Hello, I Must Be Going

by Dyan Sheldon

  A voice she can’t quite place is telling a story she heard from the Groobers’ neighbour – or maybe it was a friend of the Groobers’ neighbour – about the night Sorrel died. The neighbour had just come home and was getting out of her car when Sorrel stormed out of the house, shouting that she was eighteen and could do what she wanted. Meryl Groober tried to grab her but she ran off into the rain. The neighbour said Sorrel and her mother were always fighting.

  The other girls laugh.

  “Well, that makes a historic first, someone fighting with her mother,” says one of them. “What’s that meant to prove?”

  “It doesn’t prove anything,” says the first girl. “But it does make you think, doesn’t it? About the other stuff I heard? What if she did step in front of that car on purpose? You know… kill herself…”

  Now Celeste recognizes the voice. It belongs to one of the girls who from the first day of kindergarten always made her feel nervous and insecure. Cati Grear, prom-queen-in-waiting, who, until very recently, was the second-prettiest girl at Beaconspoint High. Every cell of her body alert, Celeste stares straight ahead, although all she can see, of course, is the beige metal door in front of her and the graffiti that time and the janitorial staff haven’t managed to erase.

  Another voice points out that no one really knows what happened, even the driver didn’t seem to know, but that everything she read and heard made it sound like an accident.

  “I’m just telling you what people are saying,” says Cati. “I mean, I know the paper and everything said it was an accident, but, really, where’s the proof?”

  Someone says she thought the coroner’s verdict was the proof.

  “Maybe,” says Cati. “But coroners can be wrong. My dad says that if the coroner wasn’t sure one way or the other she’d probably go for accident to spare the family.”

  “Spare them what?” asks another girl. “Sorrel’s still dead.”

  “Or it could mean they do know for sure,” says someone else. “That’s why they decided it was an accident.”

  “I’m just saying what I heard,” Cati repeats. “And the woman who was driving the car? She said Sorrel just walked right out in front of her. I mean, okay, it was night and it was raining, but it wasn’t a monsoon. You could see the lights.”

  Gathered at the sinks like animals at a watering hole, the girls continue to talk. Some continue to disagree with Cati. Haven’t they all walked into things because they were looking at their phones and not paying attention? It’s practically the millennial disease. One of them walked right into a glass door. Another sprained her ankle because she was reading a text and didn’t realize she was stepping off the kerb.

  “But none of us walked into traffic,” says Cati.

  Celeste knows that what Cati’s saying isn’t true. Not in a million years. She and Sorrel had plans. A future. People who know they have a future don’t kill themselves. Her phone bings again. This time it’s Ruben. Where are you? She ignores it.

  There is only one person, of course, who knows exactly what happened that fateful, rainy night. Knows that Sorrel’s mother was pushing her to go to the party without Celeste. It had been a while since she broke up with Orlando – when was she going to start dating again? How can a girl with her looks not have a boyfriend? Did she want people to think there was something wrong with her? And that’s when Sorrel told her. She didn’t want a boyfriend; she wanted a girlfriend. She wanted Celeste. Meryl Groober went into earthquake mode. I’m going to Celeste’s, and you can’t stop me! Sorrel screamed back.

  Cati holds her ground, but the others all think looking at her phone makes more sense than suicide. Why would Sorrel Groober kill herself? Since she wasn’t some poor loser.

  “Maybe there was something wrong with her,” says Cati. “You know. Mentally.”

  “I’ll tell you who has something wrong with her mentally,” says the only person who knows exactly what happened. “That cow does. If it isn’t bad news, Cati Grear won’t repeat it. She’s a viper in the bosom of life.”

  Celeste, until this moment fairly paralysed with horror, raises her eyes. Sorrel is sitting on top of the stall door, gazing over at the girls at the sinks. She’s wearing rolled-up jeans, flip-flops and an old football jersey with tabasco sauce stains on it. And this the girl who was considered not only “best looking” but “most sophisticated” as well. “It hasn’t taken her long to recover from the awful shock of my death. I mean, my God, I’m barely in my grave and look at how she’s trashing me. I knew when she turned up at my funeral, it was all an act.”

