Look Closer

by Stewart Lewis

  “They’re homeless,” I say, but I know exactly what he’s talking about.

  “Okay, let’s go.”

  Being here together doesn’t seem as bad, even though I hardly know him. But I’m guessing he has my back.

  We enter the basement, which is huge and mostly dark, with groups of randoms in clusters. We walk slowly, arm in arm, like we’re walking down the aisle at some sort of twisted wedding. I can hear someone laughing, or maybe they’re crying. It’s hard to tell. Someone shines a flashlight at us and I jump back. Then he shines it on his own face. It’s the ghost man from yesterday. His black eyes are bulging, and he looks even paler than before. His wrinkled skin has a blueish tint now. I grab Edge and say, “Let’s get out of here,” but Edge pulls me back.

  “It’s cool,” Edge says.

  I close my eyes and wait. When I open them, the ghost man is gone, and Edge says, “Come on.”

  I look at Edge, who seems cautious but not really frightened. I can smell smoke and sweat and something really bad, like rotten garbage. There’s a stained mattress in the corner, with a thin band of light from a dirty window above. We get closer and see a man lying on top of it.

  It’s the sailor.

  I know because of his hat. It’s that sailor’s hat I saw him wearing across the park. I shudder and draw back a little when I see a needle sticking out of his arm. A spoon and a lighter sit on the floor next to the mattress, along with a couple of empty mini plastic bags. He seems to be unconscious. I look back to see if the ghost man’s still there, but he’s gone. The laughing/crying person is now whining.

  “We may be too late,” Edge whispers.

  I tentatively touch the sailor’s shoulder and move him a little. His eyes open for a second, then shut again. My heart is going double-time, and my stomach churns from the smell—is it dead animals?

  “He’s alive,” I say.

  “Probably not for long.”

  “What are we going to do? Should we call 911?”

  “I’m guessing he has no health insurance. Let’s put him on his side, so he doesn’t choke on his own vomit.”

  “Okay. Good idea.”

  The sailor is a slight man, so it’s easy to move him onto his side. There’s a small photograph that he had been lying on top of. The picture is old and faded, but it looks like a man on a ship. I pick it up and put it right in front of his rolling eyes.

  “Is this you?”

  His eyes lock on the picture for a second. “Yes.”

  “Cool,” Edge says to him. “That’s great.”

  The sailor smiles sideways and shuts his eyes again. Edge grabs the bag of pale-brown powder and dumps it in a nearby drain.

  On the way out, we walk by three guys who are sorting cans and bottles in the pool of light from what seems to be the only other window in the place.

  “Hey, do you think you could keep an eye on the sailor?” Edge asks. “As in, please don’t let him do any more drugs today.”

  The larger guy with the beard, who seems to be in charge of the whole recycling situation, looks up at me.

  “Who are you two, his guardian angels?”

  “Something like that.”

  The other two men scoff and tell us to scram.

  On our way out, I trip over a broken bottle in the dark and it cuts my ankle.

  “C’mon,” Edge says. “Into the light.”

  Outside, in the space between the buildings, Edge takes off one of his socks and wraps it around my ankle. It’s a small gesture, but it feels huge.

  Within ten minutes, we’re in the heart of Georgetown, with shoppers carrying designer bags and wearing Rolex watches, Gucci sunglasses, and pearls. How can these two worlds be that close? I always knew they were, but now it’s sinking in. What really separates me from them? A couple bad decisions? Some unlucky twists of fate? Who says I won’t end up like the sailor one day?

  It’s too hot to move in the world, and the idea of having to sit and talk about what we saw is too much, so we go back to the freezing-cold movie theater. Inside, we stand before the huge digital wall, staring at the choices.

  “After seeing the sailor like that, I’m thinking…”

  “The one with the dog?”

  “Exactly.” Edge smiles. “A feel-good family movie is the right choice after a homeless person’s possible overdose.”

  “Agreed.”

  Edge gets popcorn and Peanut M&M’s. He mixes them together, which sounds weird but it’s really good to have little chocolate treats hidden in your popcorn. The movie is definitely the right choice—light, funny, heartwarming. For ninety minutes, we are simply two kids lost in a story. When it’s over, I try to hide the streaks of tears on each of my cheeks. It’s nice to cry about something other than myself or my father being gone. To cry because of joy.

  On our way out, Edge says, “There’s going to be a sequel where the dog dies.”

  I laugh, punching him on the arm.

  It’s cloudy now. As we walk back in the direction of Dupont Circle, he tells me he’s obsessed about this documentary on alien life.

  “I’m not a conspiracy theory guy or anything,” he says, “but I like to believe there are other beings than us, out there. Life-forms, signs, all that stuff. I mean, you’ve seen three names now, right? That can’t be a coincidence.”

  “I know. Plus, the guy with the flashlight. He seems to be appearing and disappearing.” I look behind me, to be sure he’s not following us. “Did you see him? In the basement?”

  “No, but it was dark.”

  When we get to my house, I stop him short. “Wait.”

  “What?”

  “My mom’s kind of embarrassing, and my stepfather’s the worst.”

  Edge laughs. “It’s cool. My home life isn’t exactly what you would call functional.”

  We sit on the stoop of my brownstone in the shade of the same oak tree I’ve stared at my whole life.

  Edge gets that mysterious look on his face again. He’s holding something in his hand. It’s a rock, with red marker on it. I feel a tingle on the back of my neck that runs all the way to the base of my spine.

  “Wait. You’re E?”

  “Yeah.”

  His eyes are getting watery.

  “So, he was your friend.”

  He clears his throat and shakes the hair out of his eyes. “Since fourth grade.”

  I put my hand on his shoulder, which feels awkward, but I have to do something. Anything but say sorry for your loss.

  He takes out his phone and shows me a text exchange from what looks like the last two weeks. It feels wrong reading it, knowing Tom is gone, but I do. First, Tom asks to meet Edge at the tree house, and Edge says he’s busy, but maybe tomorrow. The next message is Edge asking, Is everything okay? Tom responds with an emoji face with one tear. I scroll to see the time until Edge’s next response. It’s two days later. He texts Tom to meet him at the tree house, with a question mark. But there’s no response. That’s the last text. There are tears in my eyes now, too, and when I look up, Edge is wiping his. I hand him the phone back.

  He clears his throat again and sighs.

  “We were tight, always. I knew he had depression. It started last year. Like, existentialist stuff. He kind of became a downer. I weaned off hanging with him for a while, and…ugh…I don’t know.”

  “Look, what he did is not your fault. You can’t carry that.”

  “Well, I should have done something.”

  “I could have done something,” I say quietly.

  “Same here.”

  “But now we’re doing something. At least I think we did, today. But it might be nonsense.”

  “It’s not, Tegan. I see…I see something in you.”

  I feel my face flush, and I can’t think of what to say in response. This time, Ed
ge moves a piece of hair out of my eyes. And then he kisses me.

  I don’t see stars or anything, but my heart picks up, and I feel another warm wave run through me. When he pulls back, I’m slightly light-headed.

  “So there’s that,” he says.

  “Yes,” I reply. “There’s definitely that.”

  I turn around and see my mother in the window, smiling wildly and giving me the thumbs-up. I cringe. The first time a boy kisses me for real—where it means something—and I’m watched by my mother? It seems cruel.

  I quickly turn back to Edge. “So what about your situation? Who do you live with?” I ask to change the subject.

  He seems a bit taken aback by the sudden question, but answers anyway. “My mom and my…let’s say, colorful aunt.”

  “Colorful in a good way?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  We don’t say anything for a moment.

  “I need to go and do some damage control,” Edge eventually says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “My mother. She’s been dumped again. It’s a revolving door of boyfriends where I live.”

  “Ah.”

  “It’s funny, when she’s all hot and heavy, she barely notices me, but when she’s down in the dumps, she needs me there with her like, twenty-four seven.”

  “Well, it’s nice of you to be there for her.”

  Edge sighs and puts the rock back into his pocket. “I guess.”

  He gets up and walks down the steps, stopping at the bottom stair and turning around.

  “Text me tomorrow?” I ask.

  “I’ll show you a sign,” he says, then he walks away. Again, I watch him until he’s a small dot in the distance. Just to make sure he’s real, and I’m not dreaming all of this.

  * * *

  When I get inside, Mom is calling up to Larry, saying, “Hurry up, sweetheart!” They’re going to a charity event for my mother’s work.

  I wince at the word sweetheart, and the way her voice sounds girlish and high. Whatever Larry is, he’s not a sweetheart, and my mother is not a girl. She always called my father by his first name, Graham. When Larry comes down, she goes to kiss him on his ruddy cheek, and I turn away, staring at the wood floor.

  I get a large glass of water and drink half of it. When I put it down, Larry has already left, and my mother is staring at me. I hide my ankle that has Edge’s sock tied around it behind my other leg.

  “Where were you?” she asks, trying to sound casual, but her face gives away her excitement.

  “Walking. I met this kid.”

  “Does this ‘kid’ have a name?”

  “Edgar.”

  “Well, I look forward to meeting Edgar.”

  “He goes by Edge.”

  “Hmm. Sounds edgy!”

  “Ugh, whatever, Mom.”

  She looks at herself in the entryway mirror, fixing her hair a little. My mother is pretty, but I wouldn’t call her a “knockout” like Larry does. I try to remember my father ever calling her a name like that. They always made each other laugh, but they never really had that kind of gooey romance. Once, though, when I was around ten, I came home early from a birthday sleepover, and I found them dancing on the porch. They weren’t pressed together, but they were looking at each other, smiling in a way that made me feel guilty, as if I was spying on a magical moment. I knew then how much they truly loved each other, and it was important to me to know that I was born out of that kind of love.

  * * *

  The next morning, I can’t get the Sailor’s face out of my head. He almost looked frozen. I remember one of my teachers telling me all human lives are significant, whether you live on the street or in a palace. I immediately text Edge, asking if he’ll go check on him with me, but he doesn’t respond right away. I wait for a little while, then decide to go myself.

  Back at the off-ramp, it’s pretty deserted. I guess homeless people get up early. I walk back to the alley and take the three steps down to the door. It still smells like dead animals, raw garbage, and cigarette smoke. I’m scared, but I have to know if he’s okay. It’s as if I’m back on the moving walkway and there’s no turning around. I did this with Edge and I survived, why can’t I do it alone?

  Inside, someone sings while washing his face in a bucket of water. I walk over to the corner where the mattress is, using my phone’s light. There is dried vomit on the floor next to it, and the picture is gone. I take a deep breath and let it out.

  Did we save him?

  I leave with tears in my eyes that I can’t control. I cry for Edge losing Tom, for me losing my father, for the fact that people have to die in the first place. How could this be happening? Who is giving me this strange foresight? I was always proud to tell people that my dad saved lives. Is that why I’m seeing these names?

  I text Edge again.

  On my way home.

  Went back. Sailor not there.

  A minute later, he texts back.

  Good.

  I text a smiling face, and he responds with a bull’s-eye emoji. I consider sending a heart, but decide on a thumbs-up. When I get home, my mother hugs me extra tight, and for some reason I don’t push her away.

  “What’s going on with you?” she asks. I can’t look at her face, so I focus on her beaded necklace, resting on her tanned clavicle.

  “It’s nothing I can talk to you about.”

  “What?” She pretends to be confused, but she knows exactly what I mean. I wish I could tell her about the names, how it’s really scary not knowing why or how long it will last. How I keep seeing images of Tom Elliot sailing through the air, Edge’s hand holding the rock, the sailor’s queasy smile, the ghost man’s quivering black eyes.

  “Never mind. I’m actually thinking about joining the swim team again,” I say, to change the topic, but as the words come out of my mouth, they sound real. Like I might actually mean it this time.

  She seems to completely forget about my other comment. I can tell she wants to scream or jump around, but she smiles and says calmly, “That’s great, Tegan. Really great.”

  That night, I dream I’m on the Metro, and everyone’s face is a blur. But if I walk up to them and touch them, their faces come into focus. I go around and touch each person, and they are all people from my past: teachers, babysitters, swim instructors. There is a man at the end of the car. A skinny wisp of a man. I touch him, knowing who it is. Ghost Man. When his face comes into focus, his mouth opens. It looks like he is trying to swallow me. I scream and bolt upright.

  My mother comes to my door seconds later, and I tell her she can come in.

  She strokes my hair like she did when I was a kid, and it feels shameful somehow, but I don’t resist. She tells me she’s really worried about me.

  “Just a nightmare, is all,” I say. I want to ask her to sing to me like she used to, the song about the raindrops. But I’m way too old for that. I used to love the sound of her voice, and it always helped me fall asleep.

  “Honey, what did you mean earlier, when you were saying you can’t talk to me?”

  “I knew that wouldn’t get past you.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess there are some things I can’t tell you.”

  She looks hurt, but nods.

  “Okay, okay. But if you ever need help…”

  “Mom, who doesn’t need help these days?”

  “See, this doesn’t sound like you. Is it this boy, Edge? What is it?”

  “Mom, seriously. It’s fine. I need to go to sleep and hopefully not have another dream.”

  “Well, if you do, I’m here.”

  “Thanks.”

  She kisses my forehead and leaves.

  I turn off the bedside lamp, stare into the black, and wait for sleep to come back, trying to h
ear her sing the song about how the raindrops were lemon drops, and the snowflakes were milkshakes. I did love that song.

  6.

  think of the possibilities

  Coach is waiting for me at the pool. He smiles broadly when he sees me, puts his long arms in the air. “There’s my torpedo!”

  A few weeks after my father died, when I was too sad to do anything, I walked over to Coach’s apartment, and he made me toast. It was a simple offering, and I remember eating it first out of courtesy, but then really liking it. We had sat on his couch, Julie curled up on his lap looking at him as he talked. He told me about the bakery where the bread comes from, and it felt nice to listen to a familiar voice. In his living room, there were framed pictures of all the teams he had coached. The one this year would be missing me.

  After a few minutes of small talk, he took a picture out of his wallet. It was of a man sitting on a tractor, grinning in the sun.

  “That’s my dad,” Coach said. “He was a pretty simple man, lived off the land. Died when I was ten.”

  “Do you remember him?”

  “Oh yeah. He let me drive that tractor. It didn’t go very fast, but it was fast enough for a kid like me.”

  I smiled. Coach really is a kid, still. He has that quality. Sometimes his shoelaces are untied, and his face always seems in a half state of surprise.

  “But here’s what. Every time I see a tractor, or go by a cornfield, I think of him, and I don’t know…” Coach’s eyes got a little misty. “It’s comforting.”

  “For me it’s the opposite. I’ll see something, like even a guard in uniform, and I’ll get a sinking feeling.”

  “Yeah. That’ll change, though. It’ll get better. I promise.”

  Now, while he leads me through some stretches, I think maybe he was right, that maybe it is getting better. That this craziness is all leading to something, that I’m becoming someone else, not just a girl without a dad.

  Coach tells me about his trip to New Orleans.

  “It’s like, you walk into any bar on this one street, and there’s tons of them, and the people that happen to be playing are the best jazz musicians on the planet. It’s astounding.”