Afterward

by Jennifer Mathieu

  “So,” my dad says as we make our way down the two-lane county road heading toward Clayton, “you’re still enjoying the drums? Playing with Caroline?”

  “Yeah,” I say, staring out the window, watching the fields of grass zip by. “It’s good.”

  “That’s good. Jesse been over recently?”

  “Yeah, the other day he came over after school.” Jesse and I never talked again about anything heavy duty since the day he came over for my birthday. But it’s all right to just play video games together, I guess.

  It’s quiet in the car. It’s not like when me and Caroline are quiet. Or even when Dr. Greenberg and I are quiet. It’s like me and my dad are supposed to be talking. Like he’s trying to have a Moment with me.

  The truth is, my dad and I didn’t hang out all that much before. He’s really into sports and fixing stuff around the house, and even though I like basketball okay, I was always more into music and video games. I still remember the look on his face when I was ten years old and told him I didn’t want to play Little League anymore. It was like he wasn’t sure we were actually related.

  “You know, I never played an instrument,” my dad says.

  “How come?” I ask.

  “Your grandparents didn’t think it was a good idea,” he says, and he sort of smiles at the memory. Not at me, but just to himself.

  “Why wouldn’t it be a good idea?” When I told my parents I wanted to play drums when I was little, they never said I couldn’t. Just that I would have to play out in the garage.

  “They thought it would be better to play a sport. That it would look better when I was applying to college. So that’s why I took up baseball.”

  My dad’s dad was a huge baseball fan. He died right before I was taken. During every World Series my grandfather would call our house from his house in Dallas like every day, and he and my dad would talk baseball statistics for hours until my head would go numb and I would be begging for a turn to watch something else on the television.

  “If you could have played any instrument,” I ask, suddenly curious, “what would it have been?”

  My dad laughs a little at the question.

  “Drums, honestly. I loved Peter Criss in Kiss. You probably don’t even know what I’m talking about.”

  “Dad, I know who Kiss was. But Peter Criss? The guy whose face was a cat?”

  “What’s wrong with the cat?”

  “It’s pretty lame, Dad.” But I’m half laughing because my dad is, too, and it feels sort of nice, just the two of us laughing for a second.

  We pull into the hardware store parking lot and walk inside, the little doorbell tied to the handle jingle jangling as we do, and my dad consults his list, which is written on a scrap of paper the size of his palm. I’m bored immediately, and I find myself falling behind my dad, running my hands along the cardboard boxes wedged onto shelves. Boxes full of bolts and screws and nuts and nails. I’m staring at the boxes. All of a sudden I look down and realize I’ve buried my right hand in a box of bolts for no reason that I can figure.

  Then, out of the blue, my brain flashes on something.

  “Sir, is that your truck double-parked in the front there?”

  The police officer is looking right at us, first at him and then at me. He looks young, like he doesn’t even have to shave every day.

  “Yes, officer, I was just running in to get cigarettes.”

  He answers the officer like it’s nothing. He even smiles a little when he says it. That fake fucking smile he uses when we’re outside.

  I’m staring at the officer’s name badge. R. BAILEY. All capital letters stamped into the shiny gold bar clipped to his chest. He’s so close I could reach out and touch that gold name badge. I could whisper and he would hear my voice.

  But I can’t move. I can’t talk.

  My whole face is pulsating along with my heart. My whole body is vibrating right there in the middle of the Walgreens.

  “Well, you have to move it pronto, my friend. You’re lucky it’s Friday and I’m in a good mood, or you’d be getting a ticket.”

  My heart is racing so fast that I can’t tell if it’s even taking a break between beats. It’s one long buzz.

  He has to notice me. He has to see me. Can’t he see my heart beating?

  “Yes, sir, absolutely. Come on, Ethan, let’s go, son. Gotta listen to the officer.”

  No! Can’t he see my heart beating? R. BAILEY, can’t you see my heart beating? Can’t you see it, R. BAILEY? Can’t you see it?

