Authors: Heather Davis
Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Family, #Multigenerational, #Health & Daily Living, #Diseases; Illnesses & Injuries, #Love & Romance, #Social Issues, #Death & Dying, #Depression & Mental Illness, #Suicide
Wherever You Go (3 page)
"Right," Jason says.
"Just saying, man. If he hadn't been giving her a ride, then it never would have happened," Mark says, taking a big swig of beer.
"You don't know that." Jason closes his mouth, and it's a hard, firm line, like there's more he would say if Mark wasn't being such an ass.
"Right." Mark salutes him with the beer can. "If it wasn't for her, he would have walked home."
You wait for them to say more about what happened to you. You find yourself leaning in, as if that would make them reveal more details, more info that you wish you knew about that night, the end of which you can hardly remember except in flashes. Funny how you thought it would all come back to you once you crossed over. But you haven't crossed over yet, have you? If you had, you wouldn't be here listening to them talk crap about Holly.
"I gotta get going, man," Jason says, breaking eye contact with Mark. "Later."
"Yeah." Mark leans back in the chair, taking another slug from the beer.
You follow Jason out of the yard and down the block—four houses, to be exact. At the foot of his driveway, he looks up at the dark front windows of his house. His is the only car in the driveway. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the keys to his Audi, as if he'd go somewhere. He jingles them in his hands, thinking.
"Let's go," you say, as if he could hear.
It wouldn't be your first ride in the Audi since you've been dead. From time to time, you'd ridden shotgun with your best friend, imagining the smell of the new car's leather seats, pretending to feel the rush of wind. Lately, Jason has been driving down from Lake Heights the long way, avoiding McCallister Road and instead cruising one of the side streets lined with flowering cherry trees about to lose all their rosy blossoms. You're sure it's not that he likes the shower of white and pink falliomad pink ng and whirling behind the car. He just can't deal with seeing the place your car went over the edge. And in some weird way, that makes you the tiniest bit happy.
Jason heads into the house.
"Boring," you say, watching as he grabs his laptop from his room and sets it up on the kitchen counter. This part of being dead is pretty lame. Watching people do their homework, brush their teeth, flip through channels on satellite TV. It makes you almost wish for something to happen.
As the Mac powers up, Jason rummages in the refrigerator, coming up with leftover Chinese that he starts eating right from the carton with a fork. He gets online and heads over to some social networking sites. If he's updating his status to say he's scarfing down sesame noodles in the dark, he must be really bored. More bored than you.
But he clicks through the updates, seeing what's what. He moves over to the Friends tab, pausing on your profile. Rob Dun-worthy. The profile that no one thought to take down. The one that had sent everyone birthday reminders from beyond a few months ago ... That was funny, in a sad way. But what was worse were the people posting happy birthday messages to you because they didn't know you were gone. Kids from your summer camp days. A girl you met on vacation in the Bahamas with your family a couple of years ago.
Jason slurps down another swirl of noodles, tapping his fork against the counter in an awkward, nonrhythmic way. And then he clicks the search tab and types the letters of her name slowly, deliberately. H-O-L-L-Y M-U-L-L-E-N.
"Okay, what the hell are you doing, Markham?" you mutter.
Jason scrolls through a bunch of Holly Mullens from across the country, not finding yours there—which you knew would happen, because Holly doesn't even own a freaking computer. If she even had a profile page, it would have been made at Marisa's house, and she'd hardly ever get a chance to update it.
"I don't get it, man."
Jason goes low-tech now, pulling an old yearbook from his bookshelf and laying it out on the counter. He flips through the clubs, stopping for a brief moment on the band pages, not finding Holly in any picture of any activity. He didn't know Holly at all. All he knew of your girlfriend was from when you were with her, when you were in a group. So, why now? Why would he zero in on the only girl who really loved you?
The smile on his face as he finally finds Holly in the junior class pictures says it all. And the realization jolts you like a defibrillator, the kind they'd used to try to restart your heart that night six months ago. But this jolt hits you hard. Wakes you up. Jason feels something for Holly. He wants her.
"No!" The power in your voice startles you, but nothing happens. No thundercloud erupts. The laptop's screen doesn't blip with electrical interference. And you've never felt more invisible than you do right now.
