What You Left Behind (23 page)

I hear the sound of someone pushing buttons on a phone. “Deanna? It's Alan Kang…I'm fine, how are you? Listen, I'm calling because of Ryden. I just got to this party at Shoshanna Harvey's and he's here and got in a fight with Dave, and he's really upset and I don't really know what to do…yeah, I think so…yeah…I can try to get him in my car, or maybe you can come—”

“No!” I shout, stopping him.

“What?”

“No way.” I shake my head. It hurts like hell. “I'm not going anywhere. I'm staying right here.”

“Ryden, you can't stay here. You're hurt. And you're going to freeze to death.”

“Tell my mother she is abslo…I mean ab
so
lutely not allowed to come here.” I turn my face into the ground. Smells like dirt. “Hope can't see this. And she better not leave her with that Deckland guy.”

“Did you hear that?” Alan says into the phone. “Yeah, so…oh. No, I think he'll be fine. He's conscious, obviously… What? Who…? Okay…okay, I will. I'll call you back.”

Alan grabs my phone from my pocket. This time he walks away to make his call. He's probably calling an ambulance and doesn't want me to hear. Or the mental institution people to have them take me away and lock me up.

“Aimee?” I ask. “You still here?”

“Yeah,” she says.

“Can you go away please?”
Everyone, just go away.

There's a pause. “Sure, Ryden.” She walks away. “I'm going to wait in the car, Alan.”

“I'll meet you there,” he calls back.

Hallelujah. Now I can wallow in my self-pity without interruption.

It's quiet. Or as quiet as it can be with a rager inside the house a few yards away. But this little spot on the ground near the bushes is peaceful. I have nothing left—no more tears, no more words, no more booze or food or puke. I'm done.

It's cold, but cold is nothing. I wrap my arms around myself and drift off to sleep.

• • •

I wake to someone's hands on my face. Someone's speaking, but I can't make out the words. My good eye flies open, and the whole left side of my face pulsates with agony.
Damn, Dave really got me good.
The cool hands on my cheek feel nice though.

I try to focus through the dark. I don't think I'm drunk anymore. I blink a few times, and the face in front of me becomes clear. Her nose ring is a tiny gold hoop today.

Joni.

“Joni?” I sit up.

Her fingers graze lightly across my bruises. “What happened?” she whispers.

For the time it takes me to suck in one long, deep breath and let it out slowly, everything's okay.

And then the situation becomes real.

Holy shit. Joni cannot be here.

I glance to my left, where Alan and Aimee are standing a few feet away, watching. I thought they left. But no, of course they didn't. My mom told Alan to call Joni. That's why he needed my phone. They were just letting me sleep while they waited for her to show up.

“How did you get here?” I ask, stalling.

“I borrowed Elijah's car. What's going on?”

“It's a long story,” I say, grabbing her hand and removing it from my face.

“Well, lucky for you, I've got nothing but time,” she says. She sits on the ground next to me and rummages through her giant bag, producing an oversized scarf. She wraps it around my shoulders. I'm instantly warmer.

“What did Alan say when he called you?” I ask.

“He said you were drunk and got in a fight and wouldn't leave. He said your mom said if anyone could talk sense into you, it would be me. I don't know why she thought that; she doesn't even know me.”

“She was right though,” Alan says. “He's already acting more normal.”

I sigh. “Joni, this is Alan. And that's Aimee.”

“We met,” Joni says.

“Right.”

There are a few moments of silence.

I wish I could stand up, take Joni's hand, and transport her far away from here without saying a word. But there are three pairs of eyes on me, and they want answers. Joni wants to know what's going on, and Alan surely wants to know who the hell Joni is and why my mom thought she would be the answer to all my problems. I don't know what Aimee wants. Probably to go home.

Okay, easy part first.

“Joni and I work together at Whole Foods. She goes to Clinton Central. We're…uh…friends.”

Joni's eyes are flat. “Friends. Sure. We'll go with that.”

“You know what I mean,” I say to her, trying to lower my voice but knowing Alan and Aimee can hear every word. I lace my fingers through hers. “We never talked about…”

“You guys are going out?” Alan asks. He doesn't sound amused. “Isn't that, you know, kind of soon?”

I close my eyes. Guess we've come to the hard part already. “Alan, please, shut up.”

“Soon?” Joni asks. “Soon after what?”

I open my eyes to find Alan staring at me like I've got salamanders crawling out of my ears. “She doesn't
know
?”

“Ohh, is he talking about your ex?” Joni asks, trying to catch up. “I guess I knew about that. How long ago did you guys break up, anyway?”

“Jesus, Ryden,” Alan says. “Does she even know about Hope?”

“Who's Hope?” Joni looks back and forth between us. “Is that your ex?”

