Ghost Time

by Courtney Eldridge

  Let me ask you this, he said, and I could tell he was changing the subject, but whatever. Why does this girl go back in time instead of forward? Got this one, Mel, I said. There are lots of reasons why she goes back in time, but, mostly, because that’s the only direction she can go. The only way you can get somewhere that’s never been is with art, so she has to make art or go back in time, maybe both, we’ll see! Honestly, until that moment, I didn’t even know how much that picture with Cam truly meant to me, but I know now.

  Because The Future Is Unwritten! I said, clapping my hands, grabbing my phone from my bag. I had the picture—I showed Knox the picture of me and Cam, standing in front of the Joe Strummer mural on his birthday. Mel goes, Show me! Show me, Thee—what are you doing, showing my dad first? I laughed and said, Mel, I only showed him first because he was closest, but she was right, so I jumped over and showed her. It was only then that it dawned on me that I’d never offered to show her a picture of Cam. And I felt terrible about that, too. I mean, she never asked, but I never offered. I guess because I felt like I was always looking at pictures of him.

  Here, I said, holding the camera up for her. And she inhaled so deep, like she was flapping her face, unable to breathe, excited, and she goes, Ohmygod, Thea! Cam is so cute! I laughed, blushed. Part of me was like, Oh, here we go again, even my own best friend is going to wonder what he’s doing with me, so let’s be done with it, already. But then part of me was just giddy. I said, Yeah, he is really cute, isn’t he? When I say cute, I mean really fucking cute, like I just want to eat him up! I said, bobbling my head, cooing at the picture of us, and immediately, I feel a flare up in the corner: Knox telling me to watch my language. I was just like, This is our world, our domain, Knox, you want in or not? I didn’t say that, because there was no point: you know he wouldn’t have known how to answer. Did he want to be included in our world, really? Maybe. Gee, sounds good on paper, honey, but… I’m sorry, but dads and their cafeteria-style intimacy, you know? When I watch Knox, I get it, though. He just doesn’t have a clue. Anyhow.

  Then Knox goes, Hey, you two, what do you say about going to get something to eat? Mel goes, No, thanks, and he goes, I didn’t have a chance to shop, and Mel goes, Not again, and he said, So we’ll pick something up before we take Thea home, and I just looked at her, and I looked at Knox, and he goes, What? I shook my head, never mind.

  We got in, got Mel situated, pulled out, and Knox started to say something, and Mel goes, Here we go, and Knox goes, I know it’s nothing fancy, but how’s McDonald’s sound? And I just shrugged, like, whatever, it’s up to you guys, but then Mel goes, No. I turned around to look at her, and Knox looked at her in the rearview. And I said, What’s wrong? She goes, Never mind, and she sighed this heavy sigh. Knox looked at me, and I shrugged, like, I don’t know.

  So we got to the drive-in, and Mel goes, Thee, I want you to tell my dad something. I turned and looked back at her, because she hadn’t said anything the whole way, and I was like, What’s up? And she goes, I want you to tell him that I’m a vegetarian. Knox looked at her in the rearview again, and he goes, What’s up? He could tell, so I told him: There’s something you should know about Melody. He goes, Sounds serious, and I said, It is. To Mel, I said, and Knox goes, All right. Let’s hear. Then he turned to face her, and he said, Let’s have it. I sighed, and then I spit it out: Mel’s vegetarian, and Knox laughed, and he goes, She’s what? So I told him, I said, She’s vegetarian. She doesn’t eat meat—wouldn’t if she had any choice, I said.

  He looked at me, he looked at her, and he chuckled, then he goes, You got to be kidding me, vegetarian, turning back around, facing front. No how, no way: capisce? he said, turning back to look at Melody again. Then Mel goes, Ohmygod, seriously, Dad? You’ve never noticed? Tell him—Thea, tell him, she said, and I go, Knox, why do you think she throws the worst fits when you’re feeding her? What are you feeding her? And he goes, She throws fits every night for god’s sake, and I go, Because you force her to eat meat every night! Didn’t it ever occur to you? I asked, and his mouth fell open. Finally, in this stern dad voice, he goes, No. No, it didn’t. And she needs the protein.

