Afterward (9 page)

There's a bucket like the one Gloria uses to mop our floors jammed into the corner, only I'm supposed to use it for the bathroom. It's so close to me I can smell its stink.

And there's me.

And I'm eleven.

And the door to the closet won't open.

He put me in here after he hauled me out of the truck.

I've lost track of how long I've been locked in.

“Ethan! Ethan, we're right here!”

Someone has me by the shoulders, and I can hear a lady's voice, high-pitched and far away, screaming, “Don't shake him so hard! Oh, Ethan, sweetheart, wake up! Please wake up!”

Everything is swimmy and sideways. I can't breathe. I throw my hands up, my arms up. I swing them around, trying to reach out until I find something solid. Something real.

My shirt is clinging to me, covered in sweat.

“Ethan!” Voices are shouting my name over and over again.

I heave like I'm going to throw up, but nothing comes out.

“Ethan!”

Finally, I blink and my eyes start to adjust. My room. Not the closet.

That was before.

But this is now. After.

And I'm here. I'm here in my bedroom and I'm awake and I'm safe. I'm not back there.

I'm panting, but my breath is starting to slow down. I make out my dad in front of me, dressed in a white T-shirt and underwear.

What time is it?

How long have I been freaking out?

“I'm going to check your pulse, Ethan,” my dad says, sitting next to me on my bed. “Can I do that?”

I nod, not ready to speak. My dad places his warm hand up near my neck, two fingers pressing in. His touch startles me, and I pull back.

“Not too hard,” my mother says. “He needs to breathe.” She's there, too, standing next to my dad, dressed in the black yoga pants and ratty Yale T-shirt she sleeps in sometimes, one hand nervously folding over the other, over and over again.

“Megan,” my father says, his voice soft but firm. The same voice I know he uses with little kids when they're scared to have a cavity filled.

The sheets under me are damp with sweat. I'm cold all of a sudden, and my teeth start to chatter loud enough that I'm sure my dad can hear.

“Get him another blanket,” my dad directs my mother. When she comes back from the hall closet with one, he tells her, “His pulse is slowing down. It's okay. The worst is over.”

“He hasn't had one of these in weeks,” my mother says, her brow wrinkled with concern. “We need to talk to Dr. Greenberg about adjusting his dosage.”

“Maybe,” my dad answers, wrapping me up in the soft green comforter that used to be on the bed in the guest room before my mother redecorated it. He looks me in the eyes and pushes a smile out. One of his signature this-will-only-hurt-for-a-moment-don't-worry smiles. He uses those with the kids who have cavities, too.

“I want to call Dr. Greenberg right now,” says my mother. “My phone is charging in the kitchen. Let me go get it.” If she's not already crying I can tell from the crack in her voice that she's pretty close to it.

“It's the middle of the night, Megan,” my father says.

She turns in the doorway and glares at my dad. “I know it's the goddamn middle of the night!” she snaps.

I blink and exhale, my breath shaky. “Stop,” I manage. “Just … stop. Don't yell. I'm okay now.”

Now my mother's crying for real. Big, glossy tears pouring down her face. Sobbing coming from deep in her chest.

“Megan,” my dad says under his breath. “Megan, honey…”

“Oh, Ethan, I'm sorry,” my mother says, crossing the bedroom floor in her quick, tiny steps and reaching out for me. “Oh, sweetheart. My sweet, sweet little boy.”

She hugs me like she might crush me, and I shrug my shoulders at her touch. She senses it and backs up. I press my hands onto my face because I don't want to see her hurt expression. But I really don't want her to touch me right now. I want to disintegrate into a million little pieces and float through the atmosphere. I want to rocket up past the moon and disappear somewhere into the outer bands of the Milky Way.

I want to be somewhere where I don't feel anything.

I think I am a seriously fucked up person. And I will probably never be normal. Even if I want to be.

*   *   *

When I wake up the next morning, it's so late it's almost lunchtime. I fell asleep last night only after I took one of the pills Dr. Greenberg prescribed for my anxiety.

