Hitchers (21 page)

“I can still see Mom's phone clatter to the boardwalk. She was saying “No” over and over.
“No. No. No. No.”
Dad picked up the phone, and after talking for a minute he started crying. That's when I knew something awful had happened, something that meant summer was over, that my life would never be the same.

“It just kept getting worse. First, I learned Kayleigh was at the hospital, then I learned she was dead. Then I realized it was my fault.”

A couple of elderly women entered the room and I stopped. We sat in silence as they circled the room and eventually slipped out into the next.

“Why was it your fault?” Summer prompted.

“Kayleigh jumped off the pier because I did,” I said. “It was Kayleigh's idea to begin with. She dared me to jump, and said she would if I would. But she didn't think I'd really do it; it was a thirty-foot drop, and you had to jump out away from the pier to clear the wooden pilings.” I shook my head. “She was just talking. Sitting on the pier pretending we were going to jump was just something to do.

“So we squatted with our toes curled around the edge of the wood planks, and the longer we stayed, the more I thought maybe I could actually do it. I thought about how impressed everyone would be, maybe even Grandpa. I was as surprised as Kayleigh when I launched myself off that pier. The fall seemed to go on and on, and when I hit the water I hit
hard
. The soles of my feet stung and my balls ached. But I was ecstatic. I felt strong, and brave, and I didn't often feel that as a kid. I was a shy, anxious kid. When we were younger I used to whisper things to Kayleigh when we were around other people, and she would say them for me.

“Kayleigh admitted she couldn't do it. I didn't taunt her. I didn't tuck my fists under my arms and flap them and go
buck-buck-buck.
We didn't do that stuff to each other. But I did strut. I told everyone how I had jumped off that pier.”

I was getting to the hard part. I put my hand over my mouth, tried to calm my pounding heart.

“It must have eaten at her, that she agreed to jump and then backed down, and after dinner when Mom and Dad decided to go to the Shoppies—that's what we called the outlet mall out by the interstate—Kayleigh stayed behind with Grandma and Grandpa.

“I jumped off the pier on a calm sunny day, the waves just bumps with occasional slivers of white at the crest. Kayleigh jumped just after sundown, into big, black, crashing waves.”

I stared down between my feet, at the swirling grain in the polished wood.

“Mom and Dad's marriage lasted a year to the day from Kayleigh's fatal jump, and we moved in with Grandpa. Dad disappeared for a while after that, only to reappear long enough to convince Grandpa to invest in his insane Toy Shop Village idea. When it was clear the village was failing, he disappeared again for good.

“It was all my fault, and everyone blamed me. At least, that's how it felt to me. That's when I started drawing. I'd come home from school and go straight to my room and draw my comics until dinner. And when I wasn't drawing I was reading comics; I had hundreds of compilations—
Peanuts, Ziggy
,
Nancy
,
Dilbert.
You name it. While most guys my age were playing baseball and sneaking peeks at
Playboy
, I was obsessing over
Pogo.”

I looked at the Monet. How hard it must have been for Mom to take that print down from Kayleigh's wall, to pack all of her stickers and clothes and stuffed animals in boxes.

“I'm sorry,” Summer said. “For what it's worth, I don't think you're to blame. You didn't put her up to it. You jumped for your own reasons. You didn't push her to follow you. It doesn't sound like you really cared whether she jumped or not.”

“Honestly? I didn't want her to. I wanted it to be my thing.” I studied the bridge, the calm, shallow, comforting water beneath. “Next time Grandpa called me a sissy, I could remind him of how I jumped off that pier.”

Was that really what I'd thought? I wasn't sure. Maybe I was adding it after the fact because Grandpa was so much on my mind.

“I appreciate you telling me. Thanks,” Summer said.

“Sure.”

We sat side by side, each seeking solace in
Bridge Over a Pond of Water Lilies.

As Summer wrestled with her demons, I fantasized about making my grandfather dead again.

Or, barring that, hurting him.

By the time I left the High I thought I knew how to do it.

M
y pencil seemed to draw Little Joe by itself, leading my shaking hand. For a change it was shaking in anger, not because

Grandpa was coming.

“You want to play? Let's play,” I said. Fuming, my breath rushing through nostrils that suddenly felt too small, I drew Little Joe, the tired old standard, the center of Grandpa's universe.

I drew him for the last time.

“How do you like that? Little Joe is dead.” I dipped my shading brush, watched plumes of black ink leach into the clear water. “Dead, dead, dead. Croaked. Deceased. Pushing up daisies.” I could run with this plot line for weeks. I didn't understand why no one was calling the government on such a transparent lie. No one who was actually in the city still believed this was a mental illness. There were dead people running around; there was no debating it. Yet the national press still led with the mental illness take.

