Afterward (23 page)

I'm running my thumbs over my knuckles. I'm holding back my own vomit. I'm dying inside.

“We haven't seen her, but we'll keep an eye out,” my mother says.

The lady says something back—thanks, I think. I don't know. I'm just trying to stay upright.

“I hope she finds her dog,” my mother says, pulling the car back into drive.

“Yeah,” I manage. I wonder if she can see the sweat beading around my forehead. I wonder if she can tell how close I am to passing out.

Finally, after all these months, my mom is okay with just dropping me off at Dr. Greenberg's front porch where he always sits, waiting for me. Then she spends our session time running errands to the sorts of stores and places we don't have in Dove Lake. When we pull up, Dr. Greenberg is on his porch with Groovy. I slide out of the Volvo and manage to wave goodbye to my mother. I walk the few steps up to the porch on spaghetti legs. And then I feel a tidal wave of nausea come over me.

“Dr. Greenberg, I'm going to puke.” I haven't even said hello.

“Sit down,” he says, his voice commanding. “Sit down and put your head between your knees. Take slow, deep breaths.”

I do exactly as he says. I'm staring at the peeling gray paint of Dr. Greenberg's front porch. My breathing is quick and shallow.

“Slow breaths, Ethan,” he says. “Deep breaths. And don't lift your head up just yet. I'm right here, Ethan. I'm right here with you.”

A minute passes. Maybe five. I don't know. I close my eyes. Finally the swimminess in my skull starts to pass. I tell Dr. Greenberg I think I'm okay to sit up.

“Slowly,” he says. “Very slowly.”

I sit up and blink, then glance at him. “Sorry,” I say.

“Nothing to be sorry about,” he answers. “What's going on?”

“Dr. Greenberg,” I start, my voice cracking, “I just remembered something so bad. I just had this memory, and I … I just … it's so terrible, Dr. Greenberg.” I fight back one more wave of nausea.

“Ethan, do you think you can talk about it?” Dr. Greenberg asks, his forehead furrowed deep.

“It's about Caroline. About her brother, really.”

I shift in my Adirondack chair and think about Caroline texting me last night about her parents splitting. I think about what she said about Dylan. How him getting taken was her fault. My stomach lurches again.

I work my thumbs over the arms of the chair. I try to focus on my breathing.

“Dr. Greenberg,” I start, and I'm fighting back tears. I hate that I cry all the time now. Those years I was gone I'd completely stopped crying. I gave up on it because it didn't help anyway. And now when I cry, it's like my body's exhausted the minute the lump starts to build in my throat.

“Ethan, whatever you need to say, I'm here,” he tells me, his voice soft. “We can figure this out together.”

I choke on a sob and Dr. Greenberg asks if I want to go inside, but I shake my head no. I feel better outside. Outside with the fresh air and the sun.

“Last night Caroline texted me that her parents are splitting up,” I say. “And she said it's because of Dylan getting taken. And she thinks that it's all her fault. Because she was supposed to be watching him that day, and he made it out of the house when she wasn't looking.”

Dr. Greenberg nods.

“But Dr. Greenberg,” I say, and my body heaves. I'm crying now for real. “I remembered something. It just came back to me in the car. It isn't Caroline's fault Dylan got taken, Dr. Greenberg. It's mine.”

Dr. Greenberg frowns a little. “Ethan, how do you mean?”

I close my eyes and let hot tears slide down my face. I don't know if there's enough courage inside of me to tell this story. I run my thumbs over my knuckles. I let more tears fall. And then, somehow, in a quiet voice I start to tell Dr. Greenberg exactly what came rushing back to me when my mother stopped to talk to the lady who'd lost her dog. The moment the car made its way over to the side of the road. The moment the car window went sliding down.

We're in the black truck, him and me. We're driving through Dove Lake.

The streets are familiar. Like I can place them but not really. Like I saw them in a photograph in a history book, back when I used to go to school.

