by Zoey Castile
I know that it isn’t, I truly do. But there’s something that makes me want to try. Every part of today, I find myself wishing he were here. It’s a strange thing to feel for someone I’ve never truly been around in person. Someone I’ve never seen.
After the long night, when the only light comes from the logs crackling in fire pits and the car headlights nearby, I get ready to go.
The thing is, my car won’t start.
“Come on, Selena,” I say to my ancient little darling. “We made it this far, just give me another ten miles.”
“Having some trouble?” River asks, leaning against a giant red truck to my right.
I sigh, defeated. “Yes, please. I’d ask Scarlett, but I don’t want to cock-block her.”
Hutch comes around. I noticed neither of them were drinking today, so I feel comfortable getting in their car.
“We’d normally stay out late, but I’m sleepy,” River says, scratching her eyes like a cute, fussy baby. “Get up in the front seat and I’ll nap in the back.”
“I’ve never met anyone who can sleep as much as you do, Thomas,” Hutch says, and I can feel his smile even though he’s in the shadows.
“And yet,” she says, climbing into the truck and ducking her head, “you take me as I am.”
Hutch and I follow, and he glances at River once to make sure she’s fine. She’s knocked out in seconds. We pull away from the lake party, smoke from the grill and fireworks clings to us all as Hutch backs out onto the main road.
“You’re at the Donatello place, right?” Hutch asks.
“Home sweet home,” I say dryly. I’ve avoided doing nighttime driving while here because there are literally no lights. It is a dark tunnel illuminated by random headlights and the stars, perhaps the moon when it’s out. Fireworks color the sky as we drive, a song I recognize as country by the reverberating lilt of the singer’s voice is low on the radio.
“Does he still play?” Hutch asks.
I’m confused and think I missed something he said. “Who plays?”
“Donatello. When I was in high school, he’d just started playing for the US team. They were going to the World Cup but he got injured and fell off the face of the planet for years. We’re new to the area so all we’ve heard is there was some family accident and no one’s around anymore. Can’t really be a haunted ranch when it looks—well, the way it looks.”
I have to laugh at that. I didn’t know Pat was a soccer player. But what do I really know of him?
“McMansions can be haunted in other ways,” I say.
“What’s he like now?”
“He mostly keeps to himself.” That’s a very chill way of saying that I’ve lived in that house for a month and I have never seen the owner before. “Not what you’d call a people person.”
Hutch nods methodically, brown eyes flicking to the rearview mirror where River is knocked out. “Everyone needs to go at their own pace.”
“You’re a therapist, River said?”
He nods, adjusting his hands around the wheel. “I should warn you, people usually do their best talking in cars.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ve got a person’s attention and sometimes it’s easier to speak honestly when you don’t have to look at them. For instance, you might feel comfortable asking me something personal, or a favor, because we’re both staring straight ahead. Takes off some of the pressure.”
“Okay,” I say, thoughtfully. We’re almost at the road to the house. Hutch puts on his blinker even though we’re the only car seemingly for miles. “What would cause someone to be unable to leave the house?”
“There’s the usual agoraphobia. There’s the less common enochlophobia, which is closely related. It’s a fear of crowds, but it’s very specific. There’s a deep trauma that has nothing to do with the exterior world but the internal.”
“But, is it normal to not want people to—be around you or see you?”
Hutch glances at me for a second, his truck jostling so gingerly it momentarily makes me angry at my baby as we easily crest the Damn Hill. “You’ve never seen the person you live with?”
I shake my head. “I get the sense that he wants help, but other than his doctor, he doesn’t talk to anyone.”
“Look, I can’t make any kind of professional diagnosis on a person I’ve never met. But it seems to me that you should keep a lookout when someone is asking for help. On a personal note, I know what it’s like when someone wants help but doesn’t know how to ask for it. I, for one, made a lot of mistakes because I was trying to do the right thing and failed. I’m glad I followed my heart, though.”
