I didn’t know what to say, and then I go, What about the picture? Will your mom take it away? And she goes, No, it’s not like that. But just in case, tell my dad, and I go, Tell him what, exactly? Thea, tell him to step up and put his foot down, she said in this tone, like, drr. She goes, What did God give him legs for, you know? I started laughing, thinking about telling Knox to put his foot down, and I go, All right. Listen, I said, I have to go. I just wanted to bring this by, and she goes, Thank you, Thea. It’s beautiful, and I started to say, Just like you, but I didn’t. The thing is, I knew then—I knew perfectly well that I’d wish I had for a long, long time. I’d wish I’d spoken up, that I’d been as brave as Melody was, looking at a picture of a girl jumping into the sky, free as a bird, straight as a board, and saying exactly what she thought and felt.
Standing there, in the middle of Melody’s froufrou room—it was like those people who love to boast how they’ve lived their whole life without a single regret, and I don’t know what that means. Seriously, why is that something to boast about? Because at that moment, I felt like maybe there are some regrets worth having, because they’re the kind you learn from, the kind you’ll be so happy to leave behind. Who knows when, but the day you’re finally ready to jump, when the sky calls your name, it’ll be so sweet. When I left their house that day, heading home, I knew when that day comes for me, just before I left all the regret behind of not speaking up like I should have, I knew I’d remember that picture and standing beside Melody, and that whether she knew it or not, she was more like that girl then than I could ever be.
When their sitter got there, Knox gave me a ride home, and he saw me unzip my bag, rearranging some things. I pulled out a script, and he goes, What’s that? You writing a novel? And I go, It’s my script—well, our script—Cam and I were working on it, and I’ve been carrying it around. Oh, he said, raising his brow. So you’re working on a script together? And I shrugged, why not? We have a few different scripts, I said, and he goes, Can I ask what it’s about, your script? I go, Yes, but I won’t tell you, and he looked over at me and he goes, Why not? And I said, Because that would be telling, Knox, but he didn’t get it. I said, That would be telling, The Prisoner? Information! Information! He just stared, and I go, You’ve never seen The Prisoner? Never mind. I go, It’s a script about an arsonist in a wax museum. It’s about this guy, this mastermind arsonist who decides the crowning achievement of his brilliant career would be burning down Madame Tussauds—the one in London. He gets totally obsessed, too, like he fantasizes about watching them all burn—Marilyn, Liberace, Cher, Posh Spice, everyone is going to melt.
So he’s got it all planned, I said, every last detail, but then, when he gets there, he falls in love with this girl working at the gift store. So it’s all about this guy fighting with his demons, because what could top burning down Madame Tussauds? I said, It’s such a perfect crime, he almost wants to get caught, so people will know, you know? So it’s all that, watching this woman from afar, and then Knox goes, Do they have a gift shop at Madame Tussauds? I said, Of course they do. I mean, how could they not have a gift shop? He goes, Just asking. To be honest, I don’t know if they do, so I said, Well, maybe that will be fictional; we’ll figure it out. That’s why we’re going to go and research the place, and Knox goes, London?
He didn’t believe me, I could tell by the look on his face. I said, As my graduation gift, then Knox goes, But that’s more than two years away, and I go, What’s your point? Knox could tell he’d hit a sore spot, because he goes, So what happens to the arsonist? Honestly, I was so relieved to be able to talk about something besides sex videos of me and my boyfriend, I told him the whole story. I go, Keep in mind, this guy isn’t just any old arsonist. We’re talking totally sexy, totally hot arsonist—. Knox goes, A hot arsonist? trying not to laugh at me, and I go, You know what I mean. Stylin’, wearing Savile Row suits, like James Bond. Like, imagine Daniel Craig as the greatest pyromaniac in history. Imagine that he’s an arsonist for hire, instead of an assassin for hire, right? Knox goes, Daniel Craig, huh? I shrugged and said, The role calls for a sex symbol, what can I say? After all, Knox, arson is a sexual crime. Where’d you hear that? he asked, looking like this was news to him. I go, I don’t know, Law & Order, maybe? And he goes, Well, in that case, it must be true, raising his eyebrows, and I said, Isn’t that strange, though? That they say rape isn’t about sex, it’s about power, but arson isn’t about power, it’s about sex? Very strange, he said, as in, no further comment.