***
"Um, isnv> an">"Um't that weird?" My best friend, Marisa Butra, took a loud sip of her iced mocha. "I mean, now you have your gramps
and
Lena to deal with. How are you guys even fitting in your mom's place?"
"It's not that weird," I said, watching the Monday breakfast crowd clear out of the cafeteria. I hadn't had time to eat, with everything going on at home, so I'd settled for one of the stale-tasting bagels. They were only a buck, but like most things at North Seattle High, they were generic and bland.
Marisa lowered her long-lashed brown eyes at me. "I totally get the whole take-in-the-old-people thing. But sharing a room with a nine-year-old? The Disney Channel posters alone would make me retch."
I chewed a bite of bagel. "It's not that bad. And we don't have cable, anyway."
"Seriously, if I ever had to share a room with my sister, Nalini, I'd run away." Marisa pulled out her compact and checked her lip gloss. The pink shade was a perfect contrast against her dark skin. Even in gym class every day, Marisa managed to look glam. Not me. I'd half thought to put some makeup on besides my typical black eyeliner that morning, but I hadn't had time. And I didn't have a reason to spruce myself up for anyone.
"So ... did you hear that Dan Blake is having a party on Friday?" Marisa clicked the compact shut and smoothed her long black bangs behind her ears.
"Great. Sounds like a good-ol' time."
"I was thinking we should go." She watched me as I crumpled the paper bagel bag.
"What makes you think that I'd want to go to a party with those guys?"
"They used to be our friends," she said.
"You can totally go if you want to," I said. "It's fine. Don't hold yourself back if you want to hang out with them."
Marisa's stern look softened. "Hols, at some point, you get to be yourself again. You even get to have fun. Let's check it out."
"It's not a good idea," I said. "I can't imagine partying with them would be much fun for me."
"Sooner or later you're going to get over him, right?"
I didn't bother answering. I'd known Marisa since we were in the fourth grade. She was the one person I could turn to, the one person who'd stuck with me. After Rob's funeral, I cried in her arms. I broke down with her and no one else. But right now, I didn't think she got me at all.
Marisa rattled the ice in her cup, poking the straw deeper. "It might actually be fun."
"I don't think it'd work, anyway. I probably have to sit with Lena and Grandpa that night," I said quickly. A little too quickly, maybe.
She studied me for a moment and then said, "Wnewhen saiell, what if I went?" She gave the plastic coffee cup another shake.
"You'd really go without me?" I tried to keep the hurt from my voice. "I mean that's totally your right and all, but I guess I—"
"Listen, if you don't want me to go, then I won't go," said Marisa.
"No, no. Do whatever you want. Anyway, like I said, I've gotta stay home."
Her face brightened, and it was totally lame of me, but I felt kind of annoyed by that. I loved my best friend. I wanted her to come over to my house, watch crap TV with me, and then maybe go down to the mall. I wanted to go to her house and let her dig around in her infinite closet to find me a cool outfit to borrow. I wanted to sit with her at her family table and eat yummy basmati rice and curried spinach with homemade cheese called
paneer
that her mom made from scratch. I wanted to do what we always did, but most of all I didn't want her
to want
to hang with them.
She stood up and straightened her black T-shirt over the low waistband of her jeans, and then fluffed the turquoise scarf around her neck. "Ready?"
"Yeah. Let's go," I said. I dumped my trash and followed her out the cafeteria doors. As I saw her turn to go down the hall to her first period English class, I felt a little pang of something. Maybe I was jealous of her being happy or whatever.
"God. Suck it up already," I said under my breath.
I shouldered my messenger bag and schlepped down the hall to drop off some of my books. And then I saw Jason Markham hanging out near my locker.
I ducked around a corner, watching him lean against the wall near a poster for a blood drive. Dark hair falling over one eye. A charcoal gray V-neck sweater. Faded Levi's that nearly hid the tops of his black Converse Top-Siders. A few girls passed him, smiling, but he didn't pay them any attention. He just looked at his watch again and studied the flow of kids in the hall. Finally, the bell rang and he hustled off in the opposite direction. I stood there, in my hiding place near the end of the section of lockers, catching my breath.
"What do you want?"
