Good and Gone

by Megan Frazer Blakemore

  NOW

  It’s almost two hours on 84 into Pennsylvania. Two quiet hours where I slip in and out of sleep and think about texting Mom, but can’t quite bring myself to do it, and anyway my phone is nearly dead from searching for service and I should save the battery in case of emergency. I wish I had thought to get a charger at the gas station. When we get off 84 to take the smaller road out toward Shangri-La, Charlie pulls the car over. Scenic Overlook, a sign reads. I have no idea what he’s doing. It’s, like, suddenly the mission is less urgent, I guess, and we can stop for pretty views. Maybe he’s trying to slow things down. Maybe he’s realizing what we all believe—that Adrian Wildes is dead. Or maybe he’s just weird. Nothing Charlie does makes sense.

  We walk up to the guardrail that prevents you from dropping down an embankment into the Delaware River below. We watch the river for a few minutes. It’s captivating, really. The way it is the same thing, over and over, but also different every single second. The edges are ridged with ice, and the middle is frothy white.

  “This is the river he went to see,” Zack says. He doesn’t say it, but I think I know what he’s getting at: if Adrian Wildes had jumped in, he would have washed up someplace like this: tossed and turned against the rocks and probably bloody and bruised beyond recognition, but most likely found. Unless he got pulled under. Unless his body was trapped below that foam.

  “If you followed along the river down to where he—where he went missing, it would be less than fifty miles.”

  “That’s a lot of ground to cover,” I say. “Or, I guess, a lot of water.” I force a laugh out, but Charlie’s eyes are glassy and he doesn’t respond. He’s leaning hard against the guardrail. I can see it pushing against the flesh of his thighs, leaving stains on his already dirty jeans.

  I kind of remember this story we read once—not with Dewey DeWitt, but with my family. Maybe someone made it up, I’m not sure. Maybe I dreamed it. Anyway, it was this cliff out over the ocean. And the view was so beautiful, so mesmerizing, that no one could go to the edge of that cliff without throwing himself from it. The king was losing all his best men to the cliff. But he had something more mesmerizing than the ocean: a beautiful daughter. He proclaimed that the first man who could withstand the cliff should have his daughter’s hand in marriage. He thought that if one man could withstand it, it would break the spell of the place. And so man after man came from near and far. Old men, young men, handsome men, and ugly men. But not one of them could resist the draw of the ocean. The princess saw them all. She saw them all dying for her—but she also knew, I think, that they weren’t really dying for her. They were dying for her beauty and for her status, which wasn’t the same as dying for her. So one day at the break of dawn, she went out to the cliff herself. She looked out at the water, and she felt nothing but calm. The wind whipped her hair across her face. And so she turned. She had withstood the cliff. She had won her own freedom. When she turned, she saw a knight, all in black. He had followed her to the cliff. He had seen her resist it. She smiled at him, but he, in his envy and rage, charged at her. She stumbled backward, down and down and down into the water. She was lost.

  I turn to Charlie. “It’s like that story, isn’t it? The one with the cliff and the princess and the king and the knight pushed her in?”

  “He didn’t push her. She jumped.”

  “No. He was jealous that she could do something he could not, and he pushed her.”

  “If he couldn’t do it, then he would have gone in, too—”

  “But she broke the spell.”

  He shakes his head, but he doesn’t say anything else about it.

  The water sloshes against its banks. A branch is caught up in the froth, crashing against unseen rocks and breaking into bits below us.

  Charlie leans forward, and I find myself reaching out and grabbing on to his shirt. He looks back at me with an angry grimace, eyes flashing like stoplights.

  “It’s not too much farther to Shangri-La,” Zack says.

  Charlie and I just stare at each other. I wonder if my eyes are sparking, too.

  “Let’s go then,” Charlie says. “If it’s not far from here, then let’s go.”

  Neither Zack nor I say anything. I guess we’ve both realized that this is Charlie’s mission now. We just need to follow him.

