The Last Forever (21 page)

I might’ve slammed that door a little.

“Easy,” Jenny calls down from the stairs.

I’m pissed
and
hungry, which means that two crooked fingers are beckoning to my inner monster. I head straight to the kitchen. I notice my father in the living room, but I don’t see the important thing. I don’t see that he’s stuffing things into his backpack.

“Hey, Mogli,” he calls to me.

“Baloo,” I say. They’re our old, old names for each other, from when I was maybe five.

I do one of those kitchen who-are-you-kiddings—I eat half a cookie, knowing full well I’ll come right back for the other half. That’s when he leans his head into the doorway.

This time I do see it. Right away. Great. Just great. “What’s that?” I nod toward the backpack over his shoulder.

“I wanted to tell you—”

“You’re leaving again.”

“Only for two days, Tess. I promise.”

“Oh, right. You promise. Got it.”

“Tess, I’ve just got to go look in on things. Get the mail. Talk to my boss. There’s still
food
in our fridge.”

“It wasn’t my idea to run away from home.”

“Do you want to come with—”

“No!”

I don’t want to go back home or even
think
about home. It would be hot and stuffy in the house now, all these weeks without an open window. My mother had bought some of that food in the fridge—the ketchup, the mustard no one uses, a jar of pickles that has been in there forever. Her coats are hanging in the closet. Her clothes and her shoes and her scarves and her bathing suits and sunhats, her robe, and those flannel pj’s with the moons on them are all there too. So many objects, too meaningful and not meaningful enough—her address book, her calendar, those stupid protein shakes, that lamp with the beads hanging down—nothing
alive
, though. Not like Pix. Just things that have lost their magic and that are now only sad.

Our house, my room, my friends. It was a life that belonged to a different me from a different time, someone I remembered fondly but who was fading fast. When I thought about Meg and Caitlin and Dillon and Nate and Michelle (Michelle—wait. Remember Michelle? I guess not. I’ve known her since sixth grade and haven’t thought about her once in all the time I’ve been gone), or my middle school journal still hidden in my underwear drawer, or my box of earrings, or that pillow I tried to make one day because I was bored,
all
of it seemed like a best friend from elementary school, the one who moves away, the one you’re sure is so important, but who you stop writing
to after the first few weeks.
I
moved away. I ran from the scene of the crime, and with each passing day, the idea of going back only fills me with more and more guilt.

“Two days, I promise. I’ve got a ticket. . . .” My father pats the pocket of his jeans. “Okay, goddamn it, where’d you go?”

We are having a moment where everything comes full circle, I am sure of it. I flash on the image of that lost lighter with the dolphins on it, the one that went missing the day before we left for the Grand Canyon. My father’s black-gray hair is pulled back into one of my bands, and he is patting his shirt where the pockets would be if he had pockets. This feels like the end of something.

“Thomas!” Here is Jenny now. I had been the one to find the dolphin lighter in the silverware drawer, and now she has found the missing ticket. “Don’t forget this.”

“Thanks for telling me, guys. What, you were just going to take off and it was going to be one big surprise?”

“I just bought the ticket, Tess. An hour ago. I got it cheap because it’s a red-eye. I’ve got to pick up my paycheck, babe. There is some old
fruit
in the fridge. There was that meat loaf you made. That stuff’s gonna be scary. That stuff could be another Nagasaki.”

Half a cup of oatmeal. One quarter cup of ketchup. One pound of ground beef. One half of an onion, chopped in quarter-inch cubes. I can’t think about that life. In my mind, I see the girl who slipped on those rocks at the Grand Canyon,
and maybe, just maybe, I have fallen ten thousand miles and am now, finally, climbing slowly back up.

“It’s just for two days, honey,” Jenny says.

I don’t know how she can believe in him again and again and again. I imagine Dad arriving home in San Bernardino. He opens the windows. He turns on the TV. He sits in the rocking chair and watches his favorite old shows. Neighbor ladies arrive with casseroles. They all have long black hair like Mary, and under the dish lids, the casseroles all look like cat food. He’s getting comfy back at home, and wait—the ladies are wearing my mother’s clothes. Neighbor Mary takes a spin in my mother’s red plaid robe, like it’s a ball gown. This film version is revolting.

“What happened to ‘Mary’?” I ask.

“I told you. Mary’s an old friend. That’s all. I needed a friend.”

“Is Mary the Old Friend meeting you at our house?”