When I go downstairs, my mom tells me she's called my tutor to cancel school, telling her I'm not feeling 100 percent. To be honest, I don't mind Mrs. Leander coming over and tutoring me. She's some retired teacher who's probably, like, seventy years old, but she's pretty good at teaching me, and she doesn't treat me like I'm some weirdo but just like I'm any other kid. One time I overheard her telling my mom that my “natural intelligence” will help me overcome the fact that I didn't go to school for four years. So I couldn't help but like her a little more after that.

But a day off from school means a day I can practice my drums. I know as soon as I head out there to play and my mom has some privacy that she's going to call her best friend who still lives in Austin and her sister in California and anyone else. I'm sure this morning before I woke up she called Dr. Greenberg and probably her own therapist, Dr. Sugar. That's what my mom loves to do. Talk. About everything. Constantly. Especially me. I guess she can't help it, but I hate how sometimes she makes me feel like I'm a problem that can be fixed with one of her to-do lists. I think I probably can't be fixed at all.

I feel like a shithead for being so mean to my mom inside my head. She had to have been hurt because I wouldn't hug her back last night. But sometimes I just can't stand to be touched, especially by her. Sometimes it's okay. But sometimes it just really isn't.

After I force myself to eat a sandwich, I head outside to my Ludwig and pick up my sticks and start drumming. My shoulders don't ache as much as they did when I first started playing again, and I think I don't even suck too much.

I love playing the drums.

I play all afternoon, and my mom brings me a snack in the garage—a soda and some potato chips on one of our nice plates. Mom doesn't like to use paper plates, even when we eat outside.

“Sweetie,” she says, setting down the chips and drink, “Dr. Sugar is fitting me in a little earlier today than normal. Can you be ready to leave soon?”

“Mom, I can stay by myself while you're at Dr. Sugar's. Even Dr. Greenberg said.”

“Oh, Ethan, I don't know. You had a rough night and everything.” She frowns a little and turns and looks toward the front of our house, like she can spot the next bad guy coming down the street. Since I came back she and dad have had this thing that I need to be with one of them at all times. Even though I'm sixteen. Even though Dr. Greenberg told me that I should be able to stay by myself in my house if I'm comfortable with that, and he told mom that, too, after one of our sessions.

There's part of me that wants to tell mom that guys like Marty don't want sixteen-year-old boys. That I'm too old for her to worry about that anymore. But I don't think it's the kind of thing that's going to make her feel better.

“Mom, I'm going to be fine. I've got my phone. You can text me anytime.”

She crosses her arms in front of her and glances back at the street. She takes a deep breath. I can imagine her thinking this is something she'll need to talk about with Dr. Sugar. How she can allow her teenage son to be by himself.

“Okay,” she finally says, “but I want you to put your phone on the ground where you can see it when I text you. You'll never hear it with all this drumming,” she says.

“I promise,” I say, sliding my phone out of my pocket and putting it on the ground next to my drum kit, well within my line of vision.

“I'll be home a little before dinner,” she says. Dr. Sugar isn't as far away as Dr. Greenberg, but my mom still has to get on the freeway to get there. Another reason to be glad I'm not going.

She texts me three times on her way to her appointment, and each time I have to stop drumming and text back something like
Mom I'm fine you should focus on driving okay?
And then when she finally gets to her appointment, I text her
Have a good session
. Hopefully Dr. Sugar will keep her from texting me at least for the hour that she's talking to him, so I can actually finish drumming through one song.

I'm picking up my sticks when I see her, pedaling up my driveway on her ten-speed.

Caroline.

It's been like two weeks since that first time she showed up. I'd almost started to feel like maybe she'd never really been at my house at all. And now here she appears, like a magic trick.

“Hey,” she says, gliding up. Her long hair is tied back in a ponytail, and there's a backpack slung over her shoulders. She glances at me and then toward the back door.

“Hey,” I say.

“You saw me coming, huh?” she asks. “I'm glad I didn't scare you this time.”

