Hello, I Must Be Going

by Dyan Sheldon

  Lilah blesses him with one of her beatific smiles. “Yes, of course it was an accident, Ruben. I’m not suggesting…” The dreamcatcher and the cross both sway non-committally. “But parents have an enormous responsibility. And Sorrel was out in that terrible storm at all hours. They have to blame themselves for that. They must think they should have stopped her from leaving the house.”

  Celeste keeps her eyes on the phone that she’s gripping like a lifeline. And doesn’t allow herself to think about who else might be to blame. “Sorrel was always walking in the rain.” In the rain, no one can see your tears.

  “People walk in showers, darling. That rain was more like a monsoon. But she was a very wilful girl, wasn’t she?” Lilah Redwing sighs. “Headstrong. Probably they did tell her not to go but she went anyway.” A second sigh joins the first. “At least they can console themselves with knowing that even if they’d locked all the doors she’d probably have gone out a window.”

  No one answers. All three of her passengers are looking at their phones, and thinking how they wouldn’t mind going out a window themselves right now.

  Lilah Redwing, however, is also not a woman who needs any encouragement to talk. “But even so, they’ll feel guilty. Especially Meryl. A mother always thinks everything’s her fault.” Which is an interesting opinion from a woman who thinks that nothing is her fault. “And Meryl looks like hell. Orson looks awful, too, but he’s not a handsome man at the best of times, is he? And he is so much older. Meryl is ravaged. You can really see her age. Everybody thinks so. I mean, that’s what you’d expect, but my heart went out to her. God knows, we all have our crosses to bear, but what she must be going through… I bet she hasn’t slept even a wink since it happened. Not a single wink…”

  And so they drive on to the Groobers’ house, Celeste’s mother continuing to talk about the funeral and the death and how Sorrel’s parents must be feeling and how tragic it all is and how difficult Sorrel was and how Celeste must be glad she didn’t wear anything garish and how much food will be left over since everybody’s bringing something and nobody’s going to feel like eating. While she talks, Celeste, Ruben and Orlando think their own thoughts about Sorrel and say nothing.

  “Here we are!” announces Lilah when at last they come to a stop.

  There are already so many people at the Groobers’ that their voices carry into the street. Lilah has to park at the end of the block.

  When they reach the house, set back from the road on an uninspired rectangle of lawn, Lilah changes from concerned neighbour to professional estate agent and pauses at the bottom of the front path to assess the property. Wondering how much it cost; if they’ll want something smaller now.

  Because Lilah stops and looks up at the house, the others stop and look up, too.

  Something moves in the left-hand window of Sorrel’s bedroom.

  Lilah Redwing, who is trying to gauge the number of rooms and their likely dimensions, doesn’t notice.

  Orlando, who doesn’t want to be reminded of the one time he was in Sorrel’s room, looks away quickly and doesn’t notice.

  Celeste, the memory of all the times she has seen Sorrel standing at her window, watching for her, ready to smile and wave, looks, instead, at the weathervane in the shape of a ship on the roof.

  It is only Ruben who looks right at the window of Sorrel’s room. And so it is only Ruben who sees what could almost be mistaken for a figure, standing there, gazing out at them, waving. But Ruben is a painter, he knows about light – knows that it’s only the way it’s reflecting off the surface of the glass that he sees – and turns away.

  Sorrel thought Celeste would look up at her window, as she always did. And would see Sorrel watching out for her, as she always did. The last person she expected to find herself waving at is Ruben, who wouldn’t know which room was hers. But she continues to wave and smile, nonetheless.

  Death has made her more adaptable than she used to be.

  “I’m fine, Dad, really.” Celeste, headset on, stands at the living-room window, watching the road. Her father rang unexpectedly. Besides his birthday and Christmas visits (when Tylor and “that man” have to stay in a hotel, and only her father is allowed to come near the house), Tylor is allowed weekly phone calls on the landline at a designated time when Lilah’s at home. Lilah doesn’t know that, urged on by Sorrel, Celeste has been texting and talking to her father on her phone in secret for years. These calls, of course, are usually planned in advance. Which is why Celeste is watching the road; her mother is due back soon. “I’m doing good.”

