by Sarah Dessen
“Sounds great,” I said to him, ripping open the pack and handing him the book. “Let’s start with the first one.”
So we did. Each day he came to visit I’d find him waiting for me at one of the small tables by the window, the book beside him, cards shuffled. We had started with Crazy Eights, worked through Spit and War, and had just begun Gin Rummy. We were O’Korens, of course, so we kept score and played for points as well as pride. But sometimes, I’d look up from my cards and find him watching me with an expression of such sadness on his face that it almost broke my heart.
The first day Boo came, she brought a stack of my photographs and a bagful of vegan carob-chip cookies, which I ate as she regaled me with stories from our photography class exhibition at the Arts Center.
“Your mother won a special award,” she told me, “because everyone had a head in her pictures. We all applauded.”
“I can’t believe I missed it,” I said. During my two-day weeping binge, I’d even cried about that: I’d worked so hard for that exhibition. During the last few weeks with Rogerson, it was the one thing that had kept me going. Now, no one would ever get to see all the hard work I’d done.
She brushed cookie crumbs off her hands. “I brought you something else, too,” she said, digging into her huge giraffe-printed bag to pull out something wrapped in bright blue cloth, placing it gingerly in my lap. “No pressure,” she said. “Just if you get inspired.”
I knew even before I was done unwrapping the cloth that it was my camera. She’d polished it, replaced my ratty lens cap, and included five rolls of film. Everything I needed.
“I don’t know,” I said. Seeing my camera made the past six months come rushing back: the solace I’d sought in the darkroom. Corinna smiling at me as I took shot after shot on the front porch. Rogerson glowering against that gray sky. And that picture that I’d shredded, its ripped pieces still sitting in my desk drawer.
“No pressure,” she said again. “Just wait and see.”
Stewart and Rina came to visit me also. Stewart told me stories about his wild days and always brought me something wonderful to eat: fresh mangoes, Fakin’ Bacon and scrambled tofu, still warm.
The first time Rina came to visit me, I walked into the solarium to find her sitting on a folding chair, nervously swinging one crossed leg across the other. She was in cutoff jeans and a tank top, attracting the wistful stares of Robert, the depressive, and Alan, who had a little problem with fires, who were playing Parcheesi a few tables over.
“Hey,” she said as I came over, sitting down beside her.
“Hey.”
She swallowed, hard, then blurted out, “I understand if you hate me. I almost didn’t even come here today.”
“Rina,” I said. “Why would I hate you?”
She looked at me. “I didn’t know that’s why you wanted to leave that night at the lake. If I’d known—”
“No one knew,” I said. Again, this was easier. Another draw. “It’s nobody’s fault.”
“Like hell. We all know whose fault it is.” She shook her head, angry now: Rina loved a cause. “That bastard. If he shows his face anywhere near me, I swear to God I’ll...”
I took a deep breath. There was still some small part of me that missed Rogerson, as crazy as that was. “Let’s not talk about him, okay?” I said. When she glanced at me I added, “I mean, I do a lot of that in here already. You know?”
She sighed, still huffy, and nodded her head. “Okay. Fine. What do you want to talk about?”
I pulled my legs up underneath me. “Anything. Gossip. Dirt. Fill me in.”
She grinned, raising her eyebrows. “Cheerleading or general?”
“Both.”
“Okay,” she said, dropping her purse, kicking off her sandals, and getting comfortable. My best friend, Rina. I hadn’t even realized how much I’d missed her. “Listen to this.”
Some days were good. I’d make a decent lanyard in crafts, perfect the mayonnaise-relish ratio for the potato salad in the group kitchen, beat my father at Rummy, and sleep thickly through the night and wake up feeling rested, changed, like things were actually getting better.
But other days I thought about Rogerson, wondering where he was or what he was doing. I kept the necklace he’d given me in its box, buried in my bottom drawer. It was the one thing I had left of him, and sometimes I’d just pull it out and hold it, sliding it through my fingers. I wondered if he ever thought of me, and hated the pang I felt when I told myself he didn’t.
I wouldn’t blame my parents, or Rina. I was even getting that much closer to not blaming myself. So it should have been easy to finally lift that heaviest of weights and place it squarely where it belonged, on Rogerson. But this, even on the good days, was hard.
After all that had happened, how could I miss him? But I did. I did.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I’d been at Evergreen less than a month when my mother brought me a pile of mail from home. A flier about the SATs, a stack of homework assignments from school, a catalog from a cheerleading supply company, trying to sell me barrettes with my school colors. And, at the bottom, two letters. One from Corinna, one from Cass.
“She’s been worried about you,” my mother said as I turned the envelope, addressed in Cass’s clean script, in my hand. “I don’t know who the other one is from.”
I waited until she was gone before I went to that bright hallway, sat down with my back to one of the windows, and opened Corinna’s letter first. I’d never seen her handwriting before, the letters small and curly, like a child’s hand. She’d written in purple ink, on hotel stationery: The Red Rambler Inn, Tucson, Arizona.