  I said, Please, you can get protein in other ways, and he goes, Not in my house you can’t. I said, Knox, Mel believes in reincarnation: she believes people can come back as animals, and if you eat them, who knows who you’re eating, and he goes, This has gone too far—this, is this your doing? And I said, My doing? No. And she’s been on my case, too, so I’ve quit eating all red meat, and I’m thinking of giving up chicken, too. Maybe just fish. He goes, Oh, so people can’t come back as fish in the next life, and I go, She’s right: everyone agrees it’s terrible for the environment. Knox goes, No, everyone does not agree: I do not agree. Then the girl came on the intercom to tell us our total and Knox pulled through, paying for his food.

  I didn’t say anything until he pulled out and parked, then I go, Just don’t ever say I didn’t tell you. And don’t say you don’t know how she feels. And most of all, don’t kill the messenger and eat me in my next life, I said, looking back at Mel, and she goes, Meat is murder, and I nodded, Such a great album, right? What’s that? Knox said, shoving a bit of bun in his mouth. Mel goes, Meat is murder, meaning that she wanted me to translate, so I said: Meat is murder, Mel says, and Knox pulled out his drink and took a long sip, not the least fazed. Then Mel goes, Honestly, Thee, I don’t think it’d make any difference if I could talk—I think he’d be just like this, and I go, Totally, and she goes, But, like, are all dads lame or just my dad? And I go, All of them, pretty much. I mean, I’m sure there are exceptions, but I don’t know any, I said, looking back, and in a flash, I saw her. I saw the beautiful Melody, locking her jaw, angry, staring out her window, and it hit me right in my gut. Course Knox knew we were talking about him, but he just finished his burger, before heading to my house.

  Mel’s so funny, though, she started singing, she goes, I am the daughter and heir, of nothing in particular, and I started laughing. Of course Knox goes, What’s funny? And I shook my head, never mind, and he goes, Tell me, and I go, You won’t get it, and he goes, Try me. Mel laughed, and she goes, Yeah, try him, Thee, and I go, Mel was singing, I am the daughter and heir, and Knox waited, like there must be more, and I go, It’s a line from the Smiths: I am the son and the heir, and Mel was singing, I am the daughter and the heir—playing on son, you get it? Knox just looked out his window.

  That night, after they dropped me off, walking upstairs, to our apartment, all I could think was, What could a person do that would be so terrible? I mean, besides, say, killing somebody? I got out my key, opening our door, and soon as I stepped inside, I got a text with a YouTube link. So I went to my room, turned on my computer and typed in the link, and of course it was another video. But for once, it wasn’t a video of me and Cam. No, this time, the reason I started shaking was because someone posted a video of Mel and me, and the whole conversation we’d just had, not even an hour before. It was like someone was in the room with us, like there was a ghost with a handheld camera.

  Except in the video, all you can see is me sitting on the side of Mel’s bed, looking at her, talking to her. I mean, I look like a total lunatic, babbling on with her. The whole time, Mel just sits there, in her chair, her head tilted to the side, and she doesn’t say a word. Because she can’t speak, and we were talking in my head. Watching us like that, I couldn’t breathe, but I sent Knox the link, and he wrote me back, What’s up? I wrote him back and said, Did you look at it? And he said, Look at what? I go, The link I sent you. And he wrote me back, No link, so I went back to check my sent mail, and he was right: there was no link: there was no e-mail. Honestly, I think I’m losing it, I really do.

  SUNDAY, JANUARY 9, 2011

  (TWELVE WEEKS EARLIER)

  7:34 PM

  Without even thinking about it, I still draw my old room sometimes, every detail I can remember. It’s so hard to remember, though, because now I know all the things that I didn’t kn
ow about, and then something in my head clicks, and I don’t feel anything. I just shut down. Honestly, I have to laugh when I think of all the times that my dad called me sensitive, how he was always like, You’re too sensitive. You gotta grow some thicker skin, Thea! And then, one day, I lost it. The night my parents told me they were splitting up.

