Forever (12 page)

• ISABEL •

There was this thing that my parents used to do to me and Jack, before Jack died. They'd pick a time when we were most likely to be doing something that we wanted to be doing, sometimes homework but more often plans with friends — opening night of a movie you were dying to see was always a likely time — and then they would kidnap us.

They would take us to Il Pomodoro. That is “The Tomato” for those of you who, like me, do not speak cornball. Il Pomodoro was an hour and a half away from Mercy Falls in the middle of nowhere, which was saying a lot, because Mercy Falls was also the middle of nowhere. Why travel from one non-destination to another? Because while most people knew my father as a hard-assed trial lawyer who eviscerated his opponents with the ease of a velociraptor on speed, I knew the truth, which was that my father turned into a melting kitten in the hands of Italian men who served him garlic breadsticks while a tenor warbled sweetly in the background.

So, having just powered through a school day, dying to be done so that I could drive over to Beck's house to see what Sam and Cole were up to, with a million other things on my mind, I should have realized that it was a prime parental kidnapping environment. But it had been over a year. I was unprepared and my defenses were down.

I had no sooner stepped out of the school than my phone rang. Of course it was my father, so I had to pick it up or risk his righteous
wrath. Flipping the phone open, I waved Mackenzie on; she wiggled her fingers over her shoulder without looking back at me.

“Yeah, what,” I said, hitting the button on my keys to see how far away I could be and still unlock the car.

“Come right back home when you're done,” my father said. I heard the hiss of running water behind him and the snap of a makeup case. “We're going to Il Pomodoro tonight and we're leaving as soon as you get here.”

“Are you
serious
?” I asked. “I have homework and I have to be up early tomorrow. You can go without me; it'll be romantic.”

My father laughed with ruthless mirth:
Ha. Ha. Ha.
“We're going with a group, Isabel. A little celebration party, as it were. Everyone wants to visit with you. It's been a long time.” My mother's voice murmured in the background. “Your mother says that if you go, she'll pay for the oil change on your vehicle.”

I jerked open the door on my SUV and scowled at the puddle I was standing in. Everything was soggy this week. Warm air rushed out of the car, a sign that it was spring — it had actually gotten warm enough to heat the inside of the car while it was shut up. “She already promised me that for taking her dry cleaning the other day.”

My father relayed this information to my mother. There was a pause. “She is saying that she will take you to Duluth for something called high/lowlights. Wait, is this about your hair? I'm not really a fan of —”

“I really don't want to go,” I interrupted him. “I had plans.” Then a thought occurred to me. “What are you celebrating again? Is this about the wolf hunt?”

“Well, yes, but we won't be talking about that
all
night,” my father said. “It will be fun. We'll —”

“Good. Fine. I'll go. Tell mom I need a haircut more than color. Not with that doofus guy she likes, either. He makes me look like a
soccer mom. I think he learned how to do hair from nineties sitcoms.” I climbed into my car and started it, trying not to think about the evening ahead of me. The things I did for Grace and Sam that I would never do for anybody else.

“This makes me happy, Isabel,” my father said. I frowned at the steering wheel. But I kind of believed him.

 

Every time we came to Il Pomodoro, I wondered how it had managed to suck in my parents. We were Californians, for crying out loud, who should know a quality culinary experience when we saw one. And yet here we were at a red-and-white-checked table listening to some poor college graduate sing opera at the end of our table while we perused the menu and snacked on four different kinds of bread, none of which looked Italian and all of which looked Minnesotan. The room was dark and the ceiling was low and made of acoustic tile. It was an Italian American tomb with a side of pesto.

I had done my best to stick to my father during the seating process, because there were about fifteen people, and the whole point of coming to this thing was to be close enough to hear what he said. Still, I ended up with a woman named Dolly sitting between us. Her son, who looked like he'd done his hair by standing backward in a wind tunnel, sat on the other side of me. I picked at the ends of my breadstick and tried not to let my elbows touch either of my neighbors.

There was a flash as something flew across the table, landing directly inside the neckline of my shirt, nestling on my breasts. Across from me, a fellow wind-tunnel survivor — a brother, maybe — was smirking and shooting glances at my neighbor. Dolly was oblivious, talking across my father to my mother on the other side of him.

I leaned across the table toward the crumb-thrower. “Do that again,” I said, loud enough to be heard over the opera singer, Dolly,
my mother, and the smell of the breadsticks, “and I will sell your first-born child to the devil.”

When I sat back, the boy next to me said, “He's annoying, sorry.” But I could tell that what he really meant was
What a great conversation starter, thanks, bro!
Of course, Grace would have said,
Maybe he was just being nice
, because Grace thought nice things about people. Jack would have agreed with me, though.

Actually, it was really hard not to think about how the last time I'd been here, Jack had been sitting across the table from me, the rows and rows of wine bottles behind him, just like the kid across the table from me now. Jack had been a jerk that night, even though I tried not to remember that part. It felt like I wasn't missing him properly if I let myself remember how much I'd despised him sometimes. Instead I tried to remember what he looked like when he was grinning and dirty in the driveway, though these days it felt more like I was remembering a memory of a memory of his smile instead of remembering the smile itself. When I thought too hard about that, it made me feel weightless and untethered.

The opera singer ceased singing, to polite applause, and moved to the small stage on the side of the restaurant, where she conferred with another person in an equally demoralizing costume. My father took the opportunity to knock his spoon against his glass.

“A toast, for those of us who are drinking tonight,” he said. Not really standing, just half rising. “To Marshall, for believing this could be done. And to Jack, who can't be here with us tonight” — he paused, then said — “but would be bugging us for a glass of his own if he were.”