Dear Caitlin,
By now, I guess you know that I decided to make my wild escape from both Applebee’s and David. It was easier than I thought it would be. Between the power always getting turned off and our constant diet of Ramen noodles, things were getting less and less romantic. I do miss him, though. I’ve thought about him a lot on this long drive, and about you too. I hope you don’t think I’m a bad friend for not telling you I was going. I just didn’t want to leave you with a bunch of questions to answer.
You were a good friend to me, Caitlin. Without the good times we had I don’t think I would have even made it to the spring.
My little car is still holding up, although things got a bit touch and go there in Tennessee. I’ve still got my eye on California, but Arizona and New Mexico have been interesting. There’s something peaceful here, like that time of night at home in the spring and summer, when the days get long and it seems like it’s twilite forever. It’s like that all the time, here. I know you understand what I mean.
When I get to California I’m going to have my picture taken standing on some big cliff, with the ocean behind me. I’ll send one to you.
I miss you a lot, and I hope you’re not mad at me. When I land someplace for good, I’ll send an address.
With much love, always,
Corinna
I folded the letter carefully, sliding it into its envelope. I could just see her trucking along in the Bug, nursing it through radiator problems and its popping muffler, with California in her sights. I was still wearing her bracelets: They were the one thing I’d had on Fool’s night that I wanted to keep, and I never took them off, not even in the shower. Whenever I missed her, all I had to do was lift my hand and listen as they fell.
Cass’s letter was harder. I didn’t open it up that day, or the next. It sat on my desk, all by itself, and when I was alone in the room I made my bed over and over again, or straightened my sock drawer, glancing at it every few seconds. It was the first thing I saw when I walked into the room, and more than once I almost just ripped it into pieces.
“What are you afraid of?” Dr. Marshall asked me as I chewed Jolly Ranchers and glowered out the window. “What do you think she’ll say?”
“I don’t know,” I said, and this was the truth. “Probably the same thing everyone’s said: That what happ
ened to me was somehow her fault, that she feels responsible.”
“Would that be bad?”
I grabbed another Rancher, ripping off the plastic wrapper. “Yes. Because I’m tired of that. Everyone can stop feeling guilty now, okay? It’s not helping me.”
Dr. Marshall considered this, studying her hands.
“But what bugs me most,” I added, “is what she’s probably thinking.”
“Which is ...” Dr. Marshall said, sticking her pen behind her ear, “... what?”
I pulled my knees up to my chest—defensive stance, as they called it in group. “It’s just that I’ve always been the weaker one, the less talented. The perennial second-place also-ran. The more likely to screw up. And now, with this, I’ve, like, totally proved it. To her, and to everyone.”
“Caitlin,” she said, taking her own Rancher out of the bowl and laying it on the arm of her chair, “we’ve discussed quite a bit that being a victim does not make you weak.”
“I know,” I said. This, too, though, was hard to learn.
“And from what you’ve told me about your sister, she doesn’t sound like the kind of person who would judge you that way.”
“Of course not,” I snapped. “She doesn’t judge anyone. She doesn’t do anything wrong. She’s perfect in every way.”
Dr. Marshall raised her eyebrows, then picked up the Rancher on her chair and unwrapped it, not saying anything. The crinkling of plastic seemed to go on forever, with neither of us talking.
“Perfect people,” she finally said, “live in picket-fenced houses with golden retrievers and beautiful children. They always smell like fresh flowers and never step in dog doo, or bounce checks, or cry.”
I rolled my eyes at her, cracking my Rancher in my mouth.
“They also,” she went on, “don’t run away with no explanation. They don’t leave their families with questions that aren’t answered, and make their parents worry, and leave their younger sister to try and hold everything together.”
I swallowed, hard, and looked out the window again.
“Your sister’s not perfect, Caitlin. In fact, I’m willing to bet that if you take time to think about it, you might find you have more in common right now than you ever thought possible.”
Since our first session, Dr. Marshall had been trying to convince me that things weren’t my fault. That Cass leaving had led me scrambling to fill her place for my parents, which was impossible because I was me, not her, so instead I’d tried to be everything she wasn‘t, which led me right to Rogerson. She’d told me it was all right to be mad at Cass. That it didn’t make me a bad sister any more than her leaving—and leaving me to deal with her absence—made her one.
So now I thought about Cass, and all the reasons she might have had to do what she did. Maybe they were the same ones that Corinna had as she stood by the highway in Tennessee, coaxing her little Bug to take her that much closer to the West Coast. Dreams, and plans, and a stark desire to change your life, all on your own. I wanted that too, but I didn’t want to have to run away to do it.
After my session, I went back to my room, where Ginger was just leaving for crafts class. We’d done macaroni mosaics the week before, and were just about to jump full-throttle into clay sculpting. Ginger had been through this before, and had two lumpy, lopsided ashtrays she kept on her part of the windowsill to show for it.
“You coming?” she asked me. “I heard we can make bird feeders this year. Big rehab fun!”
“I’ll be there in a minute,” I told her. “Save me a seat, okay?”
She nodded, shutting the door behind her, and I went to my desk and picked up Cass’s letter, feeling its small weight in my hand. Then I put it back on the desk. Picked it up again.
Stupid, I thought. It’s Cass, Caitlin. Just open it.
