The Boy Who Killed Grant Parker (27 page)

Say it, you fucking pussy.

“Is he dead?” I asked.

“Not unless he died on the way home,” she said and stifled a small laugh. “Sorry. That was terrible. Hospital humor.” Her smile was quick and apologetic.

Her joke reminded me of Delilah. Of course, Delilah would have delivered it deadpan. No laugh. But it was the kind of thing she would have said.

“You mean he…”

“Was discharged,” she said. “Early this morning.”

“Nobody told me,” I said as the meaning of her words began to ping through my brain. It was a stupid, nonsensical thing to say. It's not as if I were a blood relation to Grant, but this woman had no way of knowing who I was.

“He woke from his coma a few days ago. The doctors thought he would recover more quickly at home. His parents didn't want anyone to know that he woke up from the coma. Didn't want to get the local media excited again.”

She said “local media” as if Grant were an L.A. Laker or a Kardashian.

“So … he's … does that mean he's okay? He's not paralyzed?”

She hesitated, which at first I interpreted as acknowledgment that Grant was indeed a cripple. “Look, unless you're part of Grant's immediate family, I can't really discuss it with you. I shouldn't even be telling you that he was discharged. Patient confidentiality.”

“Sure,” I said. “Of course.”

She read the disappointment on my face and her expression softened. “Is he a friend of yours?”

Sure, we just haven't been hanging out much since I tried to kill him and stole his girlfriend and his best friend.

“Not exactly,” I said.

“Wait a minute,” she said, her eyes narrowing with sudden recognition. “Aren't you that boy who moved here from the big city? The one who tried to kill Grant Parker?”

“It's the other way around,” I said with a sigh. “He tried to kill me. And I think he succeeded,” I added, knowing that now I sounded as crazy as I felt.

 

44

I left the hospital in a daze. The Camaro was waiting patiently in its parking space, sitting at an awkward angle, one of the front tires all the way up on the wheel stop. I had been too out of it to even notice the horrible parking job when I arrived at the hospital. But now, alone in the quiet parking lot, I felt the Camaro's judgment. It had been witness to all of my actions over the past month, watched me lie every time I didn't correct someone for assuming I had defended myself against Grant. Had watched me embrace Penny and take advantage of her belief in that lie. The car had seen Skip and Chet load the back of Tony's truck with beer stolen from Don and his friends. It had taken me on an almost nightly detour to cruise by Delilah's house on my way home.

As I sat behind the steering wheel I realized I didn't know where to go. My first thought, a crazy one, was to go to Grant's house and try to talk to him, to continue the conversation we started in the parking lot of the Elks Lodge.

Instead of taking me to Grant's house, the Camaro took me to Delilah's. I cut the engine at the curb and sat watching her house for evidence of life. Chief Perry's patrol car was in the driveway. I thought about going to the front door and facing Chief Perry directly, asking him to let me see Delilah.

It occurred to me that Delilah might not even be home. I decided to text her even though every text I had sent her since the raid on the LARPer fort had gone unanswered.

I sent her a simple message, just asking where she was, then sat impotent and unsure while I waited for a response.

No answer.

I checked to make sure that my message showed up as delivered. Of course, if she had blocked me, I wouldn't know it.

So I sat. And waited. And checked my phone obsessively to make sure notifications were turned on and that it wasn't silenced.

Nothing.

I got out of the car and walked up the sidewalk, trying to catch a glimpse of the interior through the front bay window. No sign of Chief Perry. No sign of Delilah. No movement in the house. Nothing.

I paced the length of the sidewalk in front of Delilah's house a few times, my eyes fixed on the windows, hoping for some sign of where they were within the house or which window opened onto Delilah's bedroom.

“What are you doing?”

The voice came out of nowhere, and I yelped in fright as I jerked reflexively and almost stumbled over a clump of ornamental grass.

“Jesus,” I said as I panted and put my hand to my heart. Delilah was standing in the middle of the sidewalk. She glanced toward the house as I tried to collect myself.

