Mom and Dad blew in around nine. They were giddy as kids, and my mom was all over my dad, touching his shoulders, messing with his hair. Made my stomach twist. Dad poured them both nightcaps, and they couldn‘t stop talking about how much fun they‘d had, what with all that kayaking around the Apostles and screwing each other blind. (Okay, they didn‘t say the last part, but—really—if I‘d done anything remotely like that with a guy in front of them, Psycho-Dad would‘ve locked me in a barrel and fed me through a tube for the rest of my life.) They‘d even browsed real estate listings and Dad made noises about how a hobby farm might be nice when he retired and Mom gave up the bookstore. Then Mom laughed and told him she was never giving up the store and gave his chest a flirty little push, and it was all I could do not to throw up.
I interrupted Mom in mid-sentence. ―I‘m going to bed.‖
My mom stopped talking, drink in hand, her mouth this perfect little O. ―Sure. Of course.‖
―You feeling all right, kiddo?‖ Dad asked. ―What‘d you do all week, anyway?‖
―Nothing,‖ I said and headed for the stairs. ―Night.‖
c
I didn‘t sleep.
My parents came upstairs around midnight. I wondered if they would stop outside my door, but they didn‘t. I heard their shower go on and then off. The house fell silent and dark. There was no moon and only the glow of my clock. I lay on my back, watching the inky shadows bunch and gather on the ceiling, and thought about Matt, how he was gone, really gone this time and for good. Worse than a ghost, Matt was first a fantasy and now a memory that would fade the same way I couldn‘t remember much about the fire or what came before or what my favorite flavor of ice cream had been when I was three.
Mr. Anderson said he would be there for me, but how could that possibly work? He was my teacher. I was just a kid. No matter what he said, that‘s what I was and he would see that and regret ever opening his mouth
Plus, he was married.
And his wife, where was his wife, really? Their baby?
I sighed. My eyes itched from crying so much. I wondered what he was doing, if he was asleep or maybe thinking about me....
The sounds might have been going on for a while, but I guess I‘d been so preoccupied they were like white noise, background that didn‘t become clear until someone laughed. I sat up in bed, ears straining. The sounds were disjointed, broken— and then my mother laughed again and my father groaned.
Oh God. My parents were going at it, and not quietly. Or maybe they thought they were being quiet, or just didn‘t care. Because Jenna was asleep, right? Jenna was a good girl. Besides, she‘d been gone so many months in that psychiatric hospital, who could remember to keep it down?
I stuck my head under my pillow and screamed into my mattress.
My parents slept late Sunday. I got up, skipped breakfast, and went for a run far away from Mr. Anderson‘s house. The temperature had dropped during the night and all the puddles from the day before had frozen over. Crossing a bridge, I skidded on some black ice and nearly fell into the river, but I didn‘t care one way or the other. I ran far enough that I started to feel sick and had to swallow a couple gels. They were sour apple and made me want to puke.
When I got back, my parents were up. The kitchen smelled like eggs and coffee, and the windows were fogged. ―Hey, you‘ve gotten to be a real athlete there,‖ said my father.
His cheeks were ruddy and his hair was still wet.
My mom was puttering over a skillet, spatula in hand. ―You hungry, sweetie?‖ She smiled at me. ―I‘m making omelets. Goat cheese.‖
If I didn‘t get out of that kitchen, I was going to throw up in my father‘s lap. ―I‘ve got to take a shower. I have work.‖
―Well, I’ve worked up an appetite,‖ said my father, and winked at me. Then he grabbed my mother around her waist and she squealed and did the whole mock-fight thing again. They were like a couple of googly eyed teenagers.
No one noticed when I left.
I hunkered in my room the rest of the day and finished Alexis‘s book. Here‘s what I decided: the lady was certifiable with all her crap about ecstasy under the sea and hot blood and cool water, and I ought to know. Now to figure a way to say that in five pages.
But I never opened Word. Instead, I went to my ghost e-mail account (oh, how appropriate) and scanned Matt‘s messages, all the ones he‘d ever written and then my replies. I saw how I‘d changed all the date stamps as I went along, resending myself his e-mails over and over again, so what was old was new again: You’ve got mail! Running my eyes down the list was like reading a timetable of my . . . well, my breakdown, I guess you‘d call it.
I reread one of the first messages he‘d sent when he‘d been alive-alive: The only way I live through each day is to pretend I‘m already gone. If you‘re dead, then the life you had before is dead, too, and all that remains is the horror of what‘s right in front of you. So I‘m dead, Jenna. You have to think about me that way, okay? Because that‘s how I think about you and Mom and Dad. As long as I‘m here, we‘re all dead and it has to be that way for me to do my job and come back.