  “So you keep saying,” says Tylor, “but I’m still worried about you. So is Jake. A death like this isn’t something you get over in a couple of days.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about. I promise. I really am good.”

  Celeste blames herself for the accident. She was meant to go to a party with Sorrel that Sunday night, but Lilah wanted her to spend the evening with her. Celeste was always doing something with Sorrel. How about a little quality time with her parent for a change? After all, Celeste would always have another friend, but she’d never have another mother. Celeste couldn’t say no. And so Celeste bailed on Sorrel and stayed home and watched a series about remodelling houses with Lilah. Sorrel stayed home and had a fight with her mother, and then walked into a car.

  “I still think you should spend the Summer with me and Jake,” says her father. “I’m sure the change would do you good. Get you away from all the things that remind you of Sorrel.”

  “You know I’d like to.” She’d love to. There are no memories of Sorrel in Brooklyn. “But I really can’t. I have a Summer job—”

  “You could have a Summer job with us. You could help out in the shop. And the band has some gigs coming up. You could join in. It could only help to have a pretty young girl with us. People get tired of looking at balding old farts.”

  “I’m really sorry,” says Celeste, “but I just can’t.”

  “Is this because of your mother?”

  Of course it is. Lilah has made it clear that visiting Tylor and “that man” is not in the script. Astra, says Lilah, is far too young and sensitive to be put through that, and if Astra can’t go, then Celeste can’t either. Fair is fair. If Celeste defied her mother and spent the Summer with Tylor, Lilah would take it as a betrayal. Choosing her father over her mother. Siding with the enemy. Celeste might as well stab Lilah in the heart, and then stand on her cold, dead body and play her guitar.

  “You know how busy Mom is in the Summer,” says Celeste. “She can’t really deal with the house and Astra and everything else by herself.”

  “I’m sure they could survive for a few weeks without you. Astra’s nearly fourteen. She doesn’t need a babysitter any more.”

  That’s what he thinks.

  “It’s complicated, Dad. Astra can be a little flaky sometimes. You know.”

  In fact, Tylor doesn’t know, because no one has told him, about all the things Astra loses, or all the times Astra has forgotten to turn off the stove, or lock the front door, or even come home.

  “Well, what about coming for a long weekend, then? Just a few days. Surely your mother could manage on her own for just a few days.”

  As if she knows they’re talking about her, Lilah’s car pulls into the driveway.

  Celeste steps slightly to one side, making her presence at the window less noticeable to anyone on the drive. “I have to go.”

  “Just say you’ll think about it,” says her father. “Sleep on it.”

  “I…” The car doors open. Lilah gets out from the front, and Astra and her best friend Winnie climb out of the back, and go round to the boot. Astra and Winnie have been swimming, and stand together, lifting out their bags and towels. Celeste’s heart stumbles. Sorrel is standing behind her sister and Winnie, looking right at her. “I have to go.” She looks down for a second, to end the call, and when she looks up her mother and the girls are coming up the front path, but there is no one else
by the car.

  Of course not, thinks Celeste. I was seeing things.

  And doesn’t know if that is a good thing or not.

  There was a time when, if he suddenly thought of Sorrel Groober, Ruben saw her as he once painted her for an art project – “Girl Out of Water”. The four of them had gone kayaking on the lake one afternoon and were just about to head in when a dog fell out of a passing boat. Sorrel saw it before anyone else, and jumped in to rescue it. Ruben took a photo when they got back on shore, Sorrel sopping and laughing, still holding the terrier in her arms. Usually Sorrel never forgot she was a model and always looked ready to have her picture taken; never so much as a single hair out of place. But after she jumped in the lake her hair was a mess, her make-up was ruined and her clothes looked like she’d worn them before quite a lot. She looked fantastic. It was the best photo he’d ever seen of her, which is why he turned it into a painting. He gave Sorrel “Girl Out of Water” for her birthday. She was really excited about turning eighteen, being an adult. “Now you’re so old,” Ruben joked, “you can start collecting art.” It wasn’t among the scores of pictures of her that had been placed all around the Groobers’ living room the day of the funeral. Maybe her mother threw it out. When they dropped Sorrel back home the day she jumped in the lake, her mother had a fit when she saw her. You’d think she’d come back covered in tattoos and piercings, not just wet and dishevelled, the way Meryl Groober had carried on. Or maybe the painting was in Sorrel’s room. Either way, Ruben wasn’t about to investigate further. Mr and Mrs Groober were in the middle of the crush of guests, shoulder to shoulder and looking, with their grim faces, as if they’d stepped out of Grant Wood’s painting “American Gothic” – or were about to step into it.

