Ghost Time (17 page)

It took me about ten minutes, but I made it to the highway, to the gas station. It’s the easiest way to Karen’s, cutting across town, so I walked to the station, coming from behind, where the toilets are. The station looked deserted, and I was looking at the fluorescent lights over the pumps, when I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. On the wall, behind the gas station, in these huge letters, like four-feet tall, someone had graffitied:
NBN
.

I stepped forward to touch the cement, because it was dripping—the paint was still fresh. I rubbed it into my fingers, but then I couldn’t breathe, because it was Cam’s handwriting: it was his. Right away, I reached in my bag and pulled out Hubble, flipping through, looking for one of the pages where he’d signed one of his equations—last winter, he got on this kick, signing all his equations with this ridiculous
NBN
, Natural Born Ninja, right, like he was Picasso or something—and when I found one, I held it up to the wall: same. Exactly the same. It was Cam’s handwriting, his tag: he was here, right here. I looked around, turned around, yelling, Where are you? Cam, where are you?! Then the guy came out, the cashier—same guy that was working the night I started crying about the dog, and when the guy saw me, he was like,
whoa
. He looked like he almost didn’t believe himself, saying, It’s you, and I go, Hey, raising my hand. He stepped around the corner, then he saw the wall and he balked, seeing the graffiti. Then he looked at me and he goes, Did you do that? I go, Do I
look like a tagger? And he goes, Just asking. I said, No, I just got here—it’s still wet. Then he goes, I heard screaming. You okay? I thought about it, then I said, Not really, but thanks for asking, and I put the notebook back in my bag, walking back to the road, before I started running again.

I have no idea how I did it, but I was way,
way
across town. It took me forty-five minutes to get to Cam’s house, and when I did, when I knocked, the door flew open, like Karen had been waiting for me with her hand on the door the whole time, since I called. Oh, man… when I saw her—I mean, the way she looked at me, opening the screen door, I almost wished I’d gone home to face my own mom. You could have called, Karen said, opening the door, and I practically whimpered, I’m sorry, I didn’t know where I was, and I just wanted to walk, and I didn’t think it’d take so long—. Inside, she said, giving me the mom look, and I walked in and turned around, looking at her, trying to show her how sorry I was with my eyes, if I couldn’t really tell her so. But once I was inside, I realized how cold I was. I didn’t dress for being out after dark, and it was still cold at night. She just stood there, looking at me, and I was just like,
Please? Say something. This is awful.

I’ll get you a sweater, she said, walking up, rubbing both my arms to get the circulation flowing, and then walking to her bedroom. I loved the sweater she brought me. It was an old fisherman’s sweater, and it was so big, it fit me like a dress. It was my father’s, she said, smiling. You can wear it anytime you’re here, Thea. Thank you, I said, hoping she could read the look on my face, see how bad I felt. You’re welcome, she said, reading it. But
trust me, I won’t get suckered into calling your mom again without asking for more details. She’s furious, she said, and I knew, but I couldn’t help rolling my eyes. Save it, Karen said, she’s worried. And I go, I’m sorry, and Karen goes, Don’t tell me, tell her. I will, I said. Can I still stay? Of course, she said. You hungry? she asked, and I didn’t even realize I was famished until she asked. Smells so good, I said, because Karen cooks, like really cooks. Cam and Karen, they ate dinner together. At the table. Every night. At my house, we save that for special occasions, when we’re on our best behavior.

Stew, she said, shrugging, and that was the first time I noticed the dark circles under her eyes. You’re free to go hang out in his room while I finish, she said. Thanks, I said. I won’t touch anything, I said, and she goes, Believe me, between the police, the FBI, and me, everything has been touched. Fortunately or unfortunately, Cam kept his room spotless, and practically fingerprintless, too, they say. Anyhow, go on in, she said, so I walked down the hall, and I knew, from all the times I’d snuck in and out, which floorboard creaked. I tiptoed over them, because it was a habit, and then I realized I might never sneak out of Cam’s house again. It made my throat get blocked up, and when I got to the door, I almost didn’t want to open it. But I did, and the room was so empty. Nothing had changed, and everything looked just like Karen said, but without his computer, without his body, his spirit, the room was sad. Seriously, how can a room be sad?

