Ghost Time

by Courtney Eldridge

  It gets better, or worse, she said, and I was just like, No. I go, No, Mom, please don’t, because I knew it was going to be really, really bad, and I said it again, No, and then she said it. The Cod Pieces, that was his other band, she said, and I screeched, Ew, ew, ew! It was so gross, you know, like all I could do was shake my hands, it was so gross, and then I blushed, and Ohmygod, no wonder, you know? No wonder I am the way I am: I never had a chance.

  Now, she said, and I knew she was going to start in again about me and my dad, and I cut her off. I go, Mom, after all he’s done, how can you forgive him? She leaned forward, and grabbed my hand, and she goes, Because I don’t see it as a choice. The way I see it, forgiveness isn’t a choice, it’s a necessity—not for him, for me. Because it’s the only way I will ever truly be able to get him out of my life, she said, and I knew she was about to talk about me, too, why I needed to forgive him, but fortunately or unfortunately, her cell rang. I go, Saved by the dumbbell, knowing it was Rain Man, and I thought she’d go get her phone, but she just let it ring. Because we were talking, and honestly, I was so grateful she stayed with me, that we came first, that I came first.

  I pulled out one of the tapes, ready to make a joke, and then I saw the heart—it was a boy’s writing, my dad’s. He’d drawn this little red heart with his initials and my mom’s initials, and a big arrow through the heart. He used all these different color pens, red, black, purple, blue, and for the songs, the playlist, he wrote out in all these different funky letters, like his own typography, whatever, and the whole playlist was written out: Siouxsie Sioux, Bauhaus, New Order, Love and Rockets, the Cure, the Smiths, Cocteau Twins, Wire—a goldmine. I don’t know why it made me tear up, but it did, because… because I don’t understand why—why my dad… I don’t understand him or why he did what he did. Really, I don’t understand people. And I don’t know what’s happened to my boyfriend or what the hell’s going on and nothing makes sense. For like one moment, one beautiful hour, I loved and I was loved and I believed, heart and soul, and this world was such a good place, and now it was gone.

  Just all of it, everything, it’s too much, you know? And my dad, fuck—ugh, I couldn’t stop crying, and my mom came over, and put her arms around me, and hid my face in her stomach, holding me, while she smoothed my hair. Like we used to be. And I cried.

  Finally, when I stopped, Mom kissed the top of my head, and then she goes, I’ve got something else for you. She went to the bathroom, and I heard her unroll some toilet paper, because I needed to blow my nose, but then she went to her room. I didn’t know what she was doing, but she goes, Close your eyes, so I did. And she came back in, and she said, Hold out your hands, so I did, and then she put something heavy in them, and she told me to open my eyes. When I did, I saw what it was, but I still asked, What is it? It’s a Walkman, she said, shaking her head at me, like, you silly girl, and I said, I know, but—. How else are you going to listen to all these tapes? she said, handing it to me. It was heavier than I thought it would be, and looking at the Walkman’s yellow plastic case, the words got caught in my throat. Finally, I said, Mom, I don’t… I’m sorry, but I don’t want to listen to these, and she smiled, Yes, you do—you might not want to forgive him, but I know you want to listen to these tapes.

  When she said that, I remembered Cam once saying I should forgive him, too. It was after Christmas. We were talking about my dad leaving me another text, and Cam said, Forgive him—not for him, for you. But I nodded no way, and Cam said, Thee, what if I did something? I cut him off: You aren’t my dad—you aren’t anything like him, Cam, and he goes, But what if I did something terrible, would you still love me? I said, Always. I’ve always loved you, and I always will, and he goes, Promise? And he took my pinkie finger in his and I swung our fingers: Promise, I said. Mom looked at me, waiting to hear what was on my mind, and I just shook my head no, nothing.

  I go, Mom, he hadn’t even talked to me in a year and he wanted me put away, and she said, Thea, he didn’t want you to hurt yourself, and he didn’t know what else to do—neither of us did. I said, Oh, please: he didn’t want me to hurt myself, but he didn’t seem to care how bad he hurt me, did he? She couldn’t argue with that, but she still found a way. She goes, Thea, I’m sorry to say this, but the truth is, you aren’t hurting him half as much as you’re hurting yourself by not forgiving. I go, I’m not, Mom, I’m not hurting at all, and she goes, Oh, but you are, baby. You are—just because you can’t feel it now doesn’t mean a thing. Make your peace. I know it’s hard to know how or where to begin, but you got to try, she said, walking over, putting her hand around my head. For you—not for him, for you, she said, and then I hid my face in her stomach again, because I felt so… angry.

