Authors: Andrew Gross
“T
hat was nice,” Gabby called from the kitchen after Jay had left, finishing cleaning up.
Charlie had picked up his guitar again. “Yes.” He strummed a few chords distractedly. “It was nice.”
“Here,
do something . . . ,” Gabby said to him. “You're always in your own world. Make yourself useful.” She bundled up a bag of trash and handed it to him to take out.
“All right.” He put down the guitar and, without objecting, took the bag outside to the plastic trash bins on the side of their apartment.
She was right, of course, he decidedâit was nice to have Jay out here. To feel they were close again. Like time had taken them back to a simpler and better day.
Even if . . .
Suddenly the reason Jay was there came back to him.
Even if it was because Evan had died.
He lifted the plastic trash cover and was about to drop in the bag when . . .
He barely noticed it at first.
It was just lying there, on top of yesterday's trash. Staring back at himâas if alive.
And in a way it
was
alive!
“Gabby!
” he tried to scream. “
Gabby!
” dropping the trash bag, but nothing came out.
Only a tsunami of shock and overwhelming confusion swept through him.
It was a black Nike sneaker.
His heart came to a stop.
Evan's sneaker.
The one he'd been wearing up on the rock the day he died.
The one they never found.
Hands tingling, Charlie gingerly picked it out of the trash bin. Yes, he was rightâhe was sure!
It was Evan's sneaker.
What could it possibly be doing here?
At first his heart almost exploded. Overcome with joy. This proved it, didn't it? What he'd felt all along? That Evan wouldn't have killed himself.
He turned to shout:
Look! Look what I found.
Gabby!
But then he stopped. The elation throughout his body shifted to fear. He scanned around, expecting someone to rush out of the shadows at any moment. But no one was there.
He held the sneaker like a priceless relic, tears welling in his eyes.
He knew he couldn't tell anyone. Not Gabbyâpoor Gabbyâwho would die herself just to see this.
Not even Jay.
No, no one could see this. Because he knew who had put it there. The past had brought it. Just as he always feared.
The past.
That's what it meant.
That the past had found him.
And there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing he could do to stop it now.
I
took Charlie and Gabby to view Evan's body the next day, and it was one of the toughest things I ever had to do.
He had a deep gash in the back of his head. Some reconstructive work had been needed. He had a calm look on his face, that same little smirk, like he knew more than the rest of us, seeming finally at peace.
Gabby kissed him all over his face and hands and said her good-byes. Charlie seemed almost wary, saying once with his eyes wet, “I forgive you, son.”
The decision was made to cremate him later that afternoon.
It was a long, quiet ride back to Grover Beach, and Gabby spent much of it in the back weeping. Charlie just sat there with her, holding her hand. I got off the freeway and drove down the hill to drop them back at their apartment.
A thick manila envelope was leaning against the front door. It was from the county hospital.
Evan's doctor's report.
I didn't know if it was pressure from the TV station or from Janie, the nurse I had spoken with. I was just happy to see it there.
I asked to read it over first and Charlie and Gabby agreed. I took it back to the hotel, but instead of going to my room, I ordered a beer at the bar and took it out to the grounds in back that ran along the bluffs overlooking the ocean. People were always milling around, observing the gulls and pelicans that congregated on the cliff, scanning the waves for a meal. I'd sat out there to clear my head a couple of times before.
I found a bench and took out the thick report. Central Coast Medical Center. Patient:
Erlich,
Evan. Patient #3233A32.
It began with his admitting evaluation.
August 23.
It stated that the patient had attempted to purchase a gun and that his parents had called the police. That Evan had demonstrated violent behavior toward them. There was a box with various courses of action:
Intent to harm self
and
Intent to harm someone else
were both checked.
The report went on to say that “the patient was admitted in a hostile and agitated state and had exhibited extreme physical behavior toward his parents and resistance to officers on scene and was unresponsive to efforts to calm him.” He was sedated: Risperdal, Klonopin, and Ativan. He was placed in a treatment cell and put under full observation.
Day two, Evan was still a mess: “Patient appears calmer, responsive, but remains agitated and depressed. Admits to depression, feelings of isolation, hostility toward family, but has not taken his medicine in weeks. He feels the need to get a gun to protect himself from them.” There were further observations with comments like “agitated” and “anxious.” “Still having thoughts of suicide.” “Protective watch continued.”