Alan groans and looks to the sky in exasperation. “I can't believe this. No,” he says. “Meg is his ex. And she's not his
ex
, she's dead. Hope is their daughter. Come on, Aimee, we've wasted enough time here. Let's go.” He drops my phone at my feet.

The whole time Alan is giving his rather succinct little speech, I watch Joni. Her eyes don't leave mine, so I have a perfect view of the betrayal taking hold with each revelation.

I squeeze her hand and beg her, silently, to stay, to please just hear me out.

But then Alan backtracks to us. “Oh, also, I'm not going to pick up Hope from day care or watch her after school anymore. I know you've been taking advantage of me wanting to know Hope, and for a while, I didn't care because it made me feel close to Meg, but I'm not putting up with it anymore. I'm joining yearbook, and from now on, I'm going to live my own life.”

“Go ahead,” I mutter. “I'm done with soccer anyway.”

Alan stares at me, openmouthed. “You're unbelievable.”

Then he and Aimee leave—for good this time—and Joni yanks her hand from mine and scoots back so no parts of our bodies are touching. But she stays.

It's just me and Joni, sitting on the grass on Shoshanna's front lawn.

“Start at the beginning,” she says levelly. “And don't leave anything out.”

I nod.

I know under more normal circumstances, I'd be feeling all kinds of stuff. But we passed normal a long time ago, and now I'm numb. (Emotionally numb, anyway. Physically—my face is killing me.) I've got nothing left, which is probably why I'm able to tell her the story in such detail. It's a book report, not an analysis—only facts, no feelings. It's amazingly simple.

I tell Joni about Meg and the cancer and the pregnancy and how she died and how I thought it was my fault and how I have a baby whom I don't quite know what to do with. I tell her about Mabel and Meg's parents and the journals and what I found out today. I tell her about the game and UCLA. I tell her what happened with Shoshanna and how Dave beat the crap out of me and how I know I deserved so much worse.

When I'm done, I wait. Joni's face is blank, like her brain is overloaded with data and has been forced into shutdown mode.

I wish she would put her hand on my face again.

People start to leave the party. It must be late. I wonder how long I slept.

Eventually Joni stands. She doesn't reach down to help me up, but she waits for me to join her. “Let's go,” she says once I'm on two feet again. “I'm driving you home.”

“My car is here.”

“And you're in no shape to drive it.”

True. “Let me just get something out of it.” I walk over to my car, each step sending shooting pain through my body, and grab my soccer bag. I don't really need my cleats and dirty uniform, but the purple journal is in there. As much as I never want to read it ever again, I still want to keep it close. I can't explain why.

We get into Elijah's car and drive in silence, except for me telling her what streets to take. I check my phone—there's a ton of texts from my mom asking if I'm okay and telling me she spoke to Alan and she knows that Joni came and that I'm not dead but that it would be nice if I called or texted her myself.

I'm ok
, I text.
On my way home. Love u. Sorry.

I watch the dotted line in the middle of the road skip by.

Why
won't Joni say anything?

“It's that house. Second one on the right.”

She pulls into the spot in the driveway usually reserved for the Sable.

Should I get out? Is this it? Is she not going to acknowledge anything I told her?

“Um, so, thanks,” I say.

She stares at the house. I'm about to open the car door when she asks, “Which window is yours?”

“That one.” I point to the window over the garage. “Why?”

She shrugs. “I'm trying to picture where you've been going to sleep every night, thinking it's perfectly okay to lie to me like this.”

“Joni, I—”

“Nothing you can say to me right now will help your case, so you should really quit while you're ahead.”

“I'm sorry. I know I should have told you. I just…I needed you, okay?” Amazingly, I must have some small amount of pride left, because it's embarrassing to admit this. And yes, I know how ridiculous that sounds, after getting the shit beaten out of me and sobbing like a baby in front of a houseful of my classmates and having to go home wearing a unicorn-patterned scarf. “I knew I would lose you if you found out the truth, and I couldn't risk it.”

Joni looks really tired. “You think I wouldn't have liked you if I knew you had a baby and that your girlfriend died? Last I checked, those aren't crimes.”

“You said you don't like kids.”

Her face crinkles like she can't believe I said that. All right, I can't believe I said that either—obviously that's not the real reason I didn't tell her. “Jesus, Ryden.” She sighs. “It would have been a lot to deal with, but it would have been okay.”

A match is struck inside me, producing a tiny flame of hope. “Really?”

“Really.”

“So…you're not mad?”

She sort of laughs and looks back at my bedroom window. “Oh, I'm so mad I can't see straight.”

The match is snuffed out. “I'm confused.”

“Ryden, you're not stupid. So don't pretend to be. I'm mad because you
lied
to me, you asshole. I was honest with you about
everything
. I told you stuff I would never tell anyone, and you made a mockery of that.”