  That, however, was then, and this is now. Now when he suddenly thinks of Sorrel what Ruben sees is the flickering light by the office door in the laundrette, and the broken clock on the wall beside it that always says it’s seven twenty-eight. The washing machine at home can no longer be repaired, but Ruben’s mother refuses to replace it. “That’s just one less thing to worry about,” she said – smiling as if having a washing machine is something that causes everyone sleepless nights. And so, on the day Celeste called him to tell him Sorrel was dead, Ruben was sitting in the launderette, reading a book about Vincent Van Gogh that he found in a garage sale. Celeste was sorry for bothering him, and wanted to know where he was, if he was busy. When he told her, she asked him to stop by on his way home. She wasn’t crying and she didn’t sound upset, but he could tell immediately that something was wrong. Only he had to go straight home when the laundry was done; his mother would be anxious if he was late. Celeste said she figured she should tell him herself, because his mom doesn’t answer the phone when she’s working so no one would have given her the news. And Ruben said, “Tell me what?” He stared straight ahead while she told him, straight ahead at the flickering light and the broken clock.

  Which is exactly what Ruben is staring at now, sitting in the same chair in the same launderette. If he were still painting, which he isn’t, he would do a portrait of that flickering light and that broken clock: “The Day that Time Stood Still”. Because that’s what it feels like this afternoon, that he is in the same day – same moment – when he got the call from Celeste. Except, of course, that today he isn’t reading about Vincent Van Gogh but thinking of Sorrel Groober. How well he knew her – he and Orlando had been friends with her and Celeste since their freshman year, hanging out at school, hanging out after school, a little gang of four. How little he knew her – he knows her favourite colour, her favourite food and her favourite band, but he doesn’t know what she was afraid of, what stopped her from sleeping, if she believed in God.

  Ruben looks up to see that his wash is done. He gets to his feet, goes over to the machine by the window, and opens the door. What was Sorrel thinking as she stepped into the road that night? he wonders as he starts throwing the wet wash into his basket. Was there half a nanosecond when she saw the car coming? Was she frightened? Did she scream? Or did she never know what hit her? He straightens up, glancing to his left as something catches his eye.

  A face is gazing through the window at him. She isn’t wearing make-up and her hair is in two plaits, so that she looks about twelve, but it’s Sorrel’s face. Sorrel’s face, with that break-your-heart smile. So close that if there weren’t a sheet of glass between them he could reach out and touch her. The basket of clothes drops from Ruben’s hands. When he’s retrieved it and looks out of the window again there is no one there.

  Of course there isn’t, thinks Ruben. It was the light throwing images. It was probably his own reflection that he saw. After all, a vivid imagination runs in Ruben’s family. That and insanity.

  It doesn’t occur to him that the dead know how to use light to their advantage.