There's a gun in the glove compartment. I know it real well. It's the same gun he's trained on me. The same gun he's held at my head more times than I could ever count. The same gun he told me he would use to kill me. And kill my parents if I ever tried to run away.

The gun that was waiting for me whenever he took me out of the closet.

The gun whose evil eye stared me down so many times that even when I stopped seeing it all the time it was still there. Still watching me.

The man is hunting with the black truck. He is looking for my replacement.

What do you do when your car gets too old?

You get a new car.

Suddenly, he spots him. I can see him, too. Light-haired boy, skinny frame. Walking down the sidewalk all by himself. He looks like he is lost. He is flapping his arms like he is trying to fly.

“Tell him you're looking for your lost puppy,” the man in the driver's seat says, and he doesn't have to open the glove compartment. He knows he doesn't even need to bother with that part anymore. He knows I will do exactly as told.

The truck slides over to the side, casual. The automatic window sinks down and the hot May air seeps in.

“Hey,” I say, my elbow leaning out the window. “Hey, kid. My dad and I are looking for my lost dog? A big black lab?”

The kid turns to look at me, and I know something is off. Something isn't right. He puts both hands in his mouth and starts sucking his fingers. He steps right up to the truck, but he doesn't say anything.

The voice behind me speaks up. “Open the door. Right now.”

I do. Of course I do. I open the door and when the man reaches over me to grab the kid by the shirt, I am reaching down and helping him, too. The kid starts to yelp and kick and when I'm told to get the gun from the glove compartment and aim it at this kid, I do.

Of course I do.

And we are speeding out of these streets that look familiar and strange at the same time, and the kid is on the floorboard, crying and making noises that I know will annoy the man, and the gun is heavy in my hands. My finger is on the trigger. The boy starts calling out, over and over, “Lost dog, lost dog.”

“Shut up!” I shout. “There's no dog. So shut up.” I tell the boy this because I know what will happen to him if he doesn't shut up. And then I think it is stupid to warn him. Because it's already too late. It doesn't matter what he does or doesn't do. The worst part isn't over. It is just beginning.

I can see the back of the boy's neck and the way his light hair falls down over it, like it needs to be trimmed. I can see his whole body shaking. I can smell the scent of cigarettes on the man and I can hear the truck's engine roaring. Roaring as we move and we move and keep moving.

“Damn,” says the man in the driver's seat. “That was a piece of cake.”

By the time I am done telling Dr. Greenberg, I'm not crying anymore. The words tumble out, and when I'm done my whole body aches. I've been tensing my entire self as I've been talking, and it feels like I've just run a marathon or hiked through the jungle.

Dr. Greenberg's eyes are pink. He's the one crying now.

“Ethan,” Dr. Greenberg says, his voice a whisper. “Ethan, I'm so sorry that happened to you.”

I shake my head, confused.

“What do you mean, what happened to me?” I shout. “What about what I did? What about what happened to Dylan? I did that, Dr. Greenberg! I did it!”

Dr. Greenberg takes a deep breath and leans toward me. “Ethan,” he says, “I can see how you would feel that way, but think of it like this. Is Caroline to blame for what happened to her brother?” he asks me.

“No, of course not,” I say.

“But she feels like she is, doesn't she?” Dr. Greenberg asks.

“Yeah,” I admit.

“And you feel like you're to blame even though you were under severe psychological stress the likes of which most human beings will never have to experience in their lifetimes, right?”

I shrug.

“Who are we not blaming, Ethan?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, confused.

“Should we blame Dylan for running out of the house?”

“No,” I answer. It comes out almost like a shout.

“So who are we not blaming?”

I stare across the street. I wipe at my runny nose with my sleeve. “You're saying I should blame him. The guy driving the truck. The kidnapper.”

“Yes,” says Dr. Greenberg. “In fact, I think he's the only one we could blame.”

I shrug, working Dr. Greenberg's words over in my mind. I want to believe them, just like I want to believe his words about why I didn't try to run away.

“I want to believe you. But I don't know if I can.”

