A Tragic Kind of Wonderful(53)

A few blocks ago I turned off the Great Highway and next is getting through the Presidio to reach the bridge but I can’t remember the way. There are so many loops and dead ends, I’ll never get there without a map.

I need to use my GPS. Mom’s probably frantically driving around, on the phone with HJ, maybe Dad by now. Did Connor go back home or is he out looking for me, too? I saw all the worrying about Nolan enough to know what this looks like, and now I can’t stop thinking about it. Whatever worrying is going on back home, I have to try and stop it.

I switch on my phone and see it’s just past one in the afternoon. The screen lights up repeatedly: missed calls, voice mails, from everybody, including Dad. I can’t bring myself to read or listen to any of it. I just need to text Mom that I’m all right and get directions through the Presidio and switch it off again— It rings and I drop it—I scramble to pick it up and see that it’s Mom. How did she know to call right this minute? Has she been calling over and over for hours? I don’t want to answer or hear her voice but I can’t ignore it.

“Mom, I—”

“Why are you up by Lands End?! How’d you get up there?”

That’s how she knew—I popped up on the phone tracker.

“I walked. I’m fine. I need—”

“You’re not fine, Mel! You just walked twenty miles! And you’re crying! Can you hear yourself? Take some Ativan! Did you bring any?”

“No, I …” I didn’t bring any meds. I was going to take them at noon—I guess I can’t now— “Stay right there! We’re coming to get you!”

“I don’t want to see anyone—”

“You can do that at home!”

“It’s okay, Mom, I need—”

“Dad and I are getting in the car right now to—”

I hang up.

I check the map. Left on Thirtieth, right on El Camino, turns into Lincoln, three miles to the bridge.

Mom calls again and I decline it.

I see more replies on the group text I sent this morning. They’re all from Zumi.

I’m sorry Mel.

I hadn’t read your email when I

texted you.

Connor came over and made

me read it. He was furious. I’ve

never seen him like that before.

Call me?

I’m so sorry.

Please come home.

At least tell me you’re okay.

Please?

That’s all, and a good thing, too—everything’s getting blurry and hard to read. I look for voice mails. A few from Mom and HJ, one from Dad, and two from Zumi. I tap on Zumi’s.

“Mel, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said. Call me, okay? Call me.”

Her voice is completely flat. I’ve more than broken her heart—I’ve stomped it into pulp. I wipe my nose and face on my sleeve but it’s hopeless so I give up and tap her next message.

“Mel … I don’t understand …” Zumi’s voice is trembling so much I barely recognize it. “I’ve been so horrible and blamed you for everything. Why do you still want to be my friend?”

She coughs away from the phone a few times.

“I don’t know,” she whispers, so softly I can barely hear her. “But I really need you. Please tell me you’re okay. And come home.”

I drop the phone again. I’m sobbing so hard it’s like I’m convulsing. I can’t stand what I’m doing to them being out here making them worry but the only way I can pull myself together again is to get to our spot—Nolan’s and mine.

I text Mom:

There’s something I need to do.

Can’t explain now. Please don’t

worry.

She calls again and I decline again. I need to switch the phone off but I fumble and it’s hard with everything so blurry and my hands shaking so much— A new text appears. I wipe my eyes and see it’s from Mom.

You need help, Mel. Deep down

you know this. Let us come pick

you up so we can get you the

help you need. Please, Mel, leave

your phone on so we can find

you.

A cold flush runs through my body. I do know what she’s saying, and I’ll do anything not to go back in there. I switch off the phone.

Now it’s a race.

*

It’s the end of April, freshman year, on a Saturday. I’m in Zumi’s backyard tree house with Zumi, Connor, sleeping bags, popcorn, and videos on Eddie’s laptop. Annie said her mom wouldn’t let her stay over but I saw the look on her face when the idea came up. I was glad because it would be cramped enough with just the three of us and Annie never let us talk about anything important. Maybe she’d have made an exception today since they buried Zumi’s grandfather this morning, but I think Annie’s not being here means she doesn’t want to deal with it, that or the idea of being outside in the damp cold all night, or maybe both.

Eddie’s laptop runs out of battery by ten and we don’t want to run down the flashlights, so the only light now comes from the back porch through the large window opening of the tree house.

After some quiet sitting in the dark, Zumi asks softly, “You think about your dad much?”

“Sometimes,” Connor says. “I barely remember what he looked like.”