Afterward (15 page)

“Just save some for me, okay?” Emma says. “I hate beer.” She pouts a little.

“No, you don't,” I argue.

“Well, I like whiskey better,” Emma answers.

“I'll make sure you're taken care of,” Jason says, grinning.

“Let's go change,” I say, annoyed by this exchange. Emma follows me into the bathroom and starts peeling off her elf outfit and sliding into her favorite skintight jeans and a fitted red T-shirt.

“So,” she says, “you going to ask Ethan to this party?”

I stare at myself in the mirror. “No,” I answer. “I've told you it's not like that.”

“I know,” Emma says, brushing out her long, thick black hair. “You just get together and play music or whatever. I guess I just find it crazy that you never talk about what happened, that's all.”

“We just don't,” I say to my reflection.

“So your whole thing was to try and talk to him to find out more about what happened to Dylan, and that didn't happen, right?”

I don't want to tell Emma that Ethan remembers eating pepperoni pizza and not much else. So I just shake my head no.

“I don't get why he can't help you,” she presses.

“He doesn't remember a lot,” I say, wishing she was done so we could get out of here.

“Okay, maybe he doesn't remember everything, but can't he remember anything about your brother?” Emma says, scrunching up her forehead in confusion as she eyes her reflection.

“Emma, he went through some serious shit. Like, trauma. For four years.” The same trauma my brother went through, even if it wasn't for as long. It kills me that she doesn't have sympathy for that.

“I still think it's weird he never ran away after he had the chance. I think that is fucked up.” She tosses her hairbrush into her duffel bag and digs around until she finds her lipstick.

“Well, you're not him, so, whatever,” I tell her. I don't know why I didn't think ahead and pack something cute to wear. All I have are my sad jeans with the threadbare knees and an old Jackson Family Farm T-shirt that reads
EAT WHAT'S SWEET
and has a picture of smiling strawberries on the back.

“I'm ready now,” Emma announces, ignoring my irritation, and I follow her out to her car, half of me wishing I could just go home, even if that would mean hiding out in my room listening for Dylan to cry out or hearing my mom on the phone complaining to her sister or feeling the silence of my dad not being around.

The party is typical Dove Lake High School bullshit which means red Solo cups and a few people smoking weed outside and dudes playing video games and Fabiola running around telling people not to go into her parents' bedroom. It's boring, actually. Maybe there was a time my freshman year when I thought these parties were fun. But that feels like a long time ago.

Emma gets sucked into some conversation with some other girls in our class the second we get there, and soon I find myself maneuvering through the crowded house alone, nodding my head and offering a quick smile as I pass people, not feeling much like talking to anyone.

After a while, I try to find Jason, who should have gotten the whiskey by now. I'm not sure why. It's like I think I'm supposed to, I guess. I can see myself finding him on the back deck. I can picture myself slipping off to the side of the yard to smoke and make out. I can imagine ending up in some dark corner somewhere, our faces and bodies pressed together like mechanical parts on autopilot.

I finally spot him through the sliding glass patio door, standing on the deck right where I thought he'd be, tucked into a circle of kids from our class. Emma's there, too, laughing loudly out of her perfectly made up lips.

I don't go outside. Instead, I get myself a full cup of beer from the keg and shut myself in a small back room that looks like some sort of home office for Fabiola's mom or dad. There's a futon in the corner next to a bookshelf full of self-help books with titles like
The Magic of Thinking BIG
and
The Motivation Manifesto
. I turn off the light and settle in on the futon, sipping my beer.

I wish there was some way to know what's going on at home. I wonder how many land mines I would have to avoid if I showed up there right now. The thought makes my stomach hurt.

I slide my phone out of my back pocket and rub my thumb up and down the glass.

I'm so fucking lonely. I admit it inside my head. Then, just to be sure, I say the words out loud.

“I'm so fucking lonely.”

I listen to the words and I stare them in the face and I know they're true. They really are.

Holding my phone, I tap out a message.

What are you doing?