We park at the end of the driveway. Pat’s bedroom light is on and the sensors flick on in front of the house.
“But you wouldn’t change anything for a bit, Hutcherson,” River says sleepily.
Of course she’s been listening. I would have. She sits up with a stretch and I chuckle.
“I don’t want to push anyone who isn’t ready,” I say.
“Ask,” River says. “Let him know that you’re there. That you will be there. But don’t do it if the offer isn’t for real.”
“I seem to remember someone being very stubborn at first,” Hutch says, and River gently and playfully swats his shoulder. “But everyone heals at their own pace.”
“As hippie-dippie as that sounds, he’s not wrong,” River says.
“Thanks for the ride,” I tell them.
River puts her hand on my shoulder. “This better not be the last time we see you, Sunnyside.”
“Definitely not,” I say, and get out of the car.
Hutch gets out to tighten one of the headlights, and I accept the warm hug he offers, along with a friendly, “If you ever need to talk . . .”
I always thought that when people offered that, they weren’t being genuine. But there’s something about River and Hutch that makes me feel like perhaps, the rest of my time around here isn’t going to be as lonely as I had imagined.
PAT
When I hear the truck come down the road, I know that it can’t be Lena. I race downstairs with a staggering heartbeat and wait by the window. I don’t turn on the lights. I remember the days that these floors would creak with the barest touch. Now, I can hear how silent my steps are.
The car stops in front of the house and the automatic lights come on. There’s a good-looking guy at the wheel. His eyes look up at the house, but then he turns his attention to Lena. He steps out, and I feel like a ton of bricks slams into my gut when he hugs her, whispering something in her ear.
These feelings bearing down on me are irrational. They burrow under my skin. What does he feel with his face in her hair? What does he feel when he wraps his arms around her? I have dreamed about the way Lena smells and tastes and feels. They are dreams I’m not proud of, but I can’t control my mind when I’m unconscious.
I should not feel this way, but I do.
I should not want her this way, but I do.
I have no right to her, no claim, nothing.
For a moment, I consider turning on the light and forcing myself to welcome her. Wouldn’t I just end up scaring her again? Then, I remember that she isn’t going to come in here. Her shift was done long ago. She’s fed me and left me to my own devices like the feeble weakling I’ve become. So, I stand in the dark with jealousy running rivers across my skin.
When she left the house this morning, I opened the front door and stood there in the clear blue day. I took a step outside and then another and another. The point was to get to my car, to the garage. I did it. I didn’t throw up and I only got sort of dizzy before my heart started racing. Before the crash flashed before my eyes. Before I recalled the first day I woke up in the hospital. I pushed through that dizziness and got behind the wheel, but when I put my seat belt on, I could feel the tug of the same seat belt that night, pinning me into the side door, the straps they had to use at the hospital to keep me calm before they pumped me full of sedatives.
/> Even now, my pulse thrums through me.
As I stalk back into my room, I tell myself that today I made some progress. It was because of Lena. All I could hear was her saying, Okay, Pat. Take your time. You know where I’ll be.
I wanted to be where she was. Listening to her voice at night has set something loose within me, has set something free. It’s terrifying because I’m starting to care.
She was at that lake and then she came home in someone else’s car.
The need to know every detail about that guy burns me up. I get in my bed and lie back, the light from the pool house floods my window. This has become our way of communicating, signals that we’ve developed over the last few weeks. We only ever text when our lights are on.
Me: Hey
Lena: Hi
I groan and lean too hard on my headboard. I type: How was the party?
Lena: I had a good time. Food. Fireworks. Scarlett might have a new boyfriend.
I hit send before I can change my mind.
Me: Just Scarlett?
Lena: Meaning?
Me: The guy who just dropped you off.
Lena types and stops.
Me: It’s not my business I shouldn’t have asked.
Lena: You’re right.
