Between (31 page)

“It’s some kind of church,” I say. “Is this Sunday school?”

“It’s CCD,” Alex tells me.

I give him a blank look.

“Confirmation classes,” he explains.

“Confirmation,” I repeat. “What’s that?”

“It’s something Catholic kids do. You have to go to confirmation classes for a year, and then you get to take your First Communion.” He pauses. “You know what that is, don’t you?”

I nod. “Sure. Wine and wafer, right?”

For a second, Alex looks like he’s going to launch into a full explanation of communion—obviously there’s more to it than what I understand—but he stops himself with a smirk and a shake of his head. “I’m in first grade,” he says, nodding at the room. There are about eight kids seated at each of the tables. He points to one of them. “Right over there.”

I spot him immediately. I clap a hand to my mouth. “Alex,” I say, “you’re adorable!” It’s true, too; Alex looks like such a sweet child. His cheeks are full and pink. He wears a T-shirt with Spider-Man on the front underneath a pair of denim overalls. His hair is straight and a little too long; his bowl cut hangs into his eyes. “Aww,” I say, nudging him. “What a cutie you were.”

“Stop it,” he says, embarrassed. But he’s smiling, too.

“Everyone’s so quiet,” I observe. In a room full of kids, you’d think there would be some noise. But they all sit with their mouths closed and their eyes cast downward, like they’re waiting for something to happen. As I’m looking at them, I hear a soft noise behind me and I turn around. There is a door at the back of the room; it hangs open just a crack. That’s where the sound is coming from.

Together, Alex and I go to the doorway and look inside. The room is small, barely bigger than a closet. It’s empty except for a few shelves stacked with video cassettes, an old television and VCR on a portable stand, and a metal folding chair. A middle-aged nun sits on the chair. Her expression is bored; she listens as a little girl dressed in a plaid jumper stands before her, reciting the Hail Mary prayer.

“We had to memorize it,” Alex explains. “Then Sister Barbara—that’s her right there—would take us into this room, one at a time, and we’d recite it for her.”

“Oh. Okay.” I watch as the little girl leaves the room and is replaced a few seconds later by a chubby boy with curly black hair. “What does this have to do with Caroline?” We’re back among the tables of children as they silently wait their turns, though the younger Alex is now nowhere to be seen.

“In the hallway,” Alex says. He points at the double doors leading to the stairwell.

Before the landing to the stairs, there is a dark, narrow hallway with three doors: one to a men’s restroom, another to the women’s room, and a third one, which is shut and unmarked.

As we’re standing there, little Alex comes out of the bathroom, wiping his hands on his overalls. He looks down, notices that his shoelace has come undone, and bends over to tie it.

That’s when I hear something. “Listen,” I say.

Little Alex hears it, too, and pauses mid-tie. He looks up toward the unmarked door. And there it is again: a tinny, clanging sound.

I look at Alex beside me. He’s smiling; I can tell he knows exactly what’s about to happen.

His younger self takes a few steps forward, until he’s close enough to touch the door. Tentatively, he turns the handle and pushes it open.

It’s a coat closet. And inside, standing on her tiptoes, trying to reach high enough to hang up her jacket, is first grader Caroline Michaels.

The younger Alex stares at her. “I thought you weren’t here today,” he says.

Caroline doesn’t reply. She takes a quick step backward and almost falls into a rack full of choir robes. Already, at age six or seven, she is beautiful. She’s small and wiry, her skinny arms and legs sticking out from a pink collared shirt and stone-washed denim skirt. Her long hair is wound into two braids, their ends neatly curled and tied with pale pink ribbons. She stares at Alex, clearly surprised to see him.

“Caroline?” little Alex says. “What are you doing in the closet?”

She still doesn’t say anything. At her feet, there is evidence that she’s been here for a while. There’s an open backpack, its contents arranged in a semicircle on the floor: Barbie thermos. Coloring book. Almost empty plastic bag of cheese and crackers. Bottle of glitter nail polish. Half-completed math worksheet.

“Are you hiding in here?” Alex presses. “Why?”

Caroline seems terrified. “I-I-I …” Her bottom lip trembles. “Don’t tell.”

Alex glances behind him. He pulls the door shut. “What’s wrong?” he asks, genuinely interested. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell.”