  Isn’t it strange how you can know something, hearing the phone ring or walking through a door? You feel it, and you just know. I don’t remember what day, but it was November, and it was cold that night, and I remember I had on boots, a scarf, and a hat and gloves, and walking home, I was so pleased with being all bundled up. And I still remember unlocking the front door, and that wave of heat, stepping inside, and then it was like some other light was on. Not the overhead, something else. Because when I closed the front door, behind me, looking up and seeing my mom and dad sitting in the living room, waiting for me to walk in, I knew. It was a trap—they’d set a trap for me in the living room—don’t ask me how, but I knew the moment I laid eyes on them, and all I could say was, No.

  I stood there, between the front hall and the living room, and they both looked at me, waiting for me to come in, so it could begin, and I stared, hoping they’d change their minds. They didn’t, of course, they just kept looking, waiting on me, and then I said it again, louder this time; I said, No. For a second, I thought maybe… maybe I could actually close the door and sneak out. Like maybe if I was fast, faster than sound or light or time, I could stop this from happening, as if I’d triggered everything, walking in.

  Don’t, I said, standing there, in my coat, holding my bag, nodding at them. Don’t do this to me. I don’t want to go, I said. I could hear myself, but I remember that feeling of watching myself, something splitting, and Mom goes, Thee, come in, and I knew she knew, because tears were welling up in her eyes. No, I said, and I turned around, making sure there was no other way out, but there wasn’t. Thea, come sit down, my dad said, but all I could think about was my room: because I grew up in that room. It wasn’t rainbows anymore, it was wallpapered in tons of pictures and drawings—mine, my room. It was my room, and I’d never lived anywhere but there, and it was gone. In that moment, our house was gone, my room was gone, my family, everything I had: gone. Really, how is it possible you’re a family one minute, and then, what, it’s just over? I mean, if family’s so sacred, tell me, how is that possible?

  Standing there, knowing my room was gone… unless you’ve stood there, you can’t say it’s cynical to think families are no different than cars or houses or boats, things that you can buy and sell. They can have expiration dates like anything else, and I felt so sick, figuring that out. Sit down with us, Mom said, patting the seat next to her, on the couch, trying not to cry. No, I repeated, then I looked at my dad, sitting in the opposite chair, leaning forward, staring at his hands. He couldn’t look at me, and I waited, but he wouldn’t dare, coward. I knew everything in that second; it was like I’d read an entire book, and I knew exactly what he did. Somehow, I swear, I even knew who the woman was he was leaving us for. I thought I was going to puke, and I dropped my bag and ran to the bathroom, and I made it just in time, retching.

  Mom came, knocking, asking if I was all right, and when I opened the door, she tried to hug me, and I pushed her away. Don’t touch me, I said, stepping back, and so angry, it was like this fire in me, pushing up from the floor to my ankles, and my ankles to my knees. It kept rising, and she saw it, too, raising her hands and stepping back, hands off. So I went to my bedroom, locked the door, and I stood there, looking around at all these things that I loved so much: all my pictures, my drawings, everything I thought was mine…. It took me a moment, but I knew what I had to do. Then I started tearing it apart, my whole room. The curtains, the bedspread, everything I had, I broke. They were just things, right? Just like us. And that’s when I heard my mom shouting, calling my name. She’d heard me, and both my parents were banging on my door, demanding I let them in. I don’t know how much time had passed, but when I stopped throwing things, when I could hear sound again, I looked around, and my room was a disaster. Broken glass, down feathers, dozens of triangles of tape on the wall, where all the pictures had been ripped…. I snapped back, and I was like, Ohmygod. It was such a mess, I couldn’t believe I’d done that. I really lost it, too. But, honestly, I have to say, looking around, I felt better. I felt like at least one person in our family, what was our family, could still be honest: me.

  My dad kept pounding. That’s all he knew how to do, pound on the door, so I walked over, and I remember feeling so calm as I unlocked and opened the door. I’ll never forget the look on his face, or my mom’s face, seeing what I’d done. He looked like he was going to fall back, and then he stepped forward, shocked, but still demanding an explanation. And I looked at him, thinking, Who are you to look at me that way? Like you don’t know the answer? And then I told him, I said, I hate you.