  “Ethan, you here?”

  I turn and there’s my dad, his face pale and panicky. He didn’t know where I was for a second, I guess.

  I swallow and blink and try to take a breath, but I can’t. I put my hands on my knees and slump forward a little. Oh, please, please, please don’t let me throw up in the hardware store.

  “Ethan!” my dad walks over to me, his voice almost a shout. If it were my mom she would be hugging me, rubbing my back, hustling me out to the car. But my dad just stands there, inches away.

  “Take a breath, son. Take a deep breath.” He’s using his best Dr. Jorgenson voice.

  I try. My breath comes out shaky.

  “One more,” he commands. I do. Finally, I’m able to stand up.

  My dad is clutching a tub of grout. The words Pre-Mixed! and Improved Formula! jump out at me in bright red letters across the front. My brain notices the weirdest shit at the weirdest times.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “Should we just leave? I can come back for this.” He holds up the grout.

  I shake my head no. “Just get what you need.” I try one more breath and it comes out a little smoother this time.

  “Okay,” my dad says, “but why don’t you stick close by while I finish up, okay?”

  “Okay,” I say, and I follow him around for the rest of the trip, trying to blank out my brain.

  But when we head to check out, the cashier recognizes me. It’s just this thing that happens to me. At the post office and the gas station and the pharmacy. Even though it’s been seven months, it still happens all the time.

  “Aren’t you that Ethan Jorgenson boy who went missing?” the cashier says. She’s wearing a sweatshirt that reads Blessed to be a Grandma. Her gray hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and she’s peering at me over her wire glasses, smiling like no one’s ever noticed me in my life and she just has to be the first.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say, nodding. My dad glances at me out of the sides of his eyes.

  “Well sweetheart, we’re just so glad you’re back and safe and home with us,” she says, like I live at her house or something.

  “Yes, ma’am, me, too,” I answer, and I’m grateful that my dad is paying with exact change, so we don’t have to stand there too much longer.

  We head back into the parking lot and get into my dad’s SUV.

  “I’m sure in a few more months that won’t happen so much,” my dad says, starting up the car.

  “It’s okay,” I tell him, which is what I always find myself saying when I’m not sure what else to say.

  CAROLINE—212 DAYS AFTERWARD

  It’s two days before Christmas at Jackson Family Farm, and the city folk are out in full force, with a line snaking all the way to the front gate as families line up to get their picture taken with Carlos the Santa.

  “Ho, ho, ho, and Merry Christmas, my little one,” Carlos says, hauling another toddler onto his lap and managing to grin widely even as the kid bursts into screams and starts crying and clutching at his fake beard. I have to say, he’s a pretty believable Santa Claus even though he’s only in his mid-thirties.

  “Smile now!” coos Emma. “Say ‘Merry Christmas!’” She kneels down with the fancy digital camera Enrique bought and snaps three or four pictures in a row before reaching back with one hand to tug at the red velvet elf pants that are slipping down her behind.

  “Aren’t you so very glad I got you this job, Elf Emma?” I whisper as
I hand off one mewling toddler and reach for another one.

  “Oh, totally, Elf Caroline,” Emma answers, arching one eyebrow.

  I spot Elf Jason further down the line, selling photo packages to desperate-faced parents eager to make this the Best Christmas Ever. I wonder how high he is right now. When our eyes meet and he offers a half grin and a lazy wave, I know the answer is very. It doesn’t matter. There’s still something about him that makes my body thrum.

  Only one more hour until we close and then no more work at Jackson Family Farm for a full week.

  My phone buzzes, and I break elf protocol to slip it out of the top of my elf boot where I’ve been hiding it.

  Working on lyrics and bored out of my mind

  My eyes dart up to make sure Enrique isn’t watching me destroy the Christmas image he’s worked so hard to create.

  I am dressed as an elf right now dude

  Not two seconds later Ethan texts back.

  Pictures or it didn’t happen

  I laugh and slip the phone back into my boot.