  Thea, try to understand, she said, meaning about my dad, right, but I snapped at her, Mom, that’s all I do! All day long, I try to understand! Really, how could she even say that to me? And she goes, I know, I know, I’m sorry. Just listen, then. Try to listen, whenever you don’t understand, and I got so annoyed with her all over again for saying that. Then she goes, Make your peace, Thee, and if you can’t do that—if you can’t make your peace, call a truce, and I go, What if I can’t call a truce? And she goes, Baby, you can do anything you put your heart to, then she took my face in her hands and she pulled my chin up and said, I love you. She kissed my forehead, and each of my eyes, and then she went to her room, closing the door, leaving me alone with the Walkman and a box of mixed tapes.

  THURSDAY, OCTOBER 7, 2010

  (SIX MONTHS EARLIER)

  3:57 PM

  The first time it happened, the first time that time stopped, was in the woods. Cam offered to give me a ride home from school, maybe the third time we met after school, and when we got in his car, he was about to turn the ignition, and then he stopped and he looked over and he goes, Can I show you something? He said it wouldn’t take long, and we didn’t have to stay. Think of it as a field trip, he said, and I go, A field trip? He goes, A surprise, how’s that? I started to ask him where we were going, and then I decided it didn’t matter, because I wanted to stay with him as long as possible.

  And I’m not even into cars, really, but Cam’s car is so bitchin’, I literally had to bite my tongue to keep from giggling, getting in. Seriously, I was trying to play it off, hard as I could, but I couldn’t help myself: I felt so fucking cool. Trust me, that never happens. I mean, when he pulled out of the parking lot, I had the strangest feeling, and I didn’t know what it was at first. Sort of like when you feel a swelling in your throat, and you touch your neck thinking, Am I getting sick? Except I wasn’t getting sick, I was just… happy. I didn’t care where we were going until we pulled down a dirt road that I knew, heading to this place in the woods. When we got to the end of the road, Cam parked and he goes, I wanted to bring you here, Thea. Right here. Why? I said, looking around, and Cam said, Something I want to show you. Two minutes, he said, seeing the look on my face, because I’m not really into the woods. Two, he said, holding up both fingers. That’s all I ask, he said, and then I opened my door, getting out of the car. I followed him down the path, and there was a view of the river.

  We walked for about five minutes, and then he stopped, finally. This is it, he said, opening his arms to the view, and I go, This is what you wanted to show me? And he said, I thought you might want to sit and draw for a while. Sit and draw, I repeated, and he goes, I thought you might want to draw something besides men in tights, he said, because I’d been doing all these silly drawings of famous men modeling for American Apparel ads, spoofing, whatever. I said, Why on earth would you think such a thing? He goes, You want to go back? And I shook my head no; We’re here now, I said. You want to keep walking? he asked, and I nodded, fine. Is that a yes? he said, and I smiled: Yes, I said.

  Just over there, he said, pointing at a clearing, down a hill, and then up a couple hundred yards. Up for it? he asked. Okay, I said, following closer behind him, as we made our way down the hill, grabbing old branches to stead
y myself. We made it all the way across what must’ve been a dry riverbed, and just then, I stepped on a patch of wet leaves, and just as I slipped, there were his hands. You okay? he said, holding on, and his grip was so strong. He’s so thin, I never thought about how strong he is. Yeah, I’m fine, thanks, I said, pulling away. But then he didn’t let go of my hand, and everything changed in that moment, seeing the way he looked at me.

  What I remember most was that I had the craziest thought in my head—even for me, it was crazy. Because I remember thinking, He loves me. And he’s always loved me. Like I said, crazy, even by my standards. Really, I met this guy a couple weeks ago and didn’t know him from Adam, but in that moment, I kept thinking, How do I know you? Why do I feel like I’ve met you before? And I knew I loved him, that I’d always loved him, too. Seriously, for the first time in my life, I thought, Wow, I am truly nuts, aren’t I? You okay? he asked, and I said, yeah, fine—thanks, pulling away, looking away as quick as I could. He saw it, though—I could tell he’d read it in my eyes. I think that was the first time it ever really occurred to me how many ways there are to be naked in front of someone. I’m fine, I said, almost snapping at him, caught red-handed.

