The Beginning of After (19 page)

Chapter Twenty-five

D
avid spent the rest of that Sunday at his house, and I stayed in Toby’s room, playing with Lucky and the kittens, who were just starting to crawl around while their mom watched them, tired but vigilant. I couldn’t deal with my Yale essay, so I broke out my sketch pad and started drawing some backgrounds for Joe’s art project, thinking that maybe if I focused on Joe for a little while, I wouldn’t feel like I’d cheated on him somehow.

My cell phone had four unread text messages, and I assumed they were all from Meg. Twice I started to call her back, to tell her everything that had happened in the woods, but stopped before actually pressing her speed-dial button. I wasn’t ready to share yet. I didn’t feel like giving up anything of what I’d collected from the day.

I stayed up late, waiting for David to come back, but at nine o’clock he called the house and told Nana that he’d be awhile, and she arranged to leave a key under the mat for him. I was both relieved and disappointed that I wouldn’t see David that night.

When I woke up the next morning, I got dressed and showered and crept to the doorway of the den to see David and Masher asleep on the couch.

“He got back late,” said Nana behind me.

“I figured,” I said.

“Do you want cereal or toast?”

Nana knew nothing of how my world had shifted in the last twenty-four hours. It didn’t seem possible that I could concentrate on a simple decision like that, that I could care about something as tiny as what to eat for breakfast. But somehow I was going to have to get through the day, so I had to start sucking it up.

“Cereal, please. Thanks.”

After breakfast I left for school, calculating how many hours until I could come home and potentially see David. It wasn’t that I was dying to be with him, but I was curious. How was he going to act around me now? How would the shape of his eyes be different when he looked at me, and how would his limbs move when we were in the same room together?

I just wanted to know what would happen.

At school, Meg was pissed.

“Did you get my messages?”

“It was a weird weekend.” Evasive, yet not a lie.

“Well? What happened? Why was David here?”

I told her about how the house was sold, how he had to go through his stuff, and how we let him stay with us. I told her that I barely saw him but that he was nice to me. None of it untruthful, but none of it the kind of truth I should have been telling my best friend.

“Did you have fun at the dance?” I asked her, wanting to shift the subject away from me.

“It was a blast,” she said curtly, then paused and added, “Joe came.”

A punch in my gut. “He did?”

“Yes,” said Meg, with a firm
s
on the end of it. “He came. Looking for you.” I had nothing to say, and it seemed like Meg needed to let that hurt me a little. But then she smiled. “He went as half Spider-Man, half Wolverine.”

I tried to picture Joe that way—walking into the dance alone, scanning the room for me—and felt a pang of regret.

“He even texted you from school to see if you were okay,” added Meg.

I glanced down at my phone, realizing that one of the messages I hadn’t bothered to read must have been from him. Now I felt even worse.

Andie and Hannah found me after third period to update me on the dance, like I’d been waiting all weekend to hear what they had to say.

“I’m sorry you missed it, it was really fun,” said Andie.

“And we won the costume contest!” added Hannah.

Well, duh, of course they did. I wondered if they were genuinely surprised that the world handed them treats or if they just faked it for the rest of us.

Not once did they ask how I was, or what had happened to make me go home so suddenly. I felt angry, but then thought of David asking me if I was afraid to be treated normally. And then that thought led to the thought of David’s lips, his hand on my ear, not afraid that touching me would break something. His “Laurel” in that flat, even, solid voice.

I thought of that voice at lunchtime when I knocked on Mr. Churchwell’s door. He opened it with a big smile, way too happy to see me.

“Laurel! What’s up?”

“I just wanted to let you know I’m almost done with my Early Action application to Yale, and I’ve decided not to write about the accident.”

He nodded at me, with a trace of a smile. Had I given him the answer he wanted?

As I walked away I heard David’s voice again:
You’re strong enough, Laurel. You know who you are.
The voice stayed in my ear all day as I counted down the hours, and then minutes, until I could go home and see him again.

When the final school bell rang for the day, I jumped into the car and drove three miles over the speed limit all the way home.

But when I got there, he was gone.

“What do you mean, he said to say good-bye?” I asked Nana, who was gathering David’s sheets and blankets from the couch.

“Just what it sounds like, sweetie.”

“What about his stuff?”

“It’s here. He came by this morning with a carload of boxes.”

I hurried down the hall to our attic entry, a door in the ceiling with a little rope dangling down. There was no evidence that anyone had been there. So I grabbed the rope and the door swung open, with its folding ladder attached.

“Laurel, I just swept up,” said Nana, confused. “What are you doing? Do you think I’m lying?”

I stood on my tiptoes and grabbed part of the ladder, pulled it down, then climbed up. I still had my jacket on.

