Afterward (6 page)

Realizing it wasn't a dream. Realizing it was real life. My life.

“Don't cry. I don't like crying.”

An empty pack of Marlboro Lights on the floorboard. Gum wrappers. Streaks of mud.

I shake my head, like I can shake out the thoughts. I blink a couple of times. My heart is racing really hard now, and I cough a few times to keep the nausea back.

Jesse takes a big breath and still doesn't look at me. But he says again, “The number of times I fucking hated myself for calling you up and asking you to come over to my house. Dude, you can't even know.”

I don't know what to say. I think if I say anything I could puke. I run my thumbs up and down my knuckles, over and over again.

“I just…,” Jesse tries again, shifting in the uncomfortable silence. “I mean … shit. Maybe I shouldn't have even brought this up.”

I want him to leave right now, and this makes me feel like an asshole. In the same way I feel like an asshole when my mom hugs me, and I desperately want her to let me go. In the same way I feel like an asshole when my dad delivers one of his little pep talks about how great I'm doing, and I want to go in my room and shut the door and sleep until he goes away.

How come I'm an asshole to people who care about me?

There's more silence, and I still wish he would go away, but finally I manage a soft, “Don't worry about it, man.” But I can't look at him when I say it.

“Yeah?” I hear Jesse answer, and when I do glance over at him he's finally looking at me, trying to make eye contact. His body relaxes a little. It must be nice to feel so much better about something so easily.

“Yeah,” I say. “Seriously, man. I don't think about it like that. Really.”

And in a way this is true. For all the years I was with Marty, my mind blocked out that day in May. But since I've come back—since I've been in the same bedroom and the same kitchen and the same town as before—I have thought about Jesse asking me over all those years before. About him calling our house phone from his new cell phone and me being jealous that he could call me from his own number. Being pissed for a second that his parents got him his own phone and my parents told me I needed to wait until I turned twelve to get one.

What if I had missed his phone call?

What if I had gone outside to shoot hoops and my mom had gone into the bathroom at just that moment and neither of us had heard the phone ring?

What if I had decided it was too hot to bike over? That I wanted to stay home instead?

Maybe I'd be in tenth grade at Dove Lake High instead of sitting at home with a tutor doing school online, completely screwed up and sleeping with the lights on.

Maybe.

Jesse is fiddling with his controller now, and I wonder if he wants to play some more. But I don't feel like playing. I just want to be by myself. Or better, disappear. Then my mom walks in and starts asking us if we want a snack.

“Actually Mrs. Jorgenson, I got to get going,” Jesse says, standing up.

“All right,” my mom answers, and she's reading my face, trying to make sure I'm okay. She's constantly checking in with me. Every millisecond of every second, she's scanning my eyes and my nose and my mouth to make sure I'm not about to lose it or something. Sometimes I feel like a science experiment.

I try to hold it together, nodding. My mom and I walk Jesse to the door.

“I'll try to stop by next week,” he says.

“Cool,” I say. But I think he might never come over again, and this makes me relieved and depressed at the exact same time.

“Cool,” Jesse says, and he makes his way over to his mom's Camry and drives off, giving me a little wave as he pulls out. No guy hug this time.

“Did you have fun?” my mom asks after I shut the front door, her eyebrows popping up.

“Yeah, sure,” I say. I might as well tell her what I know she wants to hear.

“What do you think you want for dinner?” she asks me, her eyebrows still up like two umbrellas.

“Anything's good. Maybe mac and cheese.” I just need to get out of here. I need to breathe a little.

“Okay, mac and cheese it is,” she says, smiling.

She heads back toward the kitchen but I say, “I'm going out to the garage. To practice.”

“Oh, that's great, Ethan,” my mom says, and yeah, when she looks back at me, she tears up. Again.

Outside, I take a deep inhale as I watch the garage door roll back like I'm the winner on some game show and here is my prize. A Ludwig in deep blue. I gaze at my drums and slide onto the stool, taking the smooth sticks into my hands. And I start playing, wailing away until I'm sure my arms are about to fly off. Until my mind is nothing but machine gun beats.

