One More Day (15 page)

The long southbound on-ramp to the interstate curved like a question mark. Carrie leaned into it, wondering how far she could drive until she could bear to go back. One exit? Two? Three? She could find a new town she'd never been to before, where they wouldn't automatically know her name and all the details of Ben's face—his long lashes, his tiny even teeth—as they loomed on stilts above the town exits. Where no one would ask where she was or why she'd done what she'd done, combing over the smallest things. Surely she could find a place where simple acts didn't mean anything, other than that a person was bored, sad, and organized to a fault.

The sun warmed the interior of the car, and she turned off the heat. She listened to a few songs on a classical station, but when the signal flagged, she turned it off. No reception toward the middle of the state, even now. Even after all these years. After forty miles or so, she passed a sign for Peterson Nature Preserve and tried to remember the last time she'd been there. As a child, she and her parents had gone there frequently, and when she and John had first met, they'd marveled over the fact that they both might have been in the same place, picnicking as children, at the same time. Could she have seen him, throwing a Frisbee to his brother and father? Might he have passed by her and her parents, eating on a cloth spread out on the lawn, and seen her father once before he left for good?

After they'd been dating a few months and it had gotten serious, they'd exchanged grade-school wallet photos, and though his had been sweet, it hadn't been familiar. She was sure that if she'd seen John and his family even once, she'd have remembered them. Their big white teeth, their strong jaws. Why did the very people who couldn't bear discussing things always seem to be all mouth?

She turned on her signal to exit the lane, and a lone dark car behind her did the same.
Couldn't be the same car. It's just a car.

Nature, that was what she needed to heal. Ben loved to be outside—it was a way of honoring him, she thought. And if it reminded her of those happy days with her parents, would that be so wrong? She stopped at the log cabin at the entrance and paid the five-dollar fee. She must be getting old—it used to be two dollars. The man perched in the entry offered her a map, but she waved it away. She could recite the name of every trail from memory.

She parked near Greenback Trail, which was short and flat and circled back to the lot. She got out of her car and headed toward the Martin Overlook. She passed a handful of cars and a group of senior citizens who looked like they were power walking. A few students from the nearby community college laughed as they scrambled down the rocks. Not many moms and kids; some of the trails were steep. She'd never brought Ben here. He'd been too young, too apt to run off. She felt another pang of regret. All the things he'd missed out on, all the places he hadn't gone.

A few leaves floated down onto her shoulders as she walked toward the overlook. How Ben had loved autumn leaves, chasing them in the wind, clutching them in his small hand. She'd bought him his own small rake and plastic wheelbarrow, and he would gather them up, throw them back in the air, crying, “Again! Again!” as if he could propel them back into the trees.

Tears tumbled down her cheeks. She wished Nolan, wished everyone, could understand what she understood. Ben wouldn't come back for one more day to the person who'd hurt him! He would only come back to the person who'd loved him, who'd loved him more than anyone! She wished they could have seen how she had sobbed as she'd assembled all the playlists and photos. Lingering over each memory, embracing it before she picked up her computer mouse and made the collage. If they'd seen her, they would know!

She looked out over the gorge, the emerald trees framing the silver rocks, the gray-green column of river. She let her tears fall over the whole scene, muting its beauty. She didn't wipe them away. Some things were too beautiful to bear; they had to be softened with sadness. The rush of the river swam in her ears, mixing with hot tears. She didn't hear her name at first. He had to say it a second time.

“Carrie.
Carrie.
”

A statement, one word ironed flat. He'd always hated that lilt that signaled a question, railed against Valley girl up-talking taking over the world. Those were the kinds of things they had talked about. Global crises or verbal tics. Macro or micro. Everything had mattered to him. The teenagers around them who acted like children. Companies who still polluted the earth. The loss of vinyl records. He'd gone on for months about that. She smiled, thinking of his turntable, the wall of albums, his futon on the floor.

