Authors: Jennifer Mathieu
It's weird but this makes me feel better. Because I know how much Dylan likes pizza, especially pepperoni.
“I wish I could remember more,” Ethan says, and we make eye contact for a moment. “My memory is just ⦠it's fucked up.”
“It's okay,” I tell him, and I want him to believe me that it is okay. That maybe it doesn't even matter now how much he can tell me about Dylan. That all that matters is that he's trying to get better. But if Ethan can get better, I don't understand why Dylan can't, too. I wish I had a million dollars and could spend it all on getting Dylan better. Or at least try to get him the help he needs, which is more than anyone else seems to want to do.
We stop talking, and there's just the sound of the occasional car passing in front of Ethan's house or the random yip-yip of the Chihuahua who lives next door. Finally Ethan asks me, “You want to play that White Stripes song again?”
“Yeah,” I say, getting to my feet and hauling my Fender over my shoulder.
“I'm gonna be watching you,” he tells me. “Making sure you don't make any weird faces this time.”
I roll my eyes but I'm laughing. “Shut up,” I tell him. “And count off.”
Hanging out with Ethan is like listening to one of your favorite songs. And you like it so much that fifteen seconds into it you start it over again before you even get to the end. Just so you can hear the beginning again. Because you like it that much.
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I'm supposed to be working on this assignment for Mrs. Leander. Reading a short story and answering questions about it in my composition book. Only I keep getting distracted.
I'm working on these lyrics that maybe (
maybe
) I'm going to show Caroline.
I've got a clock in my heart
That I want to turn back
To the start of it all
When it all went to black
They're probably too cheesy to share. Or too stupid. I rip the page out of the composition book and think about where I can hide it. I'm pretty sure Gloria isn't going through my drawers, but I can't be sure about my mom.
“Hey, Ethan.”
I look up from my bed and there's my dad, standing in the doorway, dressed in khakis and a collared shirt and tie. I blink. Sometimes when I see my parents it's like I can't believe they're real and in front of me. I catch them staring at me sometimes, too, like they're thinking the same thing about me.
“Hey,” I say. “You're home early.”
“My last appointment canceled.”
“Oh.”
My dad hovers in the doorway of my room, like he's waiting for me to tell him it's okay to come in. My mom never hovers. She just walks in and starts touching stuff or touching me, like she needs the constant reminder that I'm really here.
“I was wondering if you wanted to go with me to the hardware store. I've got to get a few things for some projects around the house.”
My dad loves projects around the house. Even though we could probably afford to hire someone to do most of the work, ever since I was a kid he loved making lists and plans of To Do projects, complete with little diagrams he drew in ballpoint pen on graph paper.
“Yeah, I'll go,” I say. A big part of me would rather stay at home and work on lyrics. But I know my dad wants me to say yes, so I do. I push a smile onto my face as we head out the door.
The hardware store is almost in Clayton, so it's not a short drive. But at least it's not on the freeway. The counting thing with Dr. Greenberg was supposed to help me even though when he suggested using the method again, I was too anxious to try. I have no idea if it helped to do it that one day. I mean, I haven't vomited on myself on the way to any of my appointments, but I sure as hell still feel like I could every time we pull onto I-10.
“So,” my dad says as we make our way down the two-lane county road heading toward Clayton, “you're still enjoying the drums? Playing with Caroline?”
“Yeah,” I say, staring out the window, watching the fields of grass zip by. “It's good.”
“That's good. Jesse been over recently?”
“Yeah, the other day he came over after school.” Jesse and I never talked again about anything heavy duty since the day he came over for my birthday. But it's all right to just play video games together, I guess.
It's quiet in the car. It's not like when me and Caroline are quiet. Or even when Dr. Greenberg and I are quiet. It's like me and my dad are supposed to be talking. Like he's trying to have a Moment with me.
The truth is, my dad and I didn't hang out all that much before. He's really into sports and fixing stuff around the house, and even though I like basketball okay, I was always more into music and video games. I still remember the look on his face when I was ten years old and told him I didn't want to play Little League anymore. It was like he wasn't sure we were actually related.
“You know, I never played an instrument,” my dad says.
“How come?” I ask.
“Your grandparents didn't think it was a good idea,” he says, and he sort of smiles at the memory. Not at me, but just to himself.
“Why wouldn't it be a good idea?” When I told my parents I wanted to play drums when I was little, they never said I couldn't. Just that I would have to play out in the garage.
“They thought it would be better to play a sport. That it would look better when I was applying to college. So that's why I took up baseball.”
My dad's dad was a huge baseball fan. He died right before I was taken. During every World Series my grandfather would call our house from his house in Dallas like every day, and he and my dad would talk baseball statistics for hours until my head would go numb and I would be begging for a turn to watch something else on the television.
“If you could have played any instrument,” I ask, suddenly curious, “what would it have been?”
My dad laughs a little at the question.
“Drums, honestly. I loved Peter Criss in Kiss. You probably don't even know what I'm talking about.”
“Dad, I know who Kiss was. But Peter Criss? The guy whose face was a cat?”
“What's wrong with the cat?”
“It's pretty lame, Dad.” But I'm half laughing because my dad is, too, and it feels sort of nice, just the two of us laughing for a second.
We pull into the hardware store parking lot and walk inside, the little doorbell tied to the handle jingle jangling as we do, and my dad consults his list, which is written on a scrap of paper the size of his palm. I'm bored immediately, and I find myself falling behind my dad, running my hands along the cardboard boxes wedged onto shelves. Boxes full of bolts and screws and nuts and nails. I'm staring at the boxes. All of a sudden I look down and realize I've buried my right hand in a box of bolts for no reason that I can figure.
Then, out of the blue, my brain flashes on something.
