Schizo (5 page)

OUR JUNIOR CLASS IS
a lot bigger than our grade school class used to be, but it's still super small compared with most high schools, and there really isn't any way to avoid running into someone you don't want to see.

Inexplicably, though, I managed to make it through two whole days before seeing Eliza again.

But today we're having a whole-school assembly, so I know I won't be able to avoid it.

We all file in together to the newly remodeled auditorium. I sit next to Preston and Jackie, but they're busy looking meaningfully into each other's eyes, so they don't even seem to notice me as I scan the room—looking for Eliza.

And then I see her.

She walks in by herself.

Her hair is even darker than I remember, black and full and layered. She's wearing ripped jeans tucked into calf-length boots, a gray cardigan sweater, and a loose-fitting T-shirt. She is tall and thin and beautiful.

I watch as she takes a seat at the front, seemingly oblivious to the rest of the herd moving past her. Preston leans in close to me.

“Dude, stare much?”

I'm startled a little by his sudden attention.

“What? I'm not staring at anyone.”

He laughs. “Yeah, right.”

I breathe and hold the air in my lungs before exhaling all at once as I ask him, “Well, have you talked to her?”

“Uh, yeah,” he says, averting his eyes. “I did real quick. Sorry, man, I couldn't help it.”

My stomach knots up, and I keep glancing down at the place where Eliza is sitting. It really does seem like the more you try not to think about something, the more that ends up being the only fucking thing you
can
think about. That's the way it is with Eliza. In spite of myself, and all my intentions, I can't help but want to know.

“Did she ask about me?”

Preston coughs and looks over at Jackie. “Yeah, a little.”

“What did she say?”

“I don't know, man. She asked about you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, it seems like she maybe wants to apologize or something. Like she realized how fucked up she was being to you.”

Great,
I think,
so she feels sorry for me. That's exactly what I fucking need.
But what I say is, “Nah, man, she doesn't need to do that.”

Preston shakes his head. “Hell yes, she does. But if I were you, I might give it some time. I don't want anything . . . you know . . . bad to happen.”

There's a heat swelling in my brain. I wish that everyone would stop worrying about me. I'm not some total invalid.

But what I say is, “Of course, man. Forget it. I really don't care.”

He laughs then. “Sure.”

“I don't,” I tell him. “I've got more important things to do than worry about Eliza Lindberg.”

“Yeah? Like what?” he asks.

“I just . . .”

“What?”

“I . . .”

But I don't try to explain. I can't tell Preston what I'm planning to do—what I've been chosen to do. I can't tell anyone. They wouldn't understand. They'd tell me I was wasting my time, that I was getting in over my head, that I was being stupid, naive, and whatever else.

And, hell, maybe I am.

But it doesn't matter.

Preston smiles again as he says, “Well, anyway, that party I'm having Saturday night? Eliza told me she's gonna be there. And, uh . . .” He pauses, looking back at Jackie, before continuing on. “She did say she wanted to see you.”

My face goes flush then, and there's this tightening in my stomach.

“She wants to see me?”

Preston nods slowly. “So that means you're coming then, huh?”

I force myself to breathe. “No, man, I told you, I don't care about Eliza.”

“So you're
not
coming?”

“I don't know, man. I'll see.”

He leans over to Jackie. “He's totally coming.”

She laughs, her white teeth flashing. “Please come,” she says to me. “At least I'll have someone to talk to. I hate his big parties.”

“Me too,” I tell her.

Preston sets his jaw, then click-clicks it back and forth. “Well, no one's forcing you all.”

Jackie kisses him quickly on the cheek. “No, I'll be there. You should come, too, Miles. We can hide out in Pres's room together.”

I nod, suddenly distracted—listening to the mass of students talking at once, the sound like the steady vibrating hum of a working beehive, growing ever louder, as though someone has come along and shaken the thing up, the drones swarming, agitated, driven blindly by some unknown desire.

And there is Eliza.

She is sitting there, silently, in the very center.

As if it were all for her.

And so I tell myself, again, that finding Teddy is all that matters.

Preston's party.

Jackie.

Eliza.

Goddamn school assemblies.

The swarming hive.

None of it matters.

It is all meaningless.

“Anyway,” Jackie continues, “there'll be so many people, you probably won't even see Eliza.”

“Yeah, that's true.”

Our school principal, Ms. Brizendine, steps up behind the podium on the stage.

The noise of the swarm starts to quiet down around us.

Eliza sits very still.

And I try not to notice.

IF THERE'S ONE THING
I've learned from watching all those film noirs with my mom, it's that detectives always begin by interviewing the primary witness. And, in this instance, Dotty Peterson is not just the primary witness, she is the
only
witness—the one who told the police she saw Teddy getting into that truck.

