Long Bright River: A Novel (14 page)

After I confided in Simon Cleare about the struggles my sister was having, we began to see each other outside the PAL as well.

That summer, after the end of the workday, I went to libraries or parks or restaurants, places where Simon felt we wouldn’t be seen, and then he joined me. I was seventeen. (
We don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea,
he told me, and at the time this actually gave me a little thrill.) Sometimes, we went to see a film at one of the independent theaters in Center City, and then he walked me all the way to the El stop at Second and Market, talking with me the whole way about the artistic strengths and weaknesses of the script and the actors. Sometimes we went to a pier that jutted out over the Delaware River. It had gone unused for decades, and by then it was decrepit and probably unsafe, but it was mainly abandoned and we could sit alone on the edge of it and look over toward Camden. To all of these places, I arrived first. Soon after, Simon would join me. He knew everything about Kacey, listened attentively to every new development as it occurred.

Not a week after her first overdose, Kacey began again to sneak out with regularity. Because we still shared a bed, I knew it every time she did. I tried, always, to convince her not to go. Sometimes, I threatened to tell Gee. But I was more afraid of what Gee would do to Kacey than I was of what Kacey was doing to herself. I was afraid, primarily, that Gee would kick Kacey out. And if that were to happen, I didn’t know what would become of either of us.

—
Stay here,
I would whisper.

—
I need a cigarette,
Kacey would say. And then she’d be gone for hours.

It happened again and again. Kacey quickly got worse. Now she seemed permanently glazed over, a glossiness to her eyes, a flush to her cheeks, her speech slow, her tongue heavy, her beautiful laugh nearly gone. Seeing her this way, I often had the urge to clap my hands, loudly, in front of her face. To hug her tightly, to squeeze out of her whatever darkness was making her want to dull her life so completely. I missed my bright little sister, the quick-witted Kacey, dashing here and there, always alight with energy; the fierce small fiery version of the teenager who seemed now to exist in a world of unending, unrelenting dusk.

Though I tried very hard to keep Kacey’s behavior a secret from Gee, our grandmother was sharp. She knew. She went through Kacey’s things over and over again until, at last, Kacey got lazy. Then Gee found a wad of hundred-dollar bills—Kacey had begun dealing a little, on the side, with Fran and Paula Mulroney—and that was enough evidence for Gee. As I had feared, she kicked Kacey out of the house.

—Where will she go? I asked.

—You think I care? said Gee, her eyes defiant, a little wild. You think that’s my problem?

—She’s sixteen, I said.

—Exactly, said Gee. Old enough to know better.

A week later, of course, she was back. But the pattern continued, and Kacey got worse, not better.

All of these happenings, I related to Simon whenever I saw him. And it provided me with a certain amount of relief: to know that there was one person in the world, aside from me, who carried with him the details of Kacey’s descent into addiction, who kept track of her story, who listened well and dispensed advice that seemed reasonable and adult.

—She’s testing you, he said confidently. She’s just immature. She’ll grow out of it.

Then, inclining his head toward me slightly, he confessed: I went through a phase of it myself.

He was clean now, he said. He rolled up his pant leg to show me, on the back of his strong right calf, a tattoo of a large
X
that signified his sobriety. He had, by then, stopped going to meetings, but he had never stopped being wary, aware that a relapse was not out of the question.

—You can never stop being on guard, he said. That’s the hell of it. To always be worried.

If I am being honest, it comforted me, this talk. To know that someone as functional as Simon, as smart and upright and worldly, a good father—to know someone like that had once been like Kacey. And had come out all right on the other side.

No one, at that point, not even Kacey, knew that I spent time with Simon Cleare in this way. On the nights Kacey was home, we two lay in the same bed, each with our own secret, a line drawn between us, a chasm that widened each week.

Kacey stopped going to high school. She didn’t tell Gee. And our school, underfunded and filled to capacity with struggling students, failed to send home a notice.