Some girl passing me stopped. "Huh? Are you talking to me?"
"No. Sorry." I cruised down the hall to first period, pretending I wasn't wondering why Jason had been waiting for me. I didn't want
anything to do with those people, not even Rob's best friend.
Ms. Granger, a woman from senior services, was our dinner guest that Friday night. Everyone was on their best behavior, following Mom's example. Then again, Mom always acted nervous around official people. This lady appeared totally harmless, though. From her supercurly brown hair and little round glasses to her square-heeled shoes, she seemed pretty nice—like someone's favorite first grade teacher.
"How are you doing living with your daughter?" she asked Grandpa Aldo.
Grandpa didn't respond—he was busy digging into his mashed potatoes.
"You like it here, Papa?" Mom prompted, flashing a smile.
"Oh, yes," he said.
"That's wonderful to hear." Ms. Granger set down her fork and took a sip from her water glass. "Thank you very much for asking me to stay for dinner. It's delicious, Mrs. Mullen."
"Oh, no. That's my Holly's cooking. I work most nights."
It wasn't any big deal. I'd thrown some chicken thighs in the oven after school.
"It's very good, Holly." Ms. Granger lifted a forkful of potatoes to her mouth. "I haven't had a homemade supper in a long time."
"She learned a lot from my mother," Mom said, glancing over at my grandpa.
"I wish I had," Ms. Granger said, laughing. "Unfortunately our family was more of the microwave-dinner variety."
"What made you want to become a social worker?" I asked.
Ms. Granger wiped her mouth with her paper napkin and floated it back down over her generous lap. "I got into social work because I wanted to help people. I work with the elderly because I was close to my grandparents. I've been with the senior center now for about ten years."
"Interesting," I said, mashing a little lump of potato with the back of my fork.
Ms. Granger gave me a little wink. "Not very. But it's common for people to wonder why folks get into my profession." She paused, turning toward Mom. "So, let's talk about your family now. Once I met Aldo at the center this week, I really wanted to see how you all were getting along over here."
"I'm very happy to be with
la mia famiglia,
" said Grandpa.
"That's good. And how is the caregiving going?" she asked. "You're helping with medications, bathing, getting him to appointments?"
"Right now Holly's helping me with the day-to-day," Mom said, her cheeks pinking up. "I work a lot of hours. Have to work a half shift tonight even," she said.
Ms. Granger nodded. "It's tough to be a single mom these days. If you don't mind my asking, is the girls' father still involved?"
Mom's face went stony. "That's a whole other conversation, Ms. Granger."
"Sure, sure. Just trying to get a picture of the family dynamic." She set down her silverware on the plate and pushed it slightly forward on the table. "So, going back to careem"back togiving—Holly, how are you managing to balance school and taking care of Aldo?"
"And me," piped up Lena. "She watches me, too. She has since I was a baby, practically."
I shrugged. "It's all right."
"And you still have time for activities? I heard that you were attending a grief-counseling group. Are you still able to go to that?"
My cheeks felt hot. "Um, I don't understand what that has to do with anything."
"Sorry. Being nosy is part of my job," Ms. Granger said, unfazed. "I just want to make sure that Aldo's getting adequate care here—and also that it's not too much for the family to handle."
"There's really no alternative, so we're managing," Mom said.
Ms. Granger said, "Actually, Aldo's government health plan would help defray the cost of a permanent care facility. At least a small portion."
"I want to be here," Grandpa Aldo said, slamming his hand on the table. His face was stormy, his eyebrows drawn.
Ms. Granger turned to him and said softly, "Yes, we understand. Don't worry. We're just discussing options."
"Family takes care of family," Mom said. "I've heard horror stories about those facilities."
"There are some good ones in the Northwest, and quite frankly, when your teenage daughter is the only caregiver here in the house—"
"What do you want me to do? Quit both my jobs?" Mom said, her voice loud, angry.
"No, no. I'm just saying that it's a lot for Holly to shoulder. Here she is, a teenager on a Friday night making dinner for everyone instead of going out with friends."
"It's fine," I said, my lips tight. "I didn't have plans or anything."
Ms. Granger gave me a sympathetic smile. "You should know, as Aldo's disease progresses—"
"We're all going to pitch in to keep him well," Mom said, her voice shaking.