  “I didn’t,” whispers Celeste. “I really thought she’d had a change of heart.”

  “She doesn’t have a heart,” says Sorrel. “And sometimes I think you have too much. Always wanting to believe the best. Even if there isn’t any best. Lots of people are just out for themselves.”

  Celeste’s phone bings a third time.

  Sorrel peers down at her. “Aren’t you supposed to be meeting the boys?”

  “Well, yeah, but I can’t leave yet.”

  “How come?”

  She nods towards the door. “I have to wait till they go.”

  At the sinks, the topic of conversation has moved on to the homecoming dance. It could be a while before it’s over.

  “How come?”

  This is where feeling nervous and insecure kicks in. Why Sorrel should have watched where she was going and not walked into the road, leaving Celeste all alone. “You know…”

  “What? You don’t want Cati to know you overheard her? Why not? She’s the one who should be ashamed of herself.”

  This time Celeste’s phone rings. Ruben calling.

  “Uh-oh,” says Sorrel. “You’ve been rumbled. They’re looking at your feet. What are you going to do?”

  Celeste could, of course, spend the rest of the afternoon where she is. She could stay here long after Cati and her friends finally leave – just in case they’re lingering outside. Waiting to confront her. To accuse her of eavesdropping, of spying on them. Sorrel was always braver than she is. But now, of course, there’s only one of them left to be brave.

  Celeste taps Answer, and opens the door.

  There are five girls standing with their backs to the mirrors. They’re not looking at Celeste’s feet now, they’re looking at her.

  “I’m sorry. I got held up. I’m on my way,” says Celeste into the phone, and hangs up. She steps past the girls to wash her hands, and they all turn to watch her. “You know what?” she says, looking at Cati Grear in the glass. “I never did like you, but it wasn’t until now that I understood why. You’re a viper in the bosom of life.”

  As she marches out the door, she glances over her shoulder.

  Sorrel is gone, of course.

  She always encouraged Celeste to make her own decisions.

  Only one of Ruben’s friends has ever tried to breach Fortress Rossi, and that, of course, was Sorrel. (Sorrel never liked to take no for an answer.) That was long ago last April. Ruben ran into her in town. She’d just come from having her hair trimmed; he’d just come from buying a bulk order of candles at the hardware store. He usually saw her with other people and wasn’t used to being alone with her, though not because he didn’t want to be. Being alone with Sorrel was something of a dream come true for Ruben (or several dozen dreams), but it made him nervous, too. He was never sure what to say, always wondering if she knew what he secretly wanted to say while praying that he’d keep his mouth shut. They chatted for several minutes on the street, and then she offered him a lift home. If she’d had the entire football team and their pets with her, he would have said yes. They had a nice drive, talking and laughing just as if they weren’t alone. They pulled up in front of his house and he thanked her for the ride and she said not to mention it. He opened his door.

  But instead of letting him out and driving on, Sorrel cut the engine and announced that she had to use the bathroom, if it was okay with him. She was out of the car before he was
.

  It wasn’t okay with him. The bag of candles was awkward and heavy, so that by the time he did get out of the car she was ahead of him and already gliding towards the house.

  “Sorrel, come back.” He loped after her, trying not to look as if he was running. Even better than being alone with Sorrel should have been being alone in his house with her. But rather than a dream come true it was now a nightmare. There was no way he could let her inside. Unless he blindfolded her and guided her to the bathroom, she was going to notice how dark it was; how silent; how you couldn’t see out of most of the windows. Even if he got her through the house and to the bathroom without realizing how weird everything was, once in there she was going to wonder why the light didn’t work. If she didn’t notice any of those things – as though she was in a Gaia Pendragon novel and a spell had been cast over her – then there was the problem of Gaia Pendragon herself. Sorrel’s parents are front-of-house presentable. Whereas his mother is more like the madwoman in the attic. To complicate his situation even further, it wasn’t Sylvia Rossi’s idea that his friends never came around any more. She always asked about them. How’s Celeste? Sorrel busy with her modelling? Why doesn’t Orlando ever stop by? If she’d heard Sorrel’s voice – and when did you not hear Sorrel’s voice? – she might actually have left her room to see her. Probably wearing a foil helmet and a space blanket, just to be on the safe side. The madwoman who’d shuffled out of the attic and was standing at the top of the stairs, shouting hello. “I’m really sorry,” he said, “but I’m afraid you can’t use the bathroom.”

