More Than We Can Tell

by Brigid Kemmerer

  Cait: Thanks for the invite. I think I’m going to bed.

  Emma: OK.

  I sit in absolute silence for the longest time. Texy climbs up on the bed and flops her lumbering self down beside me. Her head drops in my lap.

  I log in to my messages on my phone to write back to Ethan through 5Core. I don’t want to complain about Nightmare. It makes me feel weak, like I can’t handle a little trash talk.

  Friday, March 16 9:14 p.m.

  From: Azure M

  To: Ethan_717

  Mom cut the Internet. I’m waiting for her to fall asleep so I can reconnect it.

  His response comes back almost immediately.

  Friday, March 16 9:15 p.m.

  From: Ethan_717

  To: Azure M

  That’s a new one. I’ll be here all night. Yay, Friday.

  I smile. Yay, Friday.

  Friday, March 16 9:16 p.m.

  From: Azure M

  To: Ethan_717

  Give me an hour. Depending on how many glasses of wine she’s had, it might be less than that.

  A new message appears almost instantly. I grin.

  But then I see the message header.

  Friday, March 16 9:16 p.m.

  From: N1ghtm@re4

  To: Azure M

  Hey, look, I found you on 5Core.

  Nice pic.

  I freeze, staring at the message.

  My screen names are the same in both places. That’s not too big a deal.

  It’s the content of his message that’s so unsettling.

  No one has ever connected Azure M to Emma Blue, but as I stare at his message, I realize how simple it could be to connect the dots. And my profile pic doesn’t show my face, but it does show my back. Cait took it last October, at the Fall Festival. My arms are up, and I’m cheering after throwing a whipped cream pie at the quarterback and hitting him square in the face.

  In the picture, my braid hangs down my back.

  I’m wearing a Hamilton High School T-shirt.

  I can’t delete it from here. I need to go downstairs and reconnect the router. My heart beats so hard it’s almost painful, and adrenaline has taken over my bloodstream. My fingers shake over the screen of the phone.

  But then I talk myself down.

  Azure M isn’t that obvious.

  Hamilton High School isn’t either. My braid covers half of the words. I know what it says because it’s my T-shirt, but in the tiny thumbnail, it’s almost unreadable.

  Not to mention, I go to school with two thousand other kids.

  And he didn’t threaten me. He just said nice pic. He could be commenting on my butt. He probably was commenting on my butt.

  This is a calculated attempt to make me uncomfortable. It’s working, but it’s not criminal.

  It’s not even a message I can report. What would I say? Some guy said I have a nice pic.

  I can click on his name, though.

  Annnnd of course his profile is almost completely blank. His “name” is Night Mare. Hilarious.

  I sigh. I hate this. I delete the message.

  All of a sudden, I don’t want to reconnect the Internet at all. I don’t want to see what else he might have sent me in the game.

  That’s not okay. What he said to you. You know that, right?

  I do know that.

  I just can’t do anything about it.

  TEN

  Rev

  Saturday, March 17 12:06:24 a.m.

  FROM: Robert Ellis

  TO: Rev Fletcher

  SUBJECT: Midnight

  Do you remember the story of the Prodigal Son? Which brother are you? I wonder.

  Yes, I remember.

  I can practically recite it verse for verse.

  Basically, a father has two sons. The younger son is eager to live his life and go off into the world, so he asks his father for his inheritance early. The father gives it to him, and the younger son goes off and blows all his money, until he’s destitute and living in the streets. Meanwhile, the older son never leaves his father’s side.

  When the younger son remembers that his father’s servants have always had food to spare, he decides to return home to beg for the opportunity to work as a servant in his father’s house. The father sees him coming, and throws a huge party to welcome his son home.

  The older son is pissed. He’s been there all along, but no one’s ever thrown him a party for being the good son. His younger brother insults the father, blows all his money, and now he gets a celebration?

