A View From Forever (Thompson Sisters Book 3)

by Charles Sheehan-Miles

  I switch the computer on and wait for it to boot up while he gathers up his things and steps out of the room. I don’t know why, but I’ve got this anxious feeling coming on, a tight feeling in my chest. It’s been a week since I messaged Scott looking for her. I’ve only been online once since then, and he hadn’t responded then.

  But tonight, the Inbox link has a number 2 beside it. I’ve got two messages. I click on the link.

  The first message is from Alex. The second from Scott.

  I take a deep breath. I start to click on Scott’s message—but then stop at the last second and click on Alex’s instead.

  It says,

  I had a great time at the beach tonight. I know we only have a few weeks, but I’m so happy we get to spend that time together. I know you don’t think so, Dylan, but you’re really a great guy. You’re kind and sweet and considerate. You treat me better than any boy I’ve ever dated. I wish I could introduce you to my sisters! I know they would love you.

  I haven’t been able to say it, but I’m dreading going home. When I think of my life at home, compared to now, it all seems colorless and sad.

  Thank you for being my friend,

  xo xo xo

  Alex

  I close my eyes, letting her words sink in, thinking of kissing her tonight on the beach, thinking of the fullness of her lips, the curve of her waist. She wrote xo xo xo. That’s… significant? I love her. I haven’t told her yet, but I love her.

  I sigh and open my eyes. Then I click into Scott’s message.

  Dylan, dude. Sorry, man. Spot’s dead.

  As soon as I read the words, I gasp and my eyes water. She’s dead? How? When? It’s been almost a year since I last saw her, a year since I saved myself and left her behind. A year since she disappeared. What happened? Why didn’t Scott give me any details?

  Grief and rage I’ve never experienced in my life flood through me. She was dead because her parents kicked her out, because they couldn’t accept her for who she was. Instead of loving their daughter, they’d pushed her out into a world that did horrible things to young women on their own.

  A wave of images of my friend. Spot laughing, a deep laugh that seemed to start near her toes, rocking her body as she leaned back, eyes wide. Spot on her first day at her attempt at a job, wearing a silly uniform with a bow tie and serving ice cream. She got fired because they changed her schedule and there was no number to call her, and she didn’t know the schedule had changed. She cried that night—Spot had wanted off the streets, and thought the job might get her there.

  I had known better, even then. No minimum wage job was going to be enough to pay for a place to live.

  I had been so afraid. Afraid, because she was a young, pretty girl. Whether or not she was a lesbian wouldn’t turn off a rapist or a pimp. I’d looked at her as a little sister, and would have done anything to protect her.

  Anything but stay on the streets myself. I’d chosen to go back to school, to move back home, and she disappeared before I could do anything to help her.

  I close my eyes and wrestle my face into something resembling calm. I don’t want to have to answer questions. I don’t want to have to tell Yossi about Spot. I turn off the computer. I climb to the upper bunk, still in my clothes, and roll over, turning my back to the room. When Yossi comes back in, I pretend I’m asleep.

  But I don’t sleep. Instead, I remember Spot the last time I saw her. It wasn’t fair. She’d done nothing wrong. She didn’t deserve to be pushed out on her own. She didn’t deserve to be alone.

  At that moment, I make a promise to myself. A promise that I’ll never let someone helpless go unprotected. I’ve always wanted to be a writer, but in that moment I feel the urge to change directions. To become … a cop, or a firefighter, a social worker, even a soldier. Somebody who protects and helps others.

  I can’t believe she’s dead.

  Hours pass before I fall asleep.

  Chapter Eleven

  In’shallah (Alex)

  When we gather outside the high school this morning, Dylan is standing off to the side smoking a cigarette, away from everyone else. It’s a pale, washed-out sunrise, long shadows and blue-black darkness seeming to hide distasteful emotions.

  Normally Dylan is wide awake, alert. He paces around. He fidgets. His eyes are everywhere. But today? Today he just stands, staring into the distance. He doesn’t even notice me. Was it something I did?

  “Hey,” I say quickly. I’ve got a tight feeling in my stomach.