It was so dark, my shadow was at least ten feet tall. I just stood there, at the door, looking in, thinking about him. Thinking about the last time we were there together, two weeks before
he disappeared, and it seemed like a lifetime ago. And it was—it was a lifetime ago. I went to his closet and opened it, taking out one of his old jean jackets. Another hand-me-down of his father’s, a seventies-style Wrangler denim jean jacket with thick shearling lining. I held it to my nose, smelling his collar. Thea? Karen called, and I jumped, quickly put the jacket back, closing the closet. I shouldn’t have touched—I said I wouldn’t, and I was sorry, and I whispered it to him, as if he could see me: I’m sorry, I’m sorry….

You all right, Thee? Karen asked, walking down the hall as I stepped out of Cam’s room. Yeah. Just needed a moment, I said, trying to smile. Time to eat, she said. They searched his room? I asked, following her back to the kitchen. Top to bottom, she said. Three times. Nothing? They didn’t find anything? I asked. Nope, she said, pulling out a chair at the table for me. Then she goes, I have something for you, holding a box. When I saw what they were, she said, I didn’t look. I know it’s private, so I took it before the police came, she said. I thought you’d want it.

I opened it, and they were pictures I’d given Cam. Scraps of paper, notes from our first tutoring session, a sketch I was working on, the first day we ever met in the library, after school. It was a drawing I did of Stephen Hawking, wearing an American Apparel gold lamé leotard. Can I have this? I said, closing the lid and looking up. Of course, she said, it’s yours, isn’t it? And for the first time all week, since the day I took his car, I felt like crying. Karen walked over and kissed the top of my head. Want to hear a secret? she asked, touching the back of my head, taking her seat. Honestly, Karen, I don’t know if I can take any more
secrets, I said, swallowing to keep from crying. This one you can, she said: Sit down. So I did.

She took a sip of wine, then she told me. She said, The first day you two met, he came home and told me all about you. Cam would kill me if he knew I told you that, but that’s what he gets for leaving the two of us alone, right? she said, setting down a big bowl of stew in front of me. I couldn’t help smiling; it smelled so delicious, but I didn’t know how I was going to eat a bite. I picked up my spoon, but then I just had to know: What did he say about me? I asked, and Karen started laughing. Took you long enough, she said, grinning. Cam said… she said, picking up the wine bottle and pouring a glass of wine for me and refilling her glass. Cam said that you were the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, Thea.

Then something in me snapped, finally, and tears came rolling down my cheeks. All this time I’d thought maybe it’d been a trick, or that I’d find out some joke was being played on me all, all because it scared me too much to think maybe it was true, all those times he’d told me that himself. Hearing it from Karen, I knew it was just me being too afraid to trust him, to believe he loved me, and it was so sad. Not like I felt sorry for myself, but to see what he’d been trying to tell me all along, and now he wasn’t there when I finally figured it out. So I sat there for five minutes, and Karen just let me be.

We stayed up, sitting at the table until after midnight, talking. And Karen’s… well, honestly, I don’t know what Karen’s doing here, in this town—I mean, she’s so smart. Like Karen went to
Berkeley, and she studied film, and she’s traveled all over the world. She knows all about art and music and, god, it’s, I mean, she wears Black Flag T-shirts, listens to
Carmen
, the opera. And Karen
reads
. Books, yes. They have books all over their house, and artwork, and photography, and she follows all the design mags. So why would she move here? If it was Woodstock or one of those places, maybe, but
here
? I’m sorry, but I just don’t get it.

So I finally asked her, straight-out, what would possess her to move to a town like this. And she looked at her wineglass, holding it between her thumb and middle finger, thinking it over, smiling that half smile, like Cam smiles when he’s making an effort. We needed a change, she said, with this expression like she’d thought of all reasons she could give and that was most sensible. She looked up at me, smiling wide this time, but mostly to tell me the discussion was over. Time for bed, she said, getting up, taking her bowl and mine, and then I cleared some things from the table, following behind her.

