Echo

by Kate Morgenroth

  “I wanted to forget everything,” Justin said quietly. “I wanted to forget I even existed.”

  “And you very nearly succeeded. The intern who treated you in the emergency room said it was a close thing. Very close.”

  They were silent for a moment.

  Then Dr. Ryden asked, “And now? Do you still wish you had succeeded?”

  It was a question that Dr. Ryden had asked several times over the last month. Justin’s answer had always been the same: an unhesitating “yes.”

  He opened his mouth to respond—with the same answer, of course. But then, for some reason, he paused.

  “What is it?” Dr. Ryden asked.

  It was the same question Justin was asking himself. What was it? What was keeping him from answering? Then he realized.

  It was because the old answer wasn’t true anymore.

  But even as he realized that the old answer wasn’t true, Justin also knew that it didn’t make any sense. But somehow, something had changed.

  Justin looked up. “No,” he said. “I don’t.”

  Justin expected some sort of reaction—surprise, pleasure, satisfaction—but Dr. Ryden simply nodded.

  “So,” Justin asked after a moment. “What now?”

  “I think you might be ready,” Dr. Ryden said.

  Justin felt a sudden tightening in his chest. “Ready for what?”

  “Ready to go back.”

  Justin knew immediately what Dr. Ryden meant, but he said, “Back?”

  Dr. Ryden nodded.

  “When?”

  Justin should have known what the answer was going to be.

  Dr. Ryden looked at him and smiled a little.

  “No time like the present.”

  37

  Justin’s mother pulled into the parking lot near the hill leading up to the school—exactly where the bus always stopped in the morning.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” she asked nervously.

  “It wasn’t my idea,” Justin said.

  “Maybe you should wait, then.”

  A part of him wanted desperately to say, “Yes, maybe I should wait.” But instead he shrugged and asked, “Wait for what?”

  “It’s the middle of the week…the middle of the day even,” his mother said. “Maybe you want to wait till you can start fresh on a Monday morning.”

  “That doesn’t make a difference,” he snorted.

  “Then…maybe you want to wait until you’re a little…well…stronger.”

  He knew the reason she said it. He knew that she wanted to protect him, but he also knew that didn’t work. Avoiding things, running away—that was what really broke you down in the end.

  “It’ll be okay,” he said.

  “If you’re sure…,” she said, but he could hear the doubt in her voice. “Anyway, I’ll be here. Whenever you’re ready. I took the whole day off.”

  “The whole day?” he repeated sarcastically, and immediately regretted it. Justin had promised himself he’d be nicer to his mother, but he was discovering that even though life could change in a split second, changing yourself took a bit longer. The problem was, he was so used to trying to hurt her, and he knew just how to do it.

  “I’m thinking of quitting,” his mother said, her voice thick. “I’ve been thinking of it for a while.”

  “No,” he told her. “I don’t want you to quit.”

  “But then I could be there for you.”

  “I’m okay. Really.”

  “I should have been there for you,” she insisted.

  He shook his head. “It’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not okay,” she said fiercely. “I should have been there.”

  And Justin knew she wasn’t talking about being there for him. She was talking about before. She was talking about Mark. He also knew well what she was thinking: If only she’d been home. If only she had been there and had let Mark watch his show. Or even if she hadn’t let him watch his show, if she’d been at home, he wouldn’t have been able to go into the bedroom—and then he wouldn’t have been near the gun. And then it couldn’t have happened.

  Probably on another day it would be another avenue of regret—like if only they hadn’t bought the gun. If only they hadn’t kept it loaded. If only they hadn’t kept it right there next to the bed. As parents they should have known better than to keep a loaded gun in the house with two boys. But Justin remembered, even if his mother didn’t, that she’d bought the gun after the news story about the girl who had been kidnapped from her bedroom in the middle of the night. His mother had bought the gun, and undoubtedly had decided to keep it loaded and close at hand, in an effort to try to prevent a different threat. The problem was, there was simply no way to foresee and prevent everything.

  Justin knew what his mother was doing—because he’d done it to himself. What if…? What if…? What if…? He’d imagined a dozen different scenarios, but he’d been aware they were all fantasy. He’d always known exactly what had happened. That event, at least, he recalled clearly. In fact, he remembered it as if it had been branded into his brain. He had been lying there on the bed when Mark pulled out the gun…and he hadn’t done a thing. He hadn’t even tried to get the gun away from Mark. In fact, he hadn’t moved except to reach for another handful of potato chips—his mouth had been full when he’d replied to Mark’s threat to “kill the kid” by saying, “Be my guest.”