  He jerks a little, but recovers quickly.

  “Mornin’,” he drawls.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “Sure,” he says. He shrugs. “Tired. You?”

  I reach out to take his hand. He takes it, but a fraction of a second slower than usual. Something really is going on. I run through the day before in my mind. Maybe it was something I did or said at the beach party last night? I’m sure he’ll tell me—if not soon, then at least when we’re on the bus. We have a longer trip today, visiting sites in Nazareth and around the Sea of Galilee, or, as the Israelis call it, Lake Kinneret. I can be patient.

  I don’t press. Not even as we board the bus, and the chaperones call the roll to make sure we are all there, and the bus departs Haifa.

  But what if it’s something awful? I left the party before he did. Did something happen? Is he—am I—?

  Stop.

  I tell myself to get a grip. He’ll talk about it, whatever it is.

  The drive to Nazareth from Haifa is less than an hour, winding through largely-urban areas, traffic circles and Arabic and Hebrew lettering everywhere. But it seems a lot longer, because Dylan leans against the window, staring out. He’s quiet. I don’t nag him. Something’s obviously wrong, and I presume he’ll tell me eventually. In the meantime, we sit together and hold hands quietly.

  The urban neighborhoods give way to dusty hills, the few bare trees looking like invaders. Orange traffic signs, all of them marked in three languages, alternate with signs which I can barely guess the meaning of, despite the fact that I’ve lived in a lot of different countries.

  Nazareth is a city of hills. A riot of colors, languages, fragrances.

  Graffiti I can’t understand covers walls beside the road. A giant yellow frowny face holds a stop sign with Arabic lettering, next to words I don’t understand. People wait at the bus stop near the frowny-face, huddled over, wearing jackets against the pending chill which is expected to set in later today.

  A block later, a small cafe—lettering in Arabic only, except the large Coca-Cola sign—with green plastic lawn furniture out front. Four elderly men sit at the plastic table. A few blocks later, a computer store next to a convenience store next to a parking deck next to a park. No—not a park. A cemetery. A few doors down from there, a vegetable market spills out into the street, crates of colorful lettuce, oranges and other unidentifiable vegetables piled up in and outside the market. A voice whispers that there’s something wrong with the fact that I don’t recognize half of these plants or even know if they are edible. I grew up knowing how to order in French at fancy restaurants, but I can’t cook much more than boxes of macaroni and cheese. And I’m regretting that. I want to know more.

  The bus finally stops on a crowded, narrow street on a hill, double-parked and blocking traffic. . The bus driver gets out just as a shopkeeper boils out of his shop, rage on his face. The two men stand there, in the street for several minutes, waving their arms, shouting at each other in Arabic. Dylan watches them, but not with any level of interest. Finally his eyes just wander off.

  What is wrong with him? If he doesn’t start talking soon, I’m going to get very bent out of shape.

  The argument outside seems to quiet down, and finally, the bus driver steps back on board the bus. In his thickly accented English, he says to Mrs. Simpson, “Here. The guide will be here in fifteen hour.”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  The driver closes his eyes, as if consulting an inner dict
ionary. Then he says, “Soon. The guide will be here soon. In’shallah.”

  That phrase I recognize. God Willing. In this context, it generally indicates that the speaker isn’t sure of when something is going to happen, or even if it will happen at all.

  Whether or not the guide is coming seems to be an open question. In the meantime, we pile off the bus.

  The neighborhood we are in is clearly a regular tourist stop. Shops line both sides of the street—souvenirs, cameras, phones, gifts. The next block over is another vegetable market, crates and boxes piled high, blocking the sidewalk, with a riot of colors and fragrances.

  Mrs. Simpson gathers us into a circle. “I don’t know when the guide will be here, so I’m going to give you thirty minutes. Stay on this block, and feel free to walk around, but I want you to stay in pairs.”

  Freedom. It’s unusual that we get to just walk around even for a short time—most of our stops have been guided, scripted and led every step of the way.

