Finding Mr. Brightside

by Jay Clark

  “So why take them?”

  “Hmm,” he says, “habit?”

  A few tacos later, Abram is pulling up the driveway of my house before I can tell him to park anywhere else. The blinds covering my dad’s office window remain in place.

  “I don’t feel like going in there,” I say, reaching for my purse.

  “Then come over to my house,” Abram offers. “My mom is at the casino with my aunt. They’re winning right now, so it could be a while.” He hands me his phone so I can see a picture of his mom—an attractive, harmless-looking blond with buxom to spare—bending down beside a slot machine and smiling. “She’s pretty,” I say, relieved that it’s true. Abram smiles. I can tell he’s proud of her, worries over her, loves her … mostly because I’m reading some of their texts right now. Lots of tech-support questions from her about her iPad and patient responses from him.

  “Give me two minutes to lie to my dad,” I say, handing back his phone.

  “Take your time.”

  * * *

  I find my father hiding from the world in his cluttered den, sitting at his desk reading several opened books at once. Ben Flynn is a full-time novelist who’s been working on his first book for the last twenty years, thanks to a large trust fund he inherited from his grandfather. Considering I’ve permanently borrowed his credit card, I’m not one to judge. Tonight he’s dressed in his favorite flannel shirt and sweatpants, his hair sticking out in Einstein-inspired tufts. A mug of thick, black coffee sits cold in front of him; that’s actually how he likes it. Don’t touch his papers! There are passwords written all over them, and he gets nervous.

  I wish he’d let me burn down that old dollhouse perched on the table behind him. It’s his real-life inspiration for how the serial-killer character in his book plotted his murders, right down to the last ketchup-blood stain and overturned piece of mini furniture. If Dad ever finishes The Dollhouse Killer, no one will publish it because it’s basically a rip-off of this one CSI episode that he doesn’t remember watching and I don’t have the heart to remind him he’s seen.

  Careful not to disturb his rhythm, I set the box of Hot Tamales next to his coffee. He looks up from his book and does his best to turn up the corners of his lips. I do the same, re-creating his pain; it’s only fair. Hi, Dad.

  “Get yourself some new socks?” he asks, popping a Hot Tamale into his mouth and pointing to the pair in my hands.

  “They’re for you,” I say, placing them on his desk. He reaches out and runs his fingers along the circulation-improvement material, his sleep-deprived eyes full of gratitude he can’t express without stumbling over his words.

  “How’s the writing coming?” I ask.

  “Technical difficulties,” he says, pointing to the blue error screen of his 1990s computer. My eyes roll over to the unopened MacBook Pro box leaning against the wall next to his desk. Mom’s gift to him two Christmases ago. Even as she was avoiding him, or screwing him over, which I believe she was at that time, Mom kept trying to help my dad stop being his own worst enemy. He hated the laptop, and she knew he would, but she still took the risk. I always admired her fearlessness. In contrast, what did I get him that year? The safe bet: socks and an ink cartridge for his equally ancient printer. He loved them.

  “I’m going back out for a few minutes,” I say. “Heidi’s having lady problems.”

  Dad shudders and peeks out the window. “You sure that’s her car?”

  “What?”

  “Doesn’t Heidi drive a white Volvo with expired license plates?”

  “Impounded. That’s her mom’s car.”

  He takes off his reading glasses, his gaze steady and full of skepticism. “Or is it the Morgan boy’s?”

  I shrug like it could be his car, too, wondering why I didn’t tell Abram I’d meet him at his house.

  “What’s the point of this, Juliette?”

  “I don’t have an answer to that.”

  Dad leans back, runs his fingers through his hair, mulls over this unlikeliest of plot developments. “I’m sure you can understand why I wouldn’t want you riding around in a car with the son of that man.”

  “Yes, Dad … but I’d understand more if we weren’t just going right down the road.”

  “Most accidents occur five miles from home.” He starts talking about this teenage girl he saw on the news who ran into a mailbox and killed herself. Unless she had a gun in the car, this outcome sounds highly unlikely, but I don’t interrupt; my dad should get the words out of his system after spending all day, alone, in this dank room, trying to force them onto the written page.

