I Was Here (16 page)

He slides open the glass door leading out to the patio. Only then does he acknowledge
Ben. “Ben,” he says cautiously.

“Rich,” Ben says back. “Thanks for having us.”

“I’m having her. You’re just along for the ride.”

Out back two men are arguing over the grill, while a woman with cutoff shorts and
a cute halter top stands in the kiddie pool, watching them bemusedly.

“You’ll let me know when to bring out the corn,” she calls. Then she sees us. “Jerry,
Richard’s friends are here.” She climbs out of the pool and comes to introduce herself.
“I’m Sylvia. You must be Cody. And you must be Ben.”

“Thank you so much for having us,” I say.

“And having us for a barbecue,” Ben says, eyeing the grill lustfully.

“We’ll only have a barbecue if these mountain goats can stop arguing about what wood
to smoke with,” Sylvia says.

“Pop,” Richard calls.

Richard’s dad is very tall, so tall he’s stooped, as if he’s spent his entire life
bending down to listen to other people. “Hello,” he says in a quiet voice. “Thank
you for joining us tonight.”

“I hope we’re not imposing.”

Sylvia laughs. “As you can see, the term
full house
is relative around here.”

“We think Pop is going for twelve kids in all, so he can have his own gang of disciples,”
Richard’s brother Gary says.

“Inherent in the word
disciple
is some sort of discipline, of following one’s father, which is a far cry from what
goes on here,” Richard’s dad jokes. He looks at me and Ben. “We’re having ribs tonight.
The boys and I are disagreeing over hickory or mesquite to smoke with. Perhaps you
have an opinion.”

“Either’s fine . . .” I begin.

“Mesquite,” Ben says emphatically.

Richard and his brother fist-bump. “Smartest thing I’ve ever heard you say,” Richard
tells Ben.

“Richard!” Sylvia admonishes.

“Mesquite it is,” Jerry says, throwing up his hands in good- natured surrender. “We’ll
eat in about two hours. Richard, why don’t you take your road-weary guests inside
and offer them something to drink.”

Richard raises an eyebrow.

“A cold soda,” his father says.

“There’s some lemonade, too,” Sylvia says.

“The monsters drank it all,” Richard says.

“So squeeze some more. We have a ton of lemons.”

“When life gives you lemons . . .” Richard begins. Then he looks at me for a second
and stops himself. Like he thinks it’s wrong to make this joke in front of me. I’m
not sure why now, all of a sudden, he should get shy in front of me. So I finish for
him.

“Make lemonade.”

x x x

Dinner is late and chaotic and delicious. Ten of us crammed around a picnic table
under a clear Idaho sky. Ben eats so many ribs that even Richard is impressed, and
when Ben explains that he lives in a vegan household, Sylvia throws a few hot dogs
on the grill to top him off. I look at this nearly emaciated man and wonder how he
can possibly pack it all away. But he does. Two more hot dogs and a pair of ice-cream
sandwiches from the Costco box that comes out after dinner. It’s past nine when Sylvia
and Jerry begin the epic undertaking of bathing and putting to bed all the hyped-up
little ones. Gary heads out to meet some friends. Richard throws some logs on a fire
pit in the back of the yard and sneaks into the garage for a couple of beers.

Through the window I can see Richard’s dad, a picture book open, reading to a bunch
of kids in bunk beds. I hear the clatter of Sylvia doing dishes. Over the flickering
firelight, I catch Ben’s eye, and I swear we are thinking the same thing
: How lucky some people are.

I’m hit with a sudden wave of aching nostalgia.
I miss this.
But how can miss this when I never truly had it in the first place? It was secondhand
through Meg. Like pretty much everything else in my life.

The firelight crackles. Richard finishes his beer and stashes the empty in the bushes.
“You want another?” he asks us.

Ben shakes his head. “Better not. We have a big drive tomorrow.” He looks at me. I
nod.

“So where you going, exactly?” Richard asks Ben.

Ben looks at me, asking the same silent question. I still haven’t told him the whole
story.

“Laughlin, Nevada.”