He goes, Okay, so the Daniel Craig arsonist character falls in love with the girl in the gift shop, and then he kills her? I go, Yes, but it’s an accident, and Knox goes, But he sets the museum on fire on purpose? And I go, Yes, but Daniel Craig doesn’t know she’s in the building when he sets it on fire, see? And Knox goes, So she dies? The girl dies, he says, looking at me, making sure he’s got the story right. I go, Of course: it’s a love story. Somebody has to die in a good love story. Then he goes, Well, it sounds very interesting, and he sounded like such a dad, saying that, I was just like, Gee, thanks. Sometimes, the way Knox looks at me and the questions he asks, it’s like he’s never talked to a teenage girl before. Seriously, Knox looks at me like I’m from a distant galaxy, and here he is, the very first earthling to ask me questions about where I came from, what our planet looks like, what food we eat. And maybe all old men are like that; I don’t know. Fortunately or unfortunately, I don’t know many old men.
Then he said, The arson story, do you have a title for it? I said, Yes. It’s called “Pyroglyphics,” and he raises his eyebrows, and he goes, Catchy. Can I read it sometime? he said, and for once, I was the one who was surprised. It was sweet of him to ask, you know, and I said, Sure. Then I thought it over for a second, and I said, But I’ll have to ask Cam, first. It’s his script, too, and Knox looked at me: Of course, he said, sitting upright again.
He sighed again, still staring straight ahead. Honestly, Knox has about as many varieties of sighs as Eskimos have for the word for snow. And then, completely out of the blue, Knox goes, Thea, tell me about your dad. I was like, What? And he goes, I asked about your father, and I said, Speaking of love stories that end in death, you mean? No, he said. No, because you never mention him. Yeah, well, what was your first clue? I said. Go on, he said, tell me what happened. Okay, well… I sighed. Let’s see, I said. Once upon a time, he was a prick, and that’s it in a nutshell, pretty much. I shrugged, nothing else to add, and Knox goes, Yes? He wasn’t asking for his job, he was asking because he truly wanted to know, and no one besides Cam ever really asked me anything genuine anymore, so I told him.
He left my mom for his secretary, I said, feeling angry all over again. Seriously, Knox, who does that? Men who buy sports cars and have comb-overs, that’s who, and Knox goes, Does he have a comb-over? I go, No, he has good hair, actually. But he does have a sports car and a wife who’s half his age, I said, before pointing my finger down my throat: gag. Knox didn’t say anything; he just looked out his window. My mom was such a mess, too, I said. And you? he said, and I said, And me what? He goes, How were you? And when he said that, so many things came to mind, but all I could say was, Not good. I’m sorry, Thea, he said.
I just nodded, pursed my lips. Finally, I said, Why are you sorry? You didn’t do anything, and Knox goes, Don’t have to do a thing to be sorry, do you? Guess not, I said. Men are just so fucked up, I said, and it was stupid, but it’s true. Knox raised a brow at my language, but I’m sorry, that’s how I really feel sometimes, and then he said, Thea. He started to say something else, then he dropped it. Instead, he said, When was the last time you two spoke, you and your dad? I said, Four months and two years, actually: Christmas, 2008. Thea, he said, and I go, What? He had this paternal look on his face, too, and then he goes, Well, I don’t know, but he is your father. I go, You should remind him of that, not me. He didn’t say anything for a minute. Then he goes, So why don’t you tell me how it is? I go, Knox, he didn’t call to wish
me a Merry Christmas; he called to tell me that his new wife was pregnant. Knox balked: Two years ago? Yes, I said. And did she have the baby? he said. Apparently, I said, because he sent a birth announcement. Boy or girl? he asked, and I said, Don’t know. I never opened the envelope, and just then, we reached my house, our building. Well, Knox said, pulling up, under our apartment, not knowing what else to say: here we are. I looked up, seeing the light on, and I go, Thanks, and I got out. I waited outside our front door, waving Knox off, and then I turned back around and sat down on the top stair.