  When he runs out of cautionary tales, I say I’m going to walk instead, acting like it’s a compromise that benefits him, too.

  “Did you get the edits I e-mailed you earlier?”

  Dad nods. “Thank you. You’re the real writer in the family, you know.” I walk over and kiss the top of his head, tell him that’s not even close to true.

  “This isn’t like a date or anything, is it?” he asks as I’m walking out the door.

  “It’s nothing,” I assure him. “Just wondering if he’s someone I should hate.”

  I point to the computer like he could maybe use that line in his book, lock the front door behind me, and walk back toward Abram’s car. He’s right where I left him, eating.

  He rolls down his driver’s-side window. “Not bailing, are you?” he asks, already disappointed.

  “Walking,” I clarify, glancing back toward my house one last time.

  Abram doesn’t ask questions, just begins backing out as I walk down toward the street. Instead of driving on ahead, he putters the car alongside me, talking through the window about nothing in particular. I smile. My lips are getting more exercise today than they have all year.

  I wonder what my mother would’ve thought.

  4

  ABRAM

  JULIETTE AND I are all alone in my house, the same model as her two-story down the road—the unwelcoming one with the blinds always drawn. Here’s her right now: examining old photos and Christmas cards on the side of the fridge. Here’s me: looking for an orange soda in said fridge. (The Paxil dulling my brain’s receptors makes each wrong nutritional decision taste even better.) I reach past the bottled water I should be drinking and grab a can, popping the tab.

  “You look alike,” Juliette says matter-of-factly, pointing to a picture of my dad and me holding up an oversized tennis trophy. It was taken in South Carolina, last summer, the last tournament we played in together, the only one Mom didn’t attend. Dad had me drive back to Virginia on my own. Only later did I find out Juliette’s mom was meeting him there after I left.

  I take a long drink of soda. “Yeah … sorry…”

  “For?”

  “Reminding you of him.”

  “Have you seen my face lately?” She doesn’t turn around to show me how much she resembles her mother, just continues staring at the image, preoccupying herself with making sure her hair is still trapped in its bun. Setting my soda on the counter, I tell her I have to go to the bathroom and walk into the nearby half bath. I turn on the fan, flush the toilet, swallow my last Paxil to avoid getting a headache, and then come back a few seconds later, a bit worried she’ll think I was taking a late-night dump.

  I’m surprised to find Juliette holding my can of soda, risking the corresponding orange stains in the corners of her mouth.

  “Thirsty,” she says.

  “Want one? I should’ve offered.”

  Juliette shakes her head, brings the can to her lips, and takes a sip that my grandma, she of the sugar-sensitive canker sores, would be proud of. As she slides the can back over my way, the note Mom left on the counter catches her eye. She starts reading it out loud.

  Off to the casino with Aunt Jane, sweetie!

  Make sure to let the dog out. Love you!!

  Wish me luck! 777, Mom!

  “Mom overdoes it on the exclamation points when she’s excited about playing the slots,”
I explain.

  Juliette’s pupils contract into blank periods. The life comes back when she sees my golden retriever padding slowly into the kitchen with her eyes all squinty as if to say You teenagers woke me up … and I’m glad you did. Come pet me!

  I appreciate Juliette leaning down and introducing herself to my dog at eye level, shaking her extended paw—good dog manners are important to me. The dog and I have been through some shitty times together.

  “She likes you,” I note.

  Juliette looks up at me. “Doesn’t she like everyone?”

  “Not quite. She’s been avoiding the neighbor’s Labradoodle.”

  “Understandable,” Juliette says to the dog, scratching her ears. “What’s her name?”

  “‘The dog.’”

  I tell Juliette about how we tried several different tennis-related names—including Volley, Lettie, and Billie Jean King—but none of them stuck. I’ll be the first to admit: boring story. But Juliette thinks it’s a good example of how “naming anything is impossible,” so maybe not.

  “Want to sit down or something?” I ask.

  She nods. We head toward the living room, sitting on opposite ends of the leather sectional.

