by Gae Polisner
“Okay, yeah, that’d be good,” I say. “That’d be better, I think.”
She doesn’t wait, but walks ahead of me, close enough to hear me talk but far enough ahead to give me space to gather my courage.
* * *
“Saturday, I don’t call Sarah. I spend the afternoon working on portfolio pieces. Maybe I want to make her sweat some,” I say, laughing a little at the admission, “or maybe I’m panicked about how far behind I am. I should be. I have to get this last piece in pretty soon or I’m going to be doomed. They’re waiting on me and I’ve been slacking. There are no more extensions they’ll give me due to ‘circumstances.’
“Late afternoon, Sarah texts. Something like, ‘You should come, Alden. If you want to.’ It doesn’t read like she means it. More like she feels sorry for me, and obligated. The truth is, she’s never really wanted me to blend with her Northhollow friends, which, as I said, was fine by me.”
“Until it wasn’t,” Dr. Alvarez says.
“Yeah. Maybe. I guess. Anyway, at some point later that afternoon, or maybe early evening, another text comes: ‘44 Pine. L past 7-11. Trees section off Main if you do want to come…’”
I wince at the sound of the address that’s now burned into my brain at the thought of Dunn’s house, the pouring rain. But I manage to plow forward.
“Sarah doesn’t usually work that hard to convince me, so I’m thinking, okay, maybe she does want me to come. I guess I felt confused,” I say to Dr. Alvarez.
“I get that,” she answers. “Maybe Sarah did, too.”
I nod, and swallow hard. I’m not sure which parts of the story are important and which parts aren’t. But suddenly, I get it. Sarah did feel something for me, maybe even loved me, through it all. At least, I’m pretty sure she did.
“I didn’t want to be a pity project. I didn’t want her to feel sorry for me. So, I convince myself I’m not in the mood to go to a party, to hang out with those assholes, even if I should try for Sarah’s sake. Maybe she sees something in them I don’t, but the fact is, I don’t, and unlike them, I’m not a phony, so I’m not going to be an asshole and pretend.
“It’s funny, because I remember thinking then how badly I missed Cleto and Dan. Especially Cleto. He’s more like a brother than a friend. If I had called Cleto that night, then maybe none of this would have happened.”
“Maybe not,” Dr. Alvarez says, “or maybe he wouldn’t have been home. Or maybe that wouldn’t have gone well, and something else would have gone wrong. We can’t go back. You can’t change what’s behind you. Only what’s waiting ahead.”
I squeeze the stress ball in my pocket. “I guess,” I finally say. “But I keep wishing I wasn’t the one who dropped the ball.”
“You don’t have to be. You can still pick it up,” she says. “But, first, take me back there.”
“It’s so stupid,” I say. “Stupid and awful and dumb. So, Sarah texts me with the address, and for a second I think about going, but instead I think about texting Cleto and Dan. Heading into the city to see my friends, you know? But it’s already after seven, and starting to pour. And, even if they were around, by the time we got our shit together and I made it into the city, it would be close to ten.”
“So you went to the party instead?”
I shudder. “Not at first. Not like you think,” I say. “I ignore the text, turn on the television, because, like I said, I decide I should make her sweat. But even with nine thousand channels, there’s not a single thing on. I’m feeling anxious and bored, so I wander to the front of the house, but my mother is out—again, like always—not that I’d even want her there if she was.
“At like eight o’clock, I text Sarah back—‘I’m gonna stay here. Headache. Portfolio. Talk tomorrow’—and I walk to the spare bedroom.
“I don’t know what I’m planning to do in there. Go through some things, maybe. There’s so much we haven’t unpacked. We still haven’t touched most of my father’s things since he died.
“The room is a mess, a sea of unpacked crates and cartons. Our apartment in the city wasn’t small. All of Dad’s stuff, still in boxes, on the floor, on the dresser, on the perfectly made-up guest bed. Like guests will ever come. Several of my father’s larger canvases that couldn’t fit in boxes are propped against walls, some wrapped in brown paper, others not. It makes me sad to see them there like that, uncared for.
