I stand up and gather my stuff, and he does, too. We both walk toward the gate. All I can think to say is, “We should play again sometime.”
Sam doesn’t say anything at first. But at the gate he stops and says, “You sure?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m sure.”
===
At home, I get started on my schoolwork. I begin with the algebra problems, but nothing makes sense. It’s like I’m reading a foreign language: Julie rode her bike for 6 1/4 miles on Tuesday. On Thursday, she biked 3 1/10 times as far as on Tuesday. How many miles did Julie bike on Thursday? Who cares. I skip ahead but it doesn’t matter—the questions are all like this.
Sam’s at home by now. He doesn’t have homework. He’s not in school yet. Sam’s not in school because he didn’t ride his bike fast enough. If Sam had ridden his bike faster—no that’s not it. If he hadn’t stopped . . . if he hadn’t gotten a flat. If I’d stayed with him . . . If I’d mentioned the white truck. If we had just stayed home. We should have stayed home.
I try and get back to my work but the problems keep tripping me up. And I can’t stop thinking about Sam’s story. It’s like a person’s life could be turned into a problem set, like the dumb ones in my algebra text. Sam rode his bicycle 2.5 miles that day. He rode in a car for over 120 miles. He was gone from home for 1189 days. X is the life he would have had, if he’d only stayed at home. Solve for X.”
I stand and rip the paper into pieces. I don’t even bother to clean it up. I walk to my bed and I lie down and I close my eyes and I put my pillow over my face because I’m crying now and I have to let it out and I don’t want Mom or Dad to hear me.
When I finally stop, I go the bathroom and wash my face, careful not to look at myself in the mirror.
I sit back down at my desk and close the algebra book. There is other homework to do, luckily.
CHAPTER 7
Adults
Beth
After the party disaster, I wear my Central Soccer sweatshirt to school every day. I walk the halls with the hood up, staring down at the ground, not looking at anyone. In class, I talk as little as the teachers will allow me to. It’s not easy. It seems like everyone in the world is always trying to get at me—with their hellos and the questions, their casual asides, their jokes. All the stupid chitchat of daily life. I just want to be left alone.
During lunch, I hang out in the library and steal bites of a sandwich. I spend sixth period in there, too. I’ve told Coach Bailey my ankle still hurts, and I know she doesn’t believe me. But she can’t force me to practice. All she says is “Are you okay, Beth?” and I say I am and I walk away.
When the bell rings on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, I sit and wait till the halls clear. When I think it might be safe, I walk to my car, unbothered by anyone, wondering if I can get through the rest of high school this way. But then I see Ainsley and Darla waiting for me. They’re dressed in their warmer soccer clothes. Chita is nowhere in sight.
“Shouldn’t you be practicing still?” I say.
“Coach B. let us out early, since tomorrow’s Thanksgiving,” Darla says.
“So what is this then, an intervention?” I say.
“Kinda,” Darla says.
“We’re worried,” Ainsley says, tugging at the green strand of her otherwise blondish hair.
“I know you are. But don’t be.” I sit up on my trunk. Darla plops next to me, and Ainsley paces around in front of us.
“You got big Thanksgiving plans?” Darla asks.
“I’m going to work on my college application,” I say. They already know I’m only applying to the University of Alabama. “And, um, my dad’s visiting.” For weeks it felt like it was so far off. For weeks I could pretend it wasn’t going to happen. But now, saying it, I know it’s a reality, and my heart starts racing a little, the way it does when the teacher slaps down a quiz on your desk. “I have to sleep on an air mattress because my aunt Shelley is visiting, too, and she’s staying in my room. It’s a big family get-together.”
“That will be nice,” Ainsley says. “Besides the air mattress, I mean.”
I shrug. “It’s Sam’s first Thanksgiving with us since . . . since he got back. My mom’s . . . Well, it’s a big deal for her. For all of us, I guess.”
“How is Sam?” Ainsley asks.
“Yeah,” Darla says.