  “Do you still play tennis a lot?” she asks.

  “Quit,” I say, sprawling out across the cushions, my preferred state of being these days.

  “Why?”

  I’m honest with her about my lack of motivation, explaining that my dad had enough ambition for the both of us. After he was gone, I didn’t have anyone to remind me there was a hungry group of runners-up just around the corner, waiting to steal our trophies, so we better get up a little earlier for practice tomorrow.

  “Sounds like you made the right choice,” Juliette says softly.

  “Really?”

  “No idea,” she says. “I was trying to be supportive…?”

  We share a laugh—she gives me most of it, holding herself back. Why is she here, again? And why does she smell so good, even from over here, like … fancy laundry detergent and green tea extract? Meanwhile, the dog rolls over and allows Juliette access to her furry underbelly.

  “You two really do seem like old friends,” I say, failing to stifle my yawn.

  “Maybe we met in a past life.”

  The idea of reincarnation sounds peculiar coming from her—she doesn’t seem like the “back in the day, when I was a butterfly” type.

  “Maybe you and I crossed paths in one of those lives, too,” I propose, as casually as possible.

  Juliette purses her lips like a girl who’s been making this expression for centuries, thinks about it for a second, then surprises me by saying, albeit reluctantly, “Sure. But I think I might’ve been a whale.”

  “You’ll never believe this, but me, too.”

  She’s almost smiling as she rolls her eyes.

  “Do you think we could’ve been friends?” I ask.

  “Friendly, yes,” she allows. “Assuming our whale parents weren’t associated back then.”

  I hold up my hand. “I’m almost positive they swam in separate pods.”

  She looks at me curiously, for a split second, before breaking eye contact.

  We chat for a while longer until a warm blanket of mononucleosis falls across my body … disregard, it’s an actual blanket, Juliette has brought over my mom’s favorite throw and is covering me up. Damn you, Paxil.

  “You don’t have to go.”

  She starts to say something, stops.

  “Were you this good-looking of a whale in our other life?” I ask her, one eye half open. I wouldn’t bet money that I’m speaking English anymore. “What I mean is, would you have dated an ordinary whale like this?”

  She sits down on the floor beside me, rests her head on the edge of the cushion. She looks like she’s been fighting sleep for a while. I want to tell her to let it win, but turning it into an official competition probably wouldn’t help.

  “I’m guessing I was an emotionally unavailable whale back then, too,” she says. “But I would’ve considered going on some kind of date with you, yes. Someplace where the water is warm.”

  “Now you’re talking.”

  Content, I make my best approximation of a joyful whale noise. I may be beached right now, but I’m excited about my life for the first time in a long time. Even if it’s a past life, in whale form.

  Juliette says something else that I really want to process, but I’m drifting away, having some sort of hallucination now, seeing my dad in his casket—his cheekbones, broken in the accident, reconstructed with some sort of goopy mortician’s wax. Mom’s panicking. She can’t remember checking a box saying YES to an open casket; thinks maybe she delegated the decision to someone else. I tell her I would’ve done the same thing. “People are probably thinking I’m a bad wife for letting him be seen like this,” she whispers from our spot at the end of the mourning line. Those people aren’t worth our time, but on this day, when Mom is being forced to pretend like everyone doesn’t know about Dad and Sharon Flynn, the thought of their judgment is un-fucking-acceptable to me.

  I walk over to the casket and politely ask a few respects-payers to stand back. Then I start trying to close the casket. I hear the various gasps and utters of “Oh my God,” but I don’t care; I’m problem-solving, protecting my mom. My dad, too, in a way. And yet the casket isn’t really cooperating. I grab a different handle and pull down harder. The stupid … padded … lid … won’t budge. No one looks interested in helping me out; most have backed away. The struggle continues until the funeral director shows up and Mom leads me away to regroup. She’s not mad at me, very rarely is. We find a room to hide in and proceed to let it all hang out. We cry about Dad’s face and how we’ll never see the real him again. We get angry about his betrayal. We wish he would’ve been less one-thing-to-the-next, more open to enjoying himself with us, not just others outside our family. Then we start laughing at how the funeral director looked like he wanted to arrest me. Then we go back to crying because here we are, laughing at my dad’s funeral, what’s wrong with us? Mom says we’re reminding her of “that one Mary Tyler Moore episode with the clown funeral” and I go “Oh, yeaaah” even though I have no idea what she’s talking about. “If I tell you something about your dad, Abe … will you promise not to think any less of me?” I promise, and she whispers, “Sometimes I wonder if I ever really knew him.” I tell her that makes complete sense to me, he was a hard guy to read. Then my mom’s sister Jane barges in with a bottle of vodka and dares us to have an extra-stiff drink with her, which we do.