“I walk around looking through them, like I’m in some sort of morbid museum. They move me to tears. Honestly, I’d forgotten how beautiful they are. Sunflowers and seascapes and still lifes. Each one worthy of a gallery wall. In the back corner, I come across a large wrapped one and peel back the corner of the paper. Not his. Ugly. It’s Icarus’s Flight Plan. I remember.”
“Icarus falling,” Dr. Alvarez says. I think she just wants me to know that she’s listening.
“I start to feel dizzy, off balance. I can’t catch my breath. I remember wondering if someone my age can have a heart attack. I swear I thought that,” I say, turning to her. ‘Maybe I’m having a heart attack.’ Anyway, I know I need to stop the thoughts from coming because they’re making me angry. Filling me with rage: He stopped painting for Mom, because of money. If he hadn’t stopped painting, he’d still be alive.
“I pull boxes down from the stacks, rifling through my father’s worldly possessions. I’m looking for something—a clue. Maybe some message he’s left for me. Honestly, I don’t know what I’m looking for. When I spot the box marked MARI/PERSONAL I open it. I know it’s not right, but I do.
“Fuck her, right? Because maybe there’s something of his I want in there.
“I sit on the bed and work to peel off the tape, but I swear she’s got it hermetically sealed. There must be five layers of packing tape running around it. So, I run to my room and grab an X-ACTO knife from my drawer, returning to the guest room with purpose. And when I have the box open, I shove the X-ACTO knife in my sweatshirt pocket and sit with her stuff on the floor.”
Dr. Alvarez makes a sound, something sympathetic and pained that comes from the back of her throat, but I can’t stop now. She’s the one who wanted to hear.
“The crap inside the box is mostly disappointing. A bunch of file folders, envelopes. A few of Dad’s red-brown legal folders. Not even hers, so I don’t get why they’re in her personal box. I page through them but have no interest in the stuff. Legal notices. Tax returns. One folder taped shut again, marked GRIEVANCE COMMITTEE V. ALDEN, ESQ. Not her handwriting. Someone else’s.”
“No curiosity?” Dr. Alvarez interrupts gently.
“Not really. I’d hear my Dad talking to my Mom about stuff like that all the time. ‘Some disgruntled client,’ he’d explain. ‘A frivolous claim to get out of paying the firm’s bill.’ I know one had made them fight, a few months before he died. My mother had bitched about losing their shirts. ‘My shirt, not yours, Marielle,’ he had snapped at her. She was always worrying about money, but it’s not like she was the one working.”
“I see. So then what happened?” she prods.
“There’s another folder, this one clearly in my mother’s handwriting, marked PERSONAL & CONFIDENTIAL. More tape, but slimmer.” My heart wrenches. “There are photographs in there, birthday cards, letters. From her to him—“My dearest Mark”—and him to her—“My darling Marielle.” Gushy stuff. Cards dating back from before they were married. College photos, and all sorts of emails, from back before we even had Gmail.”
My throat constricts, knowing what’s next.
“And then I come to another envelope inside that one, plain, filled with more emails. These are weird, different, newer. You can tell because of the paper. Crisp and white. But, the tops are cut off, so you can’t see who sent them, or when: ‘My dear, beautiful man, I can’t stop thinking about you, your face, your body … I never thought I would feel this way again…’
“Shit like that. I can’t even think about it now. But it all makes sense suddenly. My mother’s obsession with always
looking good, fixing herself up, like she’s going on a fucking date…”
I let my voice rise higher, mocking her. I know I sound childish doing it, but I want Dr. Alvarez to understand. “‘My dearest man, It won’t be Christmas without you. I know you’re scared and overwhelmed, but soon it’s going to be okay. Give me some time … Maneuvering is needed to protect people…’
“‘Maneuvering.’ Can you believe that? And it must have been Christmas, right before my father killed himself.” I barely get the words out. Even now, I feel like I’m going to throw up.
I wait for my words to re-form, for the air to stop squeezing in on me. “Anyway, I shoved the papers back and threw the box in the closet.”
