The Herd(63)
We were wrapping up when Hana called again.
“So I just got off the phone with Eleanor’s parents,” she said. “You’ve met them, right?”
“Yeah, once or twice.”
“Well, I called to help them write their statement for the media now that some jackass leaked the news about Eleanor.” A puff of shame went through me. “And I kinda can’t believe this, but they invited us up to their house for Christmas. They have nonrefundable Amtrak tickets for Monday—for Eleanor and Daniel, but I guess he’s spending it with his family now. And when I said our flight was canceled, they insisted we come up.”
“They want us to take their dead daughter’s tickets?” I said. “That’s the most morbid thing I’ve ever heard.”
Hana let out a little oof, like I’d wounded her.
“Sorry. I don’t mean to…but don’t you think it’s weird?”
“I mean, I can see them not wanting to be alone in that big house on Christmas Day. They’re really warm people. They were always so nice to Mikki and me. And I guess Ted and Cameron’s parents kinda sucked, so they were like surrogate parents to them too.” She cleared her throat.
“Wouldn’t we be…imposing? Don’t they want to grieve privately right now?”
“I said the same thing. Asked over and over. They really want us to come, Katie. Mikki, too, assuming she can’t get to Asheville. They’re calling her now.”
We would go, obviously. This felt like a freebie: a perfect chance to see Cameron in the flesh, maybe even scour his and the Walshes’ home for a photo album with navy herringbone glue on each page. And, though Hana still had no idea I’d been talking to Ted, it wouldn’t be hard to sneak off and see him. But I knew she had to feel it was her call, so I said, “I don’t know, Hana. Maybe we should use the next couple of days to process instead of tiptoeing around and being polite guests, you know?”
She sighed. “I just want to feel like I’m…in a home, not my sad, sterile little apartment.” I hesitated and she added, “You’ll love them.”
“Even forty-eight hours after they found out their daughter’s been murdered?”
“Okay, they won’t be at their cheeriest. But we can keep ’em company, maybe even help out around the house for a few days. They don’t have other kids.”
“You’re sure it’s a good idea.”
“I have no idea if it’s a good idea, Katie.” There was a tremor in her voice and it sliced through me. “But I know I want to go.”
I swallowed. “What time is our train?”
* * *
—
Penn Station was miserable any day of the year, a Dante-esque cacophony of burnt coffee and pee smells and bad signage. On this particular Monday morning, it was worse than ever, since, with all flights grounded, trains were one of the only means for escaping the city. The masses were crabby and high-strung, unsure if they’d make it home in time. The scene reminded me of rallies in Michigan, where I endured jeers and boos on my break from nursing my sick mother. This hellhole was almost satisfying in its terribleness: an external match for my emotional interior, which in turn resembled Munch’s painting The Scream.
In the Amtrak waiting area, Hana was jealously guarding two seats, tucked between a pile of shrieking toddlers and a dude in a baseball cap loudly braying into his phone. Two wrestling kids tumbled onto my foot as I picked my way through.
“Oooh, heaven is a place on Earth,” I sang, jazzily sweeping my arm out. Hana glanced up and it was clear she’d been crying; I collapsed into the seat next to her. “Hi. I got us cinnamon-sugar pretzels. Self-care.”
“Thanks.” She gave me a side-hug. “How are you doing today?”
“Well, you know.” We’d both spent Sunday alone in our beds, binge-watching the same Netflix show and texting occasional commentary, ignoring the torrent of calls and emails from journalists seeking comment on Eleanor’s untimely death. She nodded and plucked open her greasy bag, then chewed thoughtfully.
We rushed down to the train the second the track was announced, arms and hips and children and suitcases buffeting us about as we Tetrised our luggage onto the rack and plonked into seats. I yanked on my headphones as we emerged from under the station and into a gray-white wonderland, the air still swollen with snow. There was something sad but soothing about our pilgrimage to Beverly. There, I wouldn’t have to worry about Mom and Hana snapping at each other. There, we wouldn’t need to act cheery or try to put into words who Eleanor was or what she meant to us. It was like a multiday memorial, a walking wake. Remembering Eleanor: The Experience.
“Hey, I meant to ask: What happened with Daniel on Saturday?” I said as we pulled away from a stop. “Was he okay?”
“Yeah, he just needed someone to sit and cry with him. Said he was numb when the cops told him the news Friday night, and then he didn’t sleep, so by the morning he was a wreck. But he was okay by the time I left.” Outside the window, an occasional sight pierced the white: a flicker of tree trunk, the flash of a red house. “What’d you do after I left?”
I thought back; she had no way of knowing I’d paid Carl a visit at Ghost Cafe. “Pretty much the same—I sat around and cried. Only with Cosmo, instead of Daniel.”