"Yes, I hear that you want to do that. But as his condition worsens, so will his needs. Holly, can you handle all this stress?"
"I'm good at holding things together," I said.
My mom shot me a look that I couldn't quite decipher. "The bottom line is, we're going to be fine here."
Ms. Granger dabbed at her lips with her napkin and then set it on the table beside her plate. She fished a card from her pocket and slid it across the table to my mom. "Julia, I think your intentions are good, and I'll do what I can to help youhei to hel if you ask. I promise you that."
Mom didn't touch the card. It lay there, unwelcome, near her water glass.
"Now, unfortunately, I'm expected at another home visit, so I need to get going," Ms. Granger said. "Thank you again for a wonderful dinner, Holly."
"Sure," I said.
"Aldo, you take care, now. I'll see you at the center next week. Nice meeting you, girls."
My mom stood up and walked her out. I heard them whispering and then the door shutting.
"Why was she saying Holly can't do it alone?" my sister said as Mom came back to the table.
"Don't worry about that," Mom answered. "Why don't you finish your broccoli?"
"She meant that we're all going to need to help out," I said.
"Holly..." Mom sighed, staring at me for a long moment. Then she got up and started to clear the dishes from the table. That was odd—but having her there through a whole dinner was odd.
When Mom did eat with us, she was usually grabbing something quickly, rushing out the door, the scent of her floral perfume trailing behind her, proof that she'd been there. Often I would wake in the middle of the night, listening for the sound of the turning lock and the door opening, followed by the sound of keys hitting the bowl in the hallway. And then I could close my eyes again, knowing that we were all safe.
I sat there at the kitchen table, forcing down the rest of my mashed potatoes and watching Mom at the sink. She loaded the dishwasher slowly, setting each plate in a deliberate place, nestling each cup in the wire rack like it was precious. When she reached under the sink to grab dishwasher soap from the cabinet, she came up empty but then, muttering a swear word, found where it lived on the other side.
"Is there cake?" chirped Grandpa.
Lena bounced in her chair. "Yeah, can we have cake?"
"Maybe," I said, taking a last bite of chicken.
When she was done with her task except for my dishes, Mom dried her hands on a dishtowel and left the kitchen, probably to change for work. She didn't look back at us. At me.
I didn't know what to make of that, except that maybe Ms. Granger made her realize this was just going to get harder for all of us, that Grandpa was going to get worse. Or maybe she was mad that I'd moved the dishwasher soap and forgotten to tell her.
It occurred to me that part of us not discussing things was about her making me have to guess all the time. Decipher her intentions, figure out her moods. Maybe to her there was some comfort in letting people guess what you think, what you feel. Maybe even some control in keeping stuff tlatping sto yourself. If it was up to me, I'd rather have the plain old truth.
The faucet in the sink was dripping in a steady
tink-tink-tink,
and Lena hopped up to turn it off. "Conserve water," she said in singsong voice.
Grandpa gave her a pat as she came back to the table. "Good girl."
I set my plate and silverware in the dishwasher and pushed the start button. Then I took some flour, sugar, and cocoa down from the cupboard, along with my little wooden box of 3 x 5 cards, some of them yellowed and stained, inherited. I needed to follow a recipe. I wanted to measure and stir and know I could depend on the result.
Lena clapped her hands in delight. "Yay, Holly!"
"Some cake?" Grandpa said, his face brightening.
"Yeah," I said. "Coming right up, guys."
"Big plans tonight? It is Friday..." Jason's mom, Mona, stood in the doorway of the living room, snapping a gold cuff bracelet around her wrist.
As always, she's the one with the big plans,
thought Jason. Running off to have dinner downtown with her friends, leaving behind the big, empty house with its stark cream walls. He couldn't blame her, he guessed. The house had seemed larger lately, now that it was mostly just the two of them—well, and Rosie, if you counted her coming to clean and cook for them. Rosie made it feel more like home when she was there.
"Nothing on tap, then? You're just going to sit around and watch TV?" She walked over and perched on the arm of the beige leather couch. "That's pretty boring for a Friday night."
"I don't know. I might head over to Dan's pretty soon," Jason said, muting the basketball game on the flat screen.