“Fine,” I say. I ask about their plans to change the subject. Darla’s headed to a big family gathering outside of Atlanta, and Ainsley’s staying in town, with just her mom and little brother. A small gathering. I envy that.
“Well, I better get going,” I say.
“Beth,” Darla says. “You’re not mad at us are you? Did we do something wrong?”
I shake my head. “No. I just . . . I just kind of want to be alone.”
“Well, when you feel like . . . you know we’re here for you,” Darla says.
“We miss you.”
I miss me, too, I want to say. I miss the days when we could just kick the soccer ball around or just goof off or talk about nonsense. I miss the times when my friends didn’t ask me how I was doing ten million times a day. But I don’t say anything. I just accept their hugs good-bye and then drive off.
I’m supposed to head home and help Mom get ready for tomorrow. But I drive downtown, along a street lined with old trees and old houses that have been converted to offices for lawyers, court reporters, doctors, and therapists.
I park in front of one and sit. There is where I came a few afternoons a week in the first year after Sam vanished. Dr. Rao’s office.
Oddly enough, we didn’t talk about Sam much at these sessions, although that’s what I was supposedly there for. Dr. Rao would just sit quietly, eyeing me with a professional smile, expecting me to do all the talking, and then I’d feel like I needed to talk, so I’d blather on about school or something, and she’d scribble notes down on a pad of paper. Sometimes I wanted to snatch that pad and see what she was writing. What? You have me all figured out?
One day I refused to talk. It was like a game of chicken. The silence lasted for many minutes. So she spoke. “I have a brother,” she said.
Great, I thought. Here we go.
“Nathen,” she says. “He lives in New York. I miss him.” There was a picture of them together on her desk, posing on top of a tall building in New York, the city view spread out behind them.
“But you visit him,” I said.
“Yes, I do, and he visits me. But when he’s not around, I think about him.” She paused, maybe waiting for me to say something. When I didn’t, she said, “Do you think about Sam?”
Of course I knew that was coming. “Yeah,” I said. “But I don’t want to.”
“Why not?” she’d asked.
I stopped again, wondering if I could speak the truth. But I knew that’s what she was there for, so I gave it to her: “Because he’s dead.”
I expected her to wince or something, but she just nodded. “And why do you think that?”
Because it’s easier to think that. It’s easier to let go. But I didn’t say any of that. I just shrugged, and she didn’t press.
That was the last day I went. Mom protested at first, but in a way I think she didn’t mind not having to spend the money.
I get out of my car and sit on the trunk. At four o’clock, a mother and a child walk out the office door and off down the street. Soon the door opens again and out walks Dr. Rao, stylish in a dark suit with a scarf tied at her neck, her silky dark hair pulled off to the side.
I watch her walk toward me. At first she doesn’t notice me, but just as she’s about to walk by she stops short.
“Beth?”
“Hi,” is all I can say.
“How are you? What are you doing here?”
“I was just driving by, I guess.”
She knows
I’m full of it. “It’s good to see you. I talk with your mother now and then.”
“Yeah, she says you suggested the shrink Sam’s seeing.”
“Yes, Dr. Saylor.” I wait for it—for her to ask about Sam. That’s what everyone else does. The world revolves around Sam. But she doesn’t. She says, “Do you want to chat inside?”
“No. I need to get home and help Mom with Thanksgiving stuff.”
“I’m about to head to the grocery myself. It’s going to be a madhouse.”
“Yeah. Well, it’s good seeing you,” I say.
“You too, Beth.” She smiles at me. She pauses, but I know if I don’t say something she’ll walk away.
“It’s funny,” I say. “When Sam was gone, I hated going home. My stepdad and me always tiptoeing around Mom, never knowing how sad she’d be that day. So I joined soccer, and a few clubs. Hung out at my friends’ houses. It was like I had two lives. One good one. One not so good one. But now . . . I don’t know. Now everyone knows what happened, and they won’t let me forget it.”
She moves closer to me, sets down her satchel, and leans against the trunk. “Things have changed,” Dr. Rao says. “Do you like being at home now?”