  In the end, the father tells the older son, “My son, you are always with me, and everything I have is yours. But we have to celebrate and be glad, because this brother of yours was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.”

  Honestly, neither son sounds like that great a guy.

  Which brother are you? I wonder.

  I don’t like either option. I turn my phone off.

  I’m exhausted, but sleep feels miles away.

  It must be miles away from Matthew, too, because he’s lying in bed, staring at the ceiling.

  He has said nothing to me since I got home. I’ve said nothing to him. The moment of peace I found with Emma seems miles away.

  My bedroom has turned into this cube of anxious silence. I want to take my pillow and my blanket and go sleep on the couch, but I don’t like the idea of being on the other side of the house, or being in the basement.

  I don’t understand his issue with the bus. I don’t understand why he was hiding in the dark, watching me.

  I don’t understand the knife, or the question about the locked door, or why I found him trying to sneak out.

  I turn my head and look over at him. I keep my voice soft. “Hey. Why did you need the knife?”

  Matthew says nothing.

  “You were trying to get out the door, so I don’t think you were going to hurt Geoff and Kristin.”

  Nothing.

  “Were you going to meet someone? Were you going after someone?”

  Nothing.

  This is exhausting. I sigh. “I know you can hear me.”

  Nothing.

  I sigh and roll up on one elbow to look at him directly.

  Matthew shoves himself upright. He looks ready to bolt from the bed. I can hear him breathing.

  But I don’t move, and he freezes in place. He watches me, his eyes shining in the moonlight from the window.

  “I told you I’m not going to mess with you,” I say to him.

  He doesn’t move. Surprise, surprise. I can’t stay in this bedroom if either one of us is going to get any sleep.

  My phone tells me it’s half past midnight. Declan might still be up.

  I hesitate.

  Three days ago, I wouldn’t have hesitated.

  I need to get over myself. I shoot him a text.

  Rev: You awake?

  I wait a full minute, my heart pounding, but he doesn’t respond.

  I call him.

  He answers on the third ring, and he was very obviously asleep. His voice is slow and lethargic. “Rehhv?”

  “Can I come over?”

  “Yuh.”

  Close enough. I end the call. Matthew is still watching me. It’s freaking me out.

  I throw back my quilt. “You’re in luck,” I tell him. “The bedroom is all yours.”

  I cross our yards barefoot and use the hidden key to let myself in through the back door. I’m careful to close it slowly because it sticks and squeaks. Declan’s parents won’t care that I’m here, but showing up after midnight will invite questions I don’t want to answer. I creep through the darkened house and pad up the steps to his bedroom.

  He’s already fallen back to sleep.

  “Hey,” I whisper. “Dec.”

  He shifts and runs a hand over his face. “Hey.”

  I ease his door closed so I won’t wake his parents, then lean against the wall. “I need to talk to you.”

  Hi
s eyes don’t open. “I’m awake.” Barely. “D’you want the air mattress?”

  “No.” My brain is ticking along at high speed, leaving sleep way in the distance.

  “’Kay. Here.” He pulls a pillow out from under his head and flops it on the other side of the bed.

  We haven’t shared a bed since we were little, but it’s a testament to our friendship that he tosses a pillow over so casually.

  I prop the pillow up and sit down on the bed cross-legged, then lean against the wall. I keep my voice low. “I’m sorry I woke you up.”

  Declan says nothing, and it takes me a minute to realize he’s fallen asleep again.

  That’s okay, though. This house is so different from my own right now. Instead of anxiety and mistrust, Declan’s room is full of silence and sleep. I sit in the darkness for a few minutes and allow my tightly wound thoughts to uncoil.

  “Rev?”

  I look down. Declan blinks up at me in confusion.

  “How long have you been here?” he says, his voice groggy.

  Any other night and I’d find this hilarious. “Not long.”

  He rubs at his eyes, then glances at the clock. “What’s going on?”

  As soon as he asks the question, I realize how far we’ve drifted apart over the last few days. All because of one tiny secret. “Matthew won’t stop watching me. It’s freaking me out.”