“I caught that much,” Richard replies. He goes to the cooler and grabs another beer
for himself and a couple of Dr Peppers for Ben and me. Something in my chest twists,
and it’s ridiculous because I’m getting emotional because he remembered what soft
drink I like. “I guess my question is really why Laughlin?”

I don’t say anything. Neither does Ben.

“What? Is it a secret or something?” Richard asks.

Ben looks at me. “Apparently.”

“Wait,
you
don’t know?” Richard says.

“I’m just along for the ride,” Ben fires back.

They glare at each other for a second, and then look at me. Inside, Jerry and the
kids are saying prayers, calling out a long list of people to be blessed.

“This is between us,” I say, pointing back and forth between me and Richard and Ben.

“A sacred circle,” Richard jokes. “Or triangle. A
ménage à silence.
”

I give him a look, and then he goes solemn and promises.

“Remember when I came down and Harry was helping me with the computer thing?” I ask.

Richard nods.

“We found an encrypted file on Meg’s computer, and it turned out that it was instructions
from this suicide support group, a group that supports your decision to end your own
life. I did some more digging, and I uncovered her posting to these discussion boards.
There was this one guy; he was like her mentor. He encouraged her.”

“That’s messed up,” Richard says.

“Yeah, it is,” I say.

“I can’t believe Meg fell for it.”

“I know,” I say. But I lack the conviction on this one. Because now that I know Bradford,
I
can
believe it. “So I found this guy, and now I’m going to see him.”

“You’re
what
?” Ben interjects.

“I’m going to see him,” I repeat, but it comes out tepid this time.

“I thought you needed to talk to someone who knew about her death, like the Seattle
people,” Ben exclaims. He frowns at me like I’ve violated some treaty.

I take a deep breath to keep my voice level. “I’m talking to the person who
caused
her death.”

“Except
she
caused her death,” Richard says. “That’s the definition of suicide.”

Richard and I glare at each other. “Bradford made her do it.”

“Which makes going to see him a brilliant idea!” Ben fumes.

“You knew I was looking for him,” I shoot back.

“I don’t know shit, Cody. Because for the last six weeks, you’ve refused to talk to
me.”

“I’m talking to you
now
. I spent the last six weeks trying to smoke this guy out.”

“And how’d you do that?” Richard asks, his gaze ping- ponging between Ben and me.

“Harry helped, but mostly it was me. I kind of posed as someone who was suicidal.
You know, me appetizing mouse. Him hungry snake.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Cody!” Ben exclaims. “Are you insane?”

“You mean like Meg was?”

That shuts him up.

“How does one do that? Pose as suicidal?” Richard asks. “My only experience is the
opposite. Someone suicidal posing as okay.”

I could bullshit. I could say I lied, made it all up. But I tell the truth. “I found
the part in me that was tired of living,” I say quietly. “And I put her out there.”
I look down, unable to face their shock, or anger, or disgust. “I suppose that does
make me insane.” I sneak a peek at Ben, but he’s staring hard at the fire.

“Nah,” Richard says. “Everyone goes there. Everyone has their days. Everyone imagines
it. But you know why my pop says that suicide is a sin?” He points his thumb toward
the house, where Jerry is now helping Sylvia with the rest of the dishes.

“Because it’s murder. Because only God can choose when it’s your time to go. Because
stealing a life is stealing from God.” I parrot all the awful things people said about
Meg.

Richard shakes his head. “No. Because it kills hope. That’s the sin. Anything that
kills hope is a sin.”

I chew on that for a while.

“So what do you expect to accomplish? Now that you’ve found this guy?” Ben asks in
a strangely formal tone.

“He has to be liable, somehow, as an accessory, or something.”

“So call the cops,” Ben says.

“It’s not that simple,” I say.

“Have you told Meg’s family?” he asks.

“You’re missing the point,” I reply.

“None of this will bring her back,” Richard says. “You know that, right?”

Yes, I know that. That’s not the point, either, though the point is muddled. But I
can’t go to the cops or go to Meg’s family. I have to do this—do
something
—by myself. For Meg.

And for me.

32

I wake up the next morning to the international coalition of Zeller children leaping
onto the couch. I get up, get dressed, and am helping Sylvia with the toaster waffles
when Ben pads out, rubbing his eyes.

