Whisper to Me(118)

I stared at him. “Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack. So that’s why swimmin’ comes first. Now I’m going. I hope that’s okay, princess?” He began to turn away from me.

“He doesn’t even like swimming,” I said, lamely. I was angry—with myself as much as anything. I wasn’t really in control of what was coming out of my mouth.

Your dad shook his head. “What?”

“He doesn’t like it, but he does it, instead of music. Because of you.”

You dad rolled his eyes. “We all have to do things we don’t like. Boy has to learn that.”

“He should be making music. You should see how happy he is when he plays.”

He shrugged. “Ain’t none of your business,” he said. Then he got in the car and slammed the door.

I said,

“Wait—” but the revving of the engine drowned out my voice.

The car peeled away, black smoke billowing from the exhaust. I realized I was still holding the banjo/ukulele. Your dad had never taken it—he was so sure it wasn’t yours. He was so sure you didn’t like to play anymore. Maybe I shouldn’t have told him you did, maybe I shouldn’t have exposed you like that, I don’t know. He just made me angry, and I know it sounds weird when I’m the one who broke you, but I wanted to protect you too. I wanted you to be happy.

I still want you to be happy.





INT. AN APARTMENT ABOVE A GARAGE. A TEENAGE GIRL IS SITTING ON A BED THAT USED TO BELONG TO HER …

HER WHAT, ACTUALLY?

BOYFRIEND?

FRIEND?

HER FRIEND. LET’S GO WITH FRIEND.

SO …

A TEENAGE GIRL IS SITTING ON A BED THAT USED TO BELONG TO HER FRIEND. SHE LOOKS LIKE SHE HAS BEEN CRYING. IT’S LATE; THE MOON IS SHINING IN THROUGH THE WINDOW. VERY FAINTLY, WE CAN HEAR THE OCEAN IN THE DISTANCE.

THE GIRL: You here?

A VOICE WE CANNOT SEE: Always.

THE GIRL: You have any suggestions for what to do now?

THE VOICE: Yes.

THE GIRL: Like?

THE VOICE: The house. You haven’t been to the house.

THE GIRL: Which house?

THE VOICE: Which house do you think?





The house Julie had driven to.

That house.

I had never been there.

I had only pictured it, in my mind, shown myself terrible movies. A hand raising a hammer. Paris’s dad, waiting to ambush her. His hands around her neck. The bare walls, bare except for graffiti. Curse words on white plaster.

I had seen the outside, on Street View on your phone. The clapboards, the damp.

But something had kept me away. Some force field. Some uncrossable barrier of pain.

Well.

Maybe it was time to let the pain back in.





The next day Dad had to go back to work, even though what he really wanted to do was stand guard over me, make sure I stayed grounded. “House arrest” might be a more accurate term. But he couldn’t keep it up. He couldn’t avoid the restaurant anymore.

He did lock the door so I couldn’t get out.

But I had pretty much always been able to climb out my bedroom window, down the apple tree in the front yard. I opened the window, grabbed a thin branch to steady myself, and jumped down onto the joint with a thicker branch, then shinned down to the ground.

There was a chill in the air. The sky was gray and dirty as a sidewalk, mist rising off the water. Over the ocean, I could see dark clouds. Fall was just around the corner, but it wasn’t usually this cold in the morning. There was something coming. A storm.

I almost wanted it to come. To wash away the town, wipe it clean. Leave it sparkling, the streets empty, like a mind with no memories, all the dog walkers gone, the kids building sand castles, the joggers, the old people driving their mobility scooters.

All gone. The sidewalks shining.

I shook away the fantasy.

I knew where the house was of course—even if I hadn’t remembered the address, it was in the notes I had photographed while Dwight was getting me candy.

I rode the bus—I needed to get the 9 and then the 7, to the north side of the boardwalk. I tried to switch off and just watch stuff go by. A T-Mobile ad. A L’Oréal billboard. An Arby’s. A load of kids following an adult wearing a yellow vest; kids on some kind of trip. A couple of bums drinking from paper bags, outside a Blockbuster that had closed down years before, a big crack in its window.

The town was still busy, but it was winding down a bit. There were fewer people on the streets, fewer tourists. It’s funny how we still call them tourists. I mean they’re not on some grand tour, taking in the art and landscape of France and Italy. They’re getting drunk in a crappy town in New Jersey, and throwing up on amusement park rides.

I watched men, in particular. I felt like the Houdini Killer could be any one of the guys passing on the main road: the businessmen in suits, the frazzled-looking guy in the Cure T-shirt, the IT geek with the non-ironic glasses.

The 9 stopped at the central bus station in town and I got off. The doors slid shut behind me with a hiss; a predator closing its mouth. The little square was busy with kids arriving on buses from New York City. A cold breeze was now blowing, and I saw people shivering in their T-shirts, underdressed for Jersey with a storm coming.

I just hoped it wasn’t going to rain till the evening. I was not dressed for rain. I was not dressed for anything much. I have told you already that getting clothes right is a difficult thing for me.