“I'm so sor—”

“Don't, okay? I'm not looking for an apology. What I need is an explanation. Why? Why did you lie?”

I hesitate.

“You owe it to me to be honest about this, at least,” she says.

Maybe so. But it's not going to sound good.

“Ryden.”

I pull the scarf tight around my shoulders. It's pretty warm in the car, but the scarf is like a security blanket. I open my mouth, and this is what comes out: “I wanted a chance to be
me
again. I guess I saw that chance in you.”

Joni nods. “So you used me. My feelings never factored in at all, did they? You're no better than Jeff and Karen.”

“That's not exactly—” I stop there. She's right. I used her. I lied to her and had sex with her but didn't really think about
her
during any of it. Like I was about to do with Shoshanna tonight. And exactly the way Meg used me—as a means to an end.

There's a long stretch of silence. Minutes and minutes go by, and I still don't know what to say. Joni picks at the stitching on Elijah's seat cover.

I need to go inside soon and let Joni leave. So eventually I say, “I hope someday you can forgive me.”

A beat goes by, and then she says, pissed off and dejected all at once, “You really need to figure out a way to make peace with your life, Ryden.” She starts the car engine. “And please, don't drag me or anyone else into it until you do.”

Mom is sitting on the stairs when I enter the house, her head resting on the banister. If I thought Joni looked tired, Mom looks as if she hasn't slept in a year. Her eyes are strained, the skin around them dry and taut. All the worry she's been hiding for the past year has finally sprung free.

She doesn't say anything, but she watches me, really
looks
at me, like whatever she's seeing is just as bad and just as new as what I see on her.

I sit on the step below her, put my head in her lap, and hug her legs. Her arms go around me, and she strokes my hair.

“I'm sorry,” I mumble.

“Shhh,” she says. “All that matters is that you're okay.
Are
you okay, bud?”

I nod.

“Good.”

“Where's Declan?”

“I asked him to go home.”

I lift my head. “Because of me? Mom, I'm so—”

“It's fine, Ryden. He'll be back. I thought it should be you and me when you got home, in case you wanted to talk.”

I lean my head back against the wall. Suddenly it's hard to support my own weight. I feel like absolute shit. “I can't talk tonight,” I tell her.

She nods and stands up. “Come on. Bedtime.”

I follow her up the stairs and down the hall, dragging my feet and using the walls as support. We part ways at our respective doors, but I pause.

“Where's Hope?”

“She's asleep in my room. I figured that would probably be best tonight.”

Wow. That's the first time Mom has taken Hope at night. Like, ever. I consider telling her that she doesn't have to. In a weird way, I've actually gotten used to Hope sleeping—and crying—in my room every night.

But all I say is, “'Kay. Thanks. 'Night.”

• • •

I open my eyes and know immediately something's off. But my head is pounding and my face is sore and my mouth tastes like I swallowed a handful of sand and I don't have to look to know that my stomach is bruised. So I can't quite place it at first.

But then I realize: a
lot
of somethings are off.

The room is quiet. I didn't wake up to the sound of crying. In fact, Hope isn't in her crib or in the room at all.

The sunlight coming through the blinds is different than it should be. It's brighter and hitting my bed at a weird angle. It must be late in the day. I check the clock. Two p.m. Holy shit.

I'm supposed to be at work.

I get up as fast as I can, which isn't very fast at all, grab some clothes, and head to the bathroom to jump—okay, inch slowly and carefully—into the shower. I meet Mom in the hall. Hope is saddled to her chest, looking alert and happy and curious, going “Da-da-da-da” like the world is just aces.

“You're up,” Mom says.

“I'm late.”

She shakes her head. “I called in for you. I told them you got injured at the game last night and need a few days off.”

I blink. “We need the money.”

“I know. But you need some time off, Ry.” She looks at me seriously.

“Is my face really that bad?” I reach up to touch the tender flesh around my eye.

“It's not your best look. But that's not what I meant. I meant you need some time off
emotionally
.”

Truer words…

Since I apparently don't have anywhere to be, I head to the living room and fall onto the couch. Mom follows and moves my feet aside so she can sit too.

“Hey, Ryden?”

“Yeah?” I say into the couch cushion.

“Wanna fill me in?”

Nope, don't particularly feel like rehashing the Shakespearean tragedy that is my life. But she took the baby all night and let me sleep until two, so she's kind of my hero. I owe her one.

I roll over to face her and stick to the highlight reel: the journal, quitting the team, the fight with Dave, all that shit with Joni. The end.

She sits there, nodding to herself, like she expected most of it. Alan must have told her more than I thought.

Then she says, so quietly I almost think she's talking to herself, “You found the second journal.”