  “Who’s that?” Emma asks, watching.

  “No one.”

  “Liar.”

  “Fine, it’s Ethan.”

  Emma gives me an I-knew-it-was smirk but doesn’t say anything. I know she thinks the fact that I hang out with Ethan is strange. I think it’s strange, too. But whatever. It’s my thing to feel strange about. Not hers. And anyway, I’ve known Emma long enough to know what she’s capable of understanding and what she isn’t.

  When the last crying Beatrice or Jonas or Alexandra or Caribou or whatever has had his picture snapped, Emma and I are finally allowed to leave. There’s a party tonight at this girl Fabiola’s house. She’s a senior, and there’s going to be a keg. As we walk to the bathroom to change, Jason catches up with us.

  “I’m going to go try and score some whiskey for this party,” he tells us. “Beer will not cut it.” He winks at me. Or really, he winks at us.

  “Just save some for me, okay?” Emma says. “I hate beer.” She pouts a little.

  “No, you don’t,” I argue.

  “Well, I like whiskey better,” Emma answers.

  “I’ll make sure you’re taken care of,” Jason says, grinning.

  “Let’s go change,” I say, annoyed by this exchange. Emma follows me into the bathroom and starts peeling off her elf outfit and sliding into her favorite skintight jeans and a fitted red T-shirt.

  “So,” she says, “you going to ask Ethan to this party?”

  I stare at myself in the mirror. “No,” I answer. “I’ve told you it’s not like that.”

  “I know,” Emma says, brushing out her long, thick black hair. “You just get together and play music or whatever. I guess I just find it crazy that you never talk about what happened, that’s all.”

  “We just don’t,” I say to my reflection.

  “So your whole thing was to try and talk to him to find out more about what happened to Dylan, and that didn’t happen, right?”

  I don’t want to tell Emma that Ethan remembers eating pepperoni pizza and not much else. So I just shake my head no.

  “I don’t get why he can’t help you,” she presses.

  “He doesn’t remember a lot,” I say, wishing she was done so we could get out of here.

  “Okay, maybe he doesn’t remember everything, but can’t he remember anything about your brother?” Emma says, scrunching up her forehead in confusion as she eyes her reflection.

  “Emma, he went through some serious shit. Like, trauma. For four years.” The same trauma my brother went through, even if it wasn’t for as long. It kills me that she doesn’t have sympathy for that.

  “I still think it’s weird he never ran away after he had the chance. I think that is fucked up.” She tosses her hairbrush into her duffel bag and digs around until she finds her lipstick.

  “Well, you’re not him, so, whatever,” I tell her. I don’t know why I didn’t think ahead and pack something cute to wear. All I have are my sad jeans with the threadbare knees and an old Jackson Family Farm T-shirt that reads EAT WHAT’S SWEET and has a picture of smiling strawberries on the back.

  “I’m ready now,” Emma announces, ignoring my irritation, and I follow her out to her car, half of me wishing I could just go home, even if that would mean hiding out in my room listening for Dylan to cry out or hearing my mom on the phone complaining to her sister or feeling the silence of my dad not being around.

  The party is typical Dove Lake High School bullshit which means red Solo cups and a few people smoking weed outside and dudes playing video games and Fabiola running around telling people not to go into her parents’ bedroom. It’s boring, actually. Maybe there was a time my freshman year when I thought these parties were fun. But that feels like a long time ago.

  Emma gets sucked into some conversation with some other girls in our class the second we get there, and soon I find myself maneuvering through the crowded house alone, nodding my head and offering a quick smile as I pass people, not feeling much like talking to anyone.

  After a while, I try to find Jason, who should have gotten the whiskey by now. I’m not sure why. It’s like I think I’m supposed to, I guess. I can see myself finding him on the back deck. I can picture myself slipping off to the side of the yard to smoke and make out. I can imagine ending up in some dark corner somewhere, our faces and bodies pressed together like mechanical parts on autopilot.