I, too, said nothing. As always, my main priority was to keep Kacey under Gee’s roof, and so I concealed from Gee what I knew. To this day, I don’t know if that decision was correct.

But I loved her. And there were moments, still, of real tenderness between us. When Kacey was depressed, or when she was high, she came into the house wanting a hug. She came into the house wanting to sit next to me and lean against me, her head on my shoulder, as we watched television together. She used to ask me, I recall, to braid her hair into two neat rows; she would sit on the floor in between my legs as I did this, making lazy, funny commentary about whatever was on television—she could still, even then, make me laugh—her breathing slow, her head heavy against my hands. I felt for her, in those moments, something akin to maternal love—an emotion I can only name in retrospect, now that Thomas is in my life.

I pleaded with Kacey openly, in those moments, to get well again. I cried. I will, she said, or I promise, or I’ll be better. But she wouldn’t look at me when she replied: always, she was looking elsewhere, at the floor, out the nearest window.

In my senior year of high school, I began to narrow the list of colleges to which I would apply. The time I spent thinking about where I would go
brought me some respite from the worry that otherwise constantly plagued me: At last, I thought, at last, the time has come for me to make my escape. And once I escaped, and made a good life for myself, I could rescue my sister. I’d been dreaming about it for years, ever since Sister Angela Cox, at Holy Redeemer, had told me that with my brains I could be whatever I wanted to be.

I knew enough not to go to Gee for help. Whenever anyone reported to her that I was smart, or a good student, she reacted skeptically.
They’re setting you up,
she said to me once, frowning. Gee, and all the O’Briens, took pride in doing only what was practical. A life of the mind—even a profession like teaching—seemed to most of them prideful in some way. Work was done with your body, with your hands. College was for dreamers and snobs.

Still, with help from my beloved history teacher, Ms. Powell, and on the recommendation of the somewhat incompetent (or, more kindly, understaffed) guidance department at my high school, I filled out two applications to nearby universities: one to Temple, and one to St. Joe’s. One public university. One private.

I got into both.

I took the admissions letters to Mr. Hill, the guidance counselor to whom I had been assigned. He high-fived me. Then he gave me a bundle of information on scholarships and a FAFSA form.

—What’s this, I said to him.

—It’s how you get money to pay for college, he said. Have your parents fill it out.

—I don’t have parents, I said. I remember hoping that the baldness of this statement, the lack of any cushioning, would convince him that I could—would have to—do everything myself.

He looked up at me, surprised. Your guardian, then, he said. Who’s your guardian?

—My grandmother, I said.

—They’re for her, he said.

Already, I could feel the lump rising in my throat.

—Is there any way not to, I said.

But my voice was too quiet, or Mr. Hill was too busy, because he didn’t look up from his desk.

I knew what would happen. Still, I took them to her, all the forms, cradling them lightly in my arms.

She was sitting on the couch, eating cereal for dinner, watching the local news. Shaking her head at the antics of hooligans and thugs, the words she dispensed most frequently during this part of her routine.

—What’s all this? she said, when I handed her the stack of paperwork. She put her spoon down in the bowl with a high clink. Put the bowl down on the coffee table in front of her. She crossed a leg so that her ankle met her knee. She said nothing. She was still chewing as she looked through it all. She began then, quietly, to laugh.

—What, I said.

I was so ill at ease in my body, in those days. So little at home. I remember crossing my arms and uncrossing them. Putting my hands on my waist.

—I’m sorry, said Gee, laughing harder. I just, she said, putting a hand to her mouth, calming herself. Can you imagine? Kid like you at St. Joe’s? You barely talk, Mickey. They’ll take your money and spit you out on the sidewalk. They’ll have a laugh at your expense and then get rid of you. That’s what they’ll do. And if you think you’ll ever see a return on that investment, well. I’ve got a bridge to sell you.

She pushed the stack back across the coffee table. There was milk, now, on some of the papers. She picked up her cereal bowl.

—I’m not filling that out, she said, nodding at the financial aid forms. I won’t help you dig yourself into debt for some useless piece of paper at the end of it.