I packed the strips and arranged for a UPS pickup that day. They needed to be out before Grandpa returned, so he couldn't cut them up.

The thought of Grandpa's return sent a wave of dread through my belly. I went to the living room and turned on MSNBC.

Tamron Hall was interviewing a hitcher, standing in the sea of shoes in Chastain Park.

“Do you remember where your mother bought them?” Tamron asked. The shot switched to a close-up on a pair of tiny, white, girl's dress shoes, the size a six-year-old might wear.

“Yes. Stride Rite in the Lenox mall.” The woman who answered was fiftyish, with long black hair streaked with grey and a little girl zombie voice.

Tamron looked off-camera. “Mom, would you?” She reached to draw another woman into the shot, a heavyset woman in her thirties. I turned it off, then hurled the remote across the room for good measure. This was so messed up.

“Why was it so hard to act like a decent human being?” I shouted at Grandpa. I went back into my studio, stared up at those two framed strips hung side-by-side. “A normal grandfather would have taken me under his wing. He would have been proud to have me follow in his footsteps. You were never there for any of us.” I grunted a humorless laugh. “You weren't there for Kayleigh, that's for sure.” I'd never had the guts to say that to him when he was alive. It felt good. Sure, I was the one most responsible for her death, I could admit that, but there was plenty of excess blame to
go around. “How could you let her go out to a pier alone, at night? You
knew
she'd been trying to get up the nerve to jump off that pier. How could you let her go out there alone? Where
were
you?” He'd probably snuck out to a bar.

Maybe I'd get my answers when Grandpa took over again, maybe not. Either way it felt good to ask questions I'd been swallowing for years.

It occurred to me that I could look for Kayleigh. After sixteen years she was probably gone, but I could drive down to Tybee Beach and check. She would have hung on to the world with both hands, the way Lorena had.

If there was anything left of her, though, it couldn't be much. And she'd still be eleven. I didn't think I could bear to see that.

The doorbell rang. I wasn't expecting anyone. Mick would just let himself in, and Summer wouldn't be along for another hour or so. That left my mother. Maybe she'd changed her mind about going to Aunt Julia's house. It was awfully quick for a flight from Phoenix, though, not to mention the ride from the airport.

I opened the door to a woman with a microphone. Behind her a man was pointing a TV camera at me. “Mr. Darby? I'm Kimberly Perkins of CNN.”

I stared at her dumbfounded, giving her my best shocked, blinking, deer-in-the-headlights look. “I don't give interviews at my home. Talk to my agent.”

“Mr. Darby, CNN—”

I closed the door and flipped the lock, but Kimberly Perkins only raised her voice and went on talking. “CNN received a call originating from your phone, from someone claiming to be your late grandfather, Thomas Darby. I'd like to speak to you about it.”

I pressed my forehead against the door, not even daring to breathe heavily.

“Mr. Darby?
Was
it your grandfather?”

I waited until Kimberly stopped calling through the door, then watched through the curtains as she headed back to a white van.
Propping a foot on the bumper, she turned to talk to her cameraman. He pulled out a cigarette, cupped his hands around a lighter, nodding at something Kimberly said. They weren't leaving.

This I didn't need. I was sort of famous, had developed a reputation for being reclusive because I wasn't making any appearances in the wake of
Toy Shop's
growing success. If they could confirm that Grandpa was possessing me (or that I was suffering from post-traumatic identity disorder and thought he was possessing me), they would be all over it. I needed to call Steve, see if there was anything he could do.

I was just about to turn when Summer pulled up behind the van.

“Don't talk to them, just come straight in,” I said aloud as Summer stepped out of her car and Kimberly and the cameraman rushed over.

The car keys dropped out of her trembling hand. Her face was flat, expressionless—a flesh mask.

I bolted out the door. “Lorena!”

She pushed past Kimberly Perkins, stumbled. “Finn?”

I wrapped my arm around her, led her toward the door. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I waited for you. I was sure you'd come.” I wanted to tell her not to speak until we got inside, away from the reporter, but I couldn't bring myself to silence her. “The wind kept blowing but I tried to hold on.” Her voice was a watery horror. Despite how badly I had wanted to talk to her, despite everything, I was afraid. My dead wife was here, returned from two years in that place.

“I couldn't get to where you were,” I said as I closed the door and led her to the couch, my heart breaking at the thought of Lorena waiting by that river. “I would have if I could.”

She took my hands in hers and squeezed. “I know that now.” Her head dropped; she shook it slowly. Summer's pigtails swayed with each turn. “I kept forgetting I was dead.” She raised her head, reached to me and gathered me toward her. “Please hold me. I want to feel that I'm really here.”