Ghosting (21 page)

I say yes.

A frozen night

skating the North Shore Channel

is about as far as you can get

from a hot summer night

of guns and blood and horror.

And at this point

in my life,

that is a

very

good

thing.

BRENDAN

One of the less obvious and unexpected drawbacks

of being paralyzed is how mind-blowingly cold you get.

Especially when it’s

freaking 25 degrees below.

The key, I found out in chat rooms for

us spinal cord injury folks, is layering.

At least three layers,

and I’m talking about indoors.

I’ve also learned fun stuff like where to keep

my wallet, the best way to insert a catheter,

how to avoid pressure sores,

and if I’ll ever have an erection again. (No.)

My dad isn’t talking to me much

since I said no to his alma mater.

But my mom surprises me

one afternoon during the cold snap.

I’m in the kitchen, having a sandwich,

when she comes in from bridge.

Instead of giving me the usual kiss on the forehead

and gliding on by, she stops.

She sits at the table with me

and in a soft voice tells me there is money.

Funds in a family trust that have been set aside

for education and she is the executor.

It is yours if you need it,
she says,
no matter where you choose to go.

I am in shock and don’t even have a chance

to respond before she stands,

kisses me on the forehead,

and glides out of the kitchen.

On Friday night I’m working on the application

for University of Colorado.

Suddenly Bobby appears in my doorway,

dangling a pair of ice skates in his hand.

Did you hear about the North Shore Channel?
he says.

I shake my head.

It’s frozen solid and some guy took a Zamboni out on it. Let’s go!

Sorry, bro,
I say, not meeting his eyes,
but I’ve got these applications . . .

You promised,
he says.
Besides,
he adds with a big grin,
I’m pretty sure it’s National Take Your Little Brother Ice-Skating Day.

And even though the last thing I want to do

is make a fool of myself,

Okay,
I say.

MAXIE

I’m amazed by

how many

people there are

gathered at the

frozen channel.

Word must’ve spread

and the whole thing

has turned into this

impromptu

winter festival.

Someone has set up benches

and there are

torches

as well as a bunch of

bonfires

lining the sides

of the canal.

There is even a

little stand selling

doughnuts

and watery

hot chocolate

with mini marshmallows.

The Bahai Temple,

which during the day

looks like a garish

alien spacecraft

that has landed

in the middle of the Chicago suburbs,

tonight looms over the channel—

a magnificent

and exotic

fairy-tale palace,

all lit up,

white

and

gleaming.

We three skate for a while

and then Mom and I

take a breather.

We are standing by a bonfire

crackling in a large metal garbage bin.

I take photos

of skaters,

with the temple

in the background.

I see Chloe Carney,

pink-cheeked and radiant,

glide by with

a few of her friends.

Dad skates over,

bringing us hot chocolate

and I’m blowing

on mine,

to cool it down

a little,

when Brendan Donnelly

whizzes by.

He is being pushed

in his wheelchair

by a younger guy

who looks like

his little brother.

It is too dark to read

Brendan’s face in

the flickering light of

bonfires

and

moonlight,

but his head is thrown back and

he looks different.

Happy.

I hand Mom my hot chocolate

and hobble back

onto the ice.

Then I take off after Brendan,

camera clutched firmly

in my mittened hand.

The number of people thins out

as I get farther away

from the harbor.

There are

no bonfires

here.

The night is perfectly still,

the moon

almost full.

The only sound

I can hear now is

my skates

cutting

the

ice.

The cold wind freezes my face,

but it is exhilarating

swooping along

the glassy smooth surface,

one foot,

then the other,

whoosh whoosh
,

like an Olympic speed skater.

At least I feel like I’m going that fast,

but I can’t seem

to catch up to

Brendan and his brother.

A lone torch

marks the spot

where Artie Phelps must’ve left off his

grooming.

The ice is rough here,

so I slow down.

I’m beginning to think that

Brendan and his brother

are headed all the way

into Chicago

when I hear voices

ahead of me.

From the torchlight behind

I can just make out

the wheelchair

and

the skater,

and I catch

my breath.

Brendan and his brother

are doing

a figure eight,

in concentric circles,

passing each other

in the middle.

They are awkward

and unpolished,

but it is

an awe-inspiring,

humbling

sight.

And the most beautiful thing

about it is

the concentration and

the joy on

both their faces.

Someone skates up next to me

and I turn to see

Chloe Carney.

She is intently

watching

the two boys

skate.

Then she turns to me

and smiles.

Wednesday, March 9

ANIL

1.
The whole point of a shrine,

I thought, was praying.

But I have no talent for praying.

I’m too self-conscious,

too analytical.

My prayers tend to be

more like checklists,

or mathematical formulas.

2.
My mom says there is

no right way to pray

and that prayer is really just

thinking.

Focused thinking perhaps.

Anyway, it’s not like I kneel

in front of my dresser and pray.