  Sorrel stopped short and swung around. “Why not? Don’t tell me you keep your pet lion in there.”

  Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on how you looked at it), covering for his mother had made him a quick and devious thinker. An artful dodger. “No.” Hahaha. “It’s broken. Leaks all over.”

  She started walking again. “So, okay, I’ll use the WC by the kitchen.”

  “You won’t believe this,” he said, trotting behind her, “but that’s not working either.”

  This time she turned so quickly that he nearly fell into her. He was right, she didn’t believe him. “What are you and your mom doing, shitting in the woods with the bears? Peeing in pots?”

  “We’re waiting for the plumber. He should be here this afternoon.”

  By then they were almost at the porch. Babbling about how busy the plumber was and how you don’t realize how much you take things like toilets for granted until they stop working, he managed to get between her and the house. “Thanks again for the ride,” he said. “I’m sorry about the bathroom.”

  She didn’t move. She said, “While I’m here I’d like to say hello to your mom. It’s been ages since I saw her.”

  This was when he knew that she had planned it. Maybe Sorrel hadn’t actually gone to town hoping to trap him, but she’d been planning ways to get into the house – waiting for her moment like a professional burglar. She had the sort of looks that often made people think that was all there was to her, but it was like thinking there was nothing more to a cake than the icing, especially one with a file hidden inside for sawing through metal bars. He took a step forward. “She’ll be having a nap now.” He took another step. “She always needs a break in the afternoon.”

  Sorrel took a step. Only it wasn’t backwards, it was forwards. “You don’t know that. She might be up by now.” A million-dollar smile and the determination of an invading army.

  “She won’t be,” he assured her. Another step. “She gets really tired.”

  “Why can’t we just see if she is up?” And again she came towards him.

  “Sorrel, please.” He was going to just gently turn her around, but either she wouldn’t move or he moved too much and instead of propelling her to the kerb he dropped the bag and three cases of household candles fell to the ground. They both stared down at them.

  “Candles?” Sorrel looked at him, still puzzled. Or, possibly, just suspicious. “Is there something wrong with your electrics, too?”

  “Atmosphere.” He bent down and scooped them back into the bag. “You know. For the books. My mother likes to really get in the mood.”

  Ruben is remembering that afternoon as he prepares for the day, because now he always thinks of Sorrel when he has to leave the house. In case he runs into her. He hasn’t in the last few weeks, but that doesn’t mean he won’t. He knows enough about life by now to know how it works: as trustworthy as a conman.

  He is getting ready in the kitchen, of course; the only room except for his where it isn’t always midnight during a power cut. In the rest of the house, all the curtains are perpetually drawn, all the blinds perpetually closed, all the doors perpetually shut, but there are no blinds or curtains in the kitchen; his mother never comes in here. Too many electrical appliances. From a woman whose spaghetti sauce was legendary she’s become a woman who can’t boil water.

  He checks himself out in the mirror he’s hung over the sink. Head, hair, shirt, smile. He looks okay; clean, neat, presentable – and sane. Today he looks even better than usual. Today, wearing a dark blue jacket and slacks with a crease in them, he looks as distinguished as a teenage boy can. He has a meeting before school with the guidance counsellor to plan his future, and he wants to impress her. He wants to impress himself, too – some days he isn’t sure he has a future.

  “You’re not crazy,” he assures his reflection. He definitely doesn’t look crazy. “Everything’s chill.”

  Telling himself that he isn’t crazy is a ritual Ruben has performed every morning since he found his mother in the bathtub wearing her foil hat, but he’s never been more serious about it than he’s been since he started seeing Sorrel. Just saying “You’re not crazy” always makes him feel better for a while. He’s hoping that if he says it enough it will have to be true.