  BEFORE

  December

  There was a holiday concert at school and Mom said we needed to go. All of us. Gwen was in the chorus, and Mom thought that I should go to support her. “If you leave the door open just a crack, honey, she can come back in.”

  “The door is open, Mom. She’s not interested.”

  She put her hand on my shoulder. “Just try, okay?” Then she turned behind her and called to Charlie. He’d been home from school for a week and spent most of it on the couch. “It’s time to go!”

  “Go where?”

  “The concert. Come on!” She turned to me. “I think this will be good for him.”

  I wasn’t sure how seeing a bunch of high school kids play nondenominational holiday songs was good for anyone. “Good for his ass, maybe. I don’t know how he doesn’t have bedsores from that couch. Does he even go upstairs to sleep?”

  “Lexi, I understand that you are at the age for pushing boundaries, but you need to think about your use of language.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” I noticed that she did not answer my question.

  “It’s been a tough semester for Charlie,” she said.

  And mine had been just peachy.

  Dad came into the mud room. “You look nice,” he said to me, but before I could answer, he turned to Mom. “Charlie’s still on the couch.”

  Mom sighed. “I’ll go talk to him.”

  “I tried,” Dad said.

  “Just give me a second,” Mom said.

  When she left, I asked Dad, “So, what’s the big deal? Why does Charlie have to go to this concert?”

  He hesitated. “Music is good for all of us, don’t you think? It’s important to be a part of the cultural community.”

  I guess this is where I should have realized that something more than just laziness was going on with Charlie. I could’ve pressed Dad to tell me what Charlie’s deal was. But I didn’t. “You sound like a brochure,” I told him.

  “Huh,” he said. “Better than an infomercial, I guess.” He looked over his shoulder. “I’m just gonna go see how Charlie and your mom are doing.”

  “I’ll be in the car.”

  We were late and had to sit in pairs. Charlie and my dad sat in front of us by a couple of rows. I could see the backs of both of their heads. They were almost the exact same shape: long and oval. Their hair even swirled the same way: counterclockwise. Charlie’s head was not turned toward the stage, though there was a violin quartet playing. Instead he looked to his right. At Penelope Richards. Gack. What was she doing here?

  “Mom,” I whispered. And nodded my head.

  “Oh,” she said.

  Penelope was with her parents. She had her hair pulled back in a ponytail that swung as she nodded along to the music.

  “It’s okay,” Mom said. “He’ll be okay. He’s past this.”

  Hardly past it, I thought, if he was always camped out on the couch. I tried to relax in the folding metal chair, but it was like I had a rifle trained on my back. So I turned around. And there was Seth. With Hannah. Holding her hand. He gave me a tiny, deadly smile.

  I whipped my head back around and tried to make my breath come normally. My back went stiff. It was like I could still feel him touching me. My skin itched and I couldn’t stop myself from scratching so hard I turned my forearms red.

  Charlie spent the whole time looking at Penelope.

  I’m surprised we even noticed the music. Then the band began playing and Remy had a solo. She stood in the center of the stage in her black skirt and white button-down shirt. Hers had a little black-ribbon trim around the collar. When she played her face relaxed. Her fingers moved like dancers.

&
nbsp; When the song finished, applause broke out and I swallowed down tears. Mom said, “I didn’t realize you liked Schubert so much.”

  People were still clapping, but from behind me, I heard Seth’s voice. “Slut.” I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or if he was talking about Remy, but I said, “Excuse me,” and I stood up and rushed out of the auditorium and into the hall.

  The band was filtering out and I almost crashed into Julie Wexler. “Watch it!”

  “You okay, Lexi?” Remy asked.

  Her cheeks were flushed. She held her clarinet in one hand, her sheet music in the other. I’d never learned to play an instrument. Those notes on the paper meant nothing to me, but she could unlock them and bring people to their feet.

  I ran toward the door. “Weirdo,” Julie said.

  “No, she’s all right,” Remy replied.