The ants under my skin feel like they’re multiplying, burning so much that I scratch at the phantom sensation.
Lena: But he’s just a friend. Selena wouldn’t start.
Me: You can use my truck if you need.
Lena: That’s fine. Scarlett will give me a ride to pick her up tomorrow. How was your night?
Me: The usual.
I should tell her that I made it all the way to the garage today, but I don’t. What would come after that? Nothing because whatever I’m feeling needs to be buried so deep it can never resurface.
Me: I wanted to be there.
Lena: I wanted you to be there, too.
My fingers feel out of control as I type: Who was the guy?
Lena: I didn’t catch his first name. He’s a counselor actually.
Me: Meaning?
Lena: Meaning if you need anyone to talk to . . .
Me: Don’t talk to people about me Lena.
Lena: Copy that.
And then she goes silent.
I scream into my pillow. Why is it that when it comes to Lena, I take two steps forward and five back? I want to call her and tell her that I don’t know how to say the right things. That when it comes to her, I keep messing up. I was going to go to her because I knew where she was going to be. I could follow the strangling, wailing, shrill sound of her singing anywhere because when I hear it, this entire place doesn’t feel as hollow anymore.
I don’t say any of that.
The shitty part is that she isn’t wrong. Kayli isn’t wrong. Scarlett isn’t wrong. I need help and I’m afraid to ask for it. The only one wrong and decrepit and twisted is me. Why can’t they see that I’m beyond being pieced back together?
I rest the phone on my chest and stare at the dark ceiling. It is like being swallowed whole on all sides by her silence. Her, this girl ten years younger than me that keeps pushing and pushing in ways that may inevitably break me.
What was it that I used to tell my friends? There is no point in falling in love. There is no point in being with one person at a time. Women were a blur in my bed. Faceless. I do not deserve the women in my life because I don’t know how to be a better man than the one I was.
How can I be better now?
I pick up the phone and hold it to my ear. I know it’s going to go to voicemail but this time, after so many failed attempts, I don’t hang up. “Hello, this is Pat. Patrick Halloran. Call me when you get this message.”
When I hang up, my entire body lights up when I see her name.
Lena: Goodnight, Pat.
I drift off to sleep.
7
Wide Open Spaces
LENA
“Oh my gosh, he is so fine,” Ari squeals on the phone after I send her a picture I found from Pat’s soccer days.
After riding in the car with Hutch and River, my curiosity over Pat’s former soccer career couldn’t take it. I did what anyone would do. I Googled him. He didn’t come up right away and there were a lot of other suggestions. Did you mean this other Patrick instead? No, Google Overlord, I didn’t.
Pat’s soccer stardom was short-lived, and the only real article I could pull up was archived from The Bozeman Daily seventeen years ago. While Patrick was undergoing knee replacement surgery and having his dreams crushed after the death of his older brother, I was a nine-year-old playing with my secondhand Barbie dolls. How could our lives have been so different and then, somehow, ended up in the exact same place—at least for a time?
I am not diminishing anything that I’ve ever been through because it’s not a Sadness Race, but damn. It couldn’t have been easy to go through so much tragedy back-to-back. My heart goes out to him in a way that is inexplicable. Or maybe it’s not inexplicable at all. Maybe it’s as easy as empathy.
Mari told me when she first met me that I would take care of every stray if I could, and she wasn’t talking about the literal stray cats that I kept feeding in our yard. When people want something from me, I want to help. Yes, Ari and my stepmother, Sonia, were family duty. I am still doing everything I can for them even after what Sonia did to me. Mari and I became friends because I saw how we were both struggling with the workload. Didn’t I turn myself into an unofficial mother hen in the house I was living in? Making giant meals that anyone could take as leftovers and eat properly. It’s draining, and I know that’s the reason it took me so long to go back to school, so long to see that no matter what I did, I would never have a good relationship with my stepmother. I would allow myself to break in two just to make sure Ari is happy and has everything she needs.
