“Okay.” She smiles again. “You sure you’re ready?”
“I’m ready.”
She closes her eyes, straightens her spine, and puts her hands on her thighs.
“All right then, here it is. I dare you to kiss me.”
I don’t say anything. I sit there, frozen, for five seconds or five minutes or five hours. She opens her eyes. Smiles.
“Come on, Rae, don’t be a coward. That’s the dare—kiss me.”
And then she closes her eyes again and puckers her lips a bit and I get up from the chair and sit next to her on the bed. And I lean over, really slowly, almost like I’m not moving at all, and then my lips are millimetres away from her lips and then they’re on her lips and it’s happening. Before I can think too much about it, we’re kissing, me and Laurie are kissing.
And I don’t know how long I have to kiss her for, for the dare, because she didn’t say, but I don’t stop and she doesn’t either, and of all our kisses, that first one seems to go on and on forever. And sometimes it feels like it’s still going on; if I close my eyes right now, I can still feel it—that kiss—still taste it. It might sound crazy, Mum, but if I close my eyes and picture that moment, it’s as if I’m kissing her still.
Rhea
Central Park, New York
2nd May 1999
10:11 a.m.
Dear Mum,
Central Park is busy today, loads of tourists because of the sun. They never make it up this far though, to the reservoir, and it’s nice and quiet here. Mostly, you don’t see many tourists after you go past the lake. Most of them make it as far as the Bethesda Fountain or Strawberry Fields and think they’ve seen Central Park, which is like going to Florida and thinking you’ve seen America.
I’ve looked all over for your bench, checked hundreds of them between the 59th Street entrance and here, but I still can’t find it. I’m not even sure if you have a bench here. Even as Dad was telling me, he said he might have been wrong, and Aunt Ruth never mentioned anything about a bench.
The night Dad tells me about the bench, Central Park is on the news. The funny thing is I don’t even notice because I’m at the table, doing a still life of two empty bottles for my art homework. At first I don’t know what Dad is talking about at all.
“There’s a bench there somewhere with her name on it.”
When I look up, there’s New York on the screen, Central Park trees up to their waists in snow. A voice talking about a blizzard.
“Whose name?”
I ask even though I know he means you. I hope he does. He doesn’t take his eyes off the telly.
“Your mother.”
He has a can in his hand but it’s only his third. He’s not drunk yet.
“In Central Park? How come?”
He takes a sup from the can. “Her father. He put it there for her. You know, after.”
After she died. After she drowned. I want to finish the sentence for him but then I know he won’t say anything at all. I make my voice light.
“Whereabouts?”
He glances over, then back to the screen. Shrugs. “How should I know? It’s the biggest park in the world, isn’t it? Must be a fair rake of benches.”
The news has moved on to the ad break. He tips his head back, empties his can. He’s about to shake it and say he has time for just one more. After that, he’ll leave the room and forget what we were talking about and I’ll never find out. The trick is to pretend it’s not important, that I don’t really care. I keep my voice casual. “You never told me that before—I don’t think you did.”
He keeps looking at the telly. “Did I not?”
“No, I’d have remembered something like that. Definitely. You never said.”
The ads are still on, he shakes his can, stands up. And that’s when I blow it. “You should have told me, Dad.”
He rolls his eyes. “Jesus, Rhea. I’m sorry I said anything.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“It’s only a bloody bench! It’s not like it’s something important.”
It comes on really quick, the anger, like it was there all along, just waiting. I’m standing up, balancing myself against the table with my hand.
“It’s important to me! Do you ever think about what might be important to me?”
I’m shouting, but he doesn’t shout back, only stands there holding his empty can. He looks tired.
“I shouldn’t have said anything, it’s only upsetting you.”
“I’m not upset!” I shout louder, and I hate that I sound upset. “I just want to know, that’s all!”
He looks back to the telly, there’s a happy family getting into a new car. He shakes his can again. “I’ve told you everything I know, love. The mother told me that the father was going to put a bench there, but I don’t even know if he ever did.”
I stand there, looking at him, waiting for more. He checks his watch as if he has somewhere to be, as if people are waiting on him. “Just time for one more.”
I don’t know if I ever hated him as much as I do right then, watching his back as he walks into the kitchen, the sag in the arse of his jeans; the bald patch through his grey hair looks bigger than before. I circle my hand over the end of my stump. I don’t get it—how he doesn’t seem to care, how he never asks, how he never says anything. I know he loves you, like I do, it doesn’t make any sense at all.
The bench I’m sitting on now is not your bench, the plaque says: “For Rosie, my one true love.” I checked all the ones I passed by today on the way up here, all the ones without people sitting on them. Thinking about it, if there was a bench, it would probably be on the east side, over near 76th Street, near your old apartment, and I don’t know why I’m only thinking about that now. Dumbass. That’s what Laurie would say and then she’d laugh so it didn’t sound mean. She’s always telling me that I’m so busy looking at little things that I miss the big picture. I have a system, I’m trying to check the benches in order, but she wouldn’t think that was important. She’d just start looking at benches near East 76th Street.