Jenny sighs.

“No one’s meeting me at our house. Maybe Rob, to bring my check.” Rob’s a guy my father works with. Rob’s hands are always dark brown from the black walnut stain they use on the furniture.

“Thomas, you don’t want to miss the ferry,” Jenny says.

“Two days.” He kisses my cheek. I give him the coldest, unfriendliest cheek I can. It’ll turn friendly again when he’s proven himself. I sniff his shirt when he gives my cold, unfriendly shoulders a hug. I don’t smell any weed, that accidental plant
rolled up in those Zig-Zag papers. No, he actually smells like Old Spice, the Television Dad soap I give him every year for Christmas, hoping it might transform him.

From the front window, I watch him walk out to his truck. He must feel my eyes, because he turns and waves. He blows me a kiss. He holds up two fingers and shakes them at me. His lips purse dramatically.
Two.

But I know an ending when I feel one.

Jenny puts her arms around me from behind. She holds me close to her. We both watch him.

“He’ll be back,” she says.

“Why do you have so much faith in him?” I ask.

“That’s my own son.”

“Still.”

“It’s the way a parent loves a child. That love is the most steadfast thing I know of.”

“Even if that child does wrong? Even if he does
really
wrong?”

It’s my worst thought—how I’ve disappointed her. Even if she’s dead, she’s disappointed. Out there, wherever she is, the feeling I’ve left her with, the very
last
feeling, is how much I’ve let her down.

“You love your child so much, your heart could break with it. Nothing can change that. No-thing.”

My throat gets tight with tears. I want to believe her. My father beeps his horn twice. Two long beeps, sending a message: two days.

“You’re probably going to have to go home too at some point, my girl.”

I shake my head.

“Yes.”

“I don’t see why.”

“Roots,” is all Jenny says.

*  *  *

I hear that old, loud engine before I see the arc of lights through the curtains in my room in Jenny’s house. Vito loses it at the sound of a strange car in the driveway. Yeah, he’s twelve pounds of pure terror. Anyone who’s on his way to murder Jenny and me in our beds will turn and flee at the sight of Vito’s tiny, barred teeth. He’s as scary as a gerbil in a bad mood.

Jenny taps at my door. “I believe you have company,” she says. She has a book under one arm, and she’s wearing a nightgown and reading glasses, and it’s as close to a granny look as she’ll ever get. We just need a big bad wolf, and we’ll be in business.

Well, of course I knew I had company. As soon as I heard that gravel crunching under car tires, I peeked out the curtains and started throwing on clothes. I’m sure Millicent never goes to bed this early.

“Tess?” Jenny says.

“What?” I don’t have time for a big discussion right now. I’ve got exactly one minute to get amazing.

“I worry. I mean, look at you racing around here—”

“We had this discussion once already,” I say, shoving past Jenny.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s just . . . You’ve got your heart on the line. I see it.”

“It’s called living in the moment,” I yell down the hall. “It’s called throwing caution to the wind. It’s called trusting that sometimes things work out okay!” I am in the bathroom, but I can still hear her.

“It’s called love,” she says.

I practically break the sound barrier, flying around at the speed of light as I attempt to brush my teeth and throw on some makeup before Henry rings the doorbell. My aim is to do all those things and then be casually watching some informative documentary on TV, but that’s stretching it, as I can never figure out how to work that remote. Every time I use it, the TV gets subtitles.

“Well, Henry Lark,” Jenny says, answering the door. She’s got Vito tucked under one arm. He’s gone from fierce protector to ardent lover, trying to squirm his way to Henry so he can shower him with affection and sniff his pant legs.

“Sorry to come over so late,” Henry says.

“It’s fine,” Jenny says. Poor Jenny. I’ve ruined life as she knows it.

I’m out of breath due to all of my panicked efforts to be casually together. “Oh hi, Henry,” I say. I’m pointing the damn remote at the TV, which is now displaying a Tuna Helper ad you can read along with.

“I’ll leave you alone,” Jenny says. But her voice has edges. I’m not sure who she’s actually miffed at, so for the sake of simplicity, I assume it’s me. This is my general life policy.

“You’re mad,” Henry says when we’re alone. At least, it’s just the two of us and Vito, who’s watching Henry and me like we’re an episode of his favorite show.

“What gives you that idea?” I ask, my voice giving him that idea.

Henry rolls his eyes. It’s another thing to love about him, really. The way he’ll always be someone to call me on my bullshit. “Why haven’t you been answering your phone?”