  It’s there, he said, pointing at an overlook with a couple dry boulders about a hundred feet ahead. All right? Yeah, I’m fine, I said, brushing off my hands, because I didn’t what else to do with them. This is it, he said, taking a seat, and I sat down beside him. The rocks were warm; it felt good, as good as I’d imagined, even. So we sat down and stretched out our arms and legs, like we were making snow angels without snow. Sunset angels, I don’t know what you’d call them, but they were ours to make. Staring at the sky, I couldn’t help imagining the vantage point the trees had, looking down on us, the striped shadows their branches cast.

  I have something for you, Cam said, sitting up, scooching himself back a bit, reaching in his bag, pulling out a small box. What is it? I said, sitting up beside him.

  Open it and find out, he said, laughing at me, like, drrr. So I opened it, wishing he’d quit staring at me, but so grateful he didn’t, and then I took out a tiny box, turning it around to face me. I made it, he said, opening the box, and then he removed a pinhole camera. Thought you might be inspired, he said, but I stared at the camera, not sure what to do. I made it for you, he said, waiting for me to take it, to say something, at least. I don’t know what to say, I said, taking it, furrowing my brow. Not because I didn’t like it; but because I couldn’t remember the last time anyone made anything for me.

  Take some pictures for me, and we’ll be even, Cam said, and at that moment, I wanted him to take it back. I wanted to tell him, Listen, don’t give me anything. It’s just something more I couldn’t stand to lose. Then he shook his head no, just shook his head, looking at me, like, You crazy girl, you don’t understand anything I’m trying to tell you, do you? It’s a gift, he said. Even if you don’t take it, it’ll still be a gift. Thank you, I said, unable to take my eyes off it. But even then I knew we’d never be even, no matter how many pictures I took. Really, how many times does someone give you their hand; catch your fall twice in one day? You ready to head home? he asked, bending his knees, leaning forward like he was ready to stand. For the first time, I spoke my mind, I told him the whole truth: No, I said, not yet, and then I took a picture with his camera.

  When I look at that picture… when I look at his face in the light, I feel Cam’s hand that day, reaching for me, catching me. I feel the blood in my cheeks, seeing him hand me a camera he made for me. I feel him seeing me blush, bright red, and knowing exactly why, how uncomfortable I was to be seen, even though there was nowhere else in the world I wanted to be. I feel my heart, despite myself. But most of all, I feel time stop for the first time in my life. Some people don’t believe photography is art. Then again, some people don’t believe in magic, either. How tragic.

  THURSDAY, JUNE 9, 2011

  (TEN WEEKS LATER)

  11:47 AM

  I was dreaming. I was having one of those dreams where I knew I was dreaming, but I didn’t want to stop, and I was with Cam, and we were laughing, and we were in a field, somewhere warm, and everything was blooming and sunshine…. Then my mom knocked on my door. She was in a mood, I could tell, because she said, Thea, get dressed and come into the living room, and I rolled over, planning to ignore her, when she goes: Now. So I put on some sweats and washed my face, and I could feel people in the living room, with her, but it was quiet. Then, when I walked in, I almost shrieked: it was Foley. Sitting in our living room. The lawyers were there, too.

  When I saw him, in our house, on our couch, it was like: Bam! Like I’d run into a brick wall. What do you want? I said, and Foley goes, Hello, Theadora. Please sit down, he said, returning his attention to the computer, resting on our coffee table, in front of him. Just received this one about an hour ago, Theadora, and I wanted your mother and counsel to see. Then Foley played another video of us, but not a sex video—just us. It was grainy, handheld, Super 8. It was right before sunset, and I was standing in the middle of this huge field of purple flowers, it was like purple shag carpeting, so thick, though, it was up to my ankles. And I was just jumping around, dancing around, rolling around in the flowers, being a complete idiot, and it’s exactly like I imagined it would be, purple clover, wall-to-horizon, smelling like lavender, only sweeter. Lying on my back, I looked up, at the sky, and the sky’s gray, silver gray, like when the sky’s charging, that whole scene looked just like I saw it when Cam described it to me. And then it began raining, pouring down, but so warm, I sat up, and my shirt was getting soaked, and I was just screeching, kneeling, trying to stand in a thunderstorm in the middle of Death Valley. It was 100 percent girl, it was hopelessly sweet and adoring, and there was only person who could have shot that video of me, seen that part of me, and that’s Cam, and I started shaking my head again.

