The Collective(16)

“Hi, Cammy. Long time, huh?” He says it like he’s trying not to break things.

I rub sleep from my eyes. I remember now. The last time I spoke to Matt was February of 2019. I was feeling especially lonely and called him, ostensibly to wish him a happy birthday, though I was a month too late. I’d forgotten about the time difference and so it was seven a.m. Colorado time when I called. A very young and sleepy-sounding woman answered. A friend from the dispensary, Matt said. But after enduring an incredibly awkward conversation with them both, I checked out his Facebook page and learned he was engaged to a girl named Star, born the same year Matt and I had gotten married.

It didn’t upset me as much as you might think. It was in character for my reverse-aging ex-husband, who had been wise and serious beyond his years when I met him—a computer coder before anyone even knew what that was, a PhD from Stanford, and not yet twenty-four. Now he’s skiing and selling weed and engaged (maybe married?) to a woman half his age. The last time I looked at his Facebook page, he and Star were on their way to Coachella, and I realized that I really don’t know Matt, not anymore. Maybe that isn’t so bad. Both of us have been through the same awful thing, and it’s changed us. Why should I be upset that we changed in different ways? “Hi, Matt.”

“Listen, Cammy . . .”

“I know.”

“I got a call from Lisette Blanchard.”

I wasn’t expecting that. Her name feels like broken glass in my ear. I open my mouth. Close it again. I have no idea what I’m supposed to say.

“I guess she didn’t know I moved,” Matt says. “Anyway, she said she was calling because she was worried about you. She wanted me to watch the video of you at the Brayburn Club. She sent me a link, and I watched it while she was on the line. She wanted me to talk to you and see if you’re okay.”

My voice comes back. “For fuck’s sake.”

“Cammy . . .”

“I don’t want to talk about this, Matt, all right? I know I shouldn’t have done it. I shouldn’t have gone to that stupid award ceremony in the first place, but I did. It happened. And frankly, if you’re going to be worried, I’d be more worried about someone who can’t see that her son is a fucking sociopath than about someone who had a little too much to drink and called him out on it, but maybe that’s just me.” I say it loud enough to hurt. My hands are trembling, my cheeks burning hot. I take a deep breath, listening to the silence on Matt’s end of the line. “Matt?”

More silence. Matt’s always been like this. Quiet during arguments, disappearing into himself. Avoiding conflict at all costs. I would mention this, but what’s the point? I’ve said it probably a dozen times, in front of two different couples counselors, and all it got him to do was leave me.

“So, how’s Colorado?” I ask him finally. “How’s Star? You guys married yet?”

Matt says, “I told her to fuck off.”

“What?”

“Not Star. Lisette. I told Lisette Blanchard to fuck off and never call me again.”

My eyes widen. “What?”

“Star and I aren’t going to get married, Cammy. She doesn’t believe in contracts, and tbh, we’re trying to downsize, so we don’t need all those gifts.”

“Can we get back to Lisette Blanchard?”

He exhales into the phone. “Sure.”

“You really told her that?”

“Yes.”

“I’m . . . I’m kind of amazed.”

“You shouldn’t be.” His tone is quiet. Measured. “Lisette Blanchard has no right. She knows she doesn’t. She knows everything her son took from us, because she isn’t an idiot. But she survives on delusions, and the more people believe those delusions, the stronger she gets. I’m not interested in helping her feel better. She can fuck right off.”

I swallow hard. “Thank you.”

“Please don’t thank me,” he says. “She was my daughter too.”

Darkness presses against the window. I shift on the bed, the springs whining. From far away, I hear the screech of tires—someone making a sudden turn all the way down the mountain, in town probably. It makes me aware of how isolated this house is, and how alone I am in it. “Matt?”

“Yeah?”

“What do you survive on?”

He laughs a little. “Indica,” he says. “Edibles. I can’t stand smoke.”

“You know what I mean, Matt. How do you make it through each day without wanting to . . . well, do what I did on the video. Or worse?”

He inhales sharply, then lets it out. “You remember Gerard Krakowski?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I didn’t, either, but he was in the news ten years ago. Wingnut vigilante in Texas. He killed a black kid. The kid was an honors student and a varsity baseball player, but Krakowski and his lawyers claimed he thought the kid’s varsity jacket was gang colors and he was behaving suspiciously. If the neighborhood had security cameras back then, we’d have seen he wasn’t doing anything suspicious, unless you count walking through that asshole’s neighborhood.”

“Right.”

“The kid was unarmed. Krakowski shot him in the back. Killed him instantly, but he got acquitted. Never spent a day in jail.”