Ms. Powell had, at the start of the school year, given us all her home phone number, telling us to call her with any questions at all. It
seemed to me that, if there was ever a time to use this lifeline, it was now. I had never before phoned her, and I was painfully nervous as I dialed.

It took her a long time to answer. When she did, I could hear a child crying in the background. It was five-thirty or six at night. Dinnertime, I realized too late. Ms. Powell had two children she spoke of fondly, a boy and a girl, both very young.

—Hello? said Ms. Powell, sounding harried.

The child was wailing, now.
Ma
ma,
Ma
ma.

—Hello? Ms. Powell said again. A pot clinked.

—I don’t know who this is, said Ms. Powell, at last, but I’ve got my hands full over here, and I don’t appreciate the call.

It was the sternest her voice had ever sounded. I hung up slowly. I imagined what my life might have been like if I had been born into a family like Ms. Powell’s.

It was not long after that that I decided to page Simon. I waited for a while by the kitchen phone, my head against the wall. Fifteen minutes later, it rang, and I lifted the receiver off the hook as fast as I could.

—Who is it? called Gee, and I shouted, Sales call.

On the other end, Simon was speaking lowly.

—What is it, he said. I have one minute to talk.

For the first time since I’d met him, he sounded annoyed. Almost angry. I began to cry. After my phone call to Ms. Powell, it was too much. I needed kindness.

—I’m sorry, I whispered. She won’t fill out the forms.

—What forms? Who? said Simon.

—My college forms, I said. My grandmother won’t fill them out. I can’t go without financial aid.

Simon paused for a long time.

—Meet me at the pier, he said finally. I’ll be there in an hour.

It had been autumn the last time we went, and daylight saving time hadn’t set in yet. Now it was February, and brutal outside, and dark already by the time I set out for the pier. I told Gee I was meeting a friend to study. Kacey raised her eyebrows at me as I walked to the door.

It felt good to be outside, away from that house, from the dark moods of Gee, from my perpetual fear that Kacey, one day, simply wouldn’t come home.

I was nervous, though, in a way I hadn’t been the other times Simon and I had met. That summer and fall, we had seen each other any chance we could get, though each outing had been platonic. But winter, and my school year, had slowed down our visits. I was eighteen years old by then, but young for my age. If I was naive, I suppose, to my credit, I was at least self-aware about my naiveté. I knew that other people my age—including my own sister—were having sex, and had been doing so for years. I knew that my romantic life was limited to my imagination, to daydreams about young men on television, to journal entries in which, embarrassingly, I plotted out elaborate trysts between myself and the most current object of my desire—popular boys at my high school, various celebrities, and, most obsessively, Simon. Regarding him and his intentions, I had two dissonant beliefs. The first was that his interest in me wasn’t purely the interest of an intellectual mentor: he laughed often at the remarks that I made, sometimes genuinely, sometimes teasingly, even when they weren’t meant to be funny; and he grinned in response to the reddening of my face, which I thought was maybe the way that people flirted; and there was an intent and focused look he gave me as I spoke to him, scanning all the parts of my face, a small smile on his lips; and sometimes I noticed that his gaze drifted downward, to my hands, to my neck, to my breasts. Whether or not I was and am pretty, I have never been able to say. I have always been tall and skinny and I have never worn makeup. I have always dressed very plainly. I rarely wear jewelry, and I mainly keep my hair in a ponytail that, in those days, I sometimes slicked with water to keep
the loose pieces from flying away. If there is anything pleasing about the composition of my face, only a few people have ever seemed to notice. But at that time I wondered, often, if Simon was one of them. The memory of his putting his arms around me produced a small thump in my abdomen, a kick in my gut, the slow warm spread throughout my body of something electric. Then, always, another voice rose up in me to tell me that everything I’d been thinking was entirely invented; that Simon saw me as a child, someone with potential, someone in whom he had simply taken a professional and perhaps an altruistic interest; that I was crazy for thinking anything else.