Now, like then, bile rises in my throat. All those nights she was out. All those afternoons? While he was working, doing shit he hated to keep her in her fancy clothes, and fancy apartment, with fancy things, she was in some hotel room in the city. And now, maybe he’s here, up in Northhollow. Maybe that’s why she was so anxious to drag us up here!
“I couldn’t think, I couldn’t breathe,” I say to Dr. Alvarez. “I just needed to get out of there.”
“And that’s when you went to Dunn’s house.”
“Yes,” I say quietly. “To find Sarah. I thought Sarah would help me. I thought she would understand.”
* * *
“Klee?” I’ve gone cold, clammy. I’m doubled over on the cool dirt of the path. Trees tower overhead, sunlight streaming through onto Dr. Alvarez’s brown loafers. “Klee, are you all right?” She squats down next to me, puts a gentle hand on my back. “It’s okay. I’m glad you told me. It’s going to be okay.”
I turn and look behind us. It feels like we’ve walked so far. But in the distance, through the trees, I can make out the solid outline of the Ape Can.
I slow my breath, am able because she takes breaths with me, showing me how. Slow in, slow out. Holding it for counts in between.
“Square breathing,” she says. “It works pretty much every time.”
I do as she says, and after another minute I feel more stable. Like the cold has left me and the spinning has stopped again.
I sit down on my ass in the dirt, knees up, head rested on them. The cool quiet helps.
Jesus,” I finally say. “That’s what I thought, Dr. Alvarez. That if I just found Sarah, everything would be okay.”
“But it wasn’t?” she asks.
“No.” I say. “It wasn’t okay at all.”
* * *
It’s raining so hard by the time I get in the car, I can barely see out through the windshield. I drive anyway, navigating back roads I still don’t know all that well. Especially when I get to the Trees section.
Aspen, to Oakwood, to Ash.
The roads are dark, with only intermittent street lamps. I squint, frantic, trying to keep my mother’s words, the awful disgusting images, from prying their way in.
Dunn’s house is in the polar opposite direction from where I live. Past where Sarah lives, past where we go to River’s Edge.
They call this neighborhood “the Trees” for obvious reasons. Ash, to Dogwood. Dogwood, to Poplar, to Pine.
Where’s Pine?
I turn on my wipers, but the rain streams down harder and faster than they help. My headlights bounce back at me off the sheet of rain, blurring things, making it harder and harder to see. Worse, these back roads are pitted from the winter’s ice and snow, filling with rainwater that splashes up as my father’s Mercedes bumps through.
At the end of what seems like a dead end, I turn back, squint down the length of Dogwood again.
I see a sign I missed, but when I reach it, it reads Maple, not Pine.
A crazy thought pops into my head: What if there is no Pine? What if it’s a setup because Sarah didn’t want me to come?
But she wouldn’t do that. Sarah loves me. She told me she does.
“My dearest man…”
Something I see now: People lie all the time.
By the time I pass Ash again, I’m having a hard time breathing at all.
I should turn around and go home, but instead I turn the wipers higher. Their useless shum-shum does nothing to clear my vision.
Calm down, Klee. It’s not a highway. You’re not being tricked. Stop being such a baby.
Stop being a pathetic little wuss.
My eyes scan frantically, squinting as they land on the street signs. Poplar again, and now tears are making it hard to see.
Shit! Are you kidding me?
I pull the car over and swipe at my face with my sleeve, then look up and see it: Pine Street. Right in front of my nose.
No tricks. No lies.
Find 44 Pine. Where Sarah is.
Before I reach the house, I hear the music. The curbs and the lawn are thick with cars, the house lit up like a fucking Christmas tree.
I pass one parked car after another, looking for a spot, looking for Sarah’s mother’s car. But none of them look like hers. No big deal. Maybe she got a ride.
The music intensifies. I slow Dad’s car to a crawl.
What if she’s not here? I’m never going to find a place to park. I’m going to have to circle around again.
A high-pitched double beep, and I stop. A black car’s lights flash twice, and two kids come stumbling out into the rain. They climb in, close the doors, and its backup lights go on.