“No,” I say, finding it a relief to speak honestly, even if what I’m saying makes me feel ashamed inside. “I mean, sometimes. But the thing is . . . It’s just that everything is about Sam. His tutor is always there. Our lawyer sometimes. Mom is home all the time, hovering. Neighbors are always stopping by. Complete strangers send him gifts—like piles of stuff. It’s all Sam, all the time. And no one gives a . . . no one cares about me. I know that makes me sound awful.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Don’t get me wrong. It’s nice to see Mom so happy. My stepdad, too. But . . . I don’t know. Something’s off. Mom wants us to move on with our lives, but how can we? How can we pretend nothing ever happened?”
Dr. Rao doesn’t say anything. She was never someone who needed to fill the air with words.
“What . . . what happened to my brother?” I ask. “What happened to him there?” I see that man’s awful face, the scraggly beard, the dead eyes, and I feel a chill tingle up my back. I know Dr. Rao doesn’t know much more than I do about the case; maybe she knows even less. But who else can I ask?
Dr. Rao just looks concerned, calm.
“And why did he stay there? I read one article online that says he went out by himself all the time. He even had friends. So why wouldn’t he try and escape? That’s what everyone wants to know, but no one can ask him. We can’t talk about any of that at home. But . . . I just can’t get past it.”
“Give it time, Beth. Give him time.”
“That’s what everyone says,” I say, disappointed that this is her only response. We both just sit there for a bit—kind of like when I’d sit in her office years ago, defiantly silent. But I don’t want her to leave yet. “My dad’s coming tomorrow,” I say.
She lets that settle in the air. “Are you excited to see him?”
“He’s only coming because of Sam,” I say. “It’s been three years since Sam disappeared and Dad never even called me. And before that, we hadn’t seen him in two years. So, it’s been five years. I shouldn’t even call him Dad. He doesn’t deserve that name.” The anger in my voice surprises me.
“Beth, I don’t have magical words,” Dr. Rao says. “But I can say, as a parent myself, that your father loves you. He may not have always shown this, for whatever reason. And he may not have seen you for a while, for whatever reason. But trust me, he loves you.”
I shake my head, let out a little laugh. It’s true, she doesn’t have magical words. She never has. But I never expected to hear the usual crap from her. I flip my hood back over my head and jump off the trunk. “Well, I better get going.”
“Beth.”
I open the car door. “Yeah?” I say, not looking back at her.
“Will you talk to your mother about scheduling a visit? You’re dealing with a lot. Your brother, your father. Of course things are confusing now. I’d like to help.”
No one can help, I think. I don’t nod, I don’t say anything, I just get in my car and drive away. At a stop sign, before I turn the corner, I look in the rearview mirror, quickly, and see her still standing there, watching me slip away.
===
If you take away Sam vanishing and everything, then my family’s story isn’t that unusual. Big deal, two parents divorcing. Tons of kids at school had divorced parents. Plenty of kids had stepparents.
Dad was always the fun-loving one. He’d crack open a beer when he got home from work each day, and by the end of the night five or six cans would be stacked on the counter. But I don’t remember him being a drunk or anything like that. He was always quick to laugh, making jokes, teasing. Mom was the one frowning, angry and annoyed. Always cooking or cleaning or washing, barely resting to watch the news on TV.
They argued a lot, but Dad always seemed to treat these fights as jokes—he never took anything seriously. He’d spend a lot of time out with his friends, calling at the last minute telling Mom he’d be home late. Once, when he did this, she took his plate of dinner from the table and threw it down the driveway.
It was rainy the night they told us they were divorcing. They told me separate from Sam, because he was so young and probably wouldn’t get it.
Mom’s eyes were red, worn out from crying. But they were dry at that moment while we sat on the couch. Dad was the one crying. I’d never seen him cry, so I was frozen in fear. Mom gave the usual speech that all divorcing parents tell their kids: “Sweetie, sometimes even when two people love each other—well, that’s not always enough.”
“Your mother wants a divorce,” Dad said. I noticed that it was not we want a divorce.