  Ruben finishes the mug of coffee on the counter, picks up his new satchel and leaves the brightness of the kitchen for the darkness of the rest of the ground floor. When he reaches the front door he calls, “Bye, Mom,” up the stairs, but not too loudly; chances are she’ll be asleep by now, exhausted from working till dawn. My mother, the creature of the night.

  He steps onto the porch and gazes out on Garibaldi Drive. It’s a typical early Autumn day, the kind on which his dad used to take him and Orlando camping. The sun shines, the clouds float overhead, leaves rustle in the breeze. This is where he stops feeling better, and starts feeling wary. He scans the opposite side of the street, then looks to the left and the right. A woman wearing a bathrobe and bedroom slippers is walking her dog, a group of boys are jostling each other along the pavement and the man next door is lying on his stomach in his driveway, trying to coax a cat out from under his car. Coast clear; no ghosts. Ruben starts down the steps.

  It could be that he’s being overly cautious. It’s not like she pops up all the time. She spaces her visits. Not widely enough – fifty or sixty years between would work better for him – but she does space them. Maybe she doesn’t want to wear out her welcome. As it is, the time between visitations is just enough for him to think they’re over and let his guard down. Which means that he isn’t being overly cautious, he’s being sensible. Maybe she’ll stay away if he’s expecting her. Of course, if nothing will keep her away it doesn’t matter how cautious he is. How can he avoid her if she knows where he’ll be and what he’ll be doing? Not that he believes in ghosts; he doesn’t. His own guess is that what’s happening is a chemical reaction between his worry over his mother, his grief over his dad and his shock over Sorrel. Besides, Sorrel was a serial dater who went out with a lot of boys, but one of those boys was Orlando. Something that never bothered Ruben – for a change she was showing good taste. But it should mean that if she were going to haunt anyone, it should be him and not Ruben. Unless it’s Sod’s Law: Orlando gets her passionate kisses, and Ruben gets her unquiet spirit.

  Once on the pavement, he walks quickly, keeping his eyes on the straight ahead. When h
e reaches the school grounds he’ll be safe. Sorrel was never the biggest fan the education system ever had. She was smart, but she wasn’t interested. School is the last place she’d revisit.

  Mrs Witten is waiting for him with a cup of coffee from the staffroom, milk and sugar – she hopes that’s all right. It’s the first time he’s sat down with her since his freshman year, but she seems to remember him well. Knows his grades, knows his test scores, knows his extracurricular activities, knows that his mother’s a writer, knows he designed the sets for the drama club’s production of Arsenic and Old Lace last year and A Midsummer Night’s Dream the year before. Thinks he should get at least a partial scholarship to the college of his choice.

  She has his school record and a stack of catalogues on her desk, the best fine arts colleges in the country. So she doesn’t know everything about him.

  “You’re not interested in art any more?” She makes it sound as if he’s given up food. “I thought you were so serious about it. Everyone says how much talent you have.”

  “I know.” He does. “I’ve been back and forth over it for months. That’s why I’m only seeing you now. But this Summer I finally decided.” Ruben’s smile exudes a maturity and confidence he can only hope she believes he possesses. “Once and for all.”

  “I had the impression art has been your focus since you were very young.” Mrs Witten taps her pen against the desk. “What made you change your mind now?”

  It’s not his mind that’s changed. Ruben used to be a free spirit. He does well enough in school, but he wasn’t interested in following an academic path to a college major that would lead him to a profession with a high salary, good benefits and a secure future. He’d known he wanted to be a painter from the age of three, when he got his first set of watercolours. A free spirit and a romantic, he read the lives of artists he admired, and filled his head with stories of past art worlds in France, England, Italy and Spain. He was especially drawn to bohemian Paris in the 1920s. He imagined himself living in a garret, selling his paintings along the riverbank, falling asleep listening to the rain beat against the skylights. And even if the world had changed a lot since then, it still had room for artists. He had the talent; he had the drive. Ruben might not get to 1920s Paris, but he could move to twenty-first-century New York or San Francisco, find some job to pay the rent and let him paint. He could even do some street art, murals on buildings, signs of the times.