At least I won’t have to walk too far.
The car backs out after several drunken maneuvers, and I ease my father’s Mercedes in.
Find Sarah, and everything will be okay.
I shove it in Park, pull up my hood, and duck out into the torrential rain.
By the time I reach the door, I’m drenched. The door is open, though, so I won’t have to ring.
I push it wider and step inside.
The music is deafening. The place is crawling with people. Smoke, body odor, alcohol. The air is sweaty and oppressive. Beer cans, whisky bottles everywhere. The cloyingly sweet smell of weed.
“Alden is here!” someone says, and there’s laughter. I push my way past. I don’t even care. I’m shivering because of how soaked I am.
I make my way down the hall, my eyes scanning frantically for Sarah. She’s not here in the hall or in the kitchen.
As I push through the living room, someone yells, “Dude!” and I nearly trip over a guy on the floor on his girlfriend. In the corner, I spot Anna Morrissey from Tarantoli’s class. I yell, “Hey! Have you seen Sarah?” but she simply shrugs, and the girl next to her says, “Oh, shit!” then covers her mouth and leans into Anna.
Doesn’t matter.
Head down.
Find Sarah.
“Try the basement,” someone says, pulling my shoulder, so I make my way down through the crowd.
But she’s not there either, so I make my way back upstairs.
There’s a second flight up, to the bedrooms.
I take those stairs two at a time.
In the first room, there’s a bed, at least four bodies writhing and necking, the mess of jackets and bags kicked to the floor.
I close the door and open another one. It’s like a Price Is Right I don’t want to win.
Another bedroom. Another couple. No Sarah.
I’m almost relieved.
Maybe she left. Maybe she left and went home.
I stagger down the hall, dizzy and buzzed from the smoke and the din. I just need to check the rest of the rooms and get out of here.
I pass a bathroom. The lights are off except for a night-light, and the door is ajar.
Someone is moving in there.
I push the door open, then close it quickly. Mortified.
A girl is on the toilet.
Then I hear it: A moan. A guy’s voice, then her’s.
Sarah’s.
She isn’t peeing. She is sitting on the toilet. Backward.
I push the door open again, a migraine pulsing in my eyes.
She’s straddling someone.
>
Abbott.
He turns, annoyed, and sees me.
“Shit!” He nudges her, and she turns now.
“Klee?” Her face is horrified. Scared.
She has no shirt on.
“Holy shit, Klee.”
She gets up, off the toilet—off Abbott—and walks toward me, arms folded to cover her chest.
But I can’t bear it.
I can’t speak. I can’t stay.
I start to back away.
You don’t matter. No one will ever love you enough, Klee.
“Klee!”
I can’t breathe.
Sarah reaches out to grab hold of me.
“No! Please, don’t touch me,” I say.
I back against the door.
Who closed it?
“Klee…”
I need to get away.
“Let him go,” Abbott says, moving toward me.
“What he says,” I say.
I jam my hands in my pockets, trying to process, but everything’s a blur. Everything is waffling in front of me.
Abbott reaches out as my fingers strike metal. I pull the X-ACTO from my pocket, and wave it in front of me.
“Fuck! He’s got a knife, Keith! Jesus, Klee! Please…” But I’m not going to use it. I just want him to stay away from me.
He backs off, but my body is trembling. I feel as if I can’t hold on to myself. I’m breaking apart, shattering. I’m a building made of glass in an earthquake.
My father. My mother. Now Sarah.
I need to steady myself. I need to stop things.
“Klee…?”
I reach up.
“Klee…?”
I need to stop it all from shattering.
“Klee!”
I slice, and they both reel away. One swift slice and I’m free again.
The pain … the pain is all I feel.
The blood flows and I grow dizzy, so I lower myself onto the floor.
Now I can stop trembling and think.
Relief.
Relief.
I close my eyes.
Relief.
* * *
“I wasn’t trying to hurt myself,” I say softly. “I wasn’t thinking.”
I just want someone to understand this.