The attic smelled bad, but the air felt less musty than I remembered, like it had been moved around recently. I rested my elbows on the floor of the attic and scanned the space. There were the same assortment of cardboard boxes, plastic bins, garbage bags full of stuff.

But in the far corner, I saw them. About a dozen boxes labeled
DAVID KAUFMAN
in neat black Sharpie. Arranged in four perfect stacks of three, so straight and arrogant I wanted to knock them over.

“Laurel, please come down,” said Nana in a very small voice.

I did. She looked at me, and I felt suddenly exposed.

“I’m not sure what happened. When he came in for breakfast, he said he had to leave town suddenly. There was some kind of job he could do with a friend’s rock band.”

“Did he say where he was going?” I asked, walking past her into my room so she couldn’t see my face.

“No, just that the rock band was going on tour and he had to meet up with them.” Nana paused, not sure whether or not to follow me in. “I’m sorry, sweetie. It must have been nice to have . . . some company.”

“It was,” I said, all garbled, before I closed the door gently. On my bed lay Masher, his eyes heavy and hollow with sadness, his body limp as though he’d been crushed. He thumped his tail when he saw me but was otherwise still. I collapsed onto the bed with him, then screamed hard into the pillow for several long, sweet seconds of frustration and then relief.

“Don’t worry, buddy,” I said into the scruff of Masher’s neck. “He’ll be back.”

That night I opened up a fresh email and clicked on the
TO
field. I typed
D
, then
A
. Before I could type the
V
, my email program filled in the rest of David’s email address, like it had been waiting for me to get up the nerve all afternoon to write to him. If only it could tell me what the hell to say, the first time I’d written to him as myself and not as a dog.

It took me what seemed like a year, but I finally came up with something that didn’t sound too angry, or too stupid, even after I read it ten times.

I counted to three and hit send, and as soon as I did, I felt like I could breathe again.

Then I remembered that David had planned to visit his father, but never got the chance. He wouldn’t have let me come with him. But now he was gone and had absolutely no say in the matter.

Chapter Twenty-six

P
each, peach, and more peach.

Light peach on the walls. Dark peach carpet. Even the lights in long rows on the ceiling shone a yellow-pink, peachy keen glow.

Maybe it was all supposed to distract you from the smell, which I think could have made me throw up if I took too deep a whiff. That was the smell of medicine and bad food and unwashed bedsheets and indoor recycled air. It was the smell of hopelessness and attempted dignity, and of life in limbo.

“Can I help you?” asked the woman at the third-floor reception desk. She was actually wearing a peach-colored nurse’s tunic.

“I’m here to see Gabriel Kaufman,” I said.

“Oh, yes!” said the nurse, her face brightening. “You called earlier.” She opened an appointment book and I glimpsed my name, scribbled in the middle of a page. I got the feeling this was a part of the Palisades Oaks Rehabilitation Center that didn’t get many visitors.

“Is it okay to bring these?” I asked, lifting up the bouquet of flowers I’d brought. Nana had insisted we stop to buy them before getting on the highway. I went along with it because she’d been so quiet and helpful after I told her what I wanted to do. She’d offered to drive and wrote a note getting me out of school and work for the day, and made sure she got excellent directions from David’s grandparents. And here the flowers gave me something to do with my hands.

Now Nana was shopping at some nearby mall—she couldn’t stand these places, she’d seen too many of her friends die in them—and I was alone in the Peach Palace.

“Of course, sweetie. They smell lovely. He’ll like them, I’m sure.”

The nurse got up and motioned for me to follow her, down another long hallway. At the very end I could see a huge picture window with sunlight streaming in, and I had a sudden urge to take off running, running, until I could crash through the glass headfirst into freedom.

“Here we are,” she said. She knocked twice on a door that was slightly ajar, paused, then opened it all the way. “I’ll leave you two alone, but please let me know if you need anything. I’ll be back in a few minutes with a vase and some water.”

I peeked slowly around the door and first saw furniture—a dark wooden dresser, an overstuffed flowered armchair. Then a bright window draped in gauzy white curtains, the sun coming through so strong I almost had to look away from it. Next, a machine that whirred and beeped quietly but intensely, and the rising and falling chest of Mr. Kaufman, moving to the beat of what I realized was his respirator.

I came all the way into the room and looked at the carved wooden headboard of his bed, his navy blue pajamas with white piping, his closed, frozen eyes. The wedding band on his left hand and the framed photograph of himself, Mrs. Kaufman, and David peering down on him from the nightstand. I recognized it as their holiday card photo from two years ago, posed on a ski slope somewhere, all three of them making the kind of face that could either be a smile or just squinting into the sun.