The letter was folded neatly, and fell into my hand when I ripped the envelope open. Cass’s careful script filled line after line, my name written big at the very top of the page.
Caitlin,
I don’t even know where to start this letter. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned in the last few months, it’s that sometimes you just have to close your eyes and jump. So here goes.
I haven’t been really proud of myself this year, with everything that’s happened. But I don’t regret leaving, or making the choice I did. Maybe you’ll never understand this, but in a way it was a relief to know when I walked out that door that I was letting everyone down. I’d spent so much of my life working hard to make Mom and Dad happy, to be what everyone thought I should be. Coming here was like starting from scratch, and scary as it is sometimes, I like it.
I’ve been thinking a lot the last few days about that time when we were kids and I cut your face with that stupid shovel. Remember? I think you know I always cringe when I look at that scar over your eyebrow, blaming myself for something I can’t change. It’s funny. I don’t even remember doing it.
Do you remember how Stewart and Boo took care of us that time that Aunt Liz died? (You might not—you were only about four or five.) I remember Mom had bought us a bunch of new toys to keep us out of their hair: a Play-Doh factory, books, puzzles, new Barbies for each of us. I was running around playing with everything at once, ripping open boxes and half-assembling puzzles before losing interest and moving on to the next thing. I remember that Stewart was exhausted, trying to keep up with me, and finally—I remember this so well, it’s like it is burned in my mind—he sighed, so tired, and glanced over at you, so I did too. And there you were, sitting quietly on the rug with your Barbie in your lap, quietly concentrating on reading a book. You were just so still, and focused, and I remember that was the first time I envied you that, too.
You used to tell me-jokingly-that you hated me for being “perfect.” But it wasn’t easy, Caitlin, to always have Mom and Dad’s expectations weighing so heavily. You were always able to make your choices based on you and what you wanted, nothing else. And as this summer ended, I realized that Yale was the last place I’d be able to do that. Up here, away from everyone’s notions, I can be whatever I want. And that’s crucial to me now.
I’ve been crying off and on ever since I heard what happened to you. From that day at Boo and Stewart’s to right now, you’ve always been able to make your own choices: some good, some bad. But they’re yours. And during this time we’ve been apart, it’s you I’ve thought of when I’m at my weakest, and you who have pulled me through.
Please write me back if—or when—you’re ready. And always remember how much your crazy sister loves you.
Cass
I read the letter three times before I folded it and stuck it in my desk drawer. Then I reached over it, farther back, my fingers exploring until they pulled out the tiny plastic bag where I’d put the pieces of my own picture after I’d ripped it up. I shut the drawer, and dumped the bag out onto the smooth surface of my desk.
It was strange, but I didn’t remember that day at Stewart’s. It’s funny how someone’s perception of you can be formed without you even knowing it. All along, my sister had been able to make out her vision of my present, and future. I only wished she’d once turned my head and made me see it as well.
The ripped pieces of the photograph were small, but I could still catch a bit of my skin here, or a slice of background, there. I spent a few minutes turning them all right side up, like the way you start a jigsaw puzzle, getting everything in order. Then I picked out a corner piece, smoothing its edges, and taped it carefully to the back cardboard cover of one of Ginger’s discarded crossword books.
I can be whatever I want, and that’s crucial to me now. I found another corner piece, this one the opposite diagonal, fastening it the same way.
It’s you I’ve thought of when I’m at my weakest, and you who have pulled me through. The third corner was the biggest piece yet, almost an inch long.
Remember how much your crazy sister loves you. I found the last corner, taping it in place, then sat back and looked at my work.
Four edges, like the face of a picture frame waiting to be filled in. I scooped the rest of the pieces back into the bag. I’d do the rest of the puzzle bit by bit, day by day. I’d take my time, being patient, and watch the images as they came into being right before my eyes.
Dr. Marshall said I shouldn’t expect to forget anything about Rogerson, and in a lot of ways I didn’t want to. At night, when I dreamed, it was his face I saw more than any other. Sometimes he was just out on the fringes of some complicated dream, leaning against the BMW, like he’d waited for me outside of cheerleading practice all those afternoons. Other times it was only him, his face right up close to mine, angry and red, ready to lash out at any second. Those were the dreams I woke up from sweating, the covers tangled around my legs, my hair damp and sticking to the back of my neck, panicked at not recognizing the room around me. Ginger was always sleeping soundly in the next bed, breathing through her nose in tiny gasps, and I’d close my eyes and concentrate on that sound until I fell back asleep.
But, strangely, the worst dreams I had about Rogerson were the ones he wasn’t in at all. Instead, I was always trying to get someplace to meet him, with so many obstacles thrown in my way. Sometimes they made sense, like pushing through body after body in the hallway, running for the turnaround. Other times it was more surreal: my legs just wouldn’t work, there was some long, involved sub-dream involving a baby who wasn’t really a baby, or I had to make sandwiches but couldn’t find any bread. They would have been funny, these dreams, except for the ongoing, steady sense of panic that I felt, knowing he was waiting for me. It built like a fist closing around my neck and I’d shake myself awake, heart beating, only to doze back off and pick up in the same place, again.
