Afterparty(92)

EPILOGUE


IT ISN’T THE ENDING I EXPECTED.

Standing on the roof in the rain, the colored lights of Hollywood Boulevard blurred in the sky, when I was absolutely certain that Siobhan was dead, and Dylan saw me do it, and that I was evil incarnate and not just some moderately bad good girl who screwed up.

It’s the ending that comes after the last scrap of the drama, when life goes on, and even though my life has holes in it where people used to be, I’m still here at the food bank, shelving cans of tuna and boxes of mac and cheese with Megan and Joe.

Also, I go upstairs.

Rabbi Pam says, “Finally! Come in.”

I slam the door to her office so hard, a book falls off her bookcase. Then I have a more generalized meltdown about the unfairness of certain key aspects of life. She doesn’t disagree or say that God will fix it or try to teach me how to crochet.

For this, I’m grateful.

I say, “So, am I part of this religion or not?”

She shrugs. She says, “I choose it for myself every day. And I suspect that you do, too. I could lend you some books.”

We are looking out her window toward downtown. Below, Mrs. Loman is patting an even older man on the shoulder as he sets off, shuffling, across the parking lot with his bag of food.

I say, “Yeah, books would be good.”

I am repairing the world, one grocery bag at a time.

And I haven’t told a lie in three weeks. That’s kind of good, right?

The compass says, Three weeks. World’s record. You are so not out of the woods.

It’s a depressing thought, but does anyone ever get out of the woods? Was there supposed to be a moment of blinding clarity when the path through the thicket appeared, brightly illuminated, and Good, Bad, and Morally Neutral all sorted themselves out, slightly messy but completely unambiguous, like egg yolk and egg white and shell?

If so, I missed it.

So here I sit, deciding for myself. Emma the Tentative. Emma the Previously Unfamiliar with the Truth. Emma Who is Not Fabienne, Emma the Good Enough.

Megan says I’m inspirational.

Joe walked up to her front door and knocked and Megan announced she was going out to dinner and a movie, and drove off in Joe’s car to the Arclight, where they shared a giant Coca-Cola and a vat of highly salted popcorn. Her parents stood there in the front hall in Los Feliz with their mouths hanging open. No one died.

It is difficult for me to extract even the smallest shred of inspiration from what I did.

I celebrated the High Holy Days in September. I dragged my dad to Beth Torah, which was weird. I fasted on Yom Kippur, which, if you’ve never been there, is a total bloodbath of everybody confessing an extensive list of sins in alphabetical order, forgiving other people, and asking God for forgiveness for nine hours straight. And here we are, three weeks later, and I still feel about as morally fit as roadkill.

The moral compass has been shrieking, Honesty is the best policy! Nothing good happens on the Strip after midnight! Do not unhook your bra in the presence of others! for years. And did I listen?

I try a do-it-yourself making-amends thing.

I tell Miss Roy I wasn’t sick a single time I told her I was sick and signed myself out, and she gives me a week of detention.

I tell Dylan the gruesome details of the Afterparty list and watch him cringe for forty-five minutes.

I tell Kimmy how I rode Loogs in the middle of the night, and he’s really a nice horse, and I’m sorry, and she says, “I know, but don’t tell Chelsea, or she’ll probably kill you.”

I feel somehow a lot more secure about my ability to cope if people try to kill me. I am still not that good at coping when they leave.

I miss Siobhan. This is no doubt sick, but I do.

As for Dylan, he insists he hasn’t left me. Generally, he is sitting across from me at the Griddle when he says this, wearing a Georgetown T-shirt. I am cutting twelfth-grade assembly and watching him eat a syrupy stack of red velvet pancakes, which apparently do not exist—at least not really good ones—in Washington, D.C., or the entire state of Maryland. He is reduced to IHOP back there.

He says, “Seed. We’re here. I miss you. Nothing has changed.”

I say, “Note the T-shirt.”

But when we are leaning against each other, walking around the corner at Sunset and Fairfax, back to our two cars, me heading to Latimer and him heading home to catch a shuttle to the airport, he says, “You have to have a little faith in people.” He is pushing against me and I push back. “You have to have a little faith in yourself.”

I put my arms around him and I rest my head against his chest. I hear his heart. And I think, Maybe I will.

Maybe I do.





Acknowledgments


First, thank you to my agent, Brenda Bowen, whose judgment, savvy, and expertise continue to inspire absolute trust, and whose literary sensibility remains awe-inspiring. More than I could have hoped for, and what I hoped for was pretty far over the top.

Huge thanks to Afterparty’s two editors—both brilliant, creative, and a joy to work with. Jen Klonsky, who first acquired my novels, is a whirlwind of enthusiasm and a master brainstormer, and I would probably never forgive her for leaving Simon Pulse if I didn’t love her so much. I was terrified at the concept of a new editor, but Patrick Price’s intellect, energy, and humor bowled me over. Patrick, I so value your ideas, your amazing eye for detail, and the way the manuscript has developed with your guidance. Plus it’s really fun to work with you.