Afterward (10 page)

“Listen, I'm really sorry I showed up here again,” I say, my mind searching for the words I rehearsed last night in my bedroom mirror. “And I'm really sorry it was unannounced. Again. But I'm here because I want to see if you can help me. With something about my brother. Dylan?” I don't know why I say his name like a question. Like there's a chance he doesn't know who my brother is. Ethan isn't saying anything. He's just listening, but his eyebrows are sliding together in a little V, like he's trying to read my face. Like he's trying to anticipate what I'm going to say before I say it.

“I'm just, like, this is so weird for me to talk to you about, I know, but I don't know what else to do,” I continue. Now that I've started, my words are tumbling out of my mouth, like they couldn't wait to make themselves heard. Like my practice the night before has ingrained them in my memory. “He's been acting so upset lately, and, you know, he's got special needs and everything, so he can't really talk, only he repeats things, you know? Like ever since he was found he keeps repeating the words
piece of cake
and
damn
and I'm just trying to find out, like, what that might mean? What exactly happened to him? I want to know, you know, what that bastard said to him. We don't even know how he was taken, exactly. He's scared to even leave the house now, and he's really scared when we make sudden movements. And my parents don't want to acknowledge any of it, so I feel like it's on me to try and help him. So, I know this is weird, and I'm really sorry to bother you, but…” I hear my voice crack. I stop so I don't start crying. Because if I start, I won't stop, and I don't want to be sobbing in front of Ethan Jorgenson.

But at least I've said what I wanted to say.

Ethan doesn't respond at first. Out of the corner of my eye I see the hand not holding the drumsticks is in a tight ball, and his thumb is racing up and down his knuckles, over and over again. He's silent for a good while.

“Well, uh, my memory is kind of, I guess, messed up,” he says at last. His voice is quiet.

I nod, listening. I realize I'm holding my breath.

“It was like he was just there one day,” Ethan says. “In the apartment. He was scared because he wet his pants. I tried to help him wash them out in the sink. That's kind of all I remember.” Then he pauses and closes his eyes. “He had a gun,” he says with his eyes still closed. “Marty did, I mean. Marty was … in control.”

I wince at the mention of that bastard's name. And I crumble inside thinking of Dylan messing himself.

“I hate hearing his name out loud,” I say. “Like he's some sort of regular person.”

Ethan gives me a half nod, glances over his shoulder and then back up the driveway again. “I'm sorry your brother's not doing so good,” he finally manages.

“Me, too,” I answer. My voice shakes just a bit again, but I keep it together. “Thanks for helping him when he dirtied his pants.” I swallow down the lump in my throat.

Ethan nods again, but he still isn't making eye contact with me.

“Has he seen, like, a therapist?” he asks.

I shake my head no. “Like I said, my mom and dad want us to just forget it ever happened. Plus, therapists cost money. And probably even a lot more money to find one who'll work with kids who don't even talk.”

“Yeah,” Ethan says. “I think they do cost a lot of money.”

“You see a therapist?”

“Yeah.”

Of course his family has the money for it. “Does it help?” I ask.

“I don't know,” Ethan answers. “It's okay, I guess. Mine has a dog that's pretty nice.”

“Like a dog that sits in on your meetings?”

“They're called sessions. But yeah.”

“That's odd,” I tell him.

“Yeah, it is. A little bit.” He gives me a quick smile. A more smudged-out version of the one from the MISSING poster that I used to stare at for all those years. But still, it's a smile. And for the tiniest sliver of a second, there's a softness between Ethan and me. This tiny moment of normal. As normal as this situation can be. Which is not very. Ethan's hands have relaxed a bit though. His drumsticks dangle slightly out of his right hand.

Just then his phone buzzes again. He shakes his head a bit—is he embarrassed?—and texts back quickly.

“Wow, your mom really likes to check in,” I say.

“Pretty much,” Ethan says, and he rolls his eyes a little. Then he stops himself and he winces slightly. “But … I can't blame her.”