I asked why, fighting tears. But what do you say to a nine-year-old whose life you’re ruining? None of their explanations mattered. I ran out of the room, out the kitchen door, into the hard rain. I ran to the big oak tree in the front yard and took shelter there, even though it didn’t really protect me. It was Mom who came out. “I’m so sorry.” She hugged me and cried and we both got soaked. I looked over her shoulder and saw Dad, watching from the garage. Safe and dry. I wanted him to be the one hugging me, but he was already miles away.
Dad moved out. For a while we’d see him on weekends. Or else he’d call and we’d talk on the phone and then Mom would get on and they’d fight.
After the divorce was official he moved away, back to Ohio, where he was from. He got a job there selling real estate. He took us for ice cream the day before he left. When he dropped us off and told us he loved us, Sam started screaming, “Don’t leave!” I had to pull him off Dad. When he drove away, I thought my heart couldn’t bear it. I missed him immediately. And Sam, Sam was hysterical, and I tried to hug him and calm him down but he just kicked at me and yelled “Go away!” And it killed me because even though I knew he was in pain, nothing I said or did could make him feel better or undo what had happened.
Kind of like now.
===
I wake on the air mattress and hear the noises from the kitchen—coffee cups clinking, Mom and Aunt Shelley talking, the oven opening and shutting with a metallic squeak. I hear the TV, too. I’m in the living room-slash-dining room, tucked in my little corner of home till Aunt Shelley leaves. She made the usual protestations last night about taking my room. “No, let me sleep on the air mattress. Beth needs her privacy.”
Don’t get me wrong, I love Aunt Shelley, a lot. She’s the only family Mom has, really, besides some stray cousins I’ve never met.
Aunt Shelley’s what you would call a character. She’s tall, big-boned, and has this flop of poofy blondish-graying hair. She has big lips that she covers with this purple-red lipstick, and slightly crooked teeth. I know this makes it sound like she’s hideous, but it works somehow—she looks cha
rming and unique. She sells real estate in Nashville. Aunt Shelley is a lot older than Mom. She’ll turn fifty in January. Both Mom’s parents died years ago, so Shelley’s kind of motherly toward her, but not in a strict way—more like a mom who wants to be her daughter’s best friend.
With Dad coming, it’s a relief she’s here, putting us at ease with her jokes and laughter.
When I walk out of the living room, Aunt Shelley greets me, holding her coffee mug with two hands. “How’d you sleep, hon? You sure that air mattress is okay?”
“Morning,” Mom says, putting a casserole dish in the oven. Thanksgiving dinner is at two. Or at least that’s when Dad is expected. He’s flying in today, to Birmingham from Ohio, then renting a car and driving down. He’s staying at the Hampton Inn near the interstate. It’s a quick trip, barely twenty-four hours. Today he’ll just join us for dinner, and tomorrow he’ll come for breakfast.
He’d wanted to stay the entire weekend, but Mom said that would be too much disruption right now.
Aunt Shelley always liked Dad. They stayed in touch after the divorce, which Mom wasn’t thrilled about. It was Aunt Shelley who gave him advice about real estate, helped him get started. I think she kind of had a crush on him, just in a way that she enjoyed his attention. Dad was a flirt. He was good looking. Not tall but wiry with dark wavy hair and bright brown eyes, always a little facial hair that Mom said he grew to cover up his weak jawline. He had olive skin, too, almost like he was Italian, but he wasn’t. Sam took after him, looks-wise, though he inherited the same pasty skin that Mom gave me.
“Sam and Earl went to the grocery store for me,” Mom said. “Maybe you and Shelley can tidy the den, and set the table?”
“Sure,” I say. In the den, the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade is on TV. I feel a glob of dread in my stomach that I know is only going to spread the closer it gets to two.
Shelley and I tidy up and then I deflate the air mattress and put my stuff back in my room. I set everything in my closet and that’s when I see those stacks of presents and cards I got when I came back to school. I never even opened any of them, just tossed them in there like dirty clothes.
We Now Return to Regular Life Page 15