  Even my mom balked, looking at that freaky computer screen of Foley’s, trying to figure out how or when I could have been in Death Valley with Cam; how could that be possible? Foley turned to me and said, When were you in Death Valley, Theadora? I said, I’ve never been to Death Valley. And he said, But that certainly does look like you, and the boy filming it does sound like John Cameron, and the girl who looks like you answers to the name Thea. I said, Foley, how could it be us if we’ve never been there before? Foley clapped his hands together: Bingo, Theadora! Bingo! he said, more animated than I’ve ever seen him. I wanted to puke, it was so gross the way he said that, bingo, I actually felt slimed. That is precisely what I was thinking, Theadora. How could it be you if you’ve never been there before? Perhaps in another life or another dimension, I said, and completely uncharacteristically, Foley perked up, all excited. Really, what was most upsetting was watching Foley beam at me, welling up, hearing my comment. He was telling me something in his own sick way, letting me hover over some psychic landmine, and he was savoring this moment for all it was worth.

  This is what you came for? To show me this? I asked, cocking my chin at his scary black computer. Still seated, Foley practically bounced, clapping one hand on top of the other in his lap, and he said, No. No, thank you for reminding me. The main reason I’m here is that I wanted you to know that we received the results of your blood test, and we’re certain it’s not your blood, he said, and I said, I told you it wasn’t my blood, and Foley smiled. Yes, well. We’ve actually had your test results for some time, but I didn’t want to say anything while we were cross-checking our database, going back quite a few years. What’s most perplexing is that the blood found in Cam’s trunk matches the blood type of a little girl who died over five years ago in a fire in Southern California that was started by a boy named Jeremy Naas, a twelve-year-old arsonist. Which, statistically, is one of the first signs exhibited by serial killers, he said, leaning back, smug as could be. Jeremy Naz, I said, almost laughing, and Foley said, Naas, Theadora. N-A-A-S. The name is German, or in this case, more likely Norwegian in origin, and you know what it
means? Naas means fiery—purely coincidental, I’m sure, if you believe in coincidences. I said, I believe in coincidences, Foley; it’s you I don’t believe.

  He just stared at me, so I stared back, looking at him, like, are you insane? I said, Foley, what are you talking about? And Foley said, Theadora, I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, but the boy you know as John Cameron Conlon was born Jeremy Naas, and he and his mother, Liv, changed their names ten months ago, when Jeremy was released from prison, after serving five years in a juvenile correction facility for the arson of a warehouse building that resulted in the death of a security guard’s four-year-old daughter. Apparently, the guard was a single father, and he had no choice that night but to take his little girl to work with him. No one knew she was sleeping in the man’s office, that he’d locked her inside, to be sure she was safe while he did his rounds, Foley said, twirling his thumbs.

  No. All I could do was say no, no, no…. I don’t believe you, I said, no fucking way. Foley goes, The boy you knew as John Conlon was in a serious lockdown facility, believe it or not, Theadora. And I have to say, it couldn’t have been easy for such a pretty boy, being in prison, and I cut him off: I don’t believe you, I said, not a word. Foley nodded his head, sympathetically, and he said, Maybe not, but doesn’t it make you wonder how much you truly know about the boy, Theadora? Then he pulled a file out of his briefcase, this huge manila file, and he opened it, showing crime scene photos of the warehouse, what appeared to be a little girl’s body, hidden under a white sheet, and I had to look away, disgusted. No, I said, it doesn’t make me wonder. Why should I believe you, anyway? Because I’m here, Theadora, and I have the proof, he said, showing me a picture of Cam, his police photo, headshots. Go on, Foley said, pushing the folder across our coffee table: look for yourself. No, I said, glaring at him, because he was enjoying this. Foley had known all along—he’d been waiting for this moment, telling me, and I felt so, so violent, my hands clenched in fists as I was gritting my teeth.