 

CAROLINE—148 DAYS AFTERWARD

Because it's Dove Lake. Because it's only a couple of thousand people who call this place home. Because Emma and I even drove past it a few times in the days after Ethan and Dylan were found to gawk at the news trucks hanging around. (Emma wanted to do it because it was something exciting that was happening in a place where nothing exciting ever did, but to me, it just felt creepy.) But because of all of these reasons, I know exactly where to find the house where Ethan Jorgenson lives. It's one of those big, beautiful homes with a wraparound front porch and a landscaped garden and a giant backyard that gently nestles up against Dove Lake Creek. It's an older neighborhood, but most of the homes only look old on the outside and are probably totally new and Pottery Barnish on the inside—not that I've ever been inside any of them. The people who live here are mostly people with money who came here to get away from city life. Some of them don't even live here year-round. They just come and spend the weekends and long breaks.

Must be nice.

As I bike down Ethan's street, I catch glimpses of the cute Halloween decorations in the gardens and yards of these big fancy houses. Clusters of pumpkins by front doors and gauzy fake spiders' webs pulled over bushes and hedges. Emma and I would always trick-or-treat in this neighborhood when we were little because the people who lived here gave out the best candy—whole Snickers (not just the mini size), Ring Pops, and jumbo-sized bags of M&Ms. Dr. Jorgenson didn't give out candy on account of being a dentist, but he and Mrs.Jorgenson would answer the door and give out glow-in-the-dark spider stickers and temporary tattoos of ghosts and witches.

I remember during those years when Ethan was missing and we would come and ring the doorbell. They would appear, the two of them, Mrs. Jorgenson's face searching ours as we stood on their porch, our bags outstretched and open. I remember her distracted half smile as her eyes skimmed over us, taking us in one by one. As if she almost expected Ethan to show up on her front doorstep dressed as SpongeBob SquarePants or Captain America.

After two years I stopped trick-or-treating there. It was too sad.

But here I am on my ten-speed in the driveway. My eyes search the house, wondering if I could just go up and ring the doorbell and ask this guy—this poor kid who suffered what was probably some sick, crazy shit for four years—what went down with my brother so maybe I can get an idea of how to help him. Assuming he can even be helped.

Then I hear the drumming coming from around back, from the detached garage.

Whoever it is, it's pretty good. I mean, it's no Keith Moon, but still. Decent.

I drop my bike on the front yard and head around toward the source of the noise. And there he is in the flesh. Ethan Jorgenson. Carlotta King interview subject. Nationally known crime victim. Small town cautionary tale.

He's wailing away on a Ludwig. Deep blue. That set must have cost more than one of my dad's weekly paychecks.

He doesn't see me at first. His eyes are closed, and he's playing along to some song making its way out of some fancy wireless speakers near his feet. I listen for a few seconds. It's some crappy song by Green Day. God, I hate that band so much. Not only are they ancient, the lead singer's facial expressions always look like he's about to have a seizure or something. But Ethan is drumming like he's in some perfect mental place. He's wearing a light blue polo and dark jeans and a soft smile. He looks weirdly old to me. I think it's because even though I saw him briefly in the gym during those news conferences and, of course, on the Carlotta King show, in my head he's still the same middle schooler staring at me from those MISSING posters in his dad's waiting room. That eleven-year-old boy wearing some Abercrombie shirt and trying to seem cool.

I wait until he's done and he opens his eyes. When he sees me he gasps out loud.

Way to go, Caroline. Great plan sneaking up on a kidnapping victim.

“Can I … are you…,” he stands up, his expression confused.

“Hey,” I say, holding my hands up in an I-bring-you-no-harm-take-me-to-your-leader pose. “I'm sorry if I scared you. I'm, um … I'm Caroline Anderson? I'm the older sister of … Dylan? Um…”

The lunacy of this plan hits me hard. This entire idea seemed much better inside my head when I was stoned.

I hear a back door slamming and turn around to see Mrs. Jorgenson heading over to us across the backyard. She's wearing some super classy summer getup. Like, who wears khaki shorts with a belt? She must not buy her clothes at the Fallas Paredes or the Wal-Mart like the rest of us, that's for sure.

