Unforgivable (5 page)

YOU HADN'T SEEN ME YET. I WAS SURE THE LOUD RUMBLING of my car's diesel engine would give me away, but you were in your own world, looking up at the sky like you didn't quite trust it. I thought, How is it possible for one face to tell so many stories and at the same time divulge nothing? You were a beautiful mystery I wanted to solve.

I parked my car at the corner. I whispered, “Look at me,” and even though it was impossible that you heard me, you turned and looked me straight in the eyes. Like you knew exactly where my eyes were, these two gray-green pinpricks in the distance, like magnets. In that moment, my suspicions were confirmed: we were connected on a level that betrayed all laws of space and time and sound.

We had barely kissed yet, but when you got into the car, I wanted to inhale you, I wanted to taste every piece of you. It wasn't just a sex thing, wasn't just my body's hunger for yours.
I wanted to know you with every single one of my senses. I wanted inside. I wanted everything. I wanted your molecules.

It shocked me that you existed in the same world as other girls I've known. You were nothing like the prep school girls I met at Templeton parties, those girls with the swishing ponytails and easy laughs, their eyes warmed with vodka and entitlement as they curled up against me. You were nothing like the hipster girls I met at music shows, those spindly-armed poets who drank cheap beer as proof of their authenticity, who caressed my skin and laughed ironically about how white they were, who called me beautiful as if I were some kind of exotic art piece. You were something else entirely. Your identity was not theoretical, not a performance, not a role. You were the real deal.

Your beauty was transcendent. The sky spun in your eyes. Maybe because you had tasted death and brought a little of it back with you, maybe because you had brushed hands with God, you looked and felt and tasted like heaven.

And now this hell. Life without you. A vacuum, a black hole.

I KEEP PICTURING EVIE IN THE HOSPITAL, LYING IN ONE OF those beds she hated, alone and scared. No matter how hard I try to think of something else, I keep seeing her there, I keep seeing myself with her, and everything in my body wants to be there, to wrap her up and take her away, and the impossibility of it all makes me crazy. She's on the other side of town, locked up in a tower that I can't climb, guarded by people who won't let me see her, by parents who think I'm the reason she's in there. But I'm the one who saved her. I'm the one who wants to save her still.

It does no good wondering about the past, wishing I could change it. But I can't help hating myself for not noticing the signs that she was in trouble. Those far-off looks she'd get. How she'd disappear sometimes when she was sitting right next to me. How she kept wanting to get higher and higher, how she was never high enough. I keep thinking I should have loved her better somehow.
I should have said something sooner. Maybe there was a way I could have saved her from this.

I can't do anything about the past, but I can do something about now. I can find my way back to her. I can save us.

I am on my way to the coffee shop where we met for our first date. I remember being so nervous I changed my outfit five times before I got in my car to meet her. She was unlike any girl I had ever met—so real, so
authentic
—I didn't want her to think I was just another high school idiot. I wanted her to think I was cool enough, smart, funny. I wanted her to think I was worthy.

Before Evie, I had made a habit of not getting close to anyone. It was my code. Don't get close and no one can hurt you. They can't use you. They can't let you down. They can't leave. But something about Evie made me go against my code. Something about her convinced me she was worth the risk.

So now here I am, standing in the same spot where a few short weeks ago I tried not to stutter as I attempted witty banter with Evie. Here are all the hip people sitting around, poking at computers, and eating overpriced toast. I take a deep breath as I step up to the counter. The short, androgynous guy at the counter looks at me with confused recognition and pauses a moment before smiling and saying, “What can I get you?” For a moment, I consider running.

“Hi,” I say, and it comes out sounding like a frog croaking.

“Hi,” he says, his smile wavering. Maybe he thinks I'm going to steal the tip jar.

“I don't know if you remember me,” I begin. “You probably
don't. I came here a few weeks ago with Evie Whinsett.” His smile immediately fades into a look of pure sadness. “Um . . . she's kind of in trouble right now and I can't get a hold of her, and I guess I figured you know her, so I wanted to talk to you to, you know, see if you could help me or, I don't know. Shit, I'm sorry. I'm probably not making any sense.”

“It's okay,” he says with a small smile. “I'm off in half an hour. Can you wait until then?”

“Yes, of course. Thank you.”

I wander around Telegraph Avenue for the next thirty minutes, trying to busy my mind with window-shopping so I don't have to think about Evie, but she breaks through everything. Here's the yoga studio (“Fifteen dollars to do some stretching for an hour?” Evie would say. “Ridiculous”). Here's the tattoo shop (I wonder what kind of tattoo Evie would get. Something pretty and botanical, I bet. But not predictable. A weed, maybe. A dandelion). Here's the Burmese restaurant (Evie's favorite). Here's the organic ice cream shop with the weird flavors (another of Evie's favorites). She's everywhere, in everything.