I thought it was a crappy toast, even if it was true, but I let Dolly and the neighbor boy knock their glasses against my water glass. I sneered at the boy across the table and withdrew my glass before he could lift his to mine. I'd get the crumb out of my shirt later.

Marshall sat at the end of the table, and his voice boomed in a way that my father's didn't. He had a carrying, congressional sort of voice, the kind that sounded good saying things like
Less of a tax burden on the middle class
and
Thank you for your donation
and
Honey, could you bring me my sweater with the duck on it?
He said, conversational and resonant, “Did you know that you folks have the most dangerous wolves in North America?” He smiled, broad and pleased to share this information with us. His tie was loosened like he was here among friends, not working. “Until the Mercy Falls pack became active, there had been only two confirmed fatal wolf attacks in North America. Total. On humans, of course. Out west, they had quite a few livestock taken down, that's for sure, that's why they put that two hundred twenty wolf quota out there in Idaho.”

“That's how many wolves the hunters could take?” asked Dolly.

“You betcha,” Marshall said, a Minnesota accent presenting itself so unexpectedly that I was surprised.

“That seems like a lot of wolves,” Dolly replied. “Do we have that many wolves here?”

My father broke in smoothly; in comparison to Marshall, he sounded more elegant, more cultured. Of course we were sitting in Il Pomodoro, so how cultured could he be, but still. “Oh, no, they estimate the Mercy Falls pack to be only twenty or thirty animals. At most.”

I wondered how Sam would take this conversation. I wondered what he and Cole had decided to do, if anything. I remembered that strange, resolute look on Sam's face in the store, and it made me feel hollow and incomplete.

“Well, what makes our pack so dangerous, then?” Dolly wondered, her chin resting in a circle of her fingers. She was performing a trick that I'd done often enough to recognize. The interested ignorance routine was excellent for commanding attention.

“Familiarity with humans,” my father answered. He made a gesture at one of the waiters:
We're ready
. “The big thing that keeps wolves away is fear, and once they have no fear, they're just large, territorial predators. There have, in the past, in Europe, India, been wolf packs that were notorious man-killers.” There was no trace of emotion in his voice: When he said
man-killer
, he was not thinking
Jack-killer
. My father had a purpose now, a mission, and as long as he was focused on that, he would be fine. This was the old Dad, powerful and frustrating, but ultimately someone to be proud of and awed by. I hadn't seen this version of my father since before Jack died.

I realized bitterly that if it hadn't been Sam and Grace and Cole at stake, I would've been happy at this moment, even sitting in Il Pomodoro. My mother and father, smiling and chatting like old times. Just a small price to pay for all this. I could have my parents back — but I had to lose all of my real, true friends.

“Oh, no, they have significant populations in Canada,” my father was explaining to the man across from him.

“It's not a numbers game,” Marshall added, because no one was going to say it if he didn't. No one had any real response to that. We all jumped in surprise as the singer began again. I saw Marshall's mouth clearly form
My God
, but you couldn't hear him over the rushing soprano.

At the same time that I felt my phone vibrate against my leg, something tickled at my shirt collar. I looked up to see the muppet across the table grinning stupidly at me, having launched another crumb into my shirt. The music was too loud to say something to him this time, which was good, because everything I could think of involved four-letter words. Moreover, every time I looked to his side of the table, I thought again about Jack sitting here with us and how now we were all sitting around talking about the animals that had killed him and not about how he would never be sitting in this
restaurant again. I jerked when something touched me again, this time my hair. It was the boy next to me, his fingers next to my temple.

“— got some in your hair,” the guy shouted over the singing. I held up my hand like
Stop, just stop
.

My father was leaning over the table toward Marshall, engaged in a benevolent shouting match, trying to be heard over something that sounded a lot like Bizet. I heard him shout, “From the air, you can see everything.” I retrieved my phone and flipped it open. Seeing Sam's number made me feel a strange knot of nerves in my stomach. He'd sent me a text, full of typos.

It was hard to picture the words
Cole
and
hero
in the same sentence.
Hero
seemed to indicate some kind of gallantry. I tried to text back under the table, out of the view of helpful boy next to me and Dolly on the other side, saying just that I was at dinner listening to details and I'd talk later. Or come by. When I texted
come by
, I once again felt that twitch in my stomach, and a breathless rush of guilt, for no particular reason that I could name.

The singing stopped then, and there was clapping around me — Dolly had her hands up by her face and was clapping right by my ear — but my father and Marshall kept on talking, leaning on the table toward each other, as if there had never been any music.

My father's voice was clear: “— drive them out from the woods, like we did before, but with more manpower, state blessing, Wildlife Services and all that, and once they're north of Boundary Wood in the open, the helicopters and sharpshooters take over.”

“Ninety percent success rate in Idaho, you said?” Marshall
asked. He had a fork poised over an appetizer like he was taking notes with it.

“Then the rest don't matter,” my father said. “Without the pack, they can't survive alone. Takes more than two wolves to take down enough game.”

My phone vibrated again in my hands, and I flipped it open. Sam, again.

I heard the boy across the table laughing and knew that he'd thrown something else at me that I hadn't felt. I didn't want to glance up at him because I'd just see his face against the wall where Jack's had been. Suddenly I knew that I was going to be sick. Not in the future, not in a “distinct possibility” way, but in a “right this moment I had to leave before I embarrassed myself” way.

I pushed back my chair, jostling it into Dolly, who was in the middle of asking a stupid question. I wound my way through tables and singers and appetizers made out of sea creatures that didn't come from anywhere near Minnesota.

I got to the bathroom — one room, no stalls, all kitted out like a home bathroom instead of a restaurant bathroom — and shut myself inside. I leaned back against the wall, my hand over my mouth. But I wasn't sick. I started to cry.