Afterward

by Jennifer Mathieu

  There’s the sound of the television coming on in the family room and the fizz pop of my mom opening a can. My mom doesn’t drink that much, but who could blame her for having a beer tonight?

  I slide off my parents’ bed and hover in hallway, trying to decide what to do with myself. I could go into the family room and talk to my mom, but I know how it would go.

  ME: Hey.

  MOM: Hey.

  ME: Dad still gone?

  MOM: Yeah, looks like it.

  [LONG PAUSE WHILE DUMB SITCOM WITH FAT HUSBAND AND CUTE WIFE PLAYS ON TELEVISION IN THE BACKGROUND]

  ME: The dinner you made was good.

  MOM: Thanks, sweetie.

  [LONG PAUSE WHILE MOM CHANGES CHANNEL TO DUMB SHOW WHERE WOMEN GET ROSES FROM A DUMB GUY IN A TUX WEARING TOO MUCH HAIR GEL TO BE LEGAL]

  ME: Dylan’s asleep on your bed.

  MOM: Okay, honey, thank you.

  ME: I’m sorry things were … weird tonight.

  MOM: It’s okay … it’s just how they are sometimes.

  ME: Yeah.

  MOM:…

  So instead of going to talk to my mom, I creep into my bedroom and put on my pajamas, the red ones with the little white guitars on them. My aunt and cousin sent them to me from Chicago last Christmas and even though I’m not that into cutesy stuff, when I opened them on Christmas morning I let myself smile and love them right there in front of my parents and everything. They’ve been washed so many times they’re softer than soft. And I don’t even mind that they reek of the cheap detergent my mom uses. The one that tries and fails to smell of flowers and sunshine.

  I crawl into my bed with my phone and fiddle around with it. I could text Emma again, but the idea kind of leaves me empty.

  So I start a text to Ethan.

  How was …

  I delete it.

  What are …

  I delete it.

  Finally I tap in Hope you had a good thanksgiving and hit send before I can think about it too much. It’s not open-ended. If he doesn’t respond, I can just tell myself I wasn’t asking a question anyway.

  I flip over on my back and stare at the ceiling. Ethan and I have played music together four times since I managed to bike over there with my guitar and practice amp a few weeks ago. It’s weird. We don’t even talk that much. I just plug in and we play a little, each one of us figuring out what the other can do. He’s actually really good at the drums. Way better than I am at the guitar, which makes me feel kind of self-conscious.

  Each time I’ve gone over there I’ve stayed one hour, and his mom has come out to the garage about three times. Seriously. One time she came out and watched us play with this hyper excited smile pasted on her face, shifting her glance back and forth from me to Ethan and from Ethan back to me. I got so nervous my fingers slipped like twenty times and I could barely play an A chord.

  “I kind of suck,” I said, after his mom went back inside.

  “No, you’re really good,” Ethan told me. It was the first full sentence he’d said to me that afternoon. I’m pretty sure he was just being nice, but I just said thanks and tried to keep up.

  My phone buzzes from my nightstand, and I grab it. It’s Ethan. My stomach flips a bit. I read his text back.

  Thanks. Hope you had a good thanksgiving too

  I turn over onto my stomach and stare at his words. This is the first time we’ve texted about something other than getting together to play music. He was the one that suggested we exchange numbers so we could figure out good times to play. I wonder if his mom knows I know how to reach him.

  All of a sudden another text from Ethan pops up.

  My grandparents are here from boston. Saw them when I first came home but it was good to see them again

  I guess he wants the conversation to keep going. I like texting in general because it’s the best mixture of being vulnerable and being safe. I can’t even figure out how people communicated before they could text. The idea of having to call on the phone and talk with someone you just met seems so bizarre. But even though Ethan and I are texting, I’m still not sure exactly how to behave.

  Cool you got to see your grandparents. I had some family drama. Now I’m sitting here in my room bored

  As soon as I send it, I suck in my breath and hold it. I’ve probably told him too much and now he thinks I’m strange for revealing family stuff out of the blue. But he texts back again a few minutes later.