Caroline bows her head. “I can’t go to class.” She begins to nibble at the edge of a painted fingernail. “I don’t know the prayer.”

Alex looks like he doesn’t know what to do. He glances around helplessly, as if he’s searching for an answer.

“She was hiding in here the whole time?” I ask Alex.

He nods. “We would all come straight from school every Friday. It’s less than a block. She must have kept her distance from everyone on the way here, and then she hid in the closet so her parents wouldn’t know she missed class.”

The two of them are sitting on the floor now, their heads close together. “Hail Mary, full of grace,” Alex whispers.

“Hail Mary, full of grace,” Caroline repeats, but her face still looks panicked. “I know most of it, Alex. It’s just the end. I always forget how the last part goes. And now it’s too late.”

“No, it’s not,” Alex says. “I’ll help you. Say it again.”

Caroline nods. “Hail Mary, full of grace,” she begins, “blessed art … blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God … pray for us … pray for us …” She squeezes her eyes shut. “I don’t know the rest.”

“Pray for us sinners,” Alex finishes.

“Pray for us sinners,” Caroline echoes.

“Now and at the hour of our deaths,” Alex pronounces.

“Now and at the hour of our deaths.”

“Now and at the hour of our deaths,” he repeats.

“Now and at the hour of our deaths.”

“Now and at the hour of our deaths,” he says again.

Caroline opens her eyes to look at him. “Now and at the hour of our deaths.”

Alex smiles at her. “Amen.”

We watch as they sit in the closet for a few more minutes while Caroline practices the prayer. Finally, they both get up and go back into the classroom.

Alex and I stand in the coat closet, alone. “Caroline remembers this day,” he says, “after all those years. Can you believe that? We were never friends, not even as kids. I don’t think we ever talked to each other again after this happened. It was just a few moments in our lives, but it mattered.” He pauses. “It mattered to both of us.”

“She never told me,” I say, “not even when we went to your funeral. You’d think she would have said something.”

He shrugs. “What was there to tell?” He looks around the room for a moment, then back at me. “So now you know,” he says.

I smile. “Thank you for showing me.”

Above us, the fluorescent ceiling light buzzes. Without another word, we reach for each other and let the past slip away.

Back at the cemetery, we both agree that we’re ready for a real-life change of scenery. As we walk, I can’t stop thinking about Caroline at Alex’s grave and how sweet their shared experience was. I want to talk about it some more, to get a better glimpse at Alex’s past, but I don’t want to push the issue. He’s already shown me more than I expected to get from him.

Alex seems to be thinking about something, too. He’s quiet for a long time as we walk. Then, out of nowhere, he says, “Hey, Liz? When we were talking earlier, at my house, I thought you said you didn’t sense that something bad was going to happen to you.”

“That’s right,” I say.

“But how could that be?” he asks. “I mean, even Caroline knew. How could you not have had any clue?”

“I didn’t say that, not exactly. I said I was familiar with death. But I was telling you the truth, Alex. I mean, I don’t remember feeling like anything bad was going to happen.”

“Think,” he says. “Try.”

“How am I supposed to do that? How am I supposed to try?”

“You know how. Close your eyes. What do you see?”

Nineteen

I am seventeen years old, a junior in high school. I can tell because there’s a copy of
Cliffs Complete Macbeth
on my nightstand, undoubtedly for English class. The CliffsNotes are untouched. My face looks like I haven’t slept all night; my skin is blotchy, my eyes bloodshot and shaky in their sockets. I look awful. I’ve been lying in bed with the covers pulled up to my chin, staring at my ceiling, waiting for the sun to come up. When I finally put my feet on the floor, I take a long moment to press a hand to my stomach, another hand to my forehead. Obviously, I’m not feeling so hot.

Normally, I’d get up early and go for a run, but not today. Today, I get up and take a shower. I get dressed. I’m wearing new jeans; the tags are still attached to the waistband. They’re skinny jeans, which are
so
in right now, with rhinestone detailing on the back pockets and a low-rise waistline that shows off my flat stomach. I pair them with a short, flowy pink halter top that Nicole bought me at a high-end consignment shop in Manhattan and a pair of patent leather kitten heels (the rhinestones on the heels are a nice touch combined with the detailing on the jeans); I look
great
. I’m sure that I know it, too. I remember standing in front of my full-length mirror and just staring at myself. Sometimes it would occur to me that I might not have this body forever. But it’s here now: toned, lean, lovely. I use my measurements as my locker combination at school: 34-23-32.

