“You have the hots for him,” Trisha said once. “I can tell. That’s gross.”
“I don’t,” I said, but what Trisha said wasn’t a lie. Only it’s weird to think of him like that. I don’t want to make out with Mr. Whitlock or anything. I just want him to hold me. I want to feel his hand stroking my hair and his heart beating against mine.
“I’ll always be here, Toby,” he’d say. “I’ll never leave you.”
“See you in the morning, girls,” he says.
After the Whitlocks leave, I cut three pieces of cake and let the girls eat in front of the TV.
“Don’t tell your parents,” I say. It’s important for them to have this last memory of me. I want them to look back on me fondly. To remember that I was a girl who broke the rules sometimes. We watch TV for a while and then I tell them it’s time for bed.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” April asks when I’m tucking her in.
“No,” I say. “I used to. Kind of.”
“Why don’t you still have one?”
“It got a little complicated. Do you have a boyfriend?”
She makes a face. “Boys are gross.”
“You might change your mind,” I say. “One day.”
“No way. Never.”
After they’re in bed, I go back downstairs and watch the last bit of Unsolved Mysteries. After what seems like a reasonable amount of time, I get back up and make my way down the hall and check in on the girls. They’re both asleep, so I continue down the hall toward the Whitlocks’ bedroom. Even though it’s dark, I know my way around; this isn’t my first time in their bedroom. I turn on the lamp next to the night table. Then I run my hands along the bedspread. It’s beige with brown and orange flowers. They ordered it from the Sears catalogue; I know because I saw it in there. I think about the things that happen in this bed. The sex. The quiet conversations. Maybe they fight sometimes. The bed is like a secret, and now that I’m here, I’m part of that secret too. But I remind myself to hurry up. I’m not here to touch the Whitlocks’ comforter, and one of the girls could wake up and find me in here.
I walk over to the dresser on the opposite side of the room and pull out the top left-side drawer. Inside are tidy triangles of Mr. Whitlock’s underwear. They’re all red, black and blue. Trisha once told me that men buy dark underwear so the skid marks don’t show. In the far corner of the drawer, buried beneath pairs of old underwear, there’s a pill bottle. I take it out and try to count the pills. I can’t remember, but it looks about the same as the last time I babysat. I snap off the lid and take out the last two pills I’ll need.
I’ve been stealing pills every time I babysit for the Whitlocks. I don’t know if Mr. Whitlock knows about the bottle in his dresser or if he forgot about it. Sometimes I think he knows it’s there and he knows that I’m taking the pills and he’s okay with that. He understands he’s helping me. He remembers my mom, how I’m her daughter, that it’s my destiny to do what my mom did. We’ll always be joined.
I slide the two pills into my jeans pocket. This is the last time. I have enough now. Twelve of them. That should do it. I snap the lid back on, tuck the bottle back to where it was and gently slide the drawer shut.
My plan is set. I’m taking the pills tomorrow night. I’m going to sneak out in the middle of the night through the basement window and go to the far corner of the farm, where the tall evergreens are. There’s a spot, a clearing in the tall grass, where I’ll lay down a blanket, take my pills and say goodbye to the world, the starlit sky, the trees, my grandparents, all my jagged-glass memories. I’ll slip into nothingness and the sad, pathetic life of Toby Goodman will be no more.
No one can leave you if you leave them first.
I go back to the living room, to a TV show that’s half over. The light from the television bounces off the walls and my face.
Ice blue.
* * *
The thing that bothers me most is that Mike will assume he’s the reason I killed myself. Boys always think it’s about them. But my reasons have nothing to do with Mike. Maybe some of them do. My mind feels like a tangled ball of string these days and when I try to pull out one strand, it’s no use. The tangled ball just gets tighter and tighter.
Mike and I dated, if you can call it that, for a couple of months. He was the one who first approached me back in the late winter. I was dipping the cows’ teats in iodine one morning and he came up behind me.
“Been noticing you’re going through some significant changes, Tobe-ster,” he said.
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“You’re looking pretty damn fine these days.”
I told him to get lost, that I didn’t have time for jokes, but he said he was serious.
“Maybe we can catch a movie some time,” he said, before walking away. “Or something.”