“Ethan.” She gasped, smiling, and then the horror, before she turned around, of what this could mean. That he was here now. The last she'd heard, he'd moved to Canada when George W. Bush was reelected. But she smelled something thicker than crushed leaves or wet earth. Mud pies—it reminded her of mud pies.

“Oh my God, Ethan,” she cried. “What happened?”

“Well, that depends. What period of time are we discussing?”

He leaned back against a wide tree, stretched his arms, and smiled his crooked smile. He'd grown into himself so nicely, she thought. His strawberry-blond hair cut to almost corporate length. A few wrinkles around his eyes. Corduroys and a soft shirt that was almost what a grown-up would wear. Almost. She ran to him, knocking him against the tree, leaning into his narrow chest, hugging him hard. He smelled like lemonade and mud, like spring. Like earth. Like…the others. Just a little bit of dirt.
Oh God, Ethan. So young.

“Did it just happen? How…how old were you?”

“So…you know.”

“Yes. My grandmother and Jinxie kind of tipped me off. This seems to be a popular week for”—she swallowed hard, searching for the right word that wouldn't cause her to burst into tears—“for…communicating.”

He cocked his head and smiled at the tear in her eye, like he was glad she still cared about him. Then he sighed and gestured broadly, as if wiping the emotion away.

“Yeah, it's the leaves.”

“The leaves?”

“Leaf peepers. We miss the glorious colors of fall. What can I say?” He swept his hand across the expansive view. “Timed it a bit too early though, I'd say.”

“And here I thought it was because I was in trouble.”

“Have you lost your sarcasm detection radar?”

“I guess.” She smiled.

“Well, still, you can't beat a leaf.”

“You always said fall reminded you of—”

“Death, yeah. Well, not so much now. Now it reminds me of beauty. Of love. And I like spring now too.”

“You've lost your wintry cynicism.”

“Not quite.” He smiled. “Damn, Jinxie. Jinxie! How the hell is Jinxie?”

“The same,” she said softly. “Exactly the same.”

“It's kind of nice, not growing old. Twenty-six, to answer your earlier question. Would have been more interesting to put it off till twenty-seven and join the Jim Morrison club, but alas, I just couldn't wait.”

Only a few years ago, but she hadn't heard anything about it. Ethan's parents had moved away long ago, and of course Ethan—cynical, nonjoining Ethan—would never deign to be on Facebook and had probably included the phrase “whatever you do, don't give the alumni association the satisfaction of knowing I'm gone” in his will.

“How did it happen? I hope…it wasn't painful.”

She'd seen her grandmother go through the ravages of cancer, her face sinking in those last days, her soft skin almost gray. And she'd never forget Jinxie panting too quickly after being hit by a car.

“Not one teeny bit,” he said. “And my parents, they kept every detail private, just like I wanted. Last wishes and all.”

She nodded. Of course Ethan wouldn't want a spectacle. Wouldn't want to give any assholes a chance to say anything he didn't want them to say.

“God, Carrie, remember the hours—the days—we used to spend doing absolutely nothing? Just talking, listening to music, staring at the sun? People don't do that anymore. It's appalling. At dinner parties, they check their phones to see who else they could be talking to. I think I had to die just to get away from all these fucking idiots.”

She laughed. That was vintage Ethan. He wasn't meant to be a teenager; he could have gone straight to adulthood in fifth grade.

They hadn't kept in touch when they'd gone to college—Carrie to State and Ethan to Brown, where he, of course, had hated everyone. They had run into each other once over Christmas, just after Carrie had met John, and Ethan had not been able to stop talking about what fools he was surrounded by. Worse than high school, he'd said. Worse because they didn't have the excuse of being in high school.
You think the Pepsi Generation is bad? The Pepsi Progeny is ten times worse.

“You changed the subject,” she said.

“I said it wasn't painful.”

“Sins of omission, Ethan. And how ironic, considering why you're here.”

“Why am I here, Carrie? Illuminate me.”

“I'm guessing the same reason my grandmother was. Because you want me to confide in someone. As if that would help. I don't know if you know, but the situation I'm in right now, it's—”

“I'm aware,” he said softly. He sat down at the base of the tree and leaned back against it. “I'm also aware that your husband is worried about you. I think that's the real point, explaining to him.”

“You really have to stop hanging out with my grandmother.”

“Not that many options, kiddo. There're a lot of assholes everywhere, not just on earth.”

She laughed. Ethan had always made her laugh, even when things were darkest. That night, when she'd been shivering so hard her teeth had chattered, when she'd thought she couldn't go on, he'd said, “Someday, we'll look back on this and laugh,” and she'd burst out laughing at the sheer absurdity of it.

“Ethan, I—it's too late.”

“No, Carrie. It's too late for me, but it's not too late for you.”

“My mother will never forgive me.”

“I think you need to give your mother a little more credit.”

She shook her head. Ethan had always defended her mother, but the answer was no. No, no, no. Especially now. How could you tell a woman who'd lost one grandson that she'd also lost another one?

“Ethan, I—”

“Carrie, you were young, and you were frightened, and you had no money. You were this perfect girl who got straight A's and always did her chores and went to church every Sunday and got a job after school to help out. You hid your pregnancy from your mother because you were afraid she wouldn't love you if you weren't perfect, and I'm here to tell you, Carrie, that it's a lie. We believed it then, but we were wrong, both of us.”

“No, you remember how she was! How her face fell if I got an A minus because she was so afraid I wouldn't get a scholarship! You understood! You knew I couldn't tell her!”

“No, Carrie. Your mother is the ultimate survivor. She was a warrior. She would have made it work because that's what people like her do. I only agreed with you because I was chickenshit. I bought into your excuse because it dovetailed with my own.”

“No! It's too late, Ethan. Too much has happened. Even if they weren't questioning me in Ben's disappearance, it's—it's…”

“It's what, Carrie?”

“She'll want me to get in touch with Safe Cradle, to find out who adopted him, to try to see him. She'll push me, hammer me, until I agree to do it. And then what? Will it replace Ben? No. And it will mess up his life too! Don't you see that? That poor couple who adopted him and have probably loved him to pieces… It's hopeless. I always thought I'd find him one day. I did, really, Ethan. But now—now I just can't. It's too much. It's too much. I can't do it.”

“That won't happen, Carrie,” he said softly.

“You're right,” she said. “Because I wouldn't let it happen. I'm stronger now; she can't push me around.”

“No,” he said slowly, standing up, stretching his legs. He leaned back against the tree again, as if appreciating its breadth, the safe strength of its bark. He ran his hand across a wide, mossy expanse. He took a long inhale of air. “That's not why.”

“Then why?”

“Because no one adopted him at Safe Cradle.”

“What? What do you mean? How do—”

“Because I didn't take him there when I left you that night.”

She suddenly couldn't feel her feet. Both went numb, threatened to not hold her up any longer. Was this how it felt when the earth was about to open up? When lightning prepared to strike?

“What?”

“I brought him here,” he said slowly.

“No,” she said, backing away. “My God, no, Ethan.”

“Yes. I chickened out. For years afterward, I told myself it was because I thought they'd ask too many questions. I thought we'd be caught, and you'd lose your scholarship, and I'd lose my chance to finally get away fr—”

“No!”

Carrie's mind went back to that night, how strange he'd been when he returned. How long it had taken—an hour and a half. His pale lips. Not talkative, like he usually was. She'd put it down to the events of the day, the stress of helping his girlfriend give birth in the basement with nothing more than a few towels and a pair of scissors and a how-to book on home birthing. She'd never thought; she'd never questioned. Why would she?
There could have been a line at Safe Cradle. There could have been paperwork.
They'd had a plan! He'd agreed to the plan!

She waited for him to turn it all around, make it into some kind of joke. “Oh, my mistake; it was the towels I threw out!” But there was no laughter, no smile. His face looked like someone else's.