As well as the heavy doses of sedatives and benzodiazepines.
I put it down, my gaze drifting out to the congregation of gulls and pelicans on the rocks.
“Hey, friend, got a buck for an Iraq War vet?”
A panhandler had wandered up to me in disheveled clothes and carrying a hand-scrawled cardboard sign.
IRAQ WAR VET. NEED FOOD.
“Any chance you can help me out, chief? It's Veterans Day tomorrow. Can you spare me something for a meal?”
I looked up at him. “Veterans Day's in November, chief. Nice try.”
“Dude, every day is Veterans Day.” The guy grinned. “When you're looking for something to eat.”
Our eyes met and the spark of humor in his eyes along with his gaunt, haggard appearance made my resistance soften. I thought of Charlie, who had been down and out for many years himself. I reached into my pocket and came out with a five, and handed it to him. “Here. You take it easy, man.”
“Dude!
” His steel-gray eyes were suddenly bright and he cocked a hand at me and pointed, as if aiming a gun, making me wonder if he had ever served a day. But I wasn't caring. He backed down the path with a grin, his oversize pants brushing the pavement, and waved back at me. “You have a good day now, chief.”
I gave him a wave in return, reflecting that the contrast in this town was startling. Beautiful homes, a stunning coastline. But also a kind of refuge for the down-and-out, whom life had passed by.
I smiled as the guy walked away, waving at me one last time. “See ya around.”
I went back to Evan's report. I wasn't sure what I was looking to find, but in the next two days there were pages and pages detailing how Evan had gradually become more responsive. Seroquel was added to his treatment, two hundred milligrams, a massive dose. By the third day it seemed to have done its trick and blunted his rage. “Patient now denies any real anger toward his parents.” “Now admits the gun was meant for him.”
No kidding.
He was a zombie, Anna Aquino said. Completely snowed.
On his last day, he had even begun to express remorse. “Patient indicates a desire not to return home as it is a volatile situation. It is suggested an intermediary living situation might be located.”
That made me angry. Anyone professional had to know the demons that were still lurking inside.
In the final pages, the report went on to note how Evan understood that he had to stay on his meds and even expressed a desire to get better. “Patient feels that the current environment at home may not be compatible with that goal. Social services is looking for an appropriate outside environment.”
Evan's scrawled, semilegible signature was on the release form, along with Mitchell Derosa, Supervising MDs.
Maybe Sherwood was right. Suicide or accident, Evan was dead. I was leaving in the morning. What did it even matter if the system had let him down?
The kid was crazy, delusional.
He was talking to the furnace, for Christ's sake.
The die was really cast the day he was born.
T
hat Wednesday night, I stopped off at Charlie's to drop off the report and say good-bye.
To my surprise, they had a couple of people over. Two of Evan's friends: One was Pam, a cashier from the store where Evan had bagged groceries for a while. She had a row of hoops in her ear and wore one of those gold-plated necklaces with her name in large script.
The other was a friend from Evan's high school days, Miguel, a heavyset Latino kid with a shaved head and baggy denim shorts down to his knees, accompanied by his mom.
Both of the friends seemed to be genuinely sorrowed by Evan's death. They traded stories of him at the store and at school. How he was always the smart one. “Always knew how to do things, you know, bro,” Miguel said brightly. How he used to dazzle everyone on the court. “That boy had game.”
“Yes, my son had a chance to really be something.” Gabby nodded, her eyes glistening.
While they chatted, I excused myself and went out with Charlie to the tiny, fenced-in backyard. “Here . . .” I handed him back the medical report. “I made a copy at the front desk. I'll take it back with me if you don't mind.”
His long, unruly hair was clipped back in a beret. “What does it say?”
“It says he was sick, Charlie. That he needed to stay on his meds and be in a place he could be observed.
The rest . . .”
I shrugged and held myself back. “I think they treated him with the intent to make him better. He just needed a lot more than three days in a county ward.”
“I understand.” He nodded. We sat down on his lawn chairs. “You're leaving tomorrow?”
“In the morning. Look, you have to let me know what you want me to do, Charlie. If you want me to find you a lawyer. If you want, I'll make some inquiries for you. But you ought to talk to someone. A social worker or a grief counselor. I'm not gonna be here for you.”