  Sorry. What happened?

  Exhaling, I tap the next few words out in a rush before I realize what I’m doing.

  My brother. He wouldn’t eat dinner with us. My dad left like an asshole. IDK

  I bite my lip. It’s like Dylan is this taboo topic between us even if that’s the whole reason Ethan and I started hanging out. Ethan made it pretty clear he didn’t remember much about what happened to my little brother back in May. And anyway, I don’t know if the two of us can keep playing music together if the strange thread that ties us together comes up too often.

  But when Ethan asked what happened, I thought he genuinely wanted to know. And I thought that it might feel good to tell someone who is actually listening.

  Now I’m sure I’ve scared him off, so I text again, trying to undo the damage.

  Hey forget that last text. Let’s change the subject

  Long pause. Even longer pause.

  I sigh and toss my phone toward the bottom of my bed. I shouldn’t have mentioned Dylan.

  Then I hear my phone buzz again. I jump for it with so much enthusiasm I’m embarrassed for myself. Ethan’s texted me back. And he’s changed the subject.

  Hey I listened to the violent femmes today

  Half of my mouth curls up into a smile.

  You like them?

  Better than the white stripes

  Blasphemy

  After that last text slips out into the universe, I worry Ethan is going to think I’m flirting with him or that I like him like that. But I don’t. I’ve never really had guy friends who were just guy friends. Jason McGinty and before him Ryan Huffman and before him Sam Pratt and before him Nick Ortiz weren’t friends. We didn’t talk much. Mostly we just messed around.

  Ethan buzzes back.

  Okay the white stripes are pretty good

  I’m trying to figure out how to respond when he texts again.

  Wanna practice tomorrow?

  I do. Then I remember I have to work.

  I have a part-time job at jackson family farm and I have a shift tomorrow … but I could come over after?

  I watch for the word bubble to pop up, anticipating his next message.

  That’s cool.… what do you do at the farm?

  Well at xmas time I sell wreaths and cranberry jelly and shit like that … the jelly is like 10 dollars a jar

  No shit

  Seriously it is and people pay for it too … whatever

  Weird … well come over after if you want to

  K I will like 3?

  Cool

  That seems like the last text, so I plug my phone into my charger, turn off my bedside lamp, and crawl under the covers. Lying there in the darkness, I listen for Dylan’s cries or the sound of my father walking in the front door or my mother raising her voice at him. When there’s nothing but silence, I allow myself one small smile. Just because there’s no one here to see me.

  ETHAN—187 DAYS AFTERWARD

  I just threw up in my mom’s car. I’ve come close to it before, but this is the first time it’s actually happened. Grilled cheese sandwich. Dr Pepper. Sour cream and onion potato chips. I can see chunks of it all over the floorboard of my mother’s Volvo.

  “Sorry, buddy. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Ethan! Ethan, oh no!”

  “Get on the floor. This is a gun on your neck.”

  “Sweetheart, let me pull over!”

  “Don’t cry. I don’t like crying.”

  “Oh, honey! Ethan, what’s wrong?”

  I wipe my chin with
my fingers. I’m too humiliated to even look at my mom, who’s frantically trying to maneuver her car over to the shoulder.

  “Keep going, mom,” I manage. “Just get to Dr. Greenberg’s. I need to get off the freeway. I don’t want to sit here.”

  She’s crying now, trying to weave back into traffic. The rotten smell of vomit rises up into my nostrils, and I feel myself wanting to gag again. I send the car window down, the rush of traffic zooming over and through me as I hang my head out, anxious for any breath of halfway fresh air.

  My mother is crying hard now, fumbling through her purse for her phone.

  “It was a mistake to let you spend time with her … it’s … too soon … I just…,” she’s muttering, wiping at her cheeks, her eyes darting between me, the road, and her phone.

  I don’t know how to tell her that every ride to Dr. Greenberg’s makes me feel like this. Every ride makes me want to collapse and curl up and barf.

  “I’m sorry I puked,” I say, miserable.