I stood over him for a minute, watching this robotlike sleep he was in—the respirator even made it sound like he was snoring—and reminded myself of why I hated him.
This jerk
, I thought. This jerk who had all that scotch at seder and killed my parents. Killed my little brother, just a kid who still liked making fart noises with various parts of his arms. Ruined my life. Not to mention what he did to his own wife and son.

You got what you deserved, and now you’re basically broccoli.

There was a knock on the door again, and the nurse came back in with the vase. She placed it on the nightstand behind the photograph and smiled at me as I handed her the flowers.

“You said he’ll like them,” I asked. “Can he smell?”

“That depends who you ask,” she said as she lowered the flowers into the water. “A doctor might tell you no, Mr. Kaufman can’t smell anything because he’s in a vegetative state.” She glanced up at Mr. Kaufman’s face. “But if you ask me, he looks better when there’s something new in the room. Something pretty or that smells good. I noticed it once when his mother came in wearing a very strong perfume.”

The nurse moved to leave and I almost stopped her. But she was out the door fast and I was once again alone with the sleeping man and the loud machine. I’d lost the thread of that anger and now just felt nervous, so I sat down in the armchair and started saying the first things that came to mind.

“Hi, Mr. Kaufman,” I said. “It’s me, Laurel Meisner.”

I paused, like I expected him to answer. Just one of those things you do because you’re trained to do it.

“I saw David. He was planning on visiting you, but he got a job opportunity and had to leave really fast.”

I considered adding,
Actually, your son ran away from something. I hope it wasn’t me.

What would David have told his father, if he’d come?

“Your parents sold the house. I hear it’s a young couple with a baby. It’s a great house for a family who’s just starting fresh. I think there are some other babies in the neighborhood, so that’ll be good, like a whole new generation of kids.”

I thought of David and Toby and me, of Megan and her sister Mary, Kevin McNaughton, and the Henninger twins, who now went to some private Catholic school and nobody ever saw anymore. A whole crop of children on two little streets, getting big and moving on. We grew into ourselves and away from simply being neighbors who all liked lawn sprinklers and swing sets.

I was stuck again for something to say.
Just talk! He can’t hear you anyway!

“Did you know that for a while, the police were looking for another car? They thought maybe there was someone else involved.”

Now I could grab hold of my anger again, more sure of my strength.

“Too bad you can’t tell them. Because they couldn’t find anything, and now they officially blame you. You were drinking that night; we all saw it.”

We did all see it, but nobody thought to mention that perhaps he shouldn’t get behind the wheel. God, how many drunk-driving videos had I seen? And where were my parents in all this? Didn’t they have the guts to say something to big-shot Mr. Kaufman, the guy my dad would never admit he admired?

It had been so easy to think about blame when I wasn’t sitting across from the very fingers that had been curled around the steering wheel when the car went off the road. The foot that had been on the gas pedal and the brake. Those eyes that had seen the world spinning past the windshield, and the ears that had heard the shouts and cries my family might have made as they died.

But it was like looking at a frog laid out for dissection in biology class. Everything I knew about what was in front of me was just truth and facts, with nothing behind them. All my fury didn’t make a difference. We were both still in the same place, unchanged.

Except that now I felt a little lighter, unburdened, by having said these things to him. I got up and pulled my chair a little closer to Mr. Kaufman’s bed, then folded myself back into it, cross-legged and ready to stay for a while.

“David kissed me,” I said to him. Hearing the words out loud, feeling the breath it took to form them, made it official now; it had happened.

Mr. Kaufman’s machine whirred and dinged, like a
Hmmm, tell me more
, so I did. I told him about Nana wanting to go home but not letting herself, and the secrets Meg and I were keeping from each other now, and the Andie Stokes crowd. I told him about Joe and the way I sometimes caught him looking at me, like it stung. I talked about my job at Ashland and how it made me feel like I was not wasting the lucky draw of being alive, like I was finding something in myself that I wouldn’t have found otherwise. And then I told him about how Dad always envied him a little for his fancy car and his well-kept yard and expensive cigars.

Then that reminded me of Mom and the cigarettes she kept hidden in two different spots in the house, so I told Mr. Kaufman about how I’d caught her once, and instead of giving me a lecture about “Do as I say, not as I do,” she just said, “Laurel, I hope you find something like this, a little self-destructive habit you can turn to every once in a while, when you’re tired of being good. It will keep you sane.”

I told him about the band Toby wanted to start someday. It was going to be called the Dangling Participles, and they were only going to play songs about grammar and spelling.

It wasn’t until I noticed the light turning a different shade that I realized how much time had passed. I turned to the window and saw that the sun was setting behind the hills, and took out my cell phone to call Nana.

“Did you get the job done?” she asked.

“I think so,” I replied.

“Then I’m waiting downstairs to take you home.”