My brother shrugged, a cast of inevitability clouding his face. “I told you before, we can't make waves, Jay. We have to accept who we are. Anyway, what does it matter for Gabby and me? It's all over for us now. It would just be nice to get some answers.”
“I wish I could have done that for you, Charlie.”
“You did, Jay. You have any idea how much it means to us, you coming out here like you did? You did everything.”
He reached forward and put his hand on mine and squeezed. In that moment, he was no longer my crazy, wayward brother whose life had spun out of control, but someone who was every bit my equal yet was powerless and needed me. Whose life would never be the same.
I pulled him to me with a hug. “I truly wish it could have been different, Charlie. And I don't just mean with Evan. I mean with all of it. Dad. You and me. Our lives.”
His grip tightened. “I wish that too, Jay.” I suddenly felt tears dampen my shoulder. “I love you, buddy. You're all I have . . .”
“I love you too, Charlie.”
“You go back to that beautiful family of yours . . .”
“I will. Unless something changes, right?” I patted him warmly on the back and pulled away.
“Anyway what ever changes with us”âhe smiledâ“right?”
We went back inside. Pam and Miguel and his mom had stood up to leave. “I'm really sorry for your loss.” Miguel put out his hand to me.
“Thanks,” I said. I asked what he was doing with himself.
“Trying to get back into school. I've had some setbacks, you know. But I'm getting it back together. I start Cuesta in the spring.” Cuesta was the local junior college where Evan had gone for a semester.
“That's good.” I walked him outside to the carport, where his mom and Gabby were saying good-bye. “Keep it together.”
He shook his head confoundedly. “You know, things could have been really different with Evan, man. The dude was smart. He used to show me how to do my math. Like it was nothing to him. He had a way out of this place. Not like the rest of us . . .”
He took a step toward his mom's van, then turned back around. “You know, it was like with that cop. The one who was always looking for him . . .”
“What cop?”
“That old dude. He came around to the courts a few times, looking for Evan. First, maybe a month ago . . . Evan wasn't around. Then he was back, a couple of weeks ago . . .”
I stared. “This cop was looking for Evan?”
“Yeah. I rang Evan up and he came down. Two weeks ago. That was the last time I ever saw him. We were all jiving him: âWhat do you got going on, dude? You thinkin' 'bout becoming a snitch?' My boy just laughed and said how the guy was only showing an interest in him. Said he was trying to get him to take the test.”
“What test?
” I asked, my heart suddenly jumping a beat.
“You know,” said Miguel, “the test to become a cop.”
It was like a switch was flicked, everything inside me brought to an immediate stop. I flashed back to what Gabby had told me that first day. Evan staring at the furnace, hearing voices coming from it.
They want me to become a cop.
My son was sick,
Gabby had said
. He was always dreaming.
You'll see,
Evan had said with that all-knowing smirk of his.
“You know his name?” I asked Miguel, my pulse picking up again. “This cop? It's important, Miguel.”
He shook his head. “Nah. Just some older dude. Maybe fifty, sixty. White hair. Not from around here, though. He showed us his badge. From somewhere down south. Santa Barbara, I think he said. I'm sorry, mister.”
“That's okay.”
It might be nothing, I realized. Just another one of Evan's ramblings.
His stupid dreams,
as Gabby said. One that happened to be connected to the thinnest thread of truth.
This cop, who wanted him to take the test.
Or maybe it did mean something.
I started after Miguel, who'd opened the van door. “You remember anything else about him? That cop. Other than he had white hair and said he wasn't from around here.”
“I don't know, man . . .” He scratched his shaved head. “He had kind of a limp. And, oh yeah, he did have something on his face. Like a birthmark, you know? This red blotch. On his cheek.
Here
.” He touched the left side of his face.
“Thanks, Miguel,” I said.
They backed out and I watched them drive away. I reminded myself I was leaving. Come morning, I was going to be in my car, on the way back to LAX. Then on a plane. Home.
I had things pulling me back.
But I couldn't suppress the weirdest feeling, like the world had suddenly shifted.
Something just changed.
And a thought wormed into my brain, ever so slightly:
What if Evan wasn't quite as crazy as everyone thought?