After we cleaned up the kitchen, she turned out the light, heading down the hall, and I said it again. I won’t touch anything, I promise, I said. I know I’d told her before, but I had to say it. I just wanted to be in his room; I’d never spy on him or anything like that. And she goes, Thee, you can touch anything you like. But one thing, she said, stopping to open the hallway cupboard: we’ll need to change the bedding. Between you and me, I slept in there a couple nights ago, she said, and I guess my face gave me away. You don’t need to do that, I said, seeing her arms loaded with sheets and pillowcases. You’re right, Thee, she said, and then she loaded the stack on my arms: you know
your way around that bed, right? And
bam!
Ohmygod, instant blush—like a raging forest fire just tore across my face. I swear, I almost reached to touch my eyebrows, just to make sure they hadn’t been singed by my own blush. I mean, I knew she must know something, but that was so bad, I couldn’t even look at her, and I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to look her in the eye again, and then she started laughing at me.

Come here, she said, pulling me to her, but not that close, given the stack of bedding between us. You’re going to be all right, she said, leaning over, kissing the top of my forehead. Whatever happens, she said, you’re going to be all right, Thea. I go, You believe that? Really? I asked, looking up at her, hoping it was true, thinking,
Promise? Promise me?
Yes, she said. I do. Because I don’t give myself any other choice, she said, cupping the side of my face with one hand. Karen is the only woman who I can stand looking at me, like actually stand still, looking back at her. And to be honest, that was the first time I thought about what she must be going through, having lost her husband, and now, no idea if she’d ever see her son again. But there she was, comforting me.

Good night, she said, and I said, Good night, turning to the door. Thea, she said, turning back, your mom will be here to pick you up first thing in the morning. Oh. Right. My mom, I said. Right, she said, and you owe me one—
oh
, do you owe me big time. I know; I know I do, I said, wincing again, sorry again. ’Night, she said, grinning at me, at the end of the hall, before turning off the hall light, opening her bedroom door.

I sighed, opening Cam’s door again, but I didn’t turn on the light, I just closed the door behind me. Then I sat on the side of
his bed for a minute. I dumped the bedding on top of his bed, letting my eyes adjust, and then I just looked around at his desk, his bookshelves, all the pictures I’d given him, that we’d hung, together. Everything was there, exactly where he’d left it, but I didn’t feel him. I mean, I felt better there than in my own room, but I couldn’t figure out how Cam managed to take it all with him, his whole spirit.

I really didn’t want to bother, so I made the bed as fast as I could, and then, very carefully, as if Karen could hear me, I opened up his shirt drawer and pulled out one of his shirts to sleep in. Changing in the dark, it was cold, and I climbed in, thinking,
What a week… what a crazy week
, realizing I was covering my forehead with my hand, rubbing my cold feet, sawing them together, trying to get warm. I sighed, tired, so tired, but safe, warm, blood flowing in my feet, even, so I pulled the duvet under my chin. I was just about to shut my eyes when I saw it. Looking up, it took a few seconds to register what I was seeing, on the ceiling, and then, one by one, five, ten, twenty, thirty… and I realized what it was: stars: fifty white cloth stars on Cam’s ceiling.

(SIX WEEKS EARLIER)

6:34 PM

Cam was lying on my bed, working on his computer, and I was sitting at my desk, working on another installment of
The Lola Crayola Chronicles
. So I didn’t notice when he stepped up, behind me, and then, when he put his hands on my shoulders, I screamed, he scared me so badly. After I calmed down, I slapped him, and I go, Don’t do that! You scared me! He goes, You didn’t hear me saying your name, did you? And I said, No, and he said, I’m sorry, Thee, I’ll shout louder next time. What I said was, can I see?

He meant the drawing I was working on, so I showed it to him. I said, That’s the famous Lola Crayola. She was my best girl. Then I told him the whole story, about how, when I was little, I had a doll. I mean, I had lots of dolls, of course, but my favorite was Lola Crayola. I’d dress her, feed her, pose her in different costumes, and then I’d draw her for hours. She was the best model I
ever had, my muse, my best friend. I wrote stories about her and all her adventures—I still do, sometimes.

When he left, when my dad left us, I threw her away. I threw her out just to prove I could. To show them all, to show the whole world I could always hurt myself worse than it could, worse than
anyone
could possibly hurt me. So I threw Lola in the kitchen trash, with coffee grounds and gristle. I remember so clearly, stepping on the black piece, the step of the trash can, and its mouth opening, and seeing all that trash, and throwing her in. I can still feel that in my toes, too. That was my first cutting.