His mom smiled. "Good. You should spend more time with your friends. Any chance Faith will be there?"
"Mom. Seriously. We're not getting back together. Please give it up." He swung a throw pillow at her arm, but she moved away just in time.
His mother laughed but then said, "You two were such a sweet couple. At the club this week, her mother told me that Faith was just accepted to Vassar."
"Great." Jason couldn't help rolling his eyes. He didn't care what Faith was doing or where she was going. They were over months ago. And they'd never be again. "No offense, but can we talk about something else?"
She gave him a disappointed shrug. "Sure. I'll butt out. You're right. You can't blame a mom for wanting to see her son happy."
"No, a mom wanting to see herself happy," Jason said, winking.
"Well ... maybe." Hiv h. maybes mom stood up and adjusted her wrap dress, making sure the tie was tight. She looked pretty, Jason thought. Thinner, too—but that was probably because he never saw her eating, not since his dad had been working down in Portland so much. They hadn't had dinner together as a family in weeks, it felt like.
His mom gave him a little wave. "I'm heading out, but you know Rosie can make you something if you get hungry."
"Mom. I can heat something up myself," he said.
"Well, she's off at seven, so if you change your mind, be sure to let her know soon." She moved toward the front door, grabbing a coat from the closet. "If your father calls, maybe you could ask him to call me about the boat-moorage payment."
"Okay."
"He's coming to town on Monday, honey. I guess he'll probably want to take you out for a sail."
"Is he staying here this time?"
His mom paused near the front door and turned. "No, he's not staying here. He's getting his own place." She stuffed her arms through the sleeves of the coat and belted it.
"Sorry," he said. "I didn't know."
Her lips were pressed together like she was holding back something. More that she wouldn't share with him just then, and that was fine with Jason. Things had been weird enough without knowing what, exactly, was going on between his parents.
"Remember to tell Rosie if you need some dinner. Love you." His mom pulled the door shut behind her. Closed the door on whatever pain she was feeling. The sound of the lock clicking echoed in the stone-tiled foyer and then faded into nothingness.
That was what they did, thought Jason. Closed the door on a lot of things that had happened in this house. His mom hadn't been there for him when Rob had died. Hadn't been there for him when things were falling apart with Faith. But maybe some people weren't equipped to be there for you. Maybe some people could barely help themselves.
And maybe he'd been one of those people once upon a time.
He shrugged off the negative thoughts swirling in his mind and headed into his room to change. He'd go out after all. He'd lose himself in the world of his friends. And he'd try to forget about what he should or shouldn't have done all these months.
***
Tonight you expect Jason to stay at Dan Blake's party to drink with the guys. It's a typical house in Lake Heights just a few blocks away from yours. A big two-level layout with decks to take advantage of the view. Done in the Northwest style: with rock fireplaces, big ridgepoles holding the finished pine ceiling above the open floor plan. A glass chandelier blown by a Seattle legend. It reminds you of a place you might have designed, had you stuck with your plan of being an architect.
From outside, the music's not up too loud because Dan knows the neighbors will call the cops if things get too rowdy. Inside, the place is jumping, though. Bodies dancing, mostly out of sync to the beat. It's a sea of human movement where red keg cups bob like buoys. Jason is a sole, static figure in the foyer of the house. He's gazing in at the roiling mass. Girls check him out, and you hope he'll try to get with one of them, but he's searching the crowd, probably for Holly. As if she'd be there.
You know right where she is. You were just in Holly's kitchen, watching her cutting a pan of brownies into neat squares. The homemade kind, like the ones she used to bake you for good luck before a big basketball game. There's no smile on her face tonight. She's lost in thought. Lost in everything going on around her.
Jason's on the move, so you snap back to the moment. He gives Dan a small wave as if he's already done for the night. You wish you could ask him just what the deal is with him lately. Truly, the not-being-able-to-communicate-with-the-living thing is getting really old.
You stick with Jason as he passes through the crowd. Around dudes with sloshing keg cups of Kool-Aid and liquor, past girls with half-finished beers in their hands. Though you can't feel the heat of the room, you feel the energy of the people. The woozy excitement is almost oppressive. To Jason, too, it appears. The door slams behind him and he stands on the porch for a moment, breathing in the night air, staring out at the quiet street full of parked cars.