I've never actually met Dotty Peterson, myself—considering I was in the hospital the first seventy-two hours after Teddy's disappearance—but her name, along with the town she lived in, was printed in pretty near every article there was on the kidnapping at that time.

So finding her, these two years later, was actually super easy. All I had to do was call information. She was listed as D. Peterson of Burlingame, California. The operator connected me, and Dotty answered on the second ring.

Of course, I was nervous as hell, calling her like that—my voice shaking all over the place as I tried to explain who I was and what I wanted—but she was very nice and very patient. She even agreed to let me go to her house to talk about Teddy and to have, as she put it, “a good chat.” She told me several times how sorry she was for me. She really was very nice.

It's only a short bus ride down to Burlingame, so after work, I go to catch the Muni over on 19th Avenue. It takes a while for the bus to get here, but I finally see it coming through the fog, rattling loudly, then stopping with a hiss of its breaks.

The bus driver, a tall, heavily built man with a gray coarse-looking beard, glances without interest at my bus pass. The whole bus is pretty near empty. There's a man wearing a tattered corduroy three-piece suit that looks at least thirty years old. That is, the suit looks that old; the man looks much older. He rubs his chin with his thumb and forefinger over and over and seems to be speaking silently to himself, repeating words like he repeats the motion of his fingers.

Another man, also in his fifties—or even sixties, I'd say—with a big white beard and his hair slicked back, stares straight down at his own hands, which are twisting and tightening around themselves.

There is a small woman with a thick down jacket and a clear plastic bag covering her hair, presumably to protect it from the moisture in the air outside.

I sit at the back on the hard plastic seat and take out the book I'm supposed to be reading for school—Leo Tolstoy's
War and Peace.
It's a big fucking thing to carry around, but I don't mind because I really do love it—only, right now, I can't seem to focus. My eyes are blurred, my thoughts scattered. I read three whole pages before I realize I haven't remembered or comprehended a thing.

Outside, along the rows of white two-story Victorian houses, the soft glow of Christmas tree lights blurs past in the front bay windows. The sidewalks are deserted, though there's a steady stream of traffic on the street. The bus lurches and stops, and the driver honks impatiently at a truck stalled in our lane.

There are well-fed but idle-looking black crows lazily grooming themselves, perched high up on the dead trees in the center island.

The crows line the telephone wires, the rain gutters, and the rooftops.

Crows everywhere.

Again.

Always.

Forever reminding me that I am on the edge—teetering—fighting to hold on to the real through the unreal.

Teddy.

He is what's real.

My nine-year-old brother—out there somewhere, terrified and alone.

Finding him is all that matters.

I watch the fog beginning to dissipate as we climb out of the avenues, turning right past San Francisco State, merging onto the 101 Freeway.

It ends up taking about half an hour to get to the bus stop closest to where Dotty Peterson lives. Burlingame is all suburban developments and strip malls and wholesale markets.

The sky is clear and cold. I pull my hood down low over my eyes, walking up a residential street of run-down houses, mostly surrounded by chain-link fencing and rock gardens. A blue-gray, shaggy, medium-size dog comes running up from one of the yards. His bark is high-pitched as he jumps at the fence.

A few cars drive slowly past. There's a pair of ragged-looking squirrels chasing each other up a barren fruit tree. The blue-gray dog notices the squirrels and goes off after them, spinning in little circles at the corner of the fence. It barks and barks.

The squirrels, for their part, stop chasing each other and begin taunting the luckless dog.

I move off down the block.

The wind blows stronger, so there are bits of trash—old newspapers, coffee cups, McDonald's wrappers, and plastic bags—carried out into the street. One solitary black crow seems to be hanging, motionless, in midair above me, one leg tucked up to its belly, the claw curled like a tiny fist.

I struggle to get a cigarette lit. There's a bunch of giant blow-up Christmas decorations in the yard of a house built around a metal trailer. A generator groans ineffectually as the plastic Santa falls limp to one side and begins flapping like a flag in the wind. An equally unimpressive snow globe is bent in half, crushing the back hoof of one of the flattened reindeer.

The next house has a fake chimney propped atop its shingled roof with plastic Santa's legs sticking straight up, as though he were actively sliding headfirst into their fireplace. There's a sign, made up of colored lights just below it, wishing the entire neighborhood a “Merry Christmas.”

The holidays are still over three weeks away, but nearly every house on the block is decorated.

At home we haven't gotten a tree yet, or put up any lights or anything. We've barely celebrated Christmas at all these last two years. Jane gets excited about it, naturally, and we pitch in to get her presents and watch Christmas movies and take her ice-skating at the Embarcadero.

But how could any of us ever be truly happy knowing that my brother is out there somewhere—terrified, alone?

That is why I'm here.

And I will not stop 'til I find him.