  “I’m the one who should be sorry. I don’t think you should be hanging out with Caroline,” my mother says, her thumb punching a phone number. “It’s too soon for you to have that kind of friendship. And with her, no less.” I can’t tell if Mom is talking to me or to herself, but I squeeze my eyes shut to try and ignore her.

  “Caroline’s not the problem,” I mutter, but I don’t know if she can hear me. I want to scream that the problem is I’m completely fucked up. The problem is this sick guy got a hold of me when I was eleven years old and held me in his closet until I didn’t know when it was morning or night and then he did all kinds of sick shit to me that I can barely remember to the point where I can’t sleep with the lights off even though I’m sixteen years old. That is the problem.

  Not Caroline.

  Another wave of nausea crawls over me, and I white knuckle it until we’re off the freeway and finally find ourselves in front of Dr. Greenberg’s. He’s sitting on the steps of his front porch wearing that soft, relaxed Dr. Greenberg smile, Groovy sitting next to him. I can see his fingers gently scratch Groovy behind the ears. They both stand up as we pull in.

  My mom parks the car and rushes out, meeting Dr. Greenberg halfway up the driveway. I can’t hear what they’re talking about, but I watch as my mother gestures with her hands and wipes tears away from her face. Dr. Greenberg nods, his face still wearing that same chilled out half smile he always wears, his eyes reassuring. I don’t know how he can hear so much messed up shit from people and still smile so much. Still look like everything’s going to be okay.

  Eventually, he makes his way to my open car window.

  “I heard you got sick, Ethan,” he says, all matter of fact.

  “Yeah,” I say. I want to vaporize I feel so awful.

  “Why don’t we go get cleaned up, okay?” he says. “I’ve told your mother she should go get her car taken care of while we talk. Is that okay?”

  My mother is squeezing her hands together and looking at me, her face all panicky. I know she’s not going to leave until I tell her it’s okay. And maybe not even then.

  “It’s okay, Mom. You should go get the car cleaned up.”

  “Ethan, are you sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  After my mom drives away, Dr. Greenberg and I go into his house and he gets me a glass of water, and I step inside a small bathroom to rinse out my mouth and take a few sips. Fortunately, I didn’t get any vomit on my shirt or shorts. Then we head to Dr. Greenberg’s office, and I sink into the couch. Groovy makes his way over and curls up next to me. I don’t have much energy to do anything besides rest my hand on his soft fur, but it helps me feel a little bit better.

  “Wanna talk about what happened?” Dr. Greenberg asks.

  “Isn’t that kind of the deal here?” I ask, my voice sharp, a sour taste still on my tongue. I’m still feeling frustrated at what my mom said about Caroline. Hell, I’m just frustrated in general. About everything.

  Dr. Greenberg’s soft smile grows. “Yeah, that is the deal here,” he says.

  “I threw up in the car. It was gross.” I stare out the window at the pecan tree. I wish I was a bird in a nest in that pecan tree. I wish I was the pecan tree. I wish I was anything but me right now.

  “Your mom seems to think it’s something to do with Caroline,” Dr. Greenberg continues. “I know you’ve been playing music with her a lot lately. Your mom says she came over this weekend and you played for an hour and a half?”

  “I didn’t realize she timed it,” I snap, instantly feeling like an asshole for saying it.

  “I think she just noticed it was a significant amount of time,” Dr. Greenberg says. His voice stays soft. Calm. I think I could probably stand up and scream, “FUCK EVERYTHING!” and he would stay calm.

  “What’s it like playing music with her?” Dr. Greenberg asks.

  “It’s good,” I tell him, offering the quickest, easier answer.

  But it’s also the truth. It is good playing with Caroline. In fact, when I think about playing music with her, I feel like I do when I reach out to pet Groovy. My mind slips to when I saw her last, a few days ago when she came over after her shift at her job and we tried a White Stripes song because she insisted. The truth is Caroline is a way better guitar player than I am a drummer, but so far she hasn’t said anything about it. I can tell she wants to sing, too, because she mouths the words, but so far she hasn’t sung out loud yet.