“Want to get coffee on the road?” I ask him.

“You’re leaving already?” Sylvia asks.

I make apologies, say we should get out of their hair, but Sylvia says we’re no trouble.
“And it’s Sunday.”

“Services start at ten,” Richard says, coming out in a cleanish- looking pair of jeans
and a T-shirt with no drug references on it. “Can’t you stay? The rev will be bummed
otherwise.”

I glance at Ben, who hasn’t spoken to me since last night. He shrugs the question
back to me. I look at Richard and Sylvia and realize it doesn’t matter if I brought
a gift. This is what matters.

I look down at my cutoff shorts and tank top. “I’d better change.”

“You can if you want,” Sylvia says. “But we’re a come-as-you-are congregation.”

We caravan over at nine thirty, Richard driving with me and Ben, the rest of the family
in the van, which has one of those
Coexist
bumper stickers on it.

Outside the church the various Zeller children are scooped up by different congregants,
and Sylvia and Jerry go into greeter mode. Richard slips inside with Ben and me.

We take our seats. The pews are a little worn, and it smells slightly of cooking oil.
It’s the dumpiest of the churches I’ve been to, and this past year, I’ve been to a
lot. Before that, I hardly went to church at all—Meg’s first communion, and the occasional
midnight mass. Tricia usually works late Saturday nights, and Sundays are reserved
for worshipping the pillow.

The service here is unlike any I’ve been to. There’s no choir. Instead, different
people get up and sing and play guitar or piano and anyone can join in. Some of the
songs are religious, but others aren’t. Ben’s all pleased when a bearded guy plays
a soulful tune called “I Feel Like Going Home.” He leans over and tells me it’s by
Charlie Rich, one of his favorite artists. It’s the first normal thing he’s said to
me since we argued last night. I take it as a peace offering. “It’s beautiful,” I
tell him.

Jerry sort of stays out of the way for much of the proceedings, allowing a younger
guy who leads the youth ministry to run the show. And then, when all the singing is
over and announcements have been made, he uncurls himself from his seat where he’s
been sitting calmly, and in a voice that is quiet but somehow commanding, steps to
the pulpit and starts talking.

“A few weeks ago CeCe was sick. She had a fever, was sluggish—that bug that’s been
going around. I know a lot of us went through it.” There is some murmuring and tongue-clucking
in the congregation. “Pedro didn’t have school that day, so he had to tag along with
us to the doctor’s. CeCe doesn’t like doctors’ offices, having been to so many of
them. So she was agitated and crying, and the longer we waited, the worse it got.
And we were waiting awhile. An hour went by. Then an hour and a half. CeCe kept crying,
and then she threw up. Mostly on me.” There’s sympathetic laughter.

“I’m still not sure if it was because of the virus, or because she had gotten herself
so worked up about being at the doctor. Doesn’t matter. But this one mother sitting
with her own daughter visibly flinched at CeCe’s mess. And then she chastised me for
exposing all the other children to her.

“On some level, I got it. None of us wants our kids to be sick. But as a father, I
was livid. In my head I said many unchristian things about that woman, to that woman.
CeCe being sick was the point of our being in the pediatrician’s office in the first
place, and this was not a Christian way to behave. The nurses were too busy to offer
much help aside from giving us some wipes and sanitizer. All the while, CeCe kept
crying.

“Eventually, I got her cleaned up and she fell asleep. Pedro found a puzzle, and with
a few seconds to spare, I picked up a magazine. It was two years out of date, this
being a doctor’s office. I opened to a random page. It was an article about forgiveness.
Now, this wasn’t a religious publication. It was a medical journal, and the article
was describing a study that had analyzed all the health benefits of forgiveness. Apparently,
it lowers blood pressure, decreases anxiety, minimizes depression.

“I understood then that I’d been sent this article on purpose. As I read it, I thought
of Colossians 3:13:
Bear with each other and forgive whatever grievances you may have against one another.
Forgive as the Lord forgave you
.