Maybe she’s right. Maybe it’s not important. Maybe I’ll check over there later, after I sleep. I’m so tired, Mum. I keep dozing off, writing this letter. I need some proper sleep. Maybe I’ll walk over there when I wake up and I’ll let you know if I find your bench. Maybe I will.
It’s his fault—that disgusting guy—it’s his fault I forget about the best place to find your bench. When I wake up, it takes me a minute to notice him, sitting on the bench opposite mine. He’s smiling, a weird smile I don’t like. I notice that first and the fact that he’s looking right into my eyes, before I notice his belt buckle and that his trousers are open. I don’t need to tell you where his hand is.
Cooper said I was a pervert, but that guy is a pervert, people like him. Like the guy who stood outside our school and flashed through the railings—the nuns made us all stay in the gym hall until he was gone. If the word “pervert” exists for anyone, it should be for people like him.
I sit up, grab my backpack from where it was under my head. He’s wearing a suit and a shirt and tie. I tell him that he’s disgusting, a filthy perv, but his smile doesn’t change and his hand only moves faster.
He’s the reason I forget the whole thing about 76th Street and run to the nearest way out. It’s not that I’m scared or anything, I just want to get out of the park, just get away. I don’t think about where I’m going, I just keep walking west on 91st until I get to Amsterdam and I turn left, downtown. I’m only telling you all these details because I want you to be able to picture it—me starting to walk more slowly now, the backpack on my back, the sun in my eyes. That was when I first saw the poster taped to the lamppost, the poster with my face on it.
The photo is one that Laurie took, that summer we were grounded, one day by the pool. I’m sitting at the
end of the sun lounger in my black jeans and my Docs and my Zeppelin T-shirt. My hair is pulled back, so even though it’s long in the front you can see it’s shaved underneath. My smile is a real smile. At the top it says “MISSING!” in red letters, all in capitals. I don’t like the exclamation mark at the end, like it’s a joke that someone is missing.
Underneath there are a few lines of words in black. Here’s what they say:
Rhea (Rae) Farrell (Irish).
Age: 17.
5 feet, 3 inches, 164 pounds. Right arm missing from elbow.
Rhea has been missing since Sunday, March 12.
Last seen Broward Central Bus Terminal, Fort Lauderdale, believed to be heading to New York City.
Loving family, very concerned. Reward offered.
Call Ruth: 407-555-0183.
I stand there reading and rereading. There are a gazillion questions in my brain: Has anyone called? How much is the reward? Is Aunt Ruth here, in New York, putting these posters up? Who’d seen me in Broward Central? Does Cooper know she’s offering a reward? Does Laurie? “Loving family, very concerned.” That’s a joke. I want to cross that out. Cooper’s voice is in my head: “We treated you like family.” Fuck him. The number on the poster isn’t their home number, though, it’s Aunt Ruth’s work cell phone. I bet he doesn’t even know about these posters. I bet she didn’t even tell him.
I can’t believe she wrote that about my arm. As if it’s not enough to see it in the stupid photo. I bet that’s why she used that picture, it’s probably one of the only ones without the prosthetic. I can’t believe she put my weight. How did she even know my weight? Not that it’s my weight anymore.
It’s only when I see a Chinese lady looking at me looking at the poster that I realise how stupid I am to stand there staring at it. I want to tear it down, but she’s still watching, so instead I walk down Amsterdam as if nothing is the matter. There’s loads more lampposts, but not all of them have posters and I see four more between there and 59th Street and one lamppost with tape on where something had been ripped off. After 59th, Amsterdam becomes Tenth Avenue and there’s only garages and storage units where no one’s going to see any posters, so I turn back and walk up Broadway.
I’ve been walking for hours, Mum, back up Broadway and down the other side, but I haven’t seen any more, even though I walked loads of Columbus too. Why are there only five? Why only on Amsterdam? I’m afraid to go further uptown, near Columbia, in case she put any there. But what am I going to do if I find them? I can’t take them down, not during the day anyway. For the first time in ages, I wish Sergei was here—he’d know what to do. He’d make it a game, coming out at night to find the posters, he’d say we should wallpaper our apartment with them after we take them down. When we find an apartment.
I’m back in Central Park now, Mum, the touristy part. After this, I’m going to go to the pizza place by Port Authority and if I run into Sergei, I’m going to tell him that he doesn’t have to bring back the money. I still have the Discman, I could have brought it back. I’m no better than he is really. I’ll say it doesn’t matter, that we can be friends again. I’ll forgive him. I might even tell him I’m sorry.
Can they arrest me, Mum? The police? Can they make me go back? I’m eighteen in ten days. Once I hold out till I’m eighteen, they can’t make me go back, can they? Can they make me live with her until I’m twenty-one? I can’t go back for three more years, for three more months, for three more weeks, for three more days, for three more minutes, even.
I’m all over the place, Mum. I’m here in Central Park but I’m back in Florida too and down in Port Authority making up with Sergei. I had this art teacher in Coral Springs called Miss Chen. She was way better than Ms. Ryan in Rush. Miss Chen used to say you couldn’t do art if your body was in one place and your head was somewhere else, that you had to bring your head to the same place your feet were before you started.
