Wherever You Go (17 page)

"I'm just wondering how you know he was happy."

"Holly is really screwing with your head," Mark said. "She's been saying some sick stuff, obviously."

"No, she didn't say anything," Jason said. "This is about you and me and Rob."

"But what difference does it make if he was happy or if we were happy? He's dead, and we're left here to carry on," Mark said. "It's just what it is."

"That's very zen of you."

"No, it's just practical. You think I want to sit around moping for the rest of my life? You think that's gotten Holly Mullen anywhere at all—or you, for that matter?"

"Whatever," Jason said, putting the car back into drive, his foot on the brake.

Mark reached for his bag and climbed out of the Audi. "Thanks, I think," he said, shutting the door hard.

"Well, that was helpful," Jason said aloud, backing down the drive. He' che "Thanks, d half hoped that since Mark had brought Rob up again, he'd actually have some sort of perspective to compare. But discussing the mysteries of the universe with Mark was like asking a monkey to write an essay. He didn't think Mark, or any of the other guys, talked about Rob much. It wasn't like they'd all gotten together in some kind of Kum ba ya circle and talked about their feelings about him dying. It wasn't like they could sit there and cry together. Jason hadn't cried with anyone.

Mark did have a point, that being with Holly was bringing some of these feelings back. But there was nothing to do with them. It wasn't like he could bring it up with Holly—how it felt to lose Rob. But it was what they had in common.

A coldness formed in the bottom of his stomach. It was true. Losing Rob was the main thing they shared. Was it the only thing? Maybe people had gotten together over less, but that didn't mean it wasn't a little weird—maybe even morbid. There had to be something else, right? Maybe Grandpa Aldo. It was important to keep helping Holly with her grandpa—for what it was doing for both the old guy and them. He didn't want her to suddenly realize once she was finally over Rob that the only thing holding them together was a fading memory.

***

The house is large. The driveway almost a quarter of a mile long, unusual for this part of the city—Magnolia, with a view of the sound. You walk-fly behind Jason's car, alighting on the front steps. All this time, following his progress in the car and eavesdropping on him and Mark, you thought he was going to meet Holly, but Jason's mom is waiting inside the mansion's foyer. She's wearing jeans with a T-shirt and a navy jacket. It's a bit casual for her real estate work, especially in this neighborhood, but then you see the boxes of supplies stacked by her feet.

Jason mounts the steps, remnants of emotion on his face. He's still thinking of you, of the conversation he and Mark had had. You heard the good, the bad, the ugly, from the comfort of the back seat. You want to tell him there was no way you were perfect, that you had problems like anyone else. But even if you could have found a way to talk to them about it, it's not like they would've believed you. Not like they would have cared. No, when you've built everything up around you to seem perfect, there is no one to turn to when things go wrong.

Maybe it's like this huge house Mrs. Markham is getting ready to show. She's probably hoping the househunters will be so dazzled by the fresh-baked cookies she'll pull out of the oven right before the open house that they won't see the leaks in the west cor-ner of the living room or the cracked pavers on the patio leading to the pool. The fragrance of sugary love from Mom's kitchen will fog their senses and override their fear of buying a multimillion-dollar fixer-upper. Or not. Maybe all this speculation is more bullshit from your less-than-normal mind.

"And this is the path to the garden," Jason's mom says, pointing down to an overgrown row of rose bushes trained on a trellis that arcs over the stone walkway. Jason follows her dutifully, taking in the tour in what you can tell is more an act of support than interest. They wind through formal English gardens, Jason nodding at his mother's rundown of the various hedges.

"I'll have gardeners in to cden had. You clip everything back in the morning. Can you believe that when the owner took off for Florida last month, he let his yard workers go? Not the smartest way to maintain your investment," she says. "It's almost a jungle back here."

Jason looks puzzled but shrugs. It doesn't appear to be a jungle to you, either. It's actually pretty, slightly mysterious, with trailing vines along stone walls and pink blossoms loose on the path. It has your failed senses crying out in protest. You can't smell the sweetness of the barely opened lilies or touch the jagged rocks that are fitted together like puzzle pieces to form the garden's borders. You can't sink down and rest in the lush lawn underfoot, but at least you have the sound of the breeze through the blades. And though you don't have the afternoon sun on your face, you have the view of shadows playing through the shapes of leaves, the vibrant colors of life burning true. It's almost like real life—only then you probably wouldn't have noticed these things.

As mother and son stand talking about the yard workers, Mrs. Markham's cell phone rings. She digs through her oversize purse for it. Jason pauses, waiting for her, but his mom checks the number and waves him on toward a large glass structure. You follow.

Jason pushes open the door and his eyes go wide.

The greenhouse is at least forty feet long, and there are rows and rows of starter trays in racks along the walls. Down the center of the row are tomato plants tied to stakes and already heavy with fruit. He walks over to one, twists off a small, perfect red orb, rubs it clean on his shirt, and takes a bite. You envy him for the satisfaction in his eyes, the juice dribbling from his lips.

The door swings open, and Mrs. Markham stands there watching her son's gaze sweeping over all the plants in front of him.

"Impressive, huh? It's got an automatic watering system with variable settings for each of the rows. Apparently the owner was some kind of health nut—all of these organic veggies were being raised for his use. Can you imagine a family with children living in the house? Wouldn't they love to bring their kids down here to harvest the fresh produce?"

"Good spiel," Jason says.

She smiles guiltily. "I'm not laying it on too thick?"

"No. This place is freaking great. I know at least one person who would love to see this."

"A qualified buyer?" his mom asks, hopefully.

"Far from it," he says.

"Well, we don't want to waste our time on tire kickers, honey."