“Yeah,” I say, and suddenly any bit of normal disappears, and it's weird again. Maybe I should leave. This isn't exactly a comfortable conversation, but I'm not sure how to get out of it. So I nod my chin toward his drums. “What are you working on? I mean, drum-wise?”

His eyes pop open just a bit, and he takes a second to answer. “Uh, just my fills. Getting back to the basics.” He stares at the ground again.

“That's cool,” I say, glancing back at his drums. I'm realizing how difficult it is for two people to talk to each other when both of them don't know how to make eye contact.

“You really play guitar?” Ethan asks, and I can't tell if he actually wants to know or if he's saying something just because weird conversation is better than awkward silence.

I nod. “Yeah, I play. I mean, I'm not very good or anything.” This could be a lie. I might be really great, but I have no way of knowing because no one else I know plays an instrument, and I taught myself with YouTube videos and chord progressions I printed off the Internet. I thought about joining the school band once or twice, but the people I hang out with—people like Jason and Emma—they just aren't the type to join the band. Or join anything. And anyway, I have my job at the farm to keep me busy.

“You're probably better on guitar than I am on drums,” Ethan says.

I shrug, and before I realize what I'm saying, I answer, “Well, there would be only one way for us to find out, I guess.” As soon as the words come out, I understand what it means. But the idea is ridiculous. “I'm sorry,” I say. “I know we couldn't play together … I mean, like, you can't have people over, right?”

Ethan frowns. “What do you mean I can't have people over?”

My cheeks warm up. Are there any other people on planet Earth right now having a stranger conversation? “I just…,” I stammer. “I didn't think your mom would like it. Maybe your dad wouldn't either, I don't know. He wasn't here last time, but your mom … when I was here talking about The White Stripes, I mean … I don't know.”

“I can have people over,” Ethan says, and the way he says it reminds me of a little kid. His voice is soft, but the tone is the same one we all used on the playground when we were younger:
You're not the boss of me.

“Sorry, I didn't know.” Jesus. Does he not remember telling me ten minutes ago that he wasn't allowed to leave his yard? How the hell am I supposed to know if he can have people over?

“It's okay,” Ethan answers, his tone shifting. “I mean, it's fine. It's … it's fine.”

“So what you're saying is you don't have anyone else to play music with?” I ask, desperate to drag us over this weird patch so we can end this conversation and I can leave.

Ethan shakes his head no. “Do you play with anyone?” he asks.

“No,” I say. Which, to be honest, kind of sucks. The whole point of playing electric guitar is to be playing in a band or something. It's definitely not to play along with YouTube videos.

Ethan kicks at some invisible gravel on the blacktop. His Sperrys are new and spotless. The shoes of a guy who never leaves his house. And then I hear his voice. Directed at his shoes but at me, too.

“Maybe we could play sometime,” he says. “I mean, if you wanted to or whatever.”

I nod, only he can't see it since he's looking at the ground. So I say, “Is there a place for me to plug in my practice amp?”

“Yeah,” Ethan says. “The garage has an outlet.”

“That's cool,” I say.

“Cool,” Ethan says. Pause. “You could just come by some afternoon after you get done with school or whatever. Even if I didn't know you were coming … I wouldn't be, like, surprised or anything.”

I can't tell if he's making a joke about my two unexpected visits, so I just say, “Okay. Sounds good.”

There's another long silence, and finally I say, “I guess I should be going.”

“Okay,” he says.

“Well, take care,” I say, climbing on my bike.

“Maybe see you later,” he tells me, and as I turn around on my bike and start gliding down the street, my lungs finally taking in a deep breath, I replay Ethan's last sentence to me over and over in my head.
Maybe see you later.
The way he said it—the way it sounded hopeful but mostly sad—it was enough for me to forgive him entirely for not being able to tell me anything new about Dylan.

 

ETHAN—163 DAYS AFTERWARD

There's no reason for me to tell Dr. Greenberg about Caroline. She was gone by the time my mom came home from Dr. Sugar's.