She made us do this thing once, when we were drawing outside, to slow us down. We had to list five things we could see, five things we could hear, five things we could feel. And then we had to do four things we could see, hear, feel, and then three and then two and then one. We had to do it in our heads, not write it down, and we weren’t allowed start drawing till we’d gone all the way through to number one. Right now, in Central Park, I can see the swings and slides. That’s two things. Three—trees, four—the baseball field. Five—rocks coming out of grass. I can hear the sound of the swings swinging—they’re creaking because they need oil—traffic, a helicopter. I can hear two little girls shrieking on the swings as their parents push them. Is that one or two things? The dad is pushing the bigger girl and the mum is pushing the smaller one. She wants to get off, the smaller one does, you can tell by the sounds she’s making and because she keeps turning around, but the mum doesn’t notice, keeps pushing her higher.
I feel my feet on the ground, my hand in my jacket pocket, the weight of the backpack on my back. I feel my breath, coming in and out. That little girl’s shrieks are piercing, more like crying now, and I wish she’d stop even though I know it’s not her fault, it’s her stupid mother who keeps pushing her. I still wish she’d stop. It’s hard to keep breathing with her crying like that.
I can’t think of a fifth feeling thing. Feeling is always the hardest, seeing is the easiest. I cheat, make my hand a fist. Five—I feel myself making my hand a fist. The mother has stopped swinging the little girl, she’s picked her up and is carrying her over to the benches. Their swing is still swinging, on its own. There’s something I need to ask you. Do you remember the swings near the car park that faced the beach? Did you take me there? Lisa and I sometimes went there. I could be wrong but I think I remember being on those swings before then, way, way, way before then. I think I remember being there with you.
I wish I had a photo but that’s stupid, because I haven’t even looked at the photos I found in Nana Davis’ room yet. If I had a photo though, I could trust the memory, but I can feel it, I think I can. Here’s what I think I remember feeling:
Your hands on my back, my shoulder blades, your fingers touching me hard and then lighter and then not at all because there is only air behind my back.
My hands on the chain, rust coming away on my fingers.
The blue line of sea, above the brown line of sand and green line of grass and grey line of car park.
Going up, it goes: grey, green, brown, blue and coming down, it goes: blue, brown, green, grey.
My red sandals kicked out in front of me. The toe part is square and a bit scuffed.
Your voice and my voice laughing, together and far away, together and far away. Together.
That’s it. That happened. I know it happened. I think it did. I feel like I can see you, standing behind me, pushing. You’re wearing a denim skirt, a long one, and a jumper that’s brown and white. You have red sandals on too—we both have red sandals—and your hair is longer than in the Columbia photo and it swings in front of your face with every push. I can’t see if you’re smiling, but I know you are.
I couldn’t be on the swing and see you pushing me at the same time—I know that. I’m making that part up, I must be, but I don’t think I’m making up the rest, the lines of colour and my sandals out in front of me and my hands around the chain. I can feel the rust, flaking away on my fingers, all ten of them.
Thousands of days after that happened, thousands of miles away from Rush, it feels like I still can.
YMCA, West 63rd Street, New York
4th May 1999
4:29 p.m.
Dear Mum,
Do you believe in God? Did you, I mean? I suppose you know for sure now.
There’s a guy in Central Park who does. All day long, he’s there, talking into a microphone about turning our lives over to God’s will, that it’s the only way to have the lives we want, the only way to be free.
I must have heard h
im repeat that fifty thousand times this afternoon. He was wrecking my head and I wanted to move, but every time I tried, I fell asleep. And then he was there in my dreams, the man talking about God and how I needed to ask Him for help. When I woke up properly, it felt like maybe it was a sign.
Dad didn’t believe in signs. He didn’t believe in God and we never went to mass, except when I made my Communion and my Confirmation. When I stayed at Lisa’s on Saturday nights, I had to go with them on Sunday mornings, but, when we got older, Lisa stayed at our house on Saturdays so she wouldn’t have to go either.
I still don’t know what religion he was, the man with the microphone, even after hours of listening to him. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe religion and God are totally separate things anyway. When I got up to leave the park, he was talking about the power of prayer. According to him, we just needed to tell God what we wanted and have faith that He would provide.
I used to say my prayers every night and every morning. I don’t know what age I was when I stopped, but I can remember what I prayed for. It sounds silly now, stupid, but I’ll tell you anyway. I prayed for you to come back and for you and Dad to have another baby, so I’d have a little sister or brother. Thinking about it, I think that’s when I stopped praying—when that didn’t happen. I suppose you have to give God a chance and pray for something that’s actually possible. Which is why I thought I’d give it another try.
Do you want to know what I prayed for today, Mum? I prayed for somewhere safe to sleep, somewhere to lie down and rest. That’s it. That’s all.
And when I leave the park, that’s when I find this Y. I didn’t even know there was one around here, I would’ve walked by without noticing, except someone comes down the steps with the Y logo on the back of their tracksuit top, right as I’m walking by.
And I nearly don’t bother coming in because I’m thinking that they probably don’t have rooms, because not all Ys have rooms, and that, even if they do, they’ll be booked up because they always get booked up way in advance.
How Many Letters Are In Goodbye? Page 14