  We stood there, the three of us, frozen. And then, for the last time, covering his mouth with one hand, he turned to my mother, needing her, and I’ll never forget this, how calmly she said it, just like a mom. She looked at him, and for the last time, she said, I’ll get the broom.

  A few days later, you know what he did? He offered to take me out, and you know where he took me? Chuck E. Cheese’s. He took me to Chuck E. Cheese’s, okay? I mean, just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse, Dad announces he wants to have a father-daughter talk. And of course he didn’t tell me where we were going, either; he just said he had a special place in mind. So when we got there, and he parked up front, my jaw dropped into my lap, watching him unbuckle his seat belt, turning to look at me, like, Surprise! And I was like, Tell me you’re just kidding. Here we are, he said, not kidding, and I go, We who? He goes, I thought we could get something to eat and talk, and I go, Knock yourself out, looking out my window, crossing my arms. Then he goes, Thea, how many times have you begged me to bring you here? He was so proud of himself for remembering the name of the place, and I said, I was six, I’m twelve, Dad. Twelve. All right, he said, sighing, turning back to face the wheel, clearly annoyed. You want to go somewhere else, then tell me where, he said, like I was being the pain in the ass, right.

  Home. Didn’t even think about it, the words came straight to mind: Home, I want to go home, Dad, but it’s not there anymore. I thought it over, and in the end, I was just like, What’s the difference? Let’s just get this over with, I said, opening my door.

  I thought I could do it, too, but when we walked through the door, I wanted to cry. It was awful, beyond awful. Because it was like seven o’clock and the whole place was full of kids, happy kids, running around, chasing each other, spazzing out on sugar and fried food and who knows what else. I just watched the kids, but it was impossible not to think, Enjoy it. Because one day, you might walk through the door and poof! It’ll all be gone, kid. I felt like I should have a T-shirt: My parents went to divorce court, and all I got was dinner at Chuck E. Cheese’s.

  What do you want to talk about? I asked, soon as the waitress brought our drinks, wanting to get the show on the road. Too painful: the whole thing was too painful, so let’s be done with it, right? So my dad takes a deep breath, looking all sorrowful, and he goes, I want you to know you can hate me, but I’m still your father. I mean, so rehearsed and so lame, I was like, Wow, you find that line in a Cracker Jack box, Dad? I said, You what, you’re leaving me and Mom for another woman, and I’m supposed to be like, Oh, good, at least you’re still my father? He goes, Thea, it’s not that simple—. You tell me you’re still my father, and you want to talk about simple? I said, looking away. And at that moment, all these bells and whistles started as a birthday party for twenty-five seven-year-olds got under way, and looking at the night sky, I thought, Lightning bolt, right here: please, just kill me now.

  I pushed my plate away, refusing to touch the food he’d ordered for me. God, I was so angry, I almost started bawling, thinking, This is love? This is your idea of love? Then he s
aid it again, he goes, I’m still your father, and I just rolled my eyes to keep from crying. Thea. Look at me, he said, and I looked at him, glaring, so I wouldn’t cry. He had no right to see me cry. Then he said it again: I am still your father, Thea, and I love you, and I waited until I knew my voice wouldn’t crack. I swallowed and said, Lucky me. Did you hear me? he said. I love you, he said, moving like he was going to take my hands, and I go, Oh, and you know what love means, right?

  The waitress walked over to ask if we needed anything else, and my dad said no, we were fine. Seeing I wasn’t talking, he took a couple bites of his burger, before he set it down, wiping his fingers, individually, with the silly paper napkins. Are you ready to go? he asked, getting out of the booth, pulling out his wallet. Let’s go, he said, dropping a few dollars tip on the table; talk over. Looking outside, at the black sky, I knew that nothing would ever be the same between us again. While in the window, I watched the reflection of children playing, not a care in the world.

  And that was it. Talk over. The funny part is, next day, my parents made me see a shrink. Me. I had to see a shrink. Okay, I went a little bonkers in my bedroom, I get that, but come on, you’re telling me I’m the one who doesn’t know how to communicate? My dad cheats on my mom, leaves her for some twenty-three-year-old, then he takes me to Chuck E. Cheese’s to have the Talk, and I’m the one who needs help?