  I burst out into the cold air and ran to the wall by the front door. I sucked in air like it was water. Still my skin itched and my lungs were tight. I rubbed my hands against my arms harder and harder and harder but all I could feel was Seth’s word raining down on me.

  I can’t be like this forever. It can’t always be this way.

  And so I kept building the wall around me. Brick by dusty brick.

  NOW

  It’s raining when we get to Shangri-La—the barest hint of rain, but cold, almost frozen rain nonetheless. I wrap my sweat shirt around me and wish I had thought to bring something warmer. There is no sound but our movements: the swish-swish of Charlie’s coat as he swings his arm, the thud-flap of Zack’s shoe.

  Charlie has parked the car right up by the filigreed gate, so we don’t have far to walk. There’s a chain on the gate, but we can swing the gate out far enough to slip in. No alarm sounds. No lights flash on. It’s like they don’t even care anymore.

  Shangri-La, A Paradise Amusement Park was only open for two and a half seasons. One day the gates were just locked. The owners moved to some little island somewhere and owed all these people money that they never paid. Adrian Wildes sang about it. That’s why we’re here. I guess he heard about it and stopped to see it when he was on tour in the area, before he made it big. It had a “lasting, profound, deep effect on him,” at least according to Wikipedia.

  Just inside the gate is the steel husk of a whale, its mouth a perpetual gape. Farther on I think I see the beginnings of a roller coaster, but it’s hard to tell. The whole place is in shadows. We walk down a path and I try to imagine it full of people, parents chasing after their kids who are sticky with cotton candy. Merry-go-round music spilling forward. Balloons floating into the air. All I can see, though, is gray sky.

  “I don’t think he’s here,” I say. “I don’t think there’s anybody here.”

  Charlie shrugs me off and keeps walking. “It’s a perfect place for depression.”

  “We don’t know that he’s depressed,” I say. “Stop projecting.”

  Neither he nor Zack responds. The path changes from pavement to brick that seems to be glittering. It was meant to look like gold, I suppose, but now it just looks tarnished.

  We come to a low, wooden building. There’s a lock on the door, but it’s been broken and hangs, rusty and off-kilter. Zack picks up a stick and uses it to prod the door open. Inside is only blackness. “I’m not going in there,” I say, and back away from the dark.

  Charlie pokes his head in. “Adrian?” he calls. “Adrian, are you in there?”

  No sound. No echo.

  “This is stupid,” I say.

  “You’ve thought this whole trip is stupid,” Charlie replies, which is, of course, true.

  “I just don’t understand why this is so important to you. We’ve driven hundreds of miles and you won’t even say why you want to find him.”

  Charlie talks to the wet ground instead of to me: “Don’t you ever feel like doing that? Just disappearing?”

  “Everyone feels that way sometimes,” I tell him, but I think of Harper telling me that disappearing and starting new is impossible.

  “You can’t just leave your life. Someone has to pull you back.”

  “Maybe he’s done being famous.” I’m very proud of myself for not saying that maybe he’s done being a douchebag. I guess my lips probably flicked into a smile for half a second, because Charlie turns away. “Maybe he just wants to start a new life,” I add.

  “Someone always has to pull you back.”

  “But—”

  “He needs to know that someone wants to pull him back.”

  I know we aren’t talking about Adrian Wildes anymore. But all the words I want to say lodge in my throat. I’ve been trying to pull him back. Or I thought I had. Maybe insulting him as he sat on the couch didn’t help, but if I had been all lovey-dovey and sappy, it wouldn’t have worked either. Anyway, it didn’t matter, because he’s walking away from me again.

  I back up and keep heading down the path. I’m sick of protecting Charlie. This is a fool’s mission, and he knows it. What would we even do if we found Adrian Wildes? Either he doesn’t want to be found, or, if he does, it’s not by a bunch of teenagers. I kick a rock and it scuttles across the pavement in front of me.