  “Watching you how?”

  “Just … watching me. It makes me nervous.”

  “Hold on.” Declan rubs at his eyes again. “I’m not awake enough yet.”

  “And I met a girl. Sort of.”

  “Did you say ‘sort of’?”

  “We keep meeting behind a church.”

  He stares at me like he’s having trouble tracking this conversation. “Rev.”

  “You know what your room reminds me of right now?”

  “I have no idea what is happening right now, so no.”

  “One of the psalms. ‘He stilled the storm to a whisper; the waves of the sea were hushed.’ ” I pause for a moment, just to savor the silence. “All night, my brain has been a war zone. Now I’m here, and it’s quiet.”

  “You walked yourself over here, Rev. And it’s quiet because I’m sleeping. Not because of God.”

  I frown. “Why do you always do that?”

  “Dude. Seriously.” His expression is a mixture of incredulity and irritation, but at least he looks more awake. He glances at the clock on his dresser. “It’s almost one in the morning. You want to argue about religion?”

  “No.” But now I don’t want to talk about any of it. I look away from him to stare out at the moonlit street. I wonder if Matthew fell asleep.

  I wonder if he’s taking the chance to escape.

  Declan sighs, then sits up, propping his pillow to sit against the wall, too. He lets out a breath and runs a hand back through his hair. “Did you say you met a girl behind a church?”

  “Forget it.”

  “Rev, I swear—”

  “Answer my question.” I turn to look at him. His eyes are still heavy lidded, his hair standing up in tufts. He’s shirtless, and while I don’t care—in fact, I envy his comfort with it—all I keep hearing in my head is Emma’s voice saying I said whoa because you have an amazing body.

  In truth, my body is a testament to all the ways I failed my father.

  “What question?” Declan says.

  “Why do you always do that? Why do you always …” I search for the right word. “Deflect. When I talk about God, or the Bible, or anything that’s not concrete.”

  “Can I go sleep in your bed and you can have this argument alone?”

  I don’t answer. Anger begins to build in my chest, a slow burn I can’t ignore.

  The doorknob clicks and turns, and Declan’s stepfather, Alan, pokes his head into the room. They don’t have a great relationship, but they’ve learned to tolerate each other. He does a complete double take when he sees me sitting on the bed. “Rev. How long have you been here?”

  Ten minutes is not an answer that would go over well. I shrug. “Awhile.”

  He looks like he’s going to demand a better answer, but then he grimaces and glances back out into the hallway. “Declan, I’m taking your mother to the hospital. She thinks she’s having contractions.”

  Any attitude just falls off Declan’s face. His eyes widen. “Is she okay? I can get dressed.”

  “No, no, stay here. She’s not sure. We’re just going to check. It’ll be a lot of waiting.” He pauses, and his expression softens. “I’ll text you and let you know what’s going on. Okay?”

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  Alan eases the door closed, trapping the silence in here with us again.

  Declan doesn’t break it. There’s another splinter in our friendship, and I don’t like it at all.

  “I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “I didn’t come over here to pick a fight.”

  “Rev—” He breaks off and sighs. He yanks open the drawer to his bedside table and fishes out a box of orange Tic Tacs. He pours out a handful. “There are days I hate Juliet for making me quit smoking.”

  I hold out my hand and he pours some for me. “No, you don’t.”

  “Trust me. I do.” He tosses them into his mouth. I do the same. We crunch for a while.

  Finally, he says, “I don’t know what’s out there. You know I have a hard time with the whole God thing. Especially since Dad … since Kerry died.”

  His sister. She died five years ago, when Declan’s father got drunk and crashed the car they were riding in. Declan hasn’t seen his father since it happened, but I know he feels some responsibility for all of it.

  He hasn’t seen him because his father has been in prison.

  Declan looks at me. “And you know I don’t understand how you can believe any of it. After what your father did.” Another pause. “But I don’t mean to deflect. It’s important to you. I don’t need to be an ass about it.”