Was that crazy? I didn‘t think so. Matt had protected himself as best he could. I would never be able to imagine what living there—dying there every day—had been like.
The real irony is that Matt chose to kill himself every single day so he could come back to life, and then he died for good.
I deleted all his messages. I deleted my replies. Every. Single. One.
Then I deleted my ghost account and dumped the shortcut into my recycle bin and then I emptied that, too. I would‘ve ripped out the hard drive and run over it with my car, but then I‘d have to explain to my father why I killed my computer. I might be nuts, but I wasn‘t crazy.
f
Mom was on a roll. For dinner, she whipped up lasagna and salad and garlic bread.
She and Dad popped the cork on a bottle of Chianti and chattered about their college days and how they met and blah, blah, blah. I pushed food around my plate and then asked to be excused and, when no one gave permission, left anyway.
When I went to bed, I screwed in earbuds and listened to ―Learning to Fly‖ and then Death Cab for Cutie and then Black Sabbath. Screw Ellington and screw Mingus and screw Judy, and screw you, too, Wagner.
If my parents went at it again, I sure didn‘t hear.
Sunday night, I‘d told Mom that some of the people on the team practiced early and it made more sense for me to drive myself. She said that was fine; she‘d have tons of work anyway now that Thanksgiving was almost here and Black Friday and Christmas and blah, blah, blah.
I didn‘t care about any of that. I wasn‘t sure I would even go to school.
All I wanted was to be left alone.
And then it was Monday.
I left a half hour earlier than usual, at 4:30. My parents weren‘t up; the house was quiet; the streets were dark and there was virtually no traffic. If I actually made it to school, I told myself I could work in the hall outside the library if I had to; Harley was used to my getting there early and wouldn‘t give me grief. Hell, I might even beat Harley.
But I knew I was lying to myself. I had to know if Mr. Anderson was there. I had to know if he‘d come in early because if we were on the same wavelength here, I thought he might. There was no other time to really talk except before school. So I‘d cruise past the lot. If there wasn‘t a single car—or if I saw only Harley‘s truck—well, then, I‘d know not to make a fool of myself. I could still TA and be on the team, but the rest of it—yeah, like the rest of what—would be as if it never happened.
But, if he was there, that would . . . it would mean something.
When I stopped for coffee, I thought about picking up one for him, too. But he always made his own, so that would be kind of lame. I did get two scones, though; then worried I was jinxing myself; then told myself to get a grip, they were just pastries.
The sky was cobalt when I pulled into the school parking lot. The stars glittered, diamond-bright in the cold. At first I thought there were no other cars in the lot, not even Harley‘s— and then my stomach clenched.
Mr. Anderson‘s truck was there.
He‘d come early. Earlier than I had. God, how long had he been here? My eyes flicked to the second story above the library—and zeroed in on a dim, barely visible glow.
Had he turned on a light? I didn‘t think so. But he was here. He was waiting for me.
I had all the power now. Go to him . . . or not.
One of the front doors was unlocked. I pushed inside. The halls were very dim, and my footsteps echoed. On the second floor, I saw no spray of light from his classroom, and there was no music. Okay, that was bad. Yet the hall smelled of coffee. So that might be good.
The classroom was completely dark except for a slim bar of uncertain light beneath the office door. When I stepped into his room, I don‘t know why . . . but I pulled the door shut behind me. Quietly. But I did it. Then I crossed to his office door and put my hand on the knob.
He was sitting at his desk, but looked up as the door opened. The only light came from that small desk lamp, enough to see by but no more. He stared at me for a very long moment and then stood. Was he relieved? I couldn‘t tell.
―I wasn‘t sure you . . .‖ He paused, cleared his throat. ―I just put on a fresh pot. Do you want a warm-up?‖
―No, I‘m good.‖ I held up the paper bag of scones. ―I hope you like blueberry.‖
―I love blueberry.‖ But he didn‘t smile. We looked at one another and then he picked up a book from his desk. ―Here. It‘s that book about Alexis Depardieu I told you about. I meant to give this to you the other day, but we got kind of . . . sidetracked.‖
―Thanks.‖ The book was slim, with no jacket. I opened to the title page and then had to angle it toward that feeble light: Swimming with the Sharks. ―Who‘s Peter Lasker?‖
―Alexis‘s lover.‖
I couldn‘t look at him. My pulse throbbed in my neck. ―Before she was married?‖
―Yes, if you believe him. Before, during . . . and after.‖