DOTTY PETERSON'S HOUSE IS
even smaller than ours—all dark paneling, with a wall of built-in bookshelves, stacked unevenly with paperback novels like you'd buy in a grocery store. There are also at least five or six cats roaming around the house. And way more cat furniture—those complicated, carpeted, always dirty-looking geometric structures—than people furniture. The cats are scraggly. They keep alternating between scratching themselves and pouncing on one another, fighting and squabbling.

The smell of cat piss burns like ammonia at the back of my throat.

But Dotty is very nice—just like she was on the phone. She makes me Lipton tea in a small porcelain cup—with cats printed on it, naturally. We sit together on a deeply sagging couch, the brown corduroy upholstery torn from countless cats' claws.

She's a large woman, with a sagging chin and neck hanging down. Her glasses are square and thick, so her narrow eyes are strangely magnified. She has short, dark, graying hair. Various cats jump on and off her lap as we talk.

“You poor dear,” she says to me, alternately sipping her own cup of tea and eating from a tin of butter cookies on the coffee table. “I wish there was more I could do to help. I suppose you've talked to that Detective Marshall. He struck me as a capable man.”

“No, not yet,” I answer, though, of course, I recognize the name as the primary detective in charge of Teddy's case.

Dotty sits up straighter, smiling, as though she is actually quite excited by all this. It makes sense, I guess. She must be lonely here in this dark little house. I mean, maybe she has a husband or a girlfriend or something—but I kind of doubt it.

“Well, you should go talk to him. I imagine he'll tell you whatever you want to know. Why, I still have the business card he gave me on my refrigerator, I believe.”

“From two years ago?”

“Certainly. It was such an excit—I mean, terrible tragedy. But I'm sure Detective Marshall will make time for you. It's just, they're so busy, you know, the police up in San Francisco. A case like your . . . your brother's, well, they usually accept whatever answer is the easiest. An open case looks bad for the department. I learned that watching
Law & Order.
It's so good. Have you seen it? I love that Jack McCoy.”

She gestures toward the flat screen TV, which looks strangely out of place in this falling-apart living room that practically has mold growing out of the corners.

“No, I, uh, I haven't.”

“Well, never mind. The point is, the police don't like having unsolved cases on their books. That's why they insist that Teddy . . . your brother . . . must have drowned. Even though I've told them over and over again what I saw. They refuse to believe it because . . . because they want everything neat and tidy, wrapped up with a little bow on it . . . You know what I mean?”

“So you don't think he drowned?”

Her hand reaches out and grabs mine suddenly. The feel of it is warm and sticky, so I want to pull away, but I don't want to be impolite.

“I
know
he didn't,” she tells me, looking straight into my eyes. “And you're right to do this on your own.”

I laugh awkwardly. “Really? I thought maybe I was being crazy.”

“Not at all, not at all. The police can only do so much in these kinds of situations. They have limited time . . . and limited resources, too. You see, both my parents were killed by a hit-and-run driver when my sisters and I were little girls.” She's still holding my hand and staring straight at me, and I see her eyes start to redden with tears. “The police did what they could, of course. But they never found the driver.”

“Jesus,” I say.

Her hand loosens its grip on mine, and she bows her head.

“Yes, well, we all have our crosses to bear. That's why, when I heard about what happened at the beach that day, I made up my mind to come forward and tell the police what I'd seen. In fact . . .”

She breaks off, glancing at me quickly, her whole face turning a deep purple color as she blushes all down her neck.

“I . . . I'm sorry . . .” She falters. “I didn't . . . I don't know how to say this to you, but . . . it's my fault. All of it. I knew it was going to happen.”

Trembling, she takes up some tissues from a box on the end table and dabs at her eyes.

“What do you mean? You couldn't have known.”

“Oh!” she says. “Oh, God, forgive me. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

She lurches across the empty space between us and, before I can react, I find myself with my head pressed firmly against her ample fucking bosom (covered, mercifully, by a gray sweatshirt with—of course—cats printed on it). She begins to cry then, holding me against her like that, and I wonder if maybe I'm not the only one who forgot to take their medication today.

“But you didn't know,” I say, desperately trying to pull myself away. “You shouldn't blame yourself. I mean, if anyone's to blame, it's me, not you.”

“Oh, that's sweet of you,” she tells me, drying her eyes. “That's very kind of you. If you only knew how I've been torturing myself, day in and day out.”

Yeah, me too,
I think but don't say out loud.

“You see,” she continues, “I hadn't meant to go to the beach at all. Only it was so hot, and you know I work as a tollbooth operator at the bridge? I decided to stop off on my way home. Of course, I'm not one for swimming, or sunbathing. But I like watching the ocean. I sat at one of the picnic tables—”

“Picnic tables?” My mind turns that around, trying to remember. “Where are there picnic tables?”