He seems to relish the darkness. Or maybe he's just glad to be free of all the commotion inside the house. You can't blame him. Wanting to be in that crush of people seems crazy. And you can't even remember why you liked partying with them while you were alive. The drinking had been fun in the moment, but now, looking back on a time when you didn't realize moments were precious, it feels like a waste. Another drunk night. Another set of stupid conversations. Nothing that means anything now.
The music changes and some kids come out of the house to smoke, rousting Jason from his spot on the porch. He walks down to the Audi and climbs in. Quicker than a breath, you're beside him in the passenger seat, waiting for him to start up the engine, longing for the rush of the wind, and knowing you won't be able to feel it. That's too bad, because you need something to clear your head.
"Hey, what's the deal? You're going?" Mark leans through the driver's-side window, startling Jason, and you, for that matter. "Things were just getting good. Faith's here with some jackass from the UW. That girl Annie's been asking about you all night ... She's pretty hot."
"I just feel like taking off," Jason mumbles. "See you tomorrow, maybe."
The Audi eases through the streets and winds down onto Winston Drive. Jason passes Mark's place and then pauses out in front of his own house—the big cedar-sided ranch house on the corner lot. The house is dark except for the porch light. Seeming to change his mind, Jason cranks the music on the indie station and puts the car into gear, zooming through the neighborhood. When he cruises down the hill and pulls the car into a tight turn, the route is all too familiar.
And then you see it: the sign for
McCallister Road.
The guardrail flashes white in the headlights, and your stomach twists. You didn't know you could still get that feeling. Jason whips over to the side of the road and kills the engine at the edge of the bluff. At the edge of the last minutes of your life.
You're frozen in the passenger seat as he gets out and walks toward the shiny new railing. This one is covered with reflectors now, but the one before it—the one that was in its place that night—wasn't. He takes a seat on the metal barrier, gazing down into the blackness of trees, bushes, and tall grass that cover the ravine below.
You force yourself out of the car. "C'mon, man. What are you doing here?" you ask as you take a seat beside him. His eyes are dark, his lips set in a hard line. Loss is written all over his face.
You think back to your memorial service—to your friends' parents talking to your parents, kindly pretending it was normal for your dad to get ripped on whisky and your mom to keep showing your baby videos on a permaloop. And the guys ... they headed to the backyard to smoke. To talk about football practice. To gossip about Holly, who had barely been able to speak to anybody and was inside, sitting with her mother on the stiff, upholstered couch, balancing a plate of uneaten food on her lap.
Later, from the front steps, you watched Holly and her mother descend the long driveway in their junky Toyota that rattled like a tin can. And meanwhile, Jason seemed fine. He'd been as steady as ever chatting with the guys. They could have been outside the gym or the movie theater or anywhere, the way they were acting so freaking normal. Acting like no one had died.
Now you see the grief welling in Jason's eyes. You'd thought you wanted to see that, to see some freaking emotion, but confronted with it, you look away.
There's a night breeze stirring in the deepening darkness now; you can see it moving through the trees. It probably warrants a shiver. Jason feels it. He stands up from the awkward seat on the guardrail and rubs a hand across the back of his jeans. He's still staring down into the blackness below. The blackness they pulled you and Holly from. You can almost make out the scarred tree, its gnarled trunk raw and burned.
Jason mutters. "What is wrong with me? You're not here."
"Dude, I
am
here," you say softly. Raising your eyes to the sky, you notice the moon is shining in a crescent, a half-cocked smile mocking everything below. Like it knows the answer to some kind of cosmic joke. Like it knows why the hell you're still on Earth.
"I get the I'm dead part," you say, half to the sky, half to yourself, "but if there's some kind of freaking spirit guide, could you send him my way? This wandering stuff is getting old. It's great to see everyone and all, but is this all there is?"
Suddenly, headlights flash behind Jason's car, startling you both. A truck rounds the curve and then speeds off down the hill.
"Stupid high beams? Nice. But I need some answers."
Night embraces you and Jason and the canyon below. For ho
urs, you both lay across the hood of the Audi, staring up at the endless night sky. And you realize that he's just as lonely as you are.