Hair and makeup takes a good forty-five minutes every day, and even though it seems that I feel terrible now, I go through my routine as usual: a four-step skincare regime that was customized for me by a dermatologist, even though I’ve never had a problem with acne. My pores are almost invisible. There’s cleanser, toner, moisturizer, and under-eye cream. My mom, I remember, used to spend plenty of time staring in the mirror, lamenting the dark circles under her eyes. Not me. From a very young age, I was well versed in the concept of preventative maintenance.

Then there’s foundation, bronzer, blush, and a dusting of loose powder to set everything in place. Again, the shades are all custom: three times a year, Nicole takes Josie and me into New York City to visit a makeup artist whose clients are by appointment only. We have the best of the best. My father rolls his eyes at the tediousness of our routine, but he always shrugs eventually, saying, “Girls will be girls.”

There’s eye shadow, three shades of it: a neutral base for the entire lid, a lowlight that runs close to the eyelashes, and a highlight across the browbone. Then there’s blending and eyeliner. False eyelashes with pre-applied glue that stick so well they feel like a quick attack of bee stings when you peel them off. One coat of mascara; wait a few seconds, comb it out, then another coat. There’s a careful application of lip liner, matte lipstick, and gloss. Finally, I put on a pair of half-carat diamond studs that belonged to my mother. Unless I’m wearing another pair of earrings that belonged to her—her silver-and-diamond chandelier pair is a favorite of mine—I almost never go anywhere without them. They were a gift from my father for their first wedding anniversary. In a year, I’ll be buried with them.

My hair is a whole different story. Unlike Josie, who has been cursed with limp, dull locks, I’ve got this amazing blond hair that only needs a good blowout and some brushing in order to fall perfectly into place. My hair was always my best feature, I think. It definitely wasn’t my feet.

My parents aren’t home, so it’s just Josie and me at the breakfast table. It must be Saturday or Sunday; we don’t look in any hurry to get to school. Josie’s drinking orange juice, eating an English muffin smeared with peanut butter, and paging through a copy of
People
magazine.

“That’s garbage. That crap goes straight to your ass, you know.” I must mean the peanut butter. Of
course
I mean the peanut butter.

“Shut up. It’s protein.”

“It’s all fat. You glob it on like it’s nothing.”

She pauses in midchew. She’s still wearing her pajamas. “What are you all sexed up for? Aren’t you going running?”

I lean against the granite countertop. I cross my arms and stare at her. “I’m going to see Richie. I need to get the car fixed.”

Silence. With a tight expression, Josie stares at what’s left of her English muffin before pushing the plate away. She drums her acrylic fingertips against the table.

“How is Richie going to help you with the car?”

“I talked to him last night. He knows a mechanic who does body work.”

“Liz. Are you sure it was a good idea to involve Richie? We have to be careful.”

“I am being careful.”

She studies her manicure like she’s examining the polish for chips. “I don’t know about that. If you screw this up—”

“I’m not going to screw it up! Nobody’s even going to know where we went. I mean, except for you. I’ll have the car back before Nicole and Dad ever know it was gone.”

She raises a plucked eyebrow. “Really? You’re certain you’ll have it back within two days?”

Two days until my parents get home.
They must be out of town.

“Yes,” I say, “I’ll have it back before then.”

“And what happened to your car, Liz?”

I bat my eyelashes. “You know what happened. When we were at the outlets last week, I hit a parking meter. Richie already saw it at school. It’s just a small dent.”

“But Dad would kill you if he knew you damaged the Mustang.”

I nod slowly. “That’s right. He’d be furious.”

“So you have to get it fixed right away without anybody knowing.”

“Yes.”

She glances at the kitchen clock. “What time is he expecting you?”

“The shop opens at nine. The guy is a client of his.”

“A client. You mean like …”

“A customer, yeah.” What I know I mean is that Richie supplies the guy with drugs. Maybe weed. I probably didn’t ask specifically, because I don’t want to know. All I can tell is that this guy’s doing us a favor: fixing the car quickly, taking product instead of money, and keeping everything hush-hush.