I didn’t want to go inside, so I sat there, watching cars drive by on the highway. You know, I remember our old house, our old life, all the time. I try not to, because it hurts, but without even closing my eyes, I can still see every room in our house, and I remember exactly how my room looked when I woke up in the morning, how the living room looked at sunset. I remember falling in love with light, there, sitting on the couch in the living room, trying to draw the window or a chair.
I know my mom feels the same, even if she never says anything. I mean, I don’t understand when I see women talk about starting over on TV, like it’s this big adventure, this new chapter of life, right? Because they make it sound so easy to start over, but when it’s just me and mom at night, eating dinner on the couch, watching TV in that dinky little apartment, it’s like we haven’t started over, we’ve false-started. Like we started running, but we got called back, and now we’re just waiting for something to fire the gun again.
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 14, 2011
(SEVEN WEEKS EARLIER)
1:47 PM
I can’t even believe I’m saying this, but for once in my life, I loved Valentine’s Day. Honestly, long as I live, I’ll never forget it, because we had this snowstorm, and it dumped like three feet in two days, so we got the day off from school. Cam called me at six thirty—it might’ve even been six, he was so excited to go out and play. I’m in bed, cocooned in my covers, half-asleep, so my voice cracks. Hello? And he goes, Snow day! Thee, isn’t that the best Valentine’s you can imagine? Let’s go play in the snow! And I go, I’ve got a better idea. Let’s play in bed—let’s play the sleeping game, huh? And he goes, I’m on my way, and I was just like, Ohmygod, what am I going to do with you? Cali boy had never had a snow day before he moved to Fort Marshall, so it was like Christmas to him.
So he came right over, after we hung up, and we made French toast and screwed around for a while, watching Battlestar Galactica. After I got dressed and bundled up, we drove to this abandoned parking lot halfway between my house and town. There was no one there, and the parking lot and the field beyond, it looked like it was a mile long, mile wide, covered in three feet of snow. Just a powder-white sky, powder-white ground, and this curtain of snowflakes. I reached for my camera, and I looked at Cam, like, Isn’t that the most beautiful thing? He grinned, nodding, then he goes, Virgin, the smart-ass, and I slapped him with the back of my hand, Be quiet.
Cam brought Karen’s car, her new Audi, because it has four-wheel drive and obviously he can’t drive his car in these conditions. When we got in the car, I took a deep breath, inhaling that new-car smell, and I was like, I remember that smell, I remember having new cars, and the snow was still coming down, hard, but it was amazing. It was like our town was in one of those snow globes, with these huge, fluffy flakes, and dry, not slushy and gross. It was so quiet out, just the two of us, and it felt like we had the whole world all to ourselves, and the world was such a beautiful place, I didn’t even recognize it.
So we parked and got out and we had a snowball fight and made snow angels, and then, after we drank the hot chocolate I brought. We were sitting in the car, warming up, and then Cam looked at me and goes, You ready to go skating? I was like, Now you want to go skating? I said, I haven’t been on skates since I was, like, ten. I don’t even know if I can stand up on skates anymore, and he goes, Not a problem. We’ll stay seated, he said, then he rolled down all four windows, and I was like, Cam, what are you doing? Just lean back, and enjoy, he said, so I pushed my chair back, and I got all comfy. Then he goes, Ready? I was laughing, still no idea what he was about to do, and I was. Am I ready? I barely got the word out when he floored it—he hit the gas, gunning for the middle of the parking lot, and I started screaming, and he turned the wheel, hard as he could, whipping a kitty or doughnut, whatever they’re called, and then he took his foot off the gas, and the car just started gliding across the parking lot.
It was so great, because we couldn’t hit anything, and there was just enough ice on the ground that he was able to keep spinning around, and we kept running into these waves of powder, just crashing into the car. It was the best amusement park ride I’d ever been on, like playing bumper cars with the clouds, so I grabbed my phone and took some video, because it reminded me so much of those old sleds, carriage sleds or whatever they were called. We car-skated for maybe an hour, then he stopped. My face and my neck and hat were sopping, and I was like, Oh, man, Karen’s going to be so pissed her new car’s soaking, but then Cam stopped, and he turned off the car. He held his finger to his lips and he goes, Listen, and I held my breath, listening, and all you could hear were the flakes, falling, so sweet and warm, just the faintest tinkle.
He reached over and took my hand, and I looked out my window, and the world looked so white, so pure, and I turned back, grinning, because he was watching me. I go, What are you thinking? And then he mouthed it: I love you. He mouthed the words, and I said, Don’t tease, and I threatened to point my camera at him, if he didn’t stop. But then he didn’t stop, just the opposite: Cam leaned closer and said, I’m not—I’m not teasing. So I hit video and I said, Then tell me again, for the record, Cam, and he said it again. Well, he mouthed it again, and I got up real close, like I was going to kiss him with my phone. Then he said it out loud: I. Love. You.
FRIDAY, MAY 6, 2011
(THIRTY-TWO DAYS LATER)
7:42 AM
When someone disappears, when someone you love vanishes into thin air, you imagine the worst, while trying to hope for the best. And it’s exhausting—it’s so fucking exhausting. It’s not like grief—when my grandpa died, I remember how I cried and cried. But at least you can cry, because you know they’re dead. But when someone disappears, you’re just stuck in limbo, getting jerked all around all day, all night, awake, asleep, same difference. Every sound, every single time a phone rings or a car drives by or a door opens, I think: It’s Cam! He’s back! But it’s not him; he’s still gone; he’s still missing. Then you have to start all over again, so every morning, I take it from the top, asking myself: Who am I? Where am I? What day is it? How do I do this?
So I cover my eyes for a moment, letting my mind fill up like a tub, and piece by piece, things fall into place: bed; bedroom; morning; sunlight; awake in bed, and, finally, Thea: my name is Thea. The thing is, of course you don’t know who you are anymore, when you wake up, when you get out of bed, and every time you blink your eyes, all day long, because that person who’s gone, he took part of you with him. Maybe even the best part, and who knows if you’ll ever see either of you again, you know? I know it must sound silly or inane, whatever, but how do you live in the present when the best place you’ve ever been is in the past? I’m serious, why would you want to be here, now?
Mom started knocking on my door, making sure I was up, and I said, I’m awake, but she didn’t hear me, so she banged, Are you up? And I go, I’m awake! And she goes, That’s more like it, and I heard her walk to the kitchen. Thank god she leaves me alone, pretty much, but I can see it in her eyes, that she remembers how much of this is beyond my control. A rite of passage that’s just not right; there’s nothing right about this passage: she knows it; she understands. And she cuts me and my lip a lot of slack, too. Sometimes. I mean, it was a long time ago, but she was me once. Fifteen, at least.
But what I see, that look I see in her eyes isn’t disappointment, or anger, or even sadness, it’s resignation. That’s what it is: m
y mom’s resigned herself. Because, stupid as it may be, she couldn’t help hoping that we’d be different, the two of us, that we’d be the exception to the rules of nature. She always hoped we’d be like those shiny mothers and daughters, living out those glossy lives that slip through your fingers like the pages of the magazine in which they appear. And the trick is, you can touch, but you’re never touched back. And I would say it, too. I mean, there are times I would tell her how sorry I am, but that’s not what Mom wants, that’s not what she’s looking for.
No, she’s just looking through the telescope of time, seeing us, here and now, as we really are, sad, but true, and at the same time, she’s wondering how it’s possible that only yesterday she was me, wearing a punk shirt, itching for a fight with her mother. And now, in a flash, here she is, on the receiving end of the glare and rolled eyes, just another lonely woman, known to run for her phone, hearing a text message, only to discover it’s the public library, calling to say the Suze Orman book she reserved has been returned, she can pick it up anytime. Cruel.
After I got dressed, I heard her humming to whatever she was listening to, singing along, and I knew the song. It took me a minute, but I knew it: Angel came down from heaven yesterday, she stayed with me just long enough to rescue me… Hendrix. Mom’s big on Hendrix before work—she calls it soul power—as if that’ll help her get through the day, and I guess it does. But me, I couldn’t seem to move, and listening to her sing, I thought, You have such a pretty voice, Mom. I almost said it, too, called out, until I realized I was standing there, with my mouth open. No: I shook my head no, heading to the living room. I put on my jacket and opened the door to leave, but Mom called me, stepping into the living room, holding a tea towel in her hands, with this look like I’d forgotten to do something.
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