  When I wake up, Juliette is gone. But it feels like she’s here. There’s also a chance I’m still sleeping.

  5

  Juliette

  WHY AM I STILL HERE?

  My throwing a blanket over Abram’s admittedly decent body was the type of random act of kindness I’ll look back on someday, a tear in my eye, and think, Remember that one time I cared? From the hallway, I watch as Abram flips around on his side so he’s facing the back of the couch, blanket not quite covering him, his sweatpants drooping even further and revealing more than just a hint of butt-naked butt. It looks pretty much like what one would expect, if one were inclined to have such expectations: white, two cheeks, firm. And what about that bizarrely pleasant scent—a mix of shampoo, salt, and this morning’s cologne—I picked up while sitting underneath him on a big pile of unswept dog hair? What about how I wouldn’t mind smelling an encore?

  I walk forward toward Abram, allowing myself one more close-up of his cute face. It really does look like a younger version of his father’s, and yet I’m still not hating his guts. What would it be like to lean down and press my lips against his? I bet it’s warm there, near his breath. Might be nice not to be freezing for once in my life. Maybe kissing Abram would turn out to be the best thing I ever forced myself to do for no apparent reason.

  Something’s wrong with me.

  I decide to give myself the grand tour of his house and ref
lect later, eventually ending up in the master bedroom. There’s an iPad on the dresser; I touch the Home button and a paused game of Candy Crush appears. The bed Abram’s father should’ve had enough self-control to sleep in more often is empty and unmade. Suzy Morgan has allowed a photo of their wedding day to remain on a stand beside the TV—bad choice. On the other side, a Zumba Blu-ray box sits unopened atop a good two years’ worth of mint-condition Women’s Health magazines. I’m not sure who’s doing a less adequate job of taking care of themselves, this family or mine. Too close to call.

  I wonder if Suzy read any of her husband’s texting exchanges with my mom. That’s exactly what I did while waiting around the hospital, went through my mother’s personal things, starting with her cell phone. Wish I’d stopped reading after the first sext.

  I force my eyes to swallow the hot tears welling up inside them—they don’t taste nearly as good cold—and struggle with the urge to throw something at myself. That Yankee Candle on the nightstand, perhaps. I step into the walk-in closet before temptation strikes me down.

  The hanging space and cubbyholes have been unevenly divided between husband and wife, Ian’s tailored suits and shiny wing tips taking up the majority, too many of Suzy’s garments getting the second-class Tupperware bin treatment. A year after her husband’s death, Suzy’s still afraid to claim what’s rightfully hers. Not acceptable. I start removing blazer after blazer from the hanging rod and flinging them to the floor. Do the same with the wing tips. Then a bunch of shiny leather belts that look identical. I can smell Ian Morgan’s woodsy cologne wafting up from the growing pile. If I were a garbage bag, where would I be?

  Abram’s still fast asleep in the living room when I grab a box of Heftys from underneath the kitchen sink. I go back to finish the job I probably shouldn’t have started in the first place, before his mom gets home.

  * * *

  An hour later, I’m turning the key in my front door. I didn’t come away from Abram’s house empty-handed; took a roll of garbage bags (we’re out) and my Doritos Locos Supreme, which I took a few bites of on the way home, but I’ll deny that to the grave. I find my father passed out on the couch in his office. What is with everybody falling asleep today? I place a blanket over him, too, careful not to wake him.