"No. I just mean that I want to show someone this place."

"We're going to be really busy before the open house on Saturday. I barely have enough time, even with you helping me."

"Yeah, I get it."

She gives him an apologetic look. "Sorry."

"I just had this idea to bring a friend over to see it."

His mom ushers him out of the greenhouse. "I can't let people traipse through here if it's not a showing."

"Well, maybe I'll figure something else out, then," he says. You see him scan the building a last time, maybe searching for locks—an alarm system. How important is this garden, anyway?

"Stop," his mom says. "You're moping now."

"I don't mope. I help stage houses for free, but I don't mope."

She considers this for a moment, then says. "Fair enough. Bring your friend in the morning on Saturday—you can check on the landscapers for me, okay? And I only want you here for half an hour or less."

"Deal." Jason grabs his mom into a big hug.

The surprise and delight on her face make you think that he hasn't hugged her in a long time. That she hasn't had a hug from anyone in a long time, for that matter. Her face relaxes into a smile.

"Thanks," Jason says, pulling away. "This greenhouse is going to help."

"Help with what?"

"I can't really say, Mom. It's just something I'm working on, all right?"

Her cell phone rings again. Jason wanders down the aisles of the greenhouse, away from the sound of his Mom's real estate talk. Wonder all over his face.

You don't quite get it, but you're happy for your friend. Though this probably has to do with Holly, right? Shit.

You walk over to a tomato plant near the door, tempted to grab the fattie on the bottom and hurl it at the back of Jason's head. You close your eyes, concentrating on moving the damn thing. It wiggles—you've almost got it.

"Let's go," Jason's mom says, flipping her phone closed. Jason walks right through you, gives a little shiver. Rubbing his arms, he stares back at the spot where you're standing.

Yeah, it's me,
you think.

He shakes it off, and they flip the lock on the greenhouse. You're alone among the green plants—the only dead thing in the room.

Your annoyance gives way to guilt. You would actually throw a tomato at Jason? That's so lame, you feel embarrassed. What gives you the right to decide how these people you'll never speak to again live their lives? And really, all this melodramatic crap is doing nothing to advance your enlightenment. At least, that's probably along the lines of what Aldo would say.

Aldo. c rocrap is do As the days go on—and they do go on, don't they?—you find yourself craving his company more and more. You've only got to close your eyes now and think of him. And a whisper of wind you can't even feel takes you away. Takes you to your only friend.

In some houses kids wake to the aroma of Saturday morning pancakes. Maybe to waffles with strawberries and whipped cream. I woke up that morning to the smell of something burning.

In the kitchen, I found Grandpa Aldo standing in front of the stove, a spatula in his hand. He was dressed in his bathrobe, stirring a mound of brown scrambled eggs. The burner beneath the pan glowed an angry red.

I flipped the switch for the exhaust fan, sure the smoke alarm was about to start screaming any second. "Grandpa?" I said, touching him on the arm.

He turned toward me and said something garbled in a mix of Italian and English.

"Grandpa?" I said again.

He wouldn't meet my gaze. I wasn't sure what to do, but I had to get him away from the stove so I could deal with the smoldering eggs. I didn't want to scare him or have him freak out. Then I remembered something Mom had mentioned about distraction.

"Those are done," I said casually, reaching over to turn the burner off and move the pan off the heat. "How about we make some toast to go with them?"

I sat him down in a chair and got out the cheap sandwich bread. As I helped him put the slices into the toaster on the table, he stared at me, unsure. I put my hand on his hand and moved the lever down, to sink the bread into the machine. "There you go," I said. The butter was already in reach, so I got a table knife out, along with a plate. "Watch for the toast to pop up."

"Where is mama?" Grandpa asked in a small voice. Fear etched his face.

I patted him on the back. "She's coming later. Everything's fine."

There was no way he was going to see his mom, but it felt important to go along with it. What good would it do to bring him around to the truth when he was in a state like this? I hadn't seen him that bad since he came to live with us. I sure hadn't seen him go wherever he was. The mumbling, the mentions of Rob or the ghost or whatever he thought he was seeing was weird, but seeing him check out like that—in the midst of doing something so normal like making eggs—and now asking for his mom ... That was pretty scary. Mom had made him a doctor's appointment for Monday afternoon. I hoped that there was something else the doctor could do. It definitely didn't seem like my grandpa was doing better.

At any rate, he looked satisfied with my answer and leaned back in his chair

I hustled over to the stove and set the egg pan in the sink, flooding the gross mess with water, which released a huge cloud of stinky steam. "Ugh!" I moved back from the sink and fah, I5%">

Just as I started cracking, Lena padded into the kitchen in her panda bear pajamas. "What's going on? It stinks in here," she said, scratching at her hair, which looked windswept, like she had been in a tornado.

"We're making breakfast," I said. "Everything's fine."

Frowning, she sat down at the table across from Grandpa, whose gaze was glued to the slots of the toaster. "Hi." Lena yawned and brought her legs up under herself on the kitchen chair. "I'm hungry," she said.

"Why don't you help Grandpa with the toast, okay?" I sprinkled the broken eggs with salt and pepper and a dash of milk and whipped them quickly with a fork. They sizzled as they hit the buttered pan.

At last, the toast popped up. Grandpa seemed startled at first but then took the hot slices out and laid them on the table.

"Do you want this?" Lena asked, sliding the plate that was next to the toaster closer to him.

He put the toast on it.

"Here's the butter," Lena said, getting out of her chair. She dug the knife into it and held the handle out to him. "You like it on your toast, Grandpa. Just spread it around." He didn't move to take it from her, and Lena gave me a plaintive look.

"Why don't you help him butter it, Lena."