“Sir, is that your truck double-parked in the front there?”
The police officer is looking right at us, first at him and then at me. He looks young, like he doesn't even have to shave every day.
“Yes, officer, I was just running in to get cigarettes.”
He answers the officer like it's nothing. He even smiles a little when he says it. That fake fucking smile he uses when we're outside.
I'm staring at the officer's name badge. R. BAILEY. All capital letters stamped into the shiny gold bar clipped to his chest. He's so close I could reach out and touch that gold name badge. I could whisper and he would hear my voice.
But I can't move. I can't talk.
My whole face is pulsating along with my heart. My whole body is vibrating right there in the middle of the Walgreens.
“Well, you have to move it pronto, my friend. You're lucky it's Friday and I'm in a good mood, or you'd be getting a ticket.”
My heart is racing so fast that I can't tell if it's even taking a break between beats. It's one long buzz.
He has to notice me. He has to see me. Can't he see my heart beating?
“Yes, sir, absolutely. Come on, Ethan, let's go, son. Gotta listen to the officer.”
No! Can't he see my heart beating? R. BAILEY, can't you see my heart beating? Can't you see it, R. BAILEY? Can't you see it?
“Ethan, you here?”
I turn and there's my dad, his face pale and panicky. He didn't know where I was for a second, I guess.
I swallow and blink and try to take a breath, but I can't. I put my hands on my knees and slump forward a little. Oh, please, please, please don't let me throw up in the hardware store.
“Ethan!” my dad walks over to me, his voice almost a shout. If it were my mom she would be hugging me, rubbing my back, hustling me out to the car. But my dad just stands there, inches away.
“Take a breath, son. Take a deep breath.” He's using his best Dr. Jorgenson voice.
I try. My breath comes out shaky.
“One more,” he commands. I do. Finally, I'm able to stand up.
My dad is clutching a tub of grout. The words
Pre-Mixed!
and
Improved Formula!
jump out at me in bright red letters across the front. My brain notices the weirdest shit at the weirdest times.
“I'm sorry,” I say.
“Should we just leave? I can come back for this.” He holds up the grout.
I shake my head no. “Just get what you need.” I try one more breath and it comes out a little smoother this time.
“Okay,” my dad says, “but why don't you stick close by while I finish up, okay?”
“Okay,” I say, and I follow him around for the rest of the trip, trying to blank out my brain.
But when we head to check out, the cashier recognizes me. It's just this thing that happens to me. At the post office and the gas station and the pharmacy. Even though it's been seven months, it still happens all the time.
“Aren't you that Ethan Jorgenson boy who went missing?” the cashier says. She's wearing a sweatshirt that reads
Blessed to be a Grandma
. Her gray hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and she's peering at me over her wire glasses, smiling like no one's ever noticed me in my life and she just has to be the first.
“Yes, ma'am,” I say, nodding. My dad glances at me out of the sides of his eyes.
“Well sweetheart, we're just so glad you're back and safe and home with us,” she says, like I live at her house or something.
“Yes, ma'am, me, too,” I answer, and I'm grateful that my dad is paying with exact change, so we don't have to stand there too much longer.
We head back into the parking lot and get into my dad's SUV.
“I'm sure in a few more months that won't happen so much,” my dad says, starting up the car.
“It's okay,” I tell him, which is what I always find myself saying when I'm not sure what else to say.
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It's two days before Christmas at Jackson Family Farm, and the city folk are out in full force, with a line snaking all the way to the front gate as families line up to get their picture taken with Carlos the Santa.
“Ho, ho, ho, and Merry Christmas, my little one,” Carlos says, hauling another toddler onto his lap and managing to grin widely even as the kid bursts into screams and starts crying and clutching at his fake beard. I have to say, he's a pretty believable Santa Claus even though he's only in his mid-thirties.
“Smile now!” coos Emma. “Say âMerry Christmas!'” She kneels down with the fancy digital camera Enrique bought and snaps three or four pictures in a row before reaching back with one hand to tug at the red velvet elf pants that are slipping down her behind.
“Aren't you so very glad I got you this job, Elf Emma?” I whisper as I hand off one mewling toddler and reach for another one.
“Oh, totally, Elf Caroline,” Emma answers, arching one eyebrow.
I spot Elf Jason further down the line, selling photo packages to desperate-faced parents eager to make this the Best Christmas Ever. I wonder how high he is right now. When our eyes meet and he offers a half grin and a lazy wave, I know the answer is very. It doesn't matter. There's still something about him that makes my body thrum.
Only one more hour until we close and then no more work at Jackson Family Farm for a full week.
My phone buzzes, and I break elf protocol to slip it out of the top of my elf boot where I've been hiding it.
Working on lyrics and bored out of my mind
My eyes dart up to make sure Enrique isn't watching me destroy the Christmas image he's worked so hard to create.
I am dressed as an elf right now dude
Not two seconds later Ethan texts back.
Pictures or it didn't happen
I laugh and slip the phone back into my boot.
“Who's that?” Emma asks, watching.
“No one.”
“Liar.”
“Fine, it's Ethan.”
Emma gives me an I-knew-it-was smirk but doesn't say anything. I know she thinks the fact that I hang out with Ethan is strange. I think it's strange, too. But whatever. It's my thing to feel strange about. Not hers. And anyway, I've known Emma long enough to know what she's capable of understanding and what she isn't.
When the last crying Beatrice or Jonas or Alexandra or Caribou or whatever has had his picture snapped, Emma and I are finally allowed to leave. There's a party tonight at this girl Fabiola's house. She's a senior, and there's going to be a keg. As we walk to the bathroom to change, Jason catches up with us.
“I'm going to go try and score some whiskey for this party,” he tells us. “Beer will not cut it.” He winks at me. Or really, he winks at us.