More often, I lie on my bed,

glancing over at the pieces of glass,

the roses, and the candle,

and yes, up at those

glow-in-the-dark stars

pasted on the ceiling,

which have become an

unofficial part of my shrine.

3.
My mother has already started

planning the feast that she will cook

for the Hindu festival of Holi

which in India marks the

start of spring.

It always falls on

the day of the first full moon

in March, which this year

is on the 19th.

Holi is also called

the Festival of Colors.

At night people light bonfires

to say good-bye to winter.

They gather together to

sing and dance and play music.

And during the day they throw

gulal
at each other—

brightly colored powders

that you carry in your pocket

to fling at anyone

you meet.

Everyone knows to wear

old clothes on Holi because

the
gulal
will stain.

By the end of the day

everyone is covered with

brilliant colored splotches—

on hair, faces, eyelashes, lips,

clothes, shoes.

Like they’ve been tie-dyed.

I love photos of Holi,

the laughter on everyone’s face.

As if they’re throwing

Technicolor clouds of happiness

into the air.

Anointing

everyone around them

with color.

4.
I still think about Maxie.

In a different universe,

I imagine spending Holi with her,

us laughing together,

drenched in color.

But she has made it clear that

I am an outcast to her, that

we cannot be friends.

And sometimes I do not know

if I can recover from that.

If I could wash away

these feelings, the way you can

cleanse yourself of the
gulal
powders

at the end of Holi, I would.

But what kind of unholy joke is it

that I should have stumbled across

this stubbornly unyielding joy

in a girl’s crooked smile

on that one terrible night.

Friday, April 8

POLICE CHIEF AUBREY DELAFIELD

When it looked like one of those kids

was going to die,

the prosecutor was all set

to slap Walter Smith with

Murder One.

But as soon as the boy who lost an eye

came out of the coma,

things shifted.

There was plenty of talk.

That Walter Smith was on suicide watch, which I knew to be true, early on anyway.

That his court-assigned lawyer was going to plead not guilty by reason of insanity.

That he was going to plead not guilty period, using a defense similar to the ‘Stand Your Ground’ laws they’ve got in states like Arizona and Alabama, under the theory that he had a legitimate fear of being under attack.

Then on a cold morning in April,

word came down that Walter Smith was going

to plead guilty.

A plea bargain had been reached,

second-degree murder,

with a possible sentence of eight to nineteen years in prison,

depending on the judge’s final decision.

I wondered why Walter decided

to plead guilty.

I heard it was against the advice of his lawyer.

My best guess is it had to do with

all those tears I saw him shed

that night,

on the curb

and at the jail.

I remember thinking at the time that

he was like a kid who had done something wrong,

and knew it,

and felt bad.

WALTER

When a marshal is hired to protect a town but it turns out the town is populated by the lawless and the insane,

the only option left for the sheriff is to

turn in his badge.

Monday, April 11

EMMA

We get a call from the prosecutor

saying that Walter Smith

is going to plead guilty.

He asks if we want

to attend the hearing,

maybe even say something to the judge.

Faith isn’t sure she wants to go.

But I am sure. Which is surprising

because lately there has been very little I’m sure of.

Tuesday, April 19

EMMA

The day of the hearing, Faith

decides to come with me, even

though I told her she didn’t have to.

Anil is the only other one of us there.

He is with his parents and seeing him

in the courtroom is somehow comforting.

Chloe told me Brendan refused to come, mainly because

his dad wanted him to, wanted everyone in the courtroom

to see Brendan in his wheelchair.

Brendan’s dad thought that their seeing the wheelchair

would get Walter Smith slapped in jail for

the maximum sentence allowed by the law.

Chloe says that Brendan’s turned a corner.

He’s more interested in looking ahead than looking back.

And that he doesn’t care what his dad wants.

I stare at Walter Smith, who looks so small and pale

in his oversize glasses, and all I can think is that he

looks like one of those scrawny stubby-tailed squirrels,

the ones you see frozen in the middle of the road

as your car barrels toward them, and you know

that squirrel isn’t long for this world.

And suddenly I know

I have to say something.

Something important.

When the prosecutor looks over at me,

I stand up. My hands are shaking

and my tongue feels thick in my mouth.

I start to talk but only a

croaking sound comes out. The judge

asks me to speak up.

I clear my throat,

take a deep breath

and this time my voice is loud, clear.

We were all at fault,
I say.
Not just Walter Smith.

We were all to blame.

WALTER SMITH

When the girl with the dark-red ponytail stands up to speak

I realize she is the sister of the girl with the dog,

the one on the bike. They look a little alike,

but this one has a harder face, not as nice-looking.

But then I notice her hands are shaking,

and what she says surprises me.

She says everything that happened that night

wasn’t just my fault. We were all to blame.

And I suddenly remember the movie
High Noon
and how

the marshal’s nice wife who wears white dresses

is the only one in the whole town who helps the marshal,

who stands beside him when the bad guys come.

The girl with the pony tail now has tears running

down her cheeks, and she turns toward me

looks me straight in the eye.