“Oh, have you been calling?”

“Are you mad at what Elijah said? Because you might want to remember that
he
said it. I didn’t.”

“I’m not a damsel in distress.” I give up on the remote control.

“I know that.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“I know that. I
want
to help.”

“Because you go around helping girls who are sad. That’s your thing.” Oh, I am being childish. Even my words are pouting. I hate myself for it.

“Millicent used to call me a lot when she was having trouble with her mom. That’s what he meant. Their mom—she’s always on them, you know, Mill especially, to be more of this or better at that. So much so that Mill can barely try anything new without feeling like she’ll fail. Sometimes she’d call when we
were in the middle of something, and he’d get pissed. But she doesn’t have a lot of people to talk to.”

Yeah, I wonder why. Poor “Mill.” I feel terrible for her. My heart is so not breaking.

“Elijah—he’s . . . He forgets there are other people in the world besides him.”

“I don’t know why you’re friends with him, then.” I’m on dangerous territory. He’s only known these people his whole life.

“It’s not like San Bernardino here. Someone gets under your skin, you can’t just forget they’re there. Elijah and me, I don’t know. He knows me better than practically anyone.” Great. Terrific. This means Elijah is a permanent fixture, like it or not.

“He was being an idiot,” Henry says. I say nothing. He tries my trick. He knocks my shoulder with his. “Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” I say back. It’s a Hey of Almost Forgiveness.

“I’ve got something I want to show you. Will you come somewhere with me?”

Oh, all right. As long as it’s anywhere.

“Okay.”

Henry takes my hand and pulls me up. I call up to Jenny and let her know I’m going out. Outside, it’s dark. Really dark. Way more dark than San Bernardino, and the stars are brighter, seemingly closer, close enough to touch, close enough to hold one in your hand. Crickets are making a racket. You think night is quiet, but it’s as noisy as day if you really listen.

“What’s that?” I ask. I freeze, with my hand on the door. It’s a shivery howl.

“Coyotes,” Henry says. “We’ve got a lot of rabbits here, so, you know, coyotes are happy with the menu.”

“Oh my God.”

“Come on, damsel. That’s what I’m going to start calling you.”

“I’m going to start calling you smart-ass.”

Henry drives like an old man out toward Deception Loop. “You drive like an old man,” I tell him.

“You backseat drive like an old woman,” he tells me.

Henry’s profile is so sweet in the dark car that my heart lifts. He’s got the windows rolled down, and summer falls in; it’s all night meadow smells—dry grass and fruit ripening. “I really like you, Henry.”

“I really like
you
. Do you recognize where we are?”

“Not a clue.”

Henry was distracting me again, and I forgot to watch where we were going, but it’s also so dark out there that you can’t quite make out this dark from that dark. But then we turn into the desolate parking lot of Point Perpetua Park.

“Now?” he asks.

“Yes.” It’s the whale-watching park, though I doubt he’s going to try to show me whales. Those beasts are hard enough to spot in the daylight. Whales mind their own business. I have no idea why we’re here. “Man, I hope you can find a parking space,” I say.

“Parking gods be with me.” Henry shakes his crossed fingers in the air. Of course, there’s not a soul in sight. Wait, no. There’s a Volkswagen Beetle with a big kid in a puffy coat sitting on the hood. Parrish Island must be where all the old VWs in the world go to die.

“I’m blind at night,” I say, and Henry takes my hand again. We walk down the forested path toward the beach. The trees loom, their branch arms outstretched. It’s dark and shadowy, one of those places where you try not to think about bad guys and evil fairy tale beasts and wild animals leaping out, but of course you think of those things. “This is spooky.”

“Wooo-hoo . . .” Henry wiggles his fingers in a ghostly fashion.

There’s a lighthouse on the beach, and its high, intense beam swivels slowly around until we are momentarily blinded. Henry leads us in the other direction. We pick our way over the rocks. The moon is barely out, but its sliver of light colors the breaking waves a yellow-white against the endless black. The beam of the lighthouse swoops across the sky. I take off my shoes when we reach the sand, and so does Henry. This night and this place are both eerie and romantic. I am aware of how alone we are and what that might mean. If it were Dillon, well, Dillon liked to make out anywhere—under the bright fluorescent lights in the school hallway, dark movie theaters, the empty school bleachers after practice, and once, in a car in the Mario’s Pizza parking lot.