  BEFORE

  September

  Seth took me down to Canobie Lake Park once. I guess this place could have been like that. Maybe it had been nice at one time, but then it got kind of trashy.

  We went in the teacups again and again because they were my favorite. We rode until neither of us could walk straight and we ended up falling down right outside the ride, arms and legs tangled together. Then we laughed. We laughed so loud and for so long, rolling on the ground, that a security guard came over and told us to move along.

  “We can’t,” Seth protested.

  I shook my head, still giggling too much to speak.

  “The ride,” Seth gasped. “It has robbed us of our ability to walk. We’re going to just have to sit here for a while.”

  The guard shook his head. “Move along,” he repeated.

  Seth jumped to his feet, wobbled, and reached down to grab both of my hands in his. He pulled me to my feet, wrapped his arm around my waist, and we stumbled down the path toward the arcade. We watched the people’s faces watching us. Most stepped out of our way, sure we were drunk or high or just out of our minds. One woman actually hugged her son close to her legs. But there was this one couple, maybe they were in their thirties. They had two little kids with them. They looked at each other, grinning. The man winked and the woman mouthed, “I love you.” And it was stupid, but I thought, someday, someday, someday. Someday that could be me and Seth. So I turned to him and said, “I think I love you.”

  He wrapped his arm around me and pulled me close to him. The world swayed around us.

  NOW

  I walk away from the boys down a path that is more icy than snowy. My feet slip beneath me and so I am half sliding and half wobbling and probably look like a baby penguin only not cute. But I don’t care. Who’s going to see me? Charlie and Zack? Who cares?

  The path goes through this sort of Middle Eastern area: a cartoon version of it anyway. The buildings have minarets and it looks like at one time they were painted all sorts of bright colors. One has a window that’s boarded up, but the board has been broken through like someone took an ax to it and then yanked apart the plywood. I slip over to it and peer inside. Once my eyes adjust to the shadow, I see it’s one of those games, the rigged kind. There are creepy clown faces and targets. I shudder and turn away.

  I walk toward a Ferris wheel that has tilted slightly. Maybe it’s the years of being left alone or the tree that is growing up along a central axis or an ice storm. I don’t know. There are lots of ways for a place to fall apart. One of the cars has fallen off and is in a mangled mess on the ground.

  I can see why Adrian would want to write a song about this place. The sadness pushes down on you, but there’s also this weird sense of hope. Like I can imagine that Ferris wheel straightening itself right back up and spinni
ng to life with that mechanical joyful music. I can imagine the lights and sitting at the top with a boy—not Seth—with his arm around me and looking out over all of the park. It’s there, but it’s gone.

  Harper would like it here. I wish she had stayed with us. We could’ve gotten her to Florida eventually. Maybe.

  The path loops around and I think I must be in the food court. There’s a big flat area with metal picnic tables bolted to the cement. There’s a roof over it, with one side collapsed by snow.

  Gwen likes amusement park food. It’s weird because she’s so careful about everything. So careful with her image. But get her in front of some cotton candy and her whole face lights up and she digs in with abandon. She says the holy grail is freshly spun cotton candy and someday she’s going to have her own machine. And she likes corn dogs, too, and that weird ice cream that is little pellets. I know a million stupid little things like this about her, and sometimes when she was spinning away from me, I thought about spilling them all.

  But I didn’t.

  She said she would’ve come, but I don’t know if I believe her. If I had called and said, “State of Emergency. Charlie is going Code Red. I need you,” I don’t know if she would have stopped her marathon of whatever Disney preteen show she was sucked into and gotten in the car with us. I used to know that. Even when she was so angry at me and spitting venom. Even then I knew I could still call her and she would drop everything for me.

  Now things are calmer, but I don’t think I’m on her list of help-at-any-hour friends anymore. And that’s like a thousand times worse than her being angry with me.

  My phone is heavy in my sweat shirt pocket and I pull it out. The battery is down to four percent, but I have service and I can see I have three texts from Mom: