Things We Didn't Say (19 page)

I don’t know you very well, is all. I thought we could get to know each other in messages and we’d be close that way. But real life is different. I still care about you lots, but that’s not exactly the same. Please don’t be mad. I just didn’t want you to get hurt trying to hitchhike.

I shove this across the table to her, nudging her elbow with it. She sniffs and wipes her face, and reads. At first she scowls, but then her face relaxes. She slumps back in her chair, but the waterworks have stopped.

I pull the notebook back and add this:

You know we weren’t going to get very far. We had no money, no car. If we hitched, we’d either get a creepy freak, or a good citizen who’d know we were running away and probably turn us in. It was never going to work.

I underline
never
for effect.

And I’m cold. Aren’t you cold?

I add a little cartoon of our shivering selves.

She reads this and smiles a little.

Then her smile fades. “My dad’s gonna kill me.”

“R-really?”

She sighs hard now, and suddenly looks older than she’s seemed this whole time. “Not
literally
. Guess I might as well tell you I don’t really have bars on my window.”

Yeah. No shit.

We fall into silence. She flips through
Glamour
. I try to work up enthusiasm for
Newsweek
, but I can’t focus. My mother’s hysteria on the phone keeps playing in my head, like a mosquito buzz that won’t go away. What’s waiting for me back home. But why did I expect anything different?

The fact is, I didn’t think very far ahead. My future after the bus ride was a big blank, but that blank seemed refreshing and clean. An inviting sheet of paper ready for sketching, without all the messy scribbles of my stupid school I hate and home with its tension so bad I’m surprised we’re not all twitching. When that big bus rumbled out of Grand Rapids, I felt dizzy with freedom and pushed all thoughts of home out of my head. Even my sisters. Probably because I knew if I pictured Jewel’s face, I’d never be able to leave.

The door swings open, and we both jump. A uniformed lady cop comes in carrying sandwiches and drinks. “Well, if it isn’t Romeo and Juliet. Well, star-crossed kids, you’re probably hungry.”

She plunks the sandwiches down with a couple of Cokes.

“Thank you,” I mutter, glad to get that out without stammering.

She regards us with one hand on her hip. “You know, I’ve got kids. Littler than you, but I’ve got kids. Most of us do,” she says, gesturing out the door to the rest of the police station. “What you two did to your parents, you don’t have the faintest idea what that’s like, the hell they were going through. You took years off their lives with this stunt.”

I can feel a blush creep up the back of my neck. I’m sure thinking of my sisters, now. And my dad, and Mom, because I gave her a reason to freak out, this time. I wonder if Casey was worried. Probably.

“Well, eat already. I don’t want your folks thinking we starved you. I’ll check on you later. Juliet, your dad should be here soon.”

Tiffany isn’t eating. She’s just picking at the bread.

I know the feeling. But I eat it anyway, because the officer was nice enough to bring it to us. I don’t want to seem ungrateful.

Chapter 24
Michael

W
hen my dad pulls into the driveway, Casey’s in the shower. I go upstairs to knock on the bathroom door.

“Yeah?” she says.

“Hey, babe,” I say loudly over the sound of the water. “My dad’s here, we’re heading out.”

She pokes her wet head around the curtain. Tendrils of hair are stuck to her forehead. Makes me want to grab her face and kiss her.

“I’ll see if Mallory will go home. Give you some space.”

“See
if she will? How about
sending
her. Dylan’s fine, and this isn’t her house anymore.”

My head starts to throb, and I pinch the bridge of my nose.

When I look at Casey again, her face has sagged with resignation. “Sorry. It’s fine.” She pulls the shower curtain back in place with less force than before. “I’ll be fine,” she says over the spray.

I have more to say, but it’s hard to talk over the water.

We’ll talk when I get back, about many things that we’ve put off for too long.

I bribe Jewel with a trip to get doughnuts Sunday morning if she does her homework like a good girl, and make the same offer to Angel, only with lattes.

Angel nods, and then announces she’s going to take a nap. I can see that she’s caked makeup over the bluish hollows under her eyes. I give her a tight hug before she goes.

Mallory is making fresh coffee in the kitchen.

“So,” I say, pulling on my coat and peering toward the front of the house to see if Dad has pulled up. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

Mallory is radiant. I haven’t seen her like this since she was pregnant with each kid. “I know! Thank God.”

“So, listen, I can drop you off at your apartment on our way.”

She stops in mid-pour of the coffee. She tries to shove it back in the coffeemaker and misses, sloshing hot coffee all over the counter.

She puts her hand on her hip, eyes squeezed to slits. “Are you throwing me out?”

“The crisis is over.”

“So? I want to be here when he gets home. I don’t want to miss a minute. In fact, I’d insist on going with you if your father didn’t hate me worse than Hitler.”

“I’ll pick you up then, on the way back. You’ll see him even quicker, in the car.”

She looks up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly. “You are throwing me out. I cannot believe after what we’ve been through the last forty-eight hours—”

“This isn’t your house!” As always with Mallory, my voice is louder than I mean it to be.

“So Casey wants me out, is that it? Can’t handle the ex hanging around? Please. As if I’d want
you
back.”

“You don’t need to be here.”

“I want to be here, isn’t that enough? What were you saying yesterday, about how of course you want me to spend more time with the kids? If this has taught me anything, it’s that I’ve been too cavalier. Yes, fine, I admit it. I’ve been inconsistent about parenting time. I get migraines, and you know when I don’t
feel well
what it’s like for me. And for them.” She pauses to stare at me, hard, making sure I understand her code. “But I’ve been through hell, these last two days. That’s my boy, my baby, I carried him in my womb and I thought we’d lost him. Let me unwind with my girls, Mike.”

“So you’re
feeling well
now? For how long?”

“Fuck off. I’m asking you a favor, and don’t think this isn’t humiliating for me, to have to beg to stay in the house that used to be mine to spend time with my own daughters, just so your new little girlfriend doesn’t feel any discomfort.” She makes a mock-sweet face and adds, “I promise not to cause any trouble.”

“Mal . . .”

“You want me to beg? Does that make you feel like a big man? Okay, fine.”

She gets down on her knees in front of me, hands balled up together as in prayer.

“Jesus, Mal. Get up. Fine. But, listen—”

“Daylight’s burning, Mike!” shouts my dad from the living room, and I have to leave it there.

My dad is ruffling Jewel’s hair as she hangs off his leg.

“Hey, Dad. Thanks.”

“All gassed up, warmed up, Cleveland programmed into the GPS. Your mother whipped up some sandwiches for the road.”

I check my watch. Four o’clock. It’ll be the dead of night before we get there, the wee hours before we get back, assuming we turn right around and don’t stay the night somewhere.

Casey has appeared now, hair slightly damp, smelling like something sweet and floral. I check back over my shoulder. Mallory has remained behind me in the kitchen, sopping up the spilled coffee.

“Hi, Dr. Turner,” Casey says.

“Hello, dear,” he replies politely. Courtly, almost, with that little nod of his head.

I wish he’d tell her not to call him by his title.

“Angel’s napping,” I explain to my dad.

I give Jewel another enormous hug, telling her to stay warm and do her homework and that she should go to sleep like a good girl tonight. “Listen to your mom. And Casey.”

I pull Casey in for a hug, but she’s stiff in my arms. She returns the hug, but it’s with formality. For show.

“Sorry,” I whisper in her ear. “Just one more day.”

Her smile is thin as she waves at me.

I walk out of my childhood home into my dad’s huge car and into the passenger seat, with snacks packed by my mother, and wonder if I’ll ever shake off this déjà vu.

Chapter 25
Casey

I
need a cigarette.

This will cause Mallory to roll her eyes or worse. I will stink. It will blacken my lungs and yellow my teeth and give me throat cancer.

But I may tear out my throat otherwise. So.

I dread the cold, though the wind appears to have subsided, as the snow is falling still heavy but now more or less straight down instead of sideways.

So I leave Angel to her nap and Jewel and Mallory to their channel flipping on the couch and step out to the front porch, which is more sheltered than the back patio.

I test the cut on my lip with my tongue. It seems to have scabbed over, so that it must look like hell but will probably not split open, if I’m careful.

After several tries to light up, my cig finally catches and I suck in, both loving and hating that pinch in my lungs that comes before the light-headed relief.

I’d promised myself I wouldn’t contact Tony again this weekend, not until I’d had a chance to decide what to do. How much to tell Michael and when. Ideally before Angel decides to let fly with my secrets.

But it’s too much to hold this all in. There aren’t enough cigarettes in the world to make this feel better. I’m a boiling pot with the lid bolted.

So I text him, as it’s safer than calling.

Dylan found. He’s fine. Thx.

Moments later, a return text:
PTL—
which I recognize as Tony’s texting shorthand for Praise the Lord—
what happened?

Ran away. Long story.

Glad he’s OK. U?

SHE is still here. Makes me crazy.

Hang in.

I pause in the texting, finishing the last few drags of the cigarette, deciding what else to say, what I can reasonably type with my thumbs that will sum up everything.

Don’t know if M. still wants me. Want to stay. Hope I can.

Minutes go by with no response. He’s a volunteer firefighter, so he probably got called to a wreck.

I feel better having said it to someone, even though Tony may not have gotten the message yet, even though Tony is a relic from my past, a secret.

We were neighbors during my JinxCorp days. We’d get home at about the same time many nights. He was bartending and operating sound for local bands, so I not only saw him in the hallway in front of my apartment but some nights going out I’d go to his bar. Sometimes I’d see him with a band, fiddling with those knobs and sliding buttons for the budding rock stars who called him Gramps. He called them “Assholes” and smiled, so they assumed he meant it affectionately. For some of them, that was true.

He would later tell me that my rock-bottom moment was also his.

“You’re young, Edna Leigh,” he told me, when my stitches were itching under the bandage and he’d brought me some stuffed grape leaves and baba ghanoush from Olive Express. “If I did that, I bet I’d be dead, or paralyzed or something. I’m sixty-some, and I’m not made of rubber like you.”

“Ha, I only wish I’d bounced,” I said back, sounding cockier than I really felt.

He quit his bartending gig and gave up working sound. He went to work for his brother, though there’d been bad blood there for the longest time.

The cold finally gets to me. I should also check in with my mom. She never used to be the “checking up” type, but after Billy, everything changed.

In the house, Jewel has fallen asleep in her mother’s lap. Mallory’s asleep, too, her head tipped back on the couch. Not sure why she should be so tired, since she seems to be the only one who slept last night. Rather soundly, in fact. So soundly she couldn’t hear me knocking on the door just a few feet away, when I was locked out.

I prefer privacy for talking to my mother, anyway.

These two halves of my life will have to mesh if we get married, but I find it hard to imagine this.

The phone rings a few times before she picks up.

“Hi, baby,” she says.

“Hi, Mom.”

“How was your day?”

“Ummm . . .”

There are tears, now.

“Honey? What’s wrong?” I hear her clunk a glass down on the table. I imagine her sitting forward in her chair, concern written in the lines on her face, lines put there by me, Dad, Billy.

“It’s okay, now,” I tell her, wiping my face hard, shaking my head. “It’s just been a hard day.”

“Oh, sweetie.”

Her concern does me in.

I do tell her, some of it, anyway, an edited version of events, leaving out most of the stuff about Mallory. She interrupts my story with lots of “Oh, honey” and “Oh, baby,” and commiserating gasps.

Finally she says, “Thank God he’s all right. What happens now?”

I shrug, then remember she can’t see me. “I don’t know. I’ll have to let Michael deal with it, I suppose.”

“You can’t sit on the sidelines forever, if you really are going to marry him. Are you sure you still want to do that?”

“Yes,” I croak out. My throat feels raw.

“Why do you want to put yourself through all this? Edna, honey, you’re so young yet, you can have any kind of boyfriend you want, someone who can afford to pay attention to you, who doesn’t have to spend all his energy on other people, someone without an ex-wife. And don’t you want babies of your own?”