Dr. Greenberg nods. “I understand that. But with time I think you will start to believe it. I really do.”

We sit in silence for a while, and Dr. Greenberg finally says, “I'm glad you shared this with me, Ethan. The truth is, the fact that this memory came back to you now is a sign you're getting healthier. Your mind knows you're in a safe enough space to process that sort of memory now, so it's letting you have it.”

“I wish it had kept it,” I mutter. Dr. Greenberg doesn't say anything. I shift my feet and more silence passes. I wonder how much time has gone by. How much time is left before my mom comes back. I want her to come and take me home where maybe I can escape into playing my drums or my video games or some medication-induced sleep. But at the same time, it's like I know being here and talking about this makes me feel better, too. Even if I do need a break.

Still, I know I can't really take a break because there's been something gnawing at me ever since the memory came back to me in my mom's car. Thinking about it brings on a wave of panic, and I know the only way to slow it down is to tell Dr. Greenbeg about it.

“The thing is, I don't think I can keep hanging out with Caroline if I don't tell her about this,” I say. “I feel like I need to tell her how Dylan was taken.” I grip the arm rests of the chair.

At this Dr. Greenberg starts scratching his chin, and he seems a little lost in thought. It's happened. I've finally stumped my Harvard-educated therapist.

Eventually, he looks at me and says, “Ethan, you have to understand that Caroline may react really poorly to this. You have to know that this won't be easy for her to hear.”

I nod. That's stating the obvious.

But I can't imagine playing music with Caroline and singing stupid songs and sharing Cokes in my garage again if I don't share this. If I don't stay 100 percent honest with her. Because if I've figured one thing out about Caroline and me these past few months it's that the two of us—we don't do bullshit.

“I know, Dr. Greenberg,” I say. “But I want to tell her. I think I have to.”

“What if this ends your friendship?” Dr. Greenberg asks gently. “What if that's the outcome? Do you think you could handle that?”

I look at the floor. The idea makes my insides hurt. “I think I could,” I say. “At least, I know I could handle that more than I could handle being friends with her with this secret.”

Dr. Greenberg nods and then takes a deep breath.

“I think you and Caroline must be in the same karass,” he says.

“What?” I ask, confused.

“It's from this book by one of my favorite authors, Kurt Vonnegut,” he says. “In his novel
Cat's Cradle
. He invented a religion just for this particular story.” At this Dr. Greenberg grins like he is remembering the story for the first time in a long time. “In this religion, people who were linked cosmically, who were put together in teams of sorts to do God's will, were said to be in the same karass.”

“Like fate brought Caroline and me together?” I ask. “Like God?”

“That's what Vonnegut would say,” Dr. Greenberg answers. “Or what the religion he invented for this book would say, anyway.”

I think about Caroline and me and, really, Dylan, too. I think about the three of us connected by some invisible thread, and I wonder why God or fate would have connected us in such an awful way. What it could possibly mean.

“I don't know about a karass,” I say. “But I know if we're going to keep being friends, I have to tell her.”

Dr. Greenberg doesn't say anything. He just nods, and I try to read his face to see if he thinks this is a good idea. But I can't be sure.

 

CAROLINE—291 DAYS AFTERWARD

I don't go to Ethan's on Friday night or Saturday night, but by Sunday afternoon I'm missing him. I feel bad that I haven't texted him back. From my bed where I've been trying to do some homework, I finally do.

Feel like playing?

I'm ready to get out of the house. My dad is gone, there's nothing in the house to eat except frozen pizza, and my mom has spent all day on the phone with her sister while Dylan zones out in front of the television with his
Jeopardy!
episode playing over and over again. At least I got to spend most of Saturday at work, distracting myself with orders and Jesse's easygoing smiles and jokes. But a few hours at a yogurt shop aren't enough to make home easy to take.

I glance at my phone, wondering what's taking Ethan so long to write back. Finally, it lights up.

Sure. Come over whenever.

It's dusk when I bike over with my guitar, my knees bumping into the soft guitar case that I balance on my handlebars.