  We walk in a small group—John and Elle, who seem to be tolerating each other’s company again, and me and Dylan. Elle keeps up a continual patter of talk, which obscures the fact that Dylan is completely silent. He’s not typically the most talkative of people anyway—the others don’t seem to notice his mood.

  We’re walking on foot through a market of a completely different culture, and yet Dylan looks around with no interest at all.

  Around us is a scene that I suspect is both timeless and yet very tied to the tourist trade. The strong aroma of spices drifts out of a building. We look in to see large vats and bags of spices. Cinnamon, cloves, ginger, paprika and more, bright colors spilling out of open containers. Just beyond the spice shop is a tourist shop—John buys himself a kuffeyah, the traditional black-and-white checkered headdress worn by Arab men. Then he buys a bracelet for Elle. It’s not a terribly expensive bracelet, but all the same, I get a sinking feeling. Dylan has a lot more pride than money (or sense).

  He looks in the jewelry case the bracelet came from. He hides his expression, but I see his eyes widen just a little bit. Most of it is handmade in silver.

  “Dylan, can we grab some coffee?” I ask, desperate to distract him. “I’m not feeling well.”

  At my words, he immediately shifts his attention to me. “What’s wrong?”

  I shake my head. “I just didn’t get enough sleep. Do you mind?”

  “Of course not,” he says. We take each other’s hands and walk out of the shop.

  Different worlds (Dylan)

  I don’t mean to be an ass, but I know that Alex is upset. She hasn’t asked me what’s wrong, but it is obvious she wants to know. . But I don’t know what to tell her. So I just kind of shove all of that to the side and keep going.

  But the effort of shoving my grief aside leaves me feeling nothing at all, not even the heady, intoxicating emotions I normally feel around Alex. And that’s not okay.

  So I walk through the market with her, holding hands. I feel outclassed, outmatched, when John buys a bracelet for Elle. She’s thrilled, I can see it, and she hugs him with a little squeal. I do a quick mental calculation of how much money I have left for this trip (not much), and look into the cabinet. And gulp. The cheapest item in the cabinet is 400 shekels… about a hundred dollars.

  That’s more than I even have to last me for the remaining time we’re in Israel. Then Alex says she doesn’t feel well, and asks if we can get a cup of coffee.

  I’m not an idiot. I can see that she put everything together very quickly, and is now rescuing me from myself.

  I have to accept the lifeline because there’s no choice. So we walk out of the store and down the street, where we take a seat at a sidewalk cafe.

  “I loved the smells in the spice market,” she says. I think she’s stretching to come up with something to say.

  I don’t know what to say. So I nod, and say, “Yeah, I like it here.”

  A waiter comes out, crooning, “Hello, English? German?”

  “American,” Alex says.

  “American! You know George Bush!”

  “No,” I say, making a bit of a sour face. Then I find myself wondering if Alex actually has met him. We both ask for coffee, and the waiter swoops off.

  I lean forward. “So… do you know George Bush?”

  She sticks her tongue out at me. Then says, “I met him once, when I was twelve.”

  When she stops speaking, I say, “Come on, Alex. Is that it? You met him once? Where? At the beach? The golf course? What?”

  She laughs, then says, “If you must know, it was a formal dinner at the White House. My Dad was going on some diplomatic thing, I think to Iraq. I’d never been invited to anything like that before. I thought he was a nice man. He laughed a lot.”

  “That’s wild.” I shake my head. “You know, we come from completely different worlds.”

  She says, “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Doesn’t it though? I mean… sometimes I wonder if we can really understand each other.”

  “Of course we can.” Her eyes show a flash of hurt as she says the words.

  I lean forward and take her hand. “It’s okay, Alex. I’m sorry. It just means we have to reach a little further, that’s all.”

  “What’s wrong with you today?” Her tone isn’t angry. But it carries an urgency to it.

  I swallow. Then I tell her about Spot.

  Are we getting serious? (Alex)

  As Dylan tells me the story of his friend Spot, I feel a growing sadness. He stumbles over his words, at one point just going completely silent.