A few moments later, Ethan texts back.

Wrapping my presents for my parents

Presents. I have to go by the drugstore tomorrow and get my dad some new razors. While on a break today I got my mom some jars of jams with my employee discount. The only gift I got in advance was for Dylan. Last week I bought him some more wooden blocks for his block collection.

I read Ethan's text one more time and write back
That's nice what did you get them?

As I wait for him to text back, I wonder if I should have bought something for Ethan, too. Or maybe that would be too strange. A few seconds later his response pops up.

I got my mom a framed picture of me and her from not too long ago and my dad this book about the band Kiss

I grimace. Kiss? I type back another message.

Omg I hate kiss … and that drummer looking like a cat

That's my dad's favorite guy

What the actual fuck

I know right?

I smile a little at that last text. Then I hear shrieking outside, coming from the kitchen. I think someone is doing a keg stand. Ethan texts me again.

So you're off elf duty?

I'm at a stupid party

Why is it stupid?

Just dumb … drunk people. Boring. Idk

And I'm lonely. And sometimes I think I have no real friends except for you.

Whose house?

Fabiola Hernandez … two years ahead of you … you remember her?

There's a longer pause.

Maybe. Sometimes I think it would be cool to go to a party instead of being in my house with my parents every day

Music thuds outside the door.
You're not missing much
I text back.

There's a pause, and I worry Ethan will be pissed at me for that. After all, shouldn't he get to be the one to decide what he's missing? But a second later a text pops up.

Maybe someday I'll go to a party and see for myself … but for now my mom wants help decorating the tree …

The only tree my family has managed to put up this year is this little half-sized fake one on top of the coffee table. It's like my mom didn't have the energy for anything else.

Have fun

Have a merry xmas caroline

You too ethan

I finish the rest of my beer and head outside into the dark hallway. A door to the bedroom next to the office is halfway open. The front porch light streams through a window, and on the bed I can make out the image of two people kissing.

Gross
, I think to myself.
Shut the door at least
.

As I lean in for the doorknob to do everyone a favor, my eyes figure out exactly who it is rolling around on the bed drunk and groping each other like two eighth graders under the bleachers at a Dove Lake High School football game.

It's Emma.

And Jason McGinty.

I don't even slam the door. I just shut it and turn around and walk down the hallway toward the kitchen, hoping that whichever dumbasses were doing a keg stand are finished now because my cup is empty, and I need something else to drink.

 

ETHAN—224 DAYS AFTERWARD

It's so mild, even for January, that Dr. Greenberg asks me if I want to take Groovy for a walk during our session.

“Yeah, okay,” I say. My mom has gone to run a few errands, which she's finally started doing when I meet with Dr. Greenberg. I guess for my mom to leave me alone with someone, the only thing they have to be is a Harvard graduate who is also a famous specialist in healing trauma.

“So, did you have a nice Christmas?” Dr. Greenberg asks. We hadn't met last week because of the holidays.

“Yeah, it was okay,” I say, my hand holding tight to Groovy's leash. He trots out in front of me at a happy dog pace, the pace of a dog who could probably walk without a leash because he knows exactly how to get back home.

“Did you get any neat presents?”

“Some books and a new laptop. A couple of gift cards.”

“Sounds nice.”

“And Caroline got me something, too. I mean, she dropped it off two days after Christmas, but it was a set of new drumsticks.”

“Those will come in handy.”

“I feel bad I didn't get her anything,” I admit.

“You can always get her something later. I bet she wouldn't mind.”

“Probably,” I say, wondering what I would buy her. Maybe another Violent Femmes T-shirt. The one she wears so much is so worn out there are holes in the armpits.

“You're still enjoying hanging out with Caroline?” Dr. Greenberg asks.

“Yeah,” I say.

“That's good.”

We keep walking. I feel like it's my turn to talk next, so I ask Dr. Greenberg what he did for Christmas.

“Well, I'm Jewish,” he says, “so I don't celebrate it, really, but I went to visit my son in Atlanta.”