A stand of trees separated Delaware Ave from the pier that led out over the river. The ground was lined with weeds and refuse. It was so dark now that I kept my hands out in front of me as I walked. Suddenly, I had the notion that this was dangerous. A handful of times, there had been another person on the pier when we met there: usually someone out walking his dog. But once there had been a homeless person there, an older man who was ranting when I arrived. He had looked at me wildly and then grinned. Had made an obscene gesture with his hands. That time, I’d retreated to Delaware Ave to wait there for Simon instead.

Now, I figured it was too dark and cold out for anyone else to be there. When I emerged from the trees, I saw that I was correct. But I wasn’t certain whether my solitude, and the silence of the pier, gave me more comfort or less.

I walked to the end and sat down. I drew my jacket around myself more tightly. The Ben Franklin Bridge was lit up, and its reflection shone on the water, a necklace of red and white beads.

Ten minutes went by before I heard footsteps. I turned and saw Simon, who ambled toward me, his hands in his pockets. He was out of police attire, and in a uniform of a different kind: cuffed jeans, and black boots, and a wool hat, and a leather jacket with a shearling collar. The outfit he always wore when off duty. From where I sat on the ground, he seemed taller and stronger than ever.

He joined me on the ground. Our legs dangled off the wooden pier.

Before he spoke, he put his arm around me.

—How are you? he said, turning his head to look at me. I could feel his breath, the warmth of his lips, at my temple. It made me shiver.

—Not great, I said.

—Tell me what’s going on, he said, and, as always, I did.

That was the night that Simon told me I should think seriously about joining the force. Today, the age requirement is twenty-two; then, it was nineteen.

—Listen, said Simon. You could fight her. You could declare yourself independent, and fill out the paperwork yourself. But that would take a while, I think.

—What will I do until then? I asked him.

—I’m not sure, said Simon. Keep working. Go to community college. You need credits under your belt either way.

—But hey, he said, continuing. I think you’d be great at it. You could be a detective. I’m always telling you you’d make a good one. I wouldn’t lie.

—I guess so, I said.

I wasn’t sure. I did like detective novels. I liked—some better than others—the movies Simon assigned me, many of which centered on police work. Most importantly, I liked Simon, who was himself a police officer. But I was very good in school, and I loved reading. And, thanks to Ms. Powell and her stories about the past—which had the effect of making me feel, somehow, less lonely—I had recently decided that I wanted to become a history teacher, like her.

I hedged.

—It’s up to you, Simon pronounced finally. He shifted a little. He still had his arm around me. He rubbed his hand on my arm briskly, as if to keep me warm.

—What I can tell you, though, he said, is that you’re going to be fine. You’re going to be great at whatever you do.

I shrugged. I was looking out at the river in front of us, lit up brightly
by cities on both sides. I was recalling the lessons Ms. Powell had taught us: that its fount was the West Branch River, and its outlet the Delaware Bay. That, thirty-five miles to our north, George Washington and his troops had crossed it on a similarly cold winter night in 1776. It would have been dark then, I was thinking. No cities. No lights to lead the way.

—Look at me, said Simon.

I turned my face up toward him.

—How old are you, he said.

—Eighteen, I said. My birthday had been in October. Even Kacey, that year, had forgotten it.

—Eighteen, said Simon. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.

Then he lowered his head and kissed me. It took my brain a while to catch up with my body. When it finally did, I thought,
My first kiss. My first kiss. My first kiss.
I have heard from others about first kisses that were miserable, the recipient bombarded by a deluge of saliva, or forced to accept into her mouth the aggressive tongue of a similarly inexperienced teenager, or nearly swallowed by his open mouth. But Simon’s kiss was, in that moment, extremely reserved, a bare brush of lips and then a drawing back, and then, in a subsequent moment, a faint clandestine touch of his teeth against my lower lip. It excited me. I had not thought of teeth as a part of kissing.

—Do you believe me, said Simon, quietly. He was looking at me intently. His face was so close to mine that my neck was bent at an odd angle to accommodate our pose.