  Afterward he, too, had gone through the “what-ifs.” What if he had done something else? What if he had at least tried to get the gun away from Mark? What if he had managed it? But whatever scenario he came up with during the daytime to change the course of events, that night he would dream it, but in the dream the ending was always the same. Mark always died. It was Justin’s brain telling him that no matter how many different ways you imagined it, you couldn’t change it. All you could manage to do was torture yourself.

  Like his mother was doing now.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Justin told her, even though he knew it wouldn’t do any good. He knew the door of that particular prison could only be opened from the inside. He could see the futility of his words in the sad smile she gave him.

  He sighed. “Well, I guess I’d better go.”

  “I’ll be here,” she said.

  38

  Justin climbed the hill slowly and pushed open the swinging door at the entrance to the school.

  It had been only a month, but in some ways it felt as if he had been gone for years and was now returning to a place that seemed more part of his dreams than part of reality. The long corridor stretched out before him, and it wasn’t packed but kids were milling around, digging books out of their lockers or standing in little clusters. It must be the end of lunch, he realized.

  He stood a moment, taking it all in. He had never been so aware of the smell before—a mix of wax and musty old books and fried food. There was also the strange quality of the sound in the hallway; the ring of voices sounded almost hollow. As he listened, he realized that the metal from the lockers sent the sound bouncing around, and there was actually a slight echo. You only heard it if you listened really closely. But it was there.

  As he started down the hall, he knew that some kids were looking at him and whispering. But now he could see that there were a lot who didn’t even notice him.

  Then he saw a familiar figure. Or he thought it was familiar. He could only see the person’s back.

  He approached, but he felt disconnected from his legs and feet—as if they were moving, taking him closer, against his will.

  Then the familiar figure turned around.

  It was Billy.

  Justin saw with horror that there was a line of blood dripping down his forehead from underneath his hair.

  “Dr. Ryden?” he whispered, half-expecting the doctor’s voice to answer him in his head.

  But the voice, when it came, rang out from behind him.

  “Look who’s here,” Ricky called out. “Psycho killer is back.” The
n Ricky started singing the old eighties tune, “Psycho killer. Fa fa fa fa fa fa—” But Ricky didn’t get to finish.

  Without even thinking—at the sight of that trail of blood, his brain had frozen—Justin whipped around. Ricky had come up right behind him, so close that Justin couldn’t even get in a full swing. That was the only reason Justin didn’t break Ricky’s nose, but even so, when Justin’s fist connected, Ricky let out a shriek that sounded more like the squeal of a pig than a noise that came from a person.

  “You hit me,” he wailed. “You hit me.”

  “Get out of my face or I’ll hit you again,” Justin said, feeling a strange sense of calm.

  “You’re going to be in big trouble,” Ricky said.

  Justin made as if to raise his fist, and Ricky turned and fled down the hall.

  “I can’t believe I did that,” Justin muttered under his breath.

  “Why not? It’s not like beating up on people is something new for you.”

  Justin turned.

  Billy was standing behind him, scowling. Now that he was closer, Justin could see that what he had thought was a trail of blood was actually the bright red line of a scar, snaking down Billy’s forehead.

  Dr. Ryden was the one who had told him about Billy. No one else had thought to mention to Justin that Billy was alive. In fact, when Justin had lain there in the hospital that first night thinking he’d killed his best friend, Billy had been only one floor above him. Apparently they’d stitched up his head, taped some broken ribs, and set his arm, then kept him overnight to see that the concussion didn’t develop into anything else. They’d let him go the next morning, and by the time Justin was released into Dr. Ryden’s care, Billy was already back in school.

  Justin took a deep breath. “You look good,” he said.

  “You think so? This is good?”

  Justin didn’t know what to say. The truthful answer was yes, Billy alive and walking around—that looked good to him. Even with a scar and a cast.

  “Did you come back ’cause you wanted to break my nose, too, but you just hit Ricky by mistake?”

  “No, I didn’t hit Ricky by mistake,” Justin said. “I hit him on purpose. But I shouldn’t have done it.”

  “The hell you shouldn’t. For the last month he’s been calling me Frankenstein,” Billy said, gesturing at his scar.

  Justin couldn’t help it. He let out a snort of laughter.

  “Oh, fuck you,” Billy said, but Justin thought he might have detected the slightest tug at the corner of Billy’s mouth.

  “Sorry.”

  “You should be,” Billy retorted.

  “I am. And not just about…I mean…I wanted to—”

  Billy cut him off. “I don’t want to hear any bullshit apologies, okay? All I want is for you to stay away from me.”

  Justin nodded. “Okay. If that’s what you want.”

  “It is,” Billy assured him. Then they stood there for a moment in silence—but Billy didn’t make any move to leave.

  And suddenly Justin felt better than he had for a long time.

  “I don’t know what you’re smiling at,” Billy said. He tried to scowl, but he couldn’t quite manage it; this time Justin definitely saw his mouth twitch.