Well, maybe she didn't scare me, but I wouldn't exactly call this an expected visit. Only I don't say that. I just shift a little on my drum stool. Why is she here again?

“So, have you checked out The White Stripes yet?” She slides off her bike but she stands next to it, holding the handles. Gripping the handles, actually. She can't live too far from here if she biked, but I know she doesn't live in this neighborhood. Her dad's an exterminator and her mom doesn't work, I don't think. At least that's what my mom told me.

“Yeah, I checked them out,” I say. “They were pretty good.” It's the truth. They were pretty good, but they weren't as mind blowing as I thought they would be.

“Pretty good?” She rolls her eyes, which is kind of rude, to be honest.

“Okay,” I say because I'm not sure what else to say. I pick up my phone to check, but no texts from mom. Then I look back at Caroline. My mind flashes on something Dr. Greenberg said. About trauma victims not knowing how to have healthy boundaries.

She glances at the back door again when she sees me pick up my phone. “Is your mom coming out or something?” Her cheeks are two red splotches, and she seems to be breathing a little faster than she should be, even if she did just ride a bike.

Is Caroline nervous? I feel like I should be the nervous one, but right now I'm just sitting here confused as to why this girl keeps showing up at my house.

“My mom isn't here,” I tell her, putting my phone into my pocket.

“Oh,” she says, and you'd think this would calm her down a little, but it doesn't. Now she's tapping her foot. On her feet are pink sneakers covered in mud.

“So…,” I say. “Why are you here again? Just to ask me if I listened to The White Stripes?” That came out wrong. I sounded rude and I don't mean to be, but I'm not sure how else to figure out what she wants. And something in me wants to know. Wants to make sure she's real, not just messing with me.

Caroline is rocking back and forth on her pink sneakered feet now, full of anxious energy. She opens her mouth like she's going to say something and then shuts it. There's a big silence, and then she closes her eyes and takes a breath.

She finally opens her eyes and starts climbing on her bike. “This was a terrible idea,” she says, her voice so soft I almost don't catch what she says. “I'm sorry. Just forget I was here. I'm really sorry.”

And with that she jumps back on her bike and starts off down the driveway.

 

CAROLINE—161 DAYS AFTERWARD

I'm two houses down from Ethan's when I hear a voice yelling after me, calling my name.

I slow down but I don't turn around. I think I might be crying, so I take a deep breath and glance up at the sky, blinking a few times real quick to make sure no tears fall.

“Hey, Caroline!”

I glance over my shoulder and, of course, it's Ethan standing in the middle of the street. He's still holding his drumsticks, too.

“Can you please come back?” he shouts. “I can't leave the house.”

It's weird to me that he considers two houses down the street “leaving the house,” and anyway, I don't think I should go back at all, but the way he says “please” makes me turn around. My heart is hammering the entire time I walk my bike back toward the Jorgensons' house, and by the time I make it to the end of the driveway, I can tell Ethan has a tiny frown on his face like he's trying to figure out some complicated math problem or something.

“Look,” he says, “you can't just, like, keep coming to my house without telling me why.” He doesn't really look me in the eye when he says it. He kind of glances at me when he starts talking and then finishes by looking at his feet.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean…,” I start. But all of a sudden I hear a buzz, and Ethan pulls his phone out of his pocket.

“God,” he murmurs under his breath, and he taps something real quick and slides his phone back into his jeans. “My mom.”

“Does she text you a lot?” I ask.

Ethan nods. “Yeah. I mean, when she's not with me.” He scratches at the back of his neck and looks up the driveway toward his drum kit. “Actually, this is the first time I've been here by myself since…” He doesn't finish the sentence. It just slides into the air, the obvious left unsaid.

“Oh,” I say. I guess if I were Mrs. Jorgenson, I wouldn't want to let Ethan out of my sight either. I mean, I still check on Dylan in the middle of the night, and he's not even my kid. The thought of my baby brother makes me clutch my handlebars. Standing there at the foot of Ethan's driveway, I try to silently rehearse one last time what I came here to say. Honestly, if I don't do it now, I won't get another chance.