  After we struggled through the White Stripes, we took a break. “What made you start playing the drums?” Caroline had asked. She was laying flat on her back on the cement, her skinny legs sticking out in front of her, her pink sneakers still caked with mud. She was wearing her Violent Femmes T-shirt. I think it must be one of three shirts she owns because she wears it so much.

  “When I was eight years old my dad showed me this footage of this drummer named Keith Moon from this band called The Who,” I answered.

  “I know who Keith Moon is,” Caroline told me, rolling her eyes and sounding kind of sassy.

  “Sorry,” I said, rolling my eyes back. “He looked so cool that when my parents said I had to start an instrument, I picked drums. Plus, I thought it would be fun to hit stuff with sticks.” Caroline grinned at that.

  “So why’d you start guitar?” I asked. I eyed the house. I was giving my mom ten minutes maximum before she came out to spy on us, carrying lemonade or something.

  “Honestly, I think girls who play the guitar look badass,” Caroline said, crossing her arms in front of her eyes to block out the sun. “And I wanted to look like a badass.”

  “And you really never took lessons?” I still thought she was too good for that to be true.

  “No,” Caroline said, most of her face hidden under her arms. “But one year Mr. Case, the band teacher, taught me a few things.”

  “He was cool,” I answered. “He gave me private lessons on drums.”

  “Did you know he died last year? Car accident.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Shit,” I said.

  It was quiet for a moment and then Caroline uncrossed her arms and squinted at me from down on the ground, like she was trying to make out my face through the sun’s rays. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that so casually.”

  “No, it’s okay. I mean, I would have found out eventually.”

  She sat up and frowned, then looked away toward the street. “I don’t want to say the wrong thing and upset you.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. I liked how she just came out and said it. “Just don’t ever bullshit me.”

  Caroline turned back and looked at me, her dark eyes serious. I wondered for maybe the twentieth time if I was supposed to think she was cute. “I don’t do bullshit,” she said.

  “Good,” I answered, and I heard the back screen door bang open and spotted my mom making her way across the lawn with two cans of Coke. I wanted to tell her to turn around and please go back inside because in that mome
nt I felt 50 percent normal and only 50 percent fucked up, which is a better ratio than I feel most of the time.

  Caroline isn’t the problem.

  Caroline isn’t why I threw up in my mom’s Volvo.

  I look up at Dr. Greenberg, trying to get my head straight that I’m here in a session with my therapist. He’s sitting there, one leg crossed over the other like he’s got all day, which maybe he does.

  “Wow, sorry. I was just … thinking.” I realize I don’t even know for how long.

  “It’s okay,” says Dr. Greenberg. “So Caroline … she’s becoming a friend?”

  “Yeah, I think,” I say. “She has nothing to do with why I puked. We don’t even talk about…” I search for the words, “all of that stuff. We mostly talk about music.” Dr. Greenberg nods and doesn’t say anything. He just soft smiles at me. A minute goes by. Then another one.

  “You’re being quiet so I’ll talk, right?” I ask him.

  “I really can’t get anything by you, can I?” Dr. Greenberg asks me, and then he laughs. I kind of like that after all these months I’ve started to figure out his little tricks.

  “I threw up because…,” I search my head for the words. Maybe I just need to say what I’m thinking. Maybe it’s time to try. “I always feel weird when I drive here. I mean, it’s not your fault or anything. It’s just that we have to drive here on the freeway. That’s how Mart…” I stop myself. “I don’t feel like saying his name anymore.”

  Dr. Greenberg nods. “You can call him anything you want to in here. By his name. By any word you’d like.”

  I can feel my heart start to speed up. I give Groovy a rub on the head.

  “I feel awful when I come here even though most of the time I can get through it. But it’s because that’s the way we went. That’s the road we took. Even though I was down on the floor…” I stare into my lap. My dark jeans. My dorky, navy blue Polo shirt that my mom got me. Sometimes I still can’t believe the odds. What happened to me happens to maybe a handful of kids every year. Maybe not even a handful.