“If my dad sees you out here he is going to shoot you,” she said matter-of-factly.

“I know,” I said.

“I might shoot you myself.”

“I wouldn't really mind at this point,” I said.

She ignored my comment, even though I really was feeling closer to suicide than I had since the day after Grant's accident. “So, what are you doing here?” she asked.

“I don't know,” I said.

“That was some stunt you pulled last night,” she said, and the corners of her mouth twitched with a suppressed smile.

“I'm glad I was able to amuse you with the travesty of my existence,” I said, the sudden reminder of last night's humiliation hitting my gut like a physical blow.

“Poor David tried to salvage the situation, but it was no use. Everyone spent the rest of the night talking about how crazy you are, wondering what stunt you'll come up with next.”

“This isn't a joke, you know,” I said. “This is my actual life.”

She was quiet, considering that, and I thought I saw the glimmer of sympathy again behind her eyes.

“I came here because I needed to talk to someone,” I said finally.

“So go talk to your precious Penny,” Delilah said.

“She's not my precious anything,” I said. I wasn't angry. Just weary. And Delilah seemed to hear it in my voice.

“What's wrong with you?” she asked, and I thought I detected concern. Or maybe I just wanted to believe she was concerned, that she cared about what happened to me.

“I think I'm crazy,” I blurted suddenly.

“Crazy people don't know they're crazy,” she said, dismissing my confession. “That's what makes them crazy.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But last night I talked to Grant Parker's ghost.”

“He's not dead. At least,” she said with some hesitation, “not that we've heard. Someone has to be dead to be a ghost.”

“He's not dead,” I said. “That's what makes me crazy.”

“You're talking in circles.”

“I know,” I said with a nod. “I went to the hospital after I talked to Grant's ghost.…”

Her eyes widened when I said this, and she seemed to be thinking that maybe I was right, maybe I really was crazy. I hurried to explain myself before she started hollering for her dad to come out and shoot me like a rabid dog.

“Grant isn't dead,” I said. “They sent him home from the hospital. He's out of his coma and they sent him home.”

“And so … what? Why are you here?”

“I'm not sure,” I said. “I just needed to talk to someone. And I guess I…”

She lifted one eyebrow and cocked her head toward me as she waited.

“I guess I kind of missed hanging out with you.”

“You should have thought of that before you started dating Penny, hanging around those toolbags.”

“I thought you used to go out with Tony,” I shot back defensively. That little factoid had been nagging away at the back of my brain since Don told me.

“Used to,” she said, stress on “used.” “I was a kid, for Christ's sake. I know better now. Unlike some people.”

“I'm not dating Tony,” I said, my joke falling flat.

“You might as well be.” We fell into a stalemate of silence, both of us thoughtful. Delilah was the first to break the silence. “So?” she said. “What are you going to do now?”

“I don't know,” I said as I tucked my hands into the back pockets of my jeans and shook my head. “Run away from home, I guess. Leave town.”

“That's what Jeremy did,” Delilah said. “You see how far that got him.”

“I'm not going to join the army.”

“You could,” she said, and after a pause, “
or
you could go to school on Monday and tell everybody the truth.”

“What is the truth?” I asked. “That I'm a coward?”

She shrugged. “I guess you have to decide that for yourself.”

“Don't give me your passive-aggressive bullshit,” I said hotly. “I know exactly what you think of me.”

“You really don't,” Delilah said.

“Look, I don't know what to do. I just wanted to … to see you. To talk to someone who knew the truth about me and—maybe liked me anyway.”

“Which truth are we talking about?” she asked.

“All of it.”

She considered that for a few seconds, and the air shifted between us as she seemed to relent a little bit.

“So what are you going to do?” she pressed.

“I'm going to leave. I'm going back to DC. I can't stay here. Not with everything that's happened. And then there's that whole possibility that I'm completely crazy.…” I trailed off and gazed into the middle distance while I let a plan form and solidify in my head.