But here I am, sitting next to Groovy and telling Dr. Greenberg about Caroline Anderson biking up to my house two days ago and turning around and leaving and then me calling her back. Explaining to him that we might play music together. Maybe. If she comes back at all.

I didn't think I would tell him about her, but I can't stop thinking about Caroline. About how she showed up out of nowhere and about all the things she said. About how her visit was scary in some ways, but in other ways it was something new. Something different. Something that wasn't therapy or nightmares or tutoring sessions or awkward situations with my parents.

And because I couldn't stop thinking about it, I guess I couldn't fight the urge to talk about it. And Dr. Greenberg is my only option.

“You think you'd like to play music with her?” Dr. Greenberg asks. He tilts his head a little, like that might help him hear my answer a little better or something.

I shrug. “Maybe,” I finally manage. “I mean, playing the drums alone or along to music I listen to on my headphones is okay, but it's not like playing it with someone else.” And I'm lonely and tired of living my life surrounded by people over the age of forty. But I don't say that to Dr. Greenberg.

“So what did it feel like to ask her to come back?” Dr. Greenberg asks. “After she turned around and biked off?”

I shrug again. Groovy nuzzles up under my hand, and I give him a few pets.

“I don't know,” I say.

Dr. Greenberg nods and waits. I stare out the window at the pecan tree. There's a smudge on the window. I wonder if Dr. Greenberg made it with his nose, staring out at the same tree. Dr. Greenberg coughs, but he doesn't say anything. I think he's waiting me out. It makes me want to talk to cut the awkward silence. Which is weird because the awkward silences never used to bug me before.

“I guess I just didn't like how she kept showing up like that, and I wanted to tell her to stop doing it because it kind of pissed me off,” I answer. There. I said it.

Dr. Greenberg cracks a smile—you can barely see it through his gray, Santa Claus beard—and he says, “I think that's great. We've been talking about healthy boundaries in here, and it seems like you made an attempt at drawing some.”

Drawing healthy boundaries. Whenever Dr. Greenberg mentions that phrase it makes me think of taking a bunch of fruits and vegetables and surrounding myself with them—like a big circle of apples and eggplants and skinny green beans all laid out around me. Healthy boundaries.

“Anyway, she probably won't ever come back,” I say. “She could just have been trying to be polite.”

“Possibly,” Dr. Greenberg says. He waits a beat. Two beats. “Do you want to talk about why she showed up this time? Before she turned around and biked away and then you spoke about playing music together?”

I blink. My brain feels foggy like it always does when Caroline's brother comes to mind, but there's something dark and scary there, too. Something that makes me try to keep him outside of my head as much as I can. If I let myself think of him for a second or two, all I can see are his blue eyes. All I can smell is the stench of his dirty pants when I washed them out in the sink. All I can hear is him crying, sitting next to me on the couch, while I tried to show him the video games I was playing.

“Ethan? You hanging in there with me?”

I place my hand on Groovy's belly. It feels soft and warm. I take a breath.

“Yeah,” I say. “I'm hanging in there.” I pause and look down at Groovy's sleepy dog face. The way his dog mouth is turned up it looks like he's smiling. Maybe he is. I hear my voice saying, “She showed up because she wanted to know about her little brother, but I told her I couldn't remember anything.” I immediately want to take the words back. It's too much to say. I switch the subject fast. “But we barely talked about that. We mostly talked about music.”

Dr. Greenberg leans over and makes a few notes on his legal pad. I imagine what he's written about me.

This kid is the weirdest kid I've ever worked with.

Pretty sure there's no hope for this one to ever be normal.

Maybe I should tell his parents they're just wasting their money.

“Okay,” he says, setting his pad down again. “So maybe she'll come back. You two like the same bands?”

He skips over Dylan so easily I wonder if he's going to come back to him later. I hope he doesn't.

“I don't know if we like the same bands,” I say. “I mean, she likes this one band called The White Stripes. I listened to them, and they were okay.”

“So it could be fun,” he says.

I don't respond. I guess it could be fun. It could also be really awkward. And anyway, she may not even come back, so why am I even worrying about it?