was like a pinball dislodged in his chest, a rolling, careening ache.

  “You knew that kid, didn’t you?” she continued, sucking air against her teeth. “That’s right. You did. You were friends with him or something.”

  “No!” Luke said, practically shouting. The cheerleader raised her eyebrows. “I wasn’t friends with him. I had one class with him. But I barely knew him. He was fucking crazy,” he added, and at this she smiled a little. Luke suddenly imagined kissing her, pressing her back into the side of the house and sticking his tongue down her throat.

  Then the back door swung open and Luke heard, “Hey! Is that my little brother?” He looked up to find Brent standing in the doorway. He sounded unusually friendly, but Luke realized this was because he was extremely stoned. He was smiling loosely, holding a giant Big Gulp cup of what appeared to be water. Layton was beside him. Neither of them was wearing a costume; apparently it was optional after all.

  Luke shrugged. “I just had to get out of the house.”

  “Since when?” Brent said, and Layton burst out in a laugh. “I’m kidding,” Brent said. “Here.” He chucked another beer toward Luke. It landed on the dirt, missing him. “Drink that. You need that more than anyone I’ve ever known.”

  “Be nice,” said the cheerleader, swatting Brent’s ankle.

  “What? He does,” Brent said. Luke concentrated on draining the beer in his hand. “I am being nice. He never leaves his room.”

  “Maybe that’s because he’s busy writing important things,” she said. “He was just telling me about his Facebook post.”

  No, Luke thought, he wasn’t.

  “I totally remember it,” she said, and Brent snorted, “Congratulations.”

  “It was really popular,” Heather added.

  “Yeah,” Brent said. “I’m aware.”

  Luke’s face, his whole body, was growing hot. He watched as the cheerleader pressed the tip of her purple nail into the toe of Brent’s shoe. “Did you ever write anything that anyone bothered reading?” she asked.

  “Nope,” Brent said. He sounded proud, but with an edge. “Can’t say that I have. That’s because I have a life.”

  Layton laughed again, a high-pitched laugh, and Heather flashed Luke a sorry look. Brent took a gulp of the water and spilled a little, came up crunching ice cubes, addressed the group. “You want to know what he does all day?” he announced, and Luke’s stomach twisted. “Sits in his room. Reading about sick shit on the Internet.”

  Luke shook his head quickly. “No I don’t,” he said. “That’s not true.”

  Layton was still laughing, just a stream of giggles, not connected to anything.

  “You read about that guy all the time,” Brent said. “The lunatic who shot up a mall.”

  “The one he went to school with,” said the cheerleader.

  “He was a psycho. He went hunting with a fucking semiauto—”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Luke said. He stared at his brother, jaw clenched, unable to look anywhere else. “And what, are you, like, spying on me or something? Are you reading my search history?”

  “See?” Brent cracked, triumphant. “What did I tell you.”

  “Why do you even give a shit? Why’d you have to rat me out to Dad?”

  His brother frowned. “About what?”

  “About work,” Luke said. He didn’t look at Heather or her friend; he didn’t care anymore. “You act like you have some great life or something and you just lie around. You’re a loser. You don’t actually do anything.”

  Brent looked at him in surprise, stopped crunching. He seemed to sober up a little. “You better shut the fuck up,” he said.

  Even Layton finally stopped laughing. “What’s your problem?”

  “I don’t know,” Luke said. “What’s yours?”

  “This is my house, you know,” Layton said. “You’re on my property.”

  “Property?” Luke laughed shrilly. It was a chain-link fence, surrounding the saddest yard in the world.

  “Hey,” Brent said, and his face was hardening. “You showed up here, remember? I didn’t invite you. Maybe you followed me here or something—I don’t know. I don’t know what you get up to. Maybe you’re a stalker now. Maybe all that time in your room made you a little nuts.” His brother’s frown deepened, eyes squinting as if into sudden sunlight. “And what the fuck are you wearing?”

  Luke glanced down at himself. “I thought it was a—”

  “Are you dressed like him or something?”

  For a minute, Luke thought he was talking about their father; then he realized he was talking about Nathan. Nathan Dugan. The possibility—even untrue, even accidental—was so horrifying it made Luke’s insides turn to liquid.

  “Oh God,” the cheerleader said. “Is he?”

  “It’s just a costume,” Luke fumbled. “I thought—”

  Brent breathed, “What the fuck.”

  “Shut up,” Luke said. His stomach was pulsing. “Shut up. Just do your dumb shit with your dumb friends.” Then he turned and started back to the truck. He wished he could melt into the ground. But he could hear Brent following, trampling through the sodden leaves.

  “So you’re a tough guy now, all of a sudden?” his brother said.

  Luke kept walking but Brent was gaining on him, breathing roughly. He had just opened the truck door when he was shoved hard on the shoulder and fell against the dashboard. “Get off,” he mumbled.

  “Dad said you were too scared to come hunting.”

  “I wasn’t scared,” Luke said, scrambling into the driver’s seat.

  But Brent reached in and grabbed the rifle from the back. “I bet you can’t even hit that tree,” he said, and stepped back, taking aim. It was a skinny birch, branches nearly bare. Still, the shot caused a rattle in the leaves.

  From the porch, Layton started laughing again. Luke shut the truck door, groping in his pocket for the keys. His palms were sweating, face prickling. Brent was turning in slow circles, looking for a target—the wretched apartments, barren field. “Hey, put it down,” Heather said, as Brent shot at another tree, a screeching flurry. Layton shouted: “Ten points!”

  Luke started the engine and turned on the high beams, flooding the yard, bleaching the sky. As the truck lurched forward, his brother aimed the gun at the windshield, laughing, and in a panic, Luke cut the wheel hard. He heard the scrape and crunch of metal as he sideswiped another parked car, and then his father’s truck was hurtling toward the tr
ees, and for a moment he felt light, weightless, he felt nothing, until he heard the shattering of glass, and the branch came crashing through the window and into the front seat.

  Twenty-Two

  When Anna stepped inside the house, the first thing she noticed was the smell of cleanser. Fake pine—it filled her nose as sharply as chlorine. Her head hurt on contact, a small flowering of pain in her temple. As she returned the car keys to the hook by the front door, she grew abruptly teary-eyed, from the smell or the appointment she’d just left or both.

  “How did it go?” her mother said.

  She was in the kitchen, standing in the middle of the room, dishes and dry goods piled on the counter. She appeared to be scrubbing the cabinets, something Anna could not recall ever having seen her do. This, though, was the new version of her mother, the one who wasn’t teaching. She was constantly at home. It was November, the heart of the fall semester, when she was usually dashing back and forth to campus, marking papers and meeting students, and now she was so available, so visible somehow—the rigid squares of her shoulders, twin blades jutting through the back of her shapeless sweater, constant worry on her face.

  “It was fine,” Anna clipped, and pulled out a chair at the kitchen table. Over the week and a half she’d been home, Anna had met with Theresa four times, and her mother had asked about each appointment, something she hadn’t done since Anna started going sophomore year. She’d always assumed this lack of inquiry was out of respect for her privacy, but also because, deep down, her mother didn’t really want to know. Now, though, Maggie was constantly watching her, questioning her, as if searching for symptoms. In the absence of students, all her mother’s attention was finally focused on her.

  That’s quite a reversal, Theresa had observed not an hour ago. You always described her as so distracted by her students. The night she took Alison Bower to get help, you’ve said how much it hurt that she didn’t notice the pain you—

  Yeah, Anna had said, cutting her off. And without them, she’s, like, aimless. She has nothing else to do.