  “Anyway,” he says. “I never saw her again. But when I set up my Facebook account after we met, and I connected almost immediately with some people from high school, I guess I thought I might be able to use it to find her. But…”

  His expression is so bleak, I’m terrified of what he’s going to say. I squeeze his hand.

  “I found out last night … one of the guys … he says she’s dead.”

  “Oh my God. What happened?”

  He shakes his head, his face somber. “No idea. I asked, but he hasn’t answered. But … I mean… it’s not safe out there on the street. For anyone, but especially for girls.”

  I squeeze his hand again. This is awful, and I hardly know what to say to him. Maybe he’s right. Maybe there are things we just can’t understand about each other, because we come from different worlds. Maybe I don’t know what it’s like to lose a friend that way.

  But I can still be there for him — and he can for me. I lean forward, taking his other hand in mine so that I’m holding both of his. I look in his eyes. “You can talk to me, you know. I may not have lived the life you have, but I care. I care.”

  He shifts uncomfortably, “Alex, I can’t dump all my problems on—”

  “Stop. That’s what people do. They take care of each other. You did your best to take care of your friend, and I admire you for that. Well, now it’s my turn to take care of you. All right?”

  He shudders. “I’m not used to depending on anybody.”

  “Maybe it’s time you got used to it.”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  I smile. “Nothing worth doing is that easy.”

  He stares at me, slowly shaking his head. “Are we getting serious?”

  “What does that mean?” I ask. Suddenly my heart is pounding. Because I haven’t told him. That I love him. How can I, when we’re going home in the blink of an eye? But I want to. I want to tell him, loud and clear: Dylan, I love you.

  He swallows, and mutters, “I don’t know.”

  “Let’s just let it be what it is, Dylan. We don’t have to give it words. We know what we feel.”

  He nods. “Right. We just … let it happen.”

  He looks so uncomfortable, I’m not sure what to say. So I don’t say anything. Instead, I stand and give him a kiss on the cheek. Then I return to my seat.

  “That’s it?” he asks.

  I grin. “For now.”
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  His eyes widen. “Wait… I thought…”

  “Well… yes… I’m waiting. Until I marry.”

  He sighs. Then we both laugh. For now at least, we’re okay.

  A few hours later. We’re standing on the Golan Heights, overlooking the Sea of Galilee. I’ve got a scarf around my face because of the fierce wind that buffets our clothes. A speaker from the nearby kibbutz is talking about security problems and suicide bombers and the threat from Syria, just across the border. But neither I nor Dylan really pay attention.

  Instead, we’re wrapped up, staring in each other’s eyes. I find his touch reassuring—and one of us is constantly touching the other. As the crowd of students shifts away from us, Dylan leans in close and says, “I need to kiss you right now.”

  I whisper, “If you need to, then, I guess you should go ahead.”

  He does.

  Chapter Twelve

  Dear Mom (Dylan)

  FROM: DylanParis81@gmail.com

  TO: LovelyLinda1969@aol.com

  SUBJECT: (no subject)

  Dear Mom:

  I’m writing from Haifa, which is a coast city in Israel. The town mostly sprawls on a mountain overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. It’s truly beautiful here. Sometimes I feel like I’ve left reality entirely. Back home I’m the kid who dropped out of school and smoked too much pot and drank too much. Here, I’m — one of the smart kids. Just like everyone else. Except I often feel out of place. Like I’ve snuck into a party full of rich people, and I have to figure out the right kinds of manners to use.

  The good news, Mom, is that you prepared me pretty well for this, just as you did for everything else. I know we’ve had our moments, our conflicts. But don’t ever think I don’t know how much you’ve sacrificed for me.

  Anyway.

  I’m mostly writing to tell you about Spot. Do you remember her? Her parents had kicked her out because she was gay. She was like a little sister, if I’d ever had one. I found out from Scott—one of the guys I used to hang out with, unfortunately—that she’s dead. I don’t know how or why or what happened, but I can imagine it. Drug overdose, or maybe she was murdered. There were always guys out there, predators who caught sight of a teenage girl on the streets and wanted—well, you know.