The half hour is excruciating. When I get back to the coffee shop, Evie's friend is counting the money out of the tip jar. I catch his eye and he smiles, and I remember the first time I saw him, how he looked so happy to see Evie, but she seemed almost scared, how she went outside to talk to him in private and returned, shaken, desperate to leave the café. She told me nothing and I didn't push it. I was so wrapped up in my insecurities and expectations, I didn't even notice how weird it was.

“Let's get a doughnut,” he says, and I follow him out the door.

“I'm Cole,” he says as we walk down Telegraph and into the alley full of tiny, expensive boutiques. A window displays a red flannel shirt for $250 (“Try it on!” Evie would say, and we'd laugh about how the five-dollar thrift store flannel I'm already wearing looks so much better).

“I'm Marcus,” I say.

“Are you Evie's new boyfriend?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say. “Wait.
New
boyfriend? Is there an old boyfriend?”

He looks at me with kindness in his eyes that borders too close to pity.

“Let's go in here,” he says, and leads me into a tiny shop displaying four flavors of crème-filled artisanal doughnuts. Cole orders a chocolate-hazelnut and a vanilla-persimmon flavored one, and I order a raspberry one even though I am in no mood to eat.

“She had a lot of secrets,” I say, like an apology. Cole nods as we sit on a bench outside.

“So what's up?” he says as he bites into a doughnut. “How's Evie?”

“She's in the hospital.”

He swallows. “Shit,” he says, shaking his head. “The cancer's back?”

“No, she had an accident. Swimming.”

“Is she okay?”

“She was in a coma for a day. But she's awake now. At least that's what I've been told. I haven't seen her. It's a long story, but her parents aren't my biggest fans.”

“So you're contacting me to see if I can help you see her.”

“Yeah. Yes. I guess that's what I'm doing.”

“I'm sorry,” he says, looking genuinely sorry. “I wish I could help you, but I don't really have any idea how to contact her. We weren't close. I just met her once, actually.” He's quiet for a moment as he stares at his doughnut. He's gone somewhere far away. “She was my girlfriend's friend. My ex-girlfriend. Fuck,” he says, setting the doughnut down on his lap. “What do you call it when your girlfriend dies?”

“I don't know,” I say, but it is a stupid thing to say. Cole wasn't asking for an answer.

“Stella loved Evie like crazy,” he says. “I was a little jealous, actually. Stella liked girls, too, and Evie was beautiful. But you already knew that.”

I'm not sure if I nod. I'm not sure what any part of my body is doing.

“But it wasn't like that,” Cole continues. “I think what Stella loved was Evie's sweetness. Her innocence, you know? How she was this little blond cheerleader with the football player boyfriend and perfect family, but she wasn't stuck up about it or anything. She was so generous with her love. So open.”

My head is spinning. The ground has been pulled out from under me and I am falling through space and there is nothing and no one to catch me. Who the hell is he talking about? Not Evie. Not the Evie I know.

He seems to sense my shock. “You're surprised by some of this?”

“Yeah. Pretty much all of it, to be honest.”

“I guess she changed a lot after she got out of the hospital.”

“That would be an understatement.”

“Makes sense, really. She went through a lot. She almost died, then didn't. Then her really close friend died. That'll change anyone.”

We sit there in silence for a while. Cole picks up his doughnut and continues eating.

“She was a cheerleader?” It's the only thing I can think of saying.

Cole laughs, which loosens the vise grip on my heart. He looks me up and down, at my boots and ripped jeans, my faded thrift store T-shirt and short dreadlocks. “Not quite your usual type?”

“Not really.”

“Yeah, not Stella's either. But Evie was special, I guess.”

“Is special. She
is
special.”

“Sorry.”

“It's okay.”

“I have to go to class,” Cole says, standing up. “Been working since eight this morning—now I have to go to three hours of night class. Good times.”

“Thanks for talking to me,” I say.

“Sorry I couldn't be more helpful. I probably made it worse, huh?”

I look up at him and try to smile. “Yeah, kind of.”

He reaches out his hand and we shake. “Take care of yourself,” Cole says, and walks away.

I sit there for a few minutes, trying to imagine the tough girl I
know as a cheerleader, in one of those ridiculous outfits they wear, jumping around with pom-poms, squealing for a football game, or parading through the halls of her high school on the arm of a dumb jock. I can't help but laugh, and it's the laughter that saves me, even as I attract a few strange looks, even as a couple people scoot a little farther away from me on the bench. It's the laughter that keeps me from screaming.