  If Orlando ignores the matter of Sorrel’s death (if he can), the Summer should be pretty good. He’s lifeguard at the private lake, which is a cushy job with minimum work and maximum pay. Since it isn’t an ocean he doesn’t have to worry about killer waves and undertows. Which means there isn’t really much to do besides stay awake. Mainly, he has to keep an eye out for kamikaze toddlers whose mothers are looking at their phones and not at them. Besides that, he teaches a beginners’ swimming lesson every morning, depending on interest, and occasionally rescues someone in a boat who lost their oars or whose motor died. But the best part of the job is that most of the lake people are older couples or families with young children so he rarely runs into anyone who knows him. He’s just the lifeguard, what’s-his-name. There’s nobody asking him about Sorrel or telling him how sorry they are. It’ll be different when school starts again. Then there will be sympathy and curiosity; the looks and the whispers. Then he’ll go back to being Orlando Gwinnet, popular student and high-school hero. Orlando’s always been sought after socially (especially by girls), but it wasn’t until Sorrel dumped him that he let himself be lured by all the attention. Parties. Cycling weekends. Dates with girls he had no interest in. Lots of dates. Did Sorrel even notice? He has no idea. If she did, he’s sure she didn’t care. He was busy, she was busy. They were all busy. What he does know is that none of it made him feel any better about the break-up. Popularity isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be.

  Today he had the afternoon shift. He pedals slowly, taking the scenic route, in no hurry to get home. Maybe no one talks to him about Sorrel at work, but that doesn’t stop him thinking about her. Orlando thinks about her a lot.

  He was the last of the friends to find out about the accident. Plugged into his iPod, he was doing his evening run and had just passed the barn that is all that remains of the old Inkman farm – the halfway mark – when he felt his phone vibrate. Because everyone knows he runs at the same times every day of the year – holidays included and weather no obstacle – he checked to see who it was. It was his father. His father isn’t a man to waste anything, even a phone call; it had to be important – even more important than merely making sure that Orlando was where he was supposed to be. And it was more important. “Sit down,” ordered his father. “I have to tell you something.” Bernard Gwinnet isn’t just economical with phone calls; he is a man who gets straight to the point without apologies or tears. And he’s very good at breaking bad news in a bloodless, official way. As a county policeman, Officer Gwinnet (which is what Orlando calls his father – but only privately, of course; to his face he calls him Dad or, sometimes, sir, though he’s careful never to sound facetious) gets plenty of practice. Orlando, used to doing as he’s told, sat down. Late last night… Raining like the devil… Walked into the road… Hit by a car… Pronounced dead at the scene… “That can’t be true,” said Orlando when his father was done doling out the facts. He could see Sorrel laughing as she cut her eighteenth-birthday cake. How could she be dead? His father said it was absolutely true. “You all right?” he asked Orlando. Which proved how true it was. After they hung up, Orlando stayed down at the side
of the road, his headset dangling around his neck, the music still playing but very far away – in another world, another life – seeing the single wild flower growing beside him, wondering what it was. He doesn’t know how long he sat there, thinking of Sorrel, remembering… He kept trying to imagine what had happened. To picture it. How could she just step into the road without looking? How could she not have seen the lights of the oncoming car? Why hadn’t he called her last night and asked her to hang out? He could have done that. He’d been keeping his distance for months, but after her birthday he’d promised himself that he’d do stuff like that again. Make things like they used to be. Okay, so she dumped him, but they were still friends. They were friends a hell of a lot longer than they were a couple. She’d put her arms around him the night of her party; she even kissed him on the cheek. He was sure she would have come over, if he’d asked. They could have watched a film, or played cards. Instead he sat in his room watching a thriller he may have seen before and listening to the rain while Sorrel walked in front of a Ford. Orlando’s mind travelled over the same small track like a toy train, round and round and round, going nowhere and never arriving. You don’t expect your friends to die. Not when you’re in your teens. Even Orlando, the sole survivor of four children, wasn’t expecting that. Two of his brothers died before they were born and the eldest, Raylan, was unlucky. Unlucky or careless, depending on how you looked at it. Orlando might have sat there all night if a cop car hadn’t stopped to see if there was something wrong. The officer knew his father and recognized Orlando, of course. The policeman drove him home.

  He coasts down Spoon Hollow Hill, picking up speed, imagining a starless, rainy night, imagining a car suddenly coming around that bend up ahead; wondering what Sorrel’s last words were, her last thought. And then, as he leans into the bend, he sees her standing at the side of the road, almost in the trees, watching him pass like a spectator at a race. He glances back over his shoulder, but there is no one there.