  I finally spot him through the sliding glass patio door, standing on the deck right where I thought he’d be, tucked into a circle of kids from our class. Emma’s there, too, laughing loudly out of her perfectly made up lips.

  I don’t go outside. Instead, I get myself a full cup of beer from the keg and shut myself in a small back room that looks like some sort of home office for Fabiola’s mom or dad. There’s a futon in the corner next to a bookshelf full of self-help books with titles like The Magic of Thinking BIG and The Motivation Manifesto. I turn off the light and settle in on the futon, sipping my beer.

  I wish there was some way to know what’s going on at home. I wonder how many land mines I would have to avoid if I showed up there right now. The thought makes my stomach hurt.

  I slide my phone out of my back pocket and rub my thumb up and down the glass.

  I’m so fucking lonely. I admit it inside my head. Then, just to be sure, I say the words out loud.

  “I’m so fucking lonely.”

  I listen to the words and I stare them in the face and I know they’re true. They really are.

  Holding my phone, I tap out a message.

  What are you doing?

  A few moments later, Ethan texts back.

  Wrapping my presents for my parents

  Presents. I have to go by the drugstore tomorrow and get my dad some new razors. While on a break today I got my mom some jars of jams with my employee discount. The only gift I got in advance was for Dylan. Last week I bought him some more wooden blocks for his block collection.

  I read Ethan’s text one more time and write back That’s nice what did you get them?

  As I wait for him to text back, I wonder if I should have bought something for Ethan, too. Or maybe that would be too strange. A few seconds later his response pops up.

  I got my mom a framed picture of me and her from not too long ago and my dad this book about the band Kiss

  I grimace. Kiss? I type back another message.

  Omg I hate kiss … and that drummer looking like a cat

  That’s my dad’s favorite guy

  What the actual fuck

  I know right?

  I smile a little at that last text. Then I hear shrieking outside, coming from the kitchen. I think someone is doing a keg stand. Ethan texts me again.

  So you’re off elf duty?

  I’m at a stupid party

  Why is it stupid?

  Just dumb … drunk people. Boring. Idk

  And I’m lonely. And sometimes I think I have no real friends except
for you.

  Whose house?

  Fabiola Hernandez … two years ahead of you … you remember her?

  There’s a longer pause.

  Maybe. Sometimes I think it would be cool to go to a party instead of being in my house with my parents every day

  Music thuds outside the door. You’re not missing much I text back.

  There’s a pause, and I worry Ethan will be pissed at me for that. After all, shouldn’t he get to be the one to decide what he’s missing? But a second later a text pops up.

  Maybe someday I’ll go to a party and see for myself … but for now my mom wants help decorating the tree …

  The only tree my family has managed to put up this year is this little half-sized fake one on top of the coffee table. It’s like my mom didn’t have the energy for anything else.

  Have fun

  Have a merry xmas caroline

  You too ethan

  I finish the rest of my beer and head outside into the dark hallway. A door to the bedroom next to the office is halfway open. The front porch light streams through a window, and on the bed I can make out the image of two people kissing.

  Gross, I think to myself. Shut the door at least.

  As I lean in for the doorknob to do everyone a favor, my eyes figure out exactly who it is rolling around on the bed drunk and groping each other like two eighth graders under the bleachers at a Dove Lake High School football game.

  It’s Emma.

  And Jason McGinty.

  I don’t even slam the door. I just shut it and turn around and walk down the hallway toward the kitchen, hoping that whichever dumbasses were doing a keg stand are finished now because my cup is empty, and I need something else to drink.

  ETHAN—224 DAYS AFTERWARD

  It’s so mild, even for January, that Dr. Greenberg asks me if I want to take Groovy for a walk during our session.

  “Yeah, okay,” I say. My mom has gone to run a few errands, which she’s finally started doing when I meet with Dr. Greenberg. I guess for my mom to leave me alone with someone, the only thing they have to be is a Harvard graduate who is also a famous specialist in healing trauma.