  He stops, but he sounds like he has more to say, so I wait.

  “You’ve got that scar on your wrist,” he says. “Looks like half circles.”

  I go very still. I know the scar he’s talking about.

  I remember getting it.

  I was seven. We’d been fasting for two days. I was so hungry that the thought of food made me dizzy. Even the memory is hazy.

  “Please,” I said to my father. “Please can we have some food?”

  He turned on the stove.

  And I stupidly thought that meant he was going to cook something.

  “Rev.” Declan’s voice is soft. “We don’t have to talk about this.”

  My hand grips tight around my wrist, covering the scar through two layers of fabric. I’m not breathing. It was one of the last things my father ever did to me.

  I force myself to inhale. I stare down at my fingers. “What about it?”

  “I didn’t figure out what made that scar until we were like fifteen years old. A coil burner on a stove, right? I know about everything else, but that—figuring it out—I’ve never hated someone so much, Rev. I asked Geoff where to find him. I wanted to kill him.” He shakes more Tic Tacs like he wants to murder the container. “Damn it, thinking about it makes me want to find him and kill him right now.”

  “You asked Geoff ?” I stare at him. “You never told me that.”

  “He told me not to. He said it would upset you.”

  It’s very strange, to hear that they had a conversation I knew nothing of. “But that scar—that’s not even the worst of it.”

  He flings the container against the bedside table and rounds on me. “Oh my god. Are you kidding me? It’s all the worst of it, Rev. All of it! You can’t even wear short-sleeved shirts! Have you ever been in a pool? You can’t tell me Geoff and Kristin haven’t wanted to go to the beach once in the last ten years. We’re two hours from the ocean! And that asshole defended himself by saying everything he did to you was the work of God, and somehow you believe that’s true
. You think God saved you from him. Hell, you find some peace and quiet in my house, and you think God led you here. Do you have any idea what that sounds like?”

  I flinch.

  “Rev,” he says. “If you want to believe in God, fine. If you want to debate theology, fine. If you want to believe a higher power offered you some protection, fine. But every mark on your body—your father did that. Your father. You survived what he did to you. You got yourself out of there. And you walked yourself over here tonight. You, Rev. You did that.”

  I can’t breathe. He’s never said these things to me. I feel as if I’m made of stone, and Declan has struck me with a chisel, sending cracks along my surface.

  And suddenly, I know I can’t tell him about the letter. About the e-mails. Not tonight. He won’t understand why I sent the first e-mail. He won’t understand why I let it go on.

  “Are you okay?” he says.

  My breath shakes. “Do you know the story of the Prodigal Son?”

  “Oh my god. Rev—”

  “Do you?”

  He sighs. “I don’t remember the whole thing.”

  So I tell him the story.

  He listens. When I’m done, he says, “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Which one am I?” I finally ask.

  “Rev—”

  “I didn’t stay with my father. So I’m obviously not the devoted son.”

  “Dude.”

  “But is that saying that if I went back to him, he’d welcome me with open arms? Am I supposed to be that son?”

  “Are you listening to yourself right now?”

  “No.” I study him. My voice is a breath away from breaking. “Help me, Dec. Which one am I?”

  His eyes are dark and serious. “Neither. Is that what you need me to say? You’re neither son.”

  “But—”

  “You’re not selfish. You wouldn’t be the son who asks for his money and leaves. And you’re not spiteful. You don’t resent anyone, even the one person you should.”

  I flinch again. “Don’t you understand? I have to be one or the other.”

  “No, you don’t! You moron, there are three people in the story.”

  “What?”

  “You’re neither son, Rev. If you’re anyone, you’re the man who watched his kids act like total dicks, only to stand there with open arms and forgive them.”

  I’m speechless. I might be gaping at him. As many times as I’ve read that parable, I’ve never considered a third perspective. But of course it’s right there. It’s so clear.