“And so I forgave everyone in that room: the woman for being so rude, the nurses for
being too busy to help, the doctor for keeping us waiting, even CeCe for her histrionics.
And then I forgave myself. As soon as I did, my worry over CeCe eased. I felt calm,
peaceful, and full of love. And in that moment, I was reminded just why God wants
us to forgive. Not simply because it’s the key to a better world, but because of what
it does for
ourselves
. Forgiveness is God’s gift to
us
. Christ forgave us. He forgave our sins. That was his gift. But by allowing us to
forgive each other, he opened us up to that divine love. The article had it right.
Forgiveness: It’s a miracle drug. It’s God’s miracle drug.”

Jerry goes on, quoting more lines from scripture about forgiveness. But at the moment,
I’m just not feeling it. Last night I went to bed first, leaving Ben and Richard around
the fire. Those two barely tolerate each other, so I figured they’d call it a night
soon after. But now, as Richard’s father goes on, I can see that’s not what happened.
Tongues went wagging. So much for a sacred circle.

Jerry continues: “After we saw the doctor, I was settling up at the front desk and
I ran into the angry mother again. All the rancor I’d felt was gone. There was no
effort to rise above. It just vanished. I told her that I hoped her little girl was
feeling better.

“She turned to look at me. I could now recognize how tired she was, like so many of
us parents are. ‘She’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘The doctor said she’s healing well.’
I looked at the little girl and saw a small welt, red, still fresh, on her chin. I
turned back to the mother and saw something much fresher there: anguish, not nearly
so well healed. I wanted to ask her what happened, but Pedro and CeCe were yanking
to go, and besides, it wasn’t my place. But I suppose she needed to unburden herself,
because she told me how a few weeks earlier, she’d been rushing to get out the door
in the morning, but her little girl had been dawdling by the flowers. She’d yanked
her by the hand and the girl, still busy watching the bees dancing, had slammed into
a gate. That’s how she’d gotten the cut. ‘She’ll always carry that scar,’ the mother
told me in a voice pinched with agony. And then I understood her anger. Just who it
was she hadn’t forgiven.

“‘She will, only if you do,’ I told her back. She looked at me, and I knew what I
was asking her to do, what God asks us to do—what I’m asking
you
all to do—isn’t easy. To let our scars heal. To forgive. And hardest of all, sometimes,
is to forgive ourselves. But if we don’t, we’re squandering one of God’s greatest
gifts: his miracle cure.”

When the sermon ends, Richard turns to me, grinning almost. He seems so proud. Of
his father, or himself, for orchestrating this public service announcement. “What’d
you think?”

I don’t answer. I just push my way out of the pew.

“What’s wrong?” Ben asks.

What’s wrong is that Richard Zeller and his dad don’t know what the hell they’re talking
about. They don’t know about the mornings when anger is the one thing—the only thing—to
get you through the day. If they take that from me, I’m wide open: raw and gaping,
and then I don’t stand a fucking chance.

I go to the lobby, holding back tears of rage. Richard is right behind me.

“Couldn’t take the rev anymore?” he jokes, but there’s worry in his eyes.

“You told him. You said you wouldn’t and you told him. You lied.”

“I didn’t even see my dad until breakfast, and you were right there.”

“Then how’d he know? How’d he have such a perfect sermon waiting?”

Richard glances toward the sanctuary, where the singing has started up again. “For
the record, Cody, he works on his sermons for weeks in advance; he doesn’t pull them
out of his ass. Also for the record, you’re not the only one with a chip on her shoulder
and some crap to forgive, but if, like the rev says, the magazine opens to the right
page—”

“Are you
stoned
?” I interrupt.

This makes him laugh. “I didn’t tell the rev about your trip. If you want to know
the truth, I had to talk McCallister out of turning around. You’ve got bigger balls
than him, no surprise there.” The singing ends. Richard nods toward the pulpit. “Come
on back. It’s almost over. . . . Please.”

I follow Richard back to our row right as Jerry is offering up blessings for the congregation,
for the sick and the grieving, for those getting married, expecting babies. Right
at the very end, he says: “And may God bless and guide Cody and Ben. May they find
not just what they’re looking for, but what they need.” I look at Richard again. I’m
not entirely sure that he’s telling the truth about not saying something to his father.
But right now, the betrayal, if there was one, feels less important than the benediction.