“Hi!” she shouts way too loudly. “Well, look at who I've spotted!” Like I'm a rare bird or something.

“Hi, Mrs. Jorgenson,” I say.

“Hello, Caroline!” Her smile is really big and wide, and I can see the tops of her gums.

At the mention of my name, Ethan's face seems to register who I am. He sits back down at his Ludwig really slowly, and I can feel his eyes first on me and then on his mom and then on me again. But he's gripping his drumsticks so tight his knuckles are white, and suddenly I feel like the biggest jerk on the planet for even being here.

“So…,” Mrs. Jorgenson says, still bright as the Texas sun, “how is your family? How is Dylan doing?” Her face does this weird cross of maniacally upbeat and super concerned, and I'm surprised her eyes don't cross.

“He's … okay,” I say. “We're just … getting back to normal.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Jorgenson says, nodding vigorously. “It takes time. Lots of time. That's what our therapists have been saying. Time, time, time.” She smiles again. Too big. She's nervous I'm here. She doesn't want to be rude, but I'm making her anxious. With every word she scoots microscopically closer toward Ethan. I try to cut the tension.

“Is that a real Ludwig?” I ask Ethan even though I know it is.

Ethan frowns a little, and his eyes go all wide. He peeks down at his drums like he needs to check.

“Uh … yeah?”

“Wow,” I say. “It's totally gorgeous.”

Mrs. Jorgenson is watching us. Watching me. Deciding what to do.

“Thanks,” Ethan says. “I just got it. For my birthday.”

“Hey, happy birthday,” I say.

“Thanks,” Ethan offers again. He glances at his mother.

Silence.

“I don't drum myself,” I say, and now I think I sound like the nervous one, just talking spastically, filling the air up with my words. “I play guitar,” I tell him. “It's this cheap little Fender Squier. I mean, it's not fancy like this Ludwig or anything. But it's still kind of cool, I guess.”

Ethan is staring at me. When I mention my guitar, he breaks into this goofy, lopsided grin for the briefest of seconds. It's the same grin that stared at me from the MISSING posters. He's got a touch of stubble around it now, but it's the same grin. The same goofiness.

“Well,” Mrs. Jorgenson says. “Can I … would you…” She crosses her arms. She uncrosses them. “Would you two like some lemonade?”

“Oh,” I answer, “I … well…,” but Ethan gives her a half nod and I hear myself mumbling, “Sure, that would be nice.”

As Mrs. Jorgenson crosses the backyard toward the door, she looks at us over her shoulder three times.

“So,” I say, leaning back, sliding my hands into the back pockets of my shorts. “This is a pretty cool gift.”

“Yeah,” Ethan says, rubbing his thumb over a drumstick. Now that Mrs. Jorgenson isn't here, I should try to start in on my plan. But how? Just wander in here and ask this trauma victim why my little brother keeps repeating the words
damn, damn piece of cake
all the time? And why he can't even go outside our house anymore?

It's not like Ethan and I were friends before he was taken. He was a year behind me in school. You don't live in a town like Dove Lake and not coexist constantly, like you're all a bunch of marbles in the same pinball game, bouncing off of and into one another all day long, most of you looking for a way out. But we don't really know each other.

I normally hate it when people don't just say what they're really thinking, but just because we've lived here together for most of our childhoods doesn't mean I can come right out and just ask him about what happened. No, I need to “engage” with him. At Jackson Family Farm, Enrique is always telling me to engage with customers. Build rapport. At the farm I do it so maybe I can get the lady from the city to buy one more jar of Meemaw's Kuntry Kitchen Preserves. With Ethan I need to do it to figure out just what happened to my sweet baby brother. Just what that bastard did to him.

“So,” I start, “what were you playing?” I know it was Green Day, but I'm just trying to get him to relax. Maybe I'm trying to relax, too.

“Green Day,” he says.

“Oh,” I answer. “Have you ever listened to The White Stripes?”

Before he can answer, Mrs. Jorgenson is back out with two glasses of lemonade in these cut crystal glasses that are fancier than anything my family owns. These have to be the two fastest poured glasses of lemonade in the history of the world. Ice cubes clink together as she hands me mine.