“Um, yeah. Didn't I just tell you I did?”

“No, I know, but…” She trails off, as if she's putting together some sort of mental puzzle.

“What? What's going on?”

She lets out a long, resigned sigh, gets up, and walks down the hall to her room. A few moments later, she reappears, holding a notebook.

I bolt upright, causing my head to feel like it's punching itself from the inside out.

As she comes closer, the notebook fills every corner of my vision. Thin. Single subject. New-looking. Pink. I'm absolutely positive I've never seen this one before.

“Tell me that is not what I think it is.” My voice cracks.

Mom's face is sad and apologetic. “She gave it to me a couple of days before she died,” she says. “When I was over visiting.”

I feel like my heart has stopped. I didn't check my mom's room because I thought there was no way…I mean, I trusted…I thought surely if she had one of Meg's notebooks, she would tell me. What the fuck!

“I
asked
you if you had one,” I yell. “I was going crazy looking for these things, and you
swore
you hadn't seen any.”

“She made me promise,” Mom whispers. “She said I could only give you this one if you already had the other two. She seemed really serious about it. But apart from that…” She takes a breath. “I…I didn't know what was in it, so I figured waiting a little while, until you…got a handle on things might be a smart idea. Maybe I was wrong. I don't know. I'm so sorry, bud.” She gently sets the book on the cushion between us. Then, after a few moments' hesitation, she leaves the room.

This is un-fucking-believable.

I stare at the glossy pink cover like it's dripping with blood. Nothing good ever comes from these things. Whatever's inside will only make matters worse. I don't know how the situation could get any worse, but it always does.

I should burn the book without reading it.

But of course I won't. 'Cause I'm a fucking idiot.

I open to the back cover.

Mabel

Alan

Ryden

I take a deep breath. Whatever is in here, I know it will be the last thing Meg will ever tell me.

I flip back to the beginning. Like the last book, most of the pages are empty, with just the first few pages filled in with Meg's small, messy handwriting. But unlike the last journal or any of the others, this one begins with two insanely improbable words:

Dear
Ryden

This isn't a journal. This is a letter. To me. From Meg.

My heart starts beating again, pumping overtime to make up for lost time.

There's no date at the top, but it was most likely written after
Alan
, which means it was written sometime between February 5 and February 15—the day she died. No, it had to have been before February 15, because she would have needed time to get it to my mom.

Dear Ryden,

If you're reading this, you've read the other two journals by now. It also means you probably hate me.

Truth.

I want you to know that I'm sorry. Not for having Hope, but for so much else. For letting you come into my life without warning you about my cancer, for lying to you about the pregnancy, for making you a father far too young and in the worst possible way, and for being too chicken to tell you the truth about all of it. And for dying. I'm really sorry about that.

But one thing that I never lied about was how I love you.

You know that movie your mom likes, The Lake House? I've been thinking about that movie a lot lately. Remember how we talked about it in school that day with Alan? As I look back, with all the supposed wisdom of someone facing the end of her life, that conversation was when I fell in love with you. Until then, I'd loved the idea of you. But that day, I knew I could never let you go, even though holding on to you was the most selfish thing I could do.

Anyway, in the movie, they're so in love, but they're at the mercy of time. Like us. We never had enough time. It's not fair. But if I had it to do over again, I'd do everything the same. Because these months with you have been the best of my life.

I know you probably feel differently right about now, after everything you've found out. But even so, I wanted you to find these journals, to know everything there is to know about me, about us. I knew you had that journal of mine_the one I forgot at your house when we first got together. I had come to hang out at your place and your mom let me in. I was going to surprise you, but when I peeked my head around your bedroom door, I saw you sitting on your bed reading my journal. It's a green one, right? You were so into it. That gave me an idea, later, after the baby became a reality and I started getting sicker. I knew if I could find a way to leave you my journals after I was gone, you'd read them just as closely. You'd listen to what I had to tell you more than any video message or letter, because you'd believe the journal was entirely uncensored_a true glimpse into my thoughts. And you'd be right.

But I had to figure out a way to do it so you'd only get the information when you were ready for it. So I left the first one with Mabel, the one that says I never thought the chemo was working. I'd written those entries even before I decided on my plan, and I knew you'd see that message in those pages, when Mabel probably wouldn't. I figured that notebook would be the easiest to find, though it would take time to get to you. Time is good. The checklists in the back of the books were the clue that there were other journals, other things to be said_if you wanted to look for them.

The fact that you've gotten this far, that you're reading this, means (to my muddled, failing brain at least) that you were actively looking for the second journal when you found it and therefore ready to know the whole truth.

But it also means you haven't moved on. You're still looking backward. I don't know how long it's been since I've been gone, but you have to move on. If not today, then someday soon.