She smiles. “Why, just at the parking lot. I was sitting at the picnic tables, looking out at the ocean. I noticed the waves were getting bigger and bigger, and then a group of kids went running past me. They went up to play in the sand dunes, so when I saw your brother, at first I thought he must've come from that group of children.”

“And you're sure?” I ask hurriedly. “You're sure it was Teddy?”

My words falter trying to pronounce his name. The backs of my eyes are burning now, imagining the beach, the waves, the sand dunes, the group of kids playing—and Teddy there with me, until I left him alone.

“I know it was him,” she answers.

Her hand takes mine up again, and this time, I don't mind.

“The police showed me dozens of photos. I spoke with your mom and dad. I remember them perfectly. They were such lovely people. And, yes, again, to answer your question, I am one hundred percent sure. It was him—red hair, freckles—about this tall . . .” She shows me with her free hand, holding at about her shoulder height from the ground.

“What was he doing?” I stammer.

“He was walking by himself. And then . . . and then a man came over and began talking to him. I couldn't hear what they were saying. The boy shook his head. I told the police that afterward. He shook his head . . . twice. And then the man took him by the arm and led him into that car.”

“A white Ford Explorer,” I say, the tears coming now so I can't fight them.

“That's right,” she tells me, looking straight at me again. “That's right. And I knew. At the time, I knew. Something was not right. That's why I remembered it all as clearly as I did. Because I knew that something was wrong. And I did nothing. In my heart I felt it. I felt like I should stop that man from taking that child, but I didn't act. I failed. It is my fault.”

She cries then, too, and we cry together.

“And the man?” I blurt out louder than I mean to, my voice cracking. “The man?”

Her head drops, and she clasps her hands together, releasing me.

“He was a tall man, balding on top, gray hair around the sides. He had a large nose and was wearing loose sweatpants and a sweatshirt. His face was hard, sunken in—no meat on his bones at all. But it was his eyes that stayed with me. His eyes were like . . .”

She stares off then, waving her arm absently in front of her, as though trying to catch the words out of the air.

“Like a black hole,” she finally says. “Like emptiness.”

I shiver, pulling my jacket tighter around me.

“Did . . . did he struggle?” I ask timidly.

She shakes her head again. “No. No. It wasn't like that. He just went with the man. They talked and then they got in the car together.”

I nod.

She takes her cup up off the table and brings it to her mouth, but then replaces it without drinking.

“When you called me,” she says, “I started thinking about what I should tell you. And I believe I received a sort of testimony, you understand? That I should share with you the answer—the real answer, to the only question there truly can be for anyone.”

My breath catches. “Yes, no, I mean . . . You've already helped me so much. I don't know how to thank you.”

I start trying to get myself up as if to go, but she just smiles, tapping my knee a few times, as though gently hammering me into the sofa.

“You don't need to thank me. Something brought us together today—something bigger than you or me.”

“Uh-huh,” I say dumbly.

“Do you know who can get you through this?” she asks, purring almost like one of her cats. “Do you know who you can rely on? Who your family can rely on? Who will save you? And who will save your brother?”

My head bobs up and down mechanically. I know what's coming, but there's nothing much I can do about it now.

“Jesus Christ,” she says, not waiting for my answer. “Jesus Christ died on the cross to give us all everlasting life and take away our sins. Jesus is with
you,
always. He is with us all, always. We can either reject him, going it alone, or we can take him into our hearts and he will guide us to our rightful place in the Kingdom of Heaven.”

I nod and smile, like a damn idiot, then get up from the couch. “Yes, well,” I say, “thank you, but I really do have to get back. I'll let you know if I find anything.”

She adjusts the glasses on her porcine nose and pushes herself up to standing. “But I'm not done. There's so much more I have to tell you.”

She stares up at me, her eyes wet and red and pleading.

And then, suddenly, I can see—I can see why she was so eager to have me come down here today. I can see why she gave interviews to every paper and appeared on every news report about the kidnapping. I can see why she remembers it all as clearly as she does. I can see why she has Detective Marshall's business card on her refrigerator over two years later. And I can see why she continues to blame herself for not having stopped that man from taking Teddy.

She wants to be a part of the story.

It's as simple as that.

She lives alone here. She works collecting tolls at the bridge. She has her cats, her church, her TV shows.

Witnessing Teddy's kidnapping must've made her feel, maybe for the first time ever, truly important.

So of course she would think that God had some greater purpose in letting my brother get taken like that. Because, for her, the greater purpose was that she, finally, got to be somebody.

They put her picture in the paper.

She got to be on TV—not just once, but many times.

“I have to go,” I say. “I'm sorry.”

I start toward the door.

“No, wait—”

Her hand reaches out, as if to stop me.

But I don't stop.

I keep on going.

I open the door.

And I don't turn back.