I TOLD YOU VIRTUALLY NOTHING ABOUT MY MOM, ABOUT David. Even though you were the first person I ever wanted to talk to, even though I wanted to pour myself into you. But I knew it would scare you. So I tried to give you myself in little pieces. Certain things had to wait, big things. It never seemed like the right time for those. Something else was going on. You were always upset about something, and it took up your whole world, our whole world. So I told myself, next time. But next time never came.

I know there were things you wanted to tell me, but maybe you didn't feel the same ripping inside your chest as I did whenever you kept silent. Maybe you were at peace with your secrets. Maybe they didn't tear you apart. Maybe all that chemo and radiation that racked your body before I met you made your heart radioactive, made it hard and indestructible.

No, you can't fool me. You're as soft inside as I am. I know
this because I love you. I know this because you did let me in long enough for my heart to get comfortable, long enough to know it was somewhere I belonged.

And now I yearn for that softness inside you. It is somewhere far away from me, guarded by secrets and distance and fear. You are a coward, Evie. Your silence makes you a coward. Did you think I wouldn't hear you? Did you think your truth would not find a home outside your walls? How could you have not known I was listening? The whole time, waiting for you to speak. The whole time, making a home to keep your secrets safe.

I should have tried harder. I should have done more to pull the truth out of you. I was a coward, too. But that ends now. I refuse to lose you. I will not give up that easily. I will not let you drift away and pretend you did not leave some pieces of you with me.

I want to tell you the truth. I want to tell you everything.

MOM IS SITTING IN THE KITCHEN, LOOKING INTO SPACE, completely still, as if she's trying to hide in plain sight, like deer that freeze when they hear a noise, hoping their stillness will make them invisible. I have never seen anyone so alone.

“Where's Dad?” I say, and the air shakes with the sudden sound of my voice. I swear I hear the walls rattle.

“Who knows?” she says without looking at me, with a new edge to her voice that sounds wrong, like it doesn't belong there. There is something sad, something embarrassing, about the clothes she is wearing—tight black leggings that may not actually qualify as pants, a shirt that hangs so low on her shoulders I can see both bra straps.

“Shouldn't
you
know?” I say.

Her head snaps in my direction, a sudden flurry of movement, and now I am the deer, caught, frozen in the headlights coming way too fast in my direction. “Get out!” she shouts, and she is the
car speeding toward me, and I know I'm supposed to move, but my instincts are wrong, they're not letting me move, they want me to stay, to be with her.

“Why?” I say.

“Marcus, go to your room.”

I don't move.

“I don't want you here.”

I tell my feet to go, but they won't.

“Leave me alone!”

And then I do the exact opposite of what I'm supposed to. I start walking toward her, my socked feet sliding across the floor, my body pushing against the force of a magnet turned backward. The closer I get, the stronger it gets, the invisible push of her rejection.

Then a coffee cup flies through the air. I feel its trajectory against my cheek, the displaced molecules of air as it misses hitting my face. Then the smash, an explosion behind me.

Then the stillness again. Mom's eyes back in her nowhere place. Her backward magnet so strong it pushes me out the door and up the stairs, into my room so far, far away.

Mom and David are in the living room. They don't know I am here. I am trying to understand David's special access to Mom, why she is more his than mine.

She is on her second bottle of wine. She pours him a glass and they say “Cheers.” This is their special time, their bonding time.
She says, “Tell me everything,” and he does. He tells her things he doesn't even tell me—grown-up things, stuff about his girlfriend, about sex, about feeling lost and weak and uninspired. She sits with her legs crossed on her favorite oversized comfy chair, and he lies on the couch, as if she is a therapist and he is her patient. I have watched this scene before. I have watched Mom shine in the glow of being needed. But also something else, almost like she's bribing him, like she's buying his attention and time with the wine, like she doesn't trust him to want to stick around without some kind of incentive.

Tonight they exchange places. Mom finishes the second bottle of wine and starts talking. “Your father doesn't appreciate me,” she says, slurring her words slightly. “My only job is to get dressed up and be charming at his important functions.” The back of David's head nods. “I have my own dreams, you know,” Mom says. “Dreams your dad doesn't give a shit about and are never going to come true as long as I'm married to him.”

She lifts her wineglass and tries to take a sip, but it is empty. She sets it back down on the coffee table, disgusted. “I think I'm going to leave your father,” she says. “I'll take you with me.”

“What about Marcus?” David says.

She says nothing. I cannot read her face. She is staring into space, into nowhere. She is already gone.

My insides liquefy. I am dizzy, sick. If she ever answers the question, I do not know. I do not wait to find out. I walk up the stairs, the sound of my footsteps muted by my dirty white socks.

I lie in bed, looking at the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling that David helped me configure into real constellations. I push the thoughts out of my head of what life would be like without them in it, if I was left in this big house with no one but Dad.