That's what I would do. I would leave Ashland and go back to DC. I would make an Irish exit and just go without telling anyone. By the time I got back, Mom would have to take me in. She wouldn't have a choice. And it's not as if Dad wanted me here anyway. All I did was create problems for him and his life.

“Yeah?” Delilah asked. “You're just going to leave? Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“And so—what? You just came to say good-bye?”

“Maybe,” I said.

“And your dad and Doris are just going to let you ride off into the sunset?” she asked skeptically.

“Well … no,” I conceded hesitantly. “I'll have to wait and sneak out tonight so I can take my stuff.”

“Yeah,” she nodded in agreement, “you wouldn't want to leave without that Beastie Boys shirt.”

I cut her a warning look, but she ignored it.

“You know,” she said, approaching her next attack in a roundabout way. “Maybe what's making you crazy is how hard you have to work at being something you're not. The stress is what's making you crazy. You could come back to school on Monday and just … start over.”

“Start over? You were at homecoming, right? You saw me ditch like a psycho in the middle of my acceptance speech?”

“Yeah,” she said, cracking a smile for the first time. “You should have seen the looks on everyone's faces after you left.”

“I don't want to know,” I groaned.

“You know what you need to do?” she asked, mercifully letting the subject of homecoming drop.

“No,” I answered honestly. “Are you going to tell me?”

“Yes. What you need to do is face Grant Parker. Go and talk to him. Make it right with him. If you do that, or at least try, you might just salvage what little sanity you have left.”

“That's a terrible idea,” I said.

“And running isn't?” she asked. “Running is a terrible plan. If you run now, you'll be running for the rest of your life.”

And, you know, it was a pretty grand statement, coming from the mouth of a seventeen-year-old girl. But for once, with Delilah talking, the voice in my head was silent. As if maybe, the voice agreed with Delilah.

 

45

I rubbed my hands along the tops of my thighs as if to warm them as I contemplated the Parker house. It was a blight on the landscape of golden rolling hills, with porticoes and columns and useless wooden decorative railings along the roofline, brick pillars flanking the front drive. I remembered what Roger had told me, that the Parkers had gotten rich over a century ago, capitalizing on death to make their fortune. The thought of all those shovels from the Parker factory turning fresh graves gave me a sick feeling, conjured an image in my head of hundreds or thousands of graves being dug along a battlefield. The dead tumbled into piles, while the factory churned out shovels faster and faster to keep up with death's demands. It gave me such a sick feeling that if Delilah hadn't been in the car with me, I would have turned tail and run.

But Delilah
was
there, sitting silently in the passenger seat as we both contemplated the imposing Parker mansion. Wealth and power oozed from the brick mortar.

“You think if I pull up the drive someone will come out with a gun?” I asked.

“Definitely,” she said, no hint of irony evident in her tone. “Do you have the balls to find out?”

“Leave my balls out of this. They're totally innocent.”

The withering glance she gave me was fleeting, and her expression turned to one of sympathy. “Do it,” was all she said.

*   *   *

No one emerged from the house with a gun as we crunched up the gravel drive. Delilah's hands were buried deep in the pocket of her sweatshirt, mine in the front pockets of my jeans, and we both trudged slowly yet determinedly forward. At least, Delilah seemed determined.

I hesitated at the porch steps, but Delilah tugged at my sleeve impatiently and then put both hands in the middle of my back to push me toward the front door. She pulled at the bell chain, then stood, hands clasped behind her back, as she waited for a response.

A uniformed maid answered the door, which I had not anticipated. I thought I would have to face one of the Parker clan immediately and would, promptly, pee myself.

The maid looked at us questioningly, though with a pleasant smile, and Delilah asked if Grant was home. The woman hesitated, clearly made uncomfortable by our request. I pictured Grant in a first-floor bedroom, propped up in a home hospital bed, various machines beeping and blinking insistently around him.