As I look into Patrick’s face from this faded photograph, I wonder if I’m just collecting him the way I do to others. My job isn’t to heal him or be his friend. It’s to clean his house and cook. Why am I stressing this man?
Now that I’ve seen his face, I feel conflicted in a different way. The picture online was blurry, but there was a box I unpacked that had a better portrait. The box was labeled USMNT and I figured if he didn’t want me opening it, he would have just hidden it in that basement of his. There was a jersey, cleats, the usual, and this magazine with a page on him earmarked. I try to match the deep, gruff voice to the boy kneeling on a green field with his arms behind his back. I’ve only seen his shadow, but I know that now he’s bigger. His hair longer. Yes, Ari is right. He’s Fine with a capital F. But the boy in this picture is not the man in the house across the pool.
“You need to tap that,” says my fifteen-year-old sister.
“Uh, esqueeze me?” I ask. “What the hell do you know about that. Do we need to have a talk?”
“Please, Mom already had a talk with me. She was all, don’t be like me. Keep your legs closed. Blah blah blah.”
“Ari—”
“It’s fine, Lena.” I can practically see her roll her eyes. “My school has a sex ed class. I don’t need this conversation from you, too. Plus, Mom has a new boyfriend and from what I can hear, I don’t want to be doing any of that yet. You’re just trying to change the subject. We were talking about how your boss is totally cute.”
“First of all, he’s not my boss. Scarlett is my boss. Secondly, this photo is old. Thirdly—”
“Oh, this is an interesting development, we never get to a third point.”
“Thirdly, he’s my friend. I want to help him.”
“I know you want to take care of everyone,” she says. “But maybe you should have some fun for yourself instead. It’s the summertime! Even I’m having fun and I don’t have an allowance.”
“Send me your grades and I’ll send you some cash when my check clears, but do not give it to your mom. I already paid the rent.”
She sighs, like she’s deflating, but then mutters a thank-you.
Why is everyone around me so resistant to saying thank you? Seriously, being polite doesn’t kill.
“I’m just worried about you being by yourself out there.”
“I made some friends the other day. This girl River is actually from back home.”
“Wow, another weirdo like you willingly living in the middle of nowhere.”
“I’m not weird,” I say, matching her shrill immaturity. “Your face is weird.”
She cackles, having elicited the response from me she wants. “I miss you, Lena. I have to go. The cute firefighters across the street are letting the fire hydrant run for a little while because it’s boiling outside.”
“I miss you, too,” I say, but she’s already hung up.
* * *
Weeks pass in a blur of paint and boxes. I finish two more rooms in greens and blues and unearth some of Patrick’s family memorabilia like black-and-white photos and porcelain Christmas decorations. I put all of the holiday things in one box that he can do what he wants with after I’m gone.
Patrick and I have talked less and less on the phone since that weird exchange on July Fourth. I really wish he hadn’t asked me who the guy was in the car. There was something possessive in his questions. Almost like he was jealous. What does he have to be jealous about? Perhaps that’s just me projecting. Didn’t I feel the same way when I saw Kayli? The beautiful doctor’s monthly visit came and went, and we actually spent the day together after she was done with Patrick.
Scarlett and Kayli had these wild stories about midnight barn parties and dirt bike racing guys in back roads for money. It goes to show that you never truly know someone by their appearance.
A week later, on a pristine July weekend, Hutch and River come pick me up for a trip to Flathead Lake. I don’t invite Pat, but I leave him food in the fridge and a note with a smiling salmon. River and Hutch spend the drive telling me their whole story, and I only wish I had popcorn for some of it. In town, we eat more huckleberry ice-cream than I ever thought possible and then we find a campground. I have my first glamping experience. Hutch only asks about Patrick once, but since Pat shot down my suggestion, I realize it’s not my place to push him into doing anything he doesn’t want to. He’ll go at his own pace. He isn’t my project to fix.
