I'll Stop the World (94)

Finally, Lisa heard the front door open. She sprang up, switching off the TV, and ran to meet her. “Where have you been?” she asked, eager for Rose to finish taking off her shoes so that they could talk.

Rose frowned. “Just out walking. And thinking.” She sounded exhausted.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here,” Lisa said. “I wanted to talk to you about—”

“Wait,” Rose interrupted, pointing to the hastily jotted note Lisa had left by the phone. “Justin called? What did he want? I can’t believe you wrote it down. You know Dad and Diane will kill me if they know I’m still talking to him.”

“He was the one who was dumb enough to call. What was I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know—remember it?”

“I didn’t want to forget to tell you!”

“Well, then tell me.”

“He needs a ride home from the Derrins’.”

“What is he doing at the Derrins’?”

Lisa flung her arms wide in exasperation. “He wouldn’t tell me. He just said he did something to his knee and asked you to pick him up, and that’s all I know. But, Rose, I really want to—”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Rose muttered to herself, stepping back into her shoes. “I need to get over there.”

“Wait,” Lisa said, her heart falling. “Can’t you just wait a few minutes?”

“I don’t have time,” Rose said, shaking her head. “Dad?” she yelled. “Can I borrow the car?”

“It’s still making a weird noise!” Jim’s voice drifted down from upstairs.

“I won’t go far!”

“Okay, just make sure you take some quarters!”

“Rose, please, it won’t take long.”

“We can talk later,” Rose said as she scooped the car keys and a few quarters from the dish on the hall table. She sighed, her hand on the doorknob. “I’m sorry if I was snippy just now. It’s not your fault. It’s just been a really tough week.”

“For me too,” Lisa said quietly.





Chapter Fifty-Seven


JUSTIN

I don’t know how long I sit in the bathroom in my underwear, my ripped jeans crumpled up on the floor, a wad of bloody toilet paper floating in the toilet with the remainder of my breakfast.

My whole life, the person I’ve hated more than anyone in the world has been me. I’m the one who made my life a living hell. I’m the one who told me he should’ve drowned me in the river as soon as I was born.

Stan’s murder wall was my murder wall.

Stan’s obsession was my obsession.

I riffle through my memories like I’m paging through a book, searching for clues. Stan’s hair has long gone silver, and he is stooped and shriveled more from unhappiness than age, but I mentally straighten his hunched shoulders, recolor his limp hair, smooth the wrinkles on his tired face. Now that I know, I can see it. Can see me. I’ve been there all along.

I wonder how I missed it, but then again, of course I missed it. No rational person ever stops to wonder whether maybe they’re being raised by a grouchy, several-decades-older version of themselves.

All those years, Stan kept trying to drag me down to the basement to drill the particulars of his obsession into my head, because he was trying to change things. Give me the knowledge he never had. Enable me to see the things that he never did.

I never listened. Never cared. Never carved out a single minute of my day to accept what I now realize was the only help he knew how to give me: information he thought might help me get back. And I ignored him.

No wonder he hated me.

I think back to the night I came here, the night I drove off the bridge. I remember Stan trying to tackle me to keep me from going to that party. I remember blocking his number so he’d stop calling me.

He knew I was about to come here.

Because when he was my age, he came here.

And he never got back.

I don’t move until Karl knocks on the door, telling me Rose is here to pick me up. I slap a few Band-Aids on my knee, trying hard not to look at it as I do. After pulling on my jeans, I limp to where Rose waits by the front door, past a still-sniffling Karl. He hovers by me like he’s expecting me to say something, but I can’t think of anything to say to him. I feel numb as I drift out the door. Part of me registers that my knee is still jacked up, but I barely feel the pain.

Rose says something to me as I get into the car, and I grunt in response, not paying attention. I stare out the window as we pull out of the Derrins’ driveway, taking in the world I am doomed to be stuck in for the rest of my life.

As we drive across Wilson Bridge, I wonder what would happen if I flung open my door, jumped out of the car, and took the leap I’ve spent all week avoiding.

Would I die, and stop this hellish cycle from repeating?

Would I live, and find myself back in 2023?

Would I just be wet and cold and still stuck in 1985?

In my mind’s eye, I see myself reaching for the door handle, rolling across the pavement, flinging myself off the bridge.

But I don’t. I just sit there, frozen and useless.

As always.

Rose likes to talk about fate, about purpose, but I know now: I have no fate. I have no purpose.