It's weird to learn these things about Dr. Greenberg like his religion or that he has a kid. It's like that moment when you're little and you realize your teacher doesn't live at your school.

“Is your son a therapist, too?”

Dr. Greenberg smiles. “No, he's a Unitarian Universalist minister.”

“But I thought you were Jewish?”

Dr. Greenberg shrugs. “I am. But my son isn't.”

“Oh. What's … Unitar … um … what did you say?”

“Unitarian Universalist,” Dr. Greenberg repeats. “Oh, it's a fascinating faith tradition. It supports the idea of everyone being on their own faith journey. So there really isn't any dogma. Any set of beliefs. It's very interesting.”

It sounds like a strange kind of religion to me, but I don't say that out loud. My parents and I go to church sometimes, to First Methodist of Dove Lake. We went pretty regularly after I got back, but lately not so much. I guess I don't mind not going. I mean, it was fine, but it was just another place for people to look at me and talk to me like that cashier did at the hardware store. Just one more place to remind me how not normal I am.

We walk for a half block more or so, and suddenly I hear my voice say, “I wonder how some people decide they don't believe in God.” Groovy stops to pee on a tree. Maybe that's his way of telling me he doesn't approve of what I've just said.

“It's a question a lot of people have,” Dr. Greenberg says. He slips his hands into the pockets of his khaki slacks. “My wife was an avowed atheist. She didn't debate God's existence in her mind at all. But I think most people do.”

“I didn't know you were married,” I say.

“Well, I'm widowed. My wife passed away five years ago from pancreatic cancer. I miss her quite a bit.”

It's the first time he's ever really said anything to me about his own emotions. I like that he thinks he can say that to me. That he doesn't mind me knowing.

“I'm sorry,” I say. “About your wife.”

“Me, too.” He points to the big school building at the end of the block. “She taught tenth grade biology there for years. She loved it.”

Groovy tugs at the leash, and we're off again. I kind of want to ask Dr. Greenberg if he believes in God just to see what he would say, but I think maybe that's too personal, no matter what he's just shared with me. So instead I ask him, “If your wife was an atheist, does that mean when she died she didn't think she would see you again? I mean, in Heaven?”

“Yes, I'm pretty sure. I mean, I never asked her, but I can only assume it to be the case.”

“Does that make you sad?”

Dr. Greenberg nods. “Yes, it does. But in Judaism when someone dies, we say, ‘May her memory be a blessing.' I love that saying. Her memory is a blessing every single day. So I try to focus on that.”

We're almost back to Dr. Greenberg's house again. A little breeze kicks up as we pass a mom pushing her baby in a stroller. She smiles at us, and I smile back. Dr. Greenberg offers a soft, “Hello.” I wonder if the lady knows Dr. Greenberg is a therapist and if she realizes I'm one of his messed up clients. Maybe she thinks I'm his grandson or nephew or something. I guess I kind of hope she does.

When we climb the steps to Dr. Greenberg's porch, he suggests that if I'm up for it, we sit in the big, blue Adirondack chairs he has and talk outside.

“Sure,” I say. It's like taking the walk. It feels less formal. Less like therapy.

“So when you ask about people not believing in God, is that because it's something you wanted to talk about?” Dr. Greenberg asks.

I stare at my shoes, considering the question. “I don't know,” I say. Maybe I do. But not right now.

“We can always put it on the back burner and come back to it.”

I look up and give Dr. Greenberg a curious look. “You make it sound like questioning God's existence is like trying to decide what I'll eat for lunch a week from now.”

Dr. Greenberg smiles a little. “All I'm saying is it's a very typical question, and you have time to wrestle with it.”

“So it's normal,” I ask, “to question God?”

“I like to stay away from the word
normal
,” says Dr. Greenberg. “Like I said, it's typical.”

I don't know if that's supposed to help, but I do know I'm not normal even if I wish I were. I guess I'm not typical either. I'm one in a million. So I don't know why it matters what we call it.