Or something? What did he mean by that?
Afterwards, I couldn’t stop thinking about him, even though I’d never really given Mike much thought before. I’d only ever thought of him as Trisha’s annoying older brother. The guy who put bugs in my bed when I went to the Richardsons’ summer cabin. The guy who drew dirty pictures of female superheroes. The guy who smoked and had acne scars and a moustache that looked like a caterpillar. The guy who, at sixteen, dropped out of school because he said it was “stupid” and took a job working full-time on our dairy farm. Mike was hardly a Prince Charming. But when he showed interest in me, something went off in my brain. It was like a spell, and once that door opened, I couldn’t shut it. I had to step through to the other side and see what was there. I had to keep it a secret from Trisha, though, and that made me feel like a horrible person. What kind of friend dates their best friend’s older brother? Behind her back even? I knew she’d never forgive me if she found out.
We went to the movies a couple of weeks later and made out for a bit in his car. It was the first time I’d kissed someone. His mouth was like a wet flower and his moustache tickled. I told him to drop me off at the end of the lane. If Grandpa Frank or Grandma Kay knew I was out with him, they’d have a fit.
“There’s something about that boy I don’t trust,” Grandma Kay told me once. “Boys with no ambition can be the most dangerous. They have nothing to lose.”
So we kept things quiet. Not that we had a choice. I begged Mike to not tell Trisha.
“Who cares if she knows?” he asked.
“I do,” I said. “You wouldn’t understand.” I knew if Trisha found out, our friendship would be over. She thinks Mike is the biggest loser. Even worse, I betrayed her trust. How could I do something like that when she’s been such a good friend to me?
Mike and I met in the fields, or in his car, sometimes at this old diner on Highway 7, but even that was risky. I was always turning my head whenever the diner door opened, expecting to see someone I knew. And how would I explain to anyone why I was alone with Mike? At a restaurant? On the outskirts of Tilden?
“Why didn’t you ever tell me that you liked me?” I asked him once.
“A man’s gotta hold his cards close, Tobe-ster.”
“Adding ‘ster’ to the end of a girl’s name isn’t going to win you any romance points,” I said. “Just so you know.”
We never went very far with the sex thing. I mean, I never saw his penis. I felt it through his pants and I let him feel my breasts, but I couldn’t go further than that, even though Mike wanted to. All my life, I’ve been ashamed that my mom got pregnant when she was a teenager, that she let a boy have sex with her without protection, and how that boy, my father, abandoned her. I hated my mom for being so stupid, for not being smarter. When people find out you’re the daughter of a single teenage mom, they look at you a certain way.
When they find out your mom also killed herself, they don’t look at you at all.
Mike never brought up my mom or made me feel strange. Maybe that’s because he’s a bit strange himself. That’s why he says he left school.
“Couldn’t stand it
,” he told me once. “All those jocks and cheerleaders and kiss-asses. Just because you’re not like them, they make you feel like you’re less than them. I don’t need an education if it only makes me feel stupid.”
He has an interesting way of looking at things, I suppose.
After a while, I started to have feelings for Mike. I mean, I thought I did. I have a hard time really understanding what feelings feel like, if that makes sense. I knew that I should have feelings for him, that I was supposed to fall in love. That’s what happens with everyone else. But every time I thought about love, I felt sick to my stomach. Even the word itself caused a crack to open in the ground, and all of this horrible stuff came oozing out. I had to keep everything closed. I knew it was the only way to be safe. I stuffed and crammed everything back inside, where it belonged. So while I wanted to fall in love with Mike, I couldn’t. It’s dangerous for me to feel anything about anyone. Why would I care for anyone when all they’ll do is leave me one day?
I knew I had to end things with Mike. He deserved someone better. Someone who could love him back.
“I can’t do this anymore,” I said to him a few weeks ago at the diner.
“Fine,” he said. “We’ll find someplace else to eat.”
“I don’t mean this,” I said. “I mean this.” I waved my hand in the space between us.
His face looked like it was about to melt, but he cleared his throat and sat up straighter in his chair. “What do you mean by that?”
“You’re a nice guy,” I said. “But I’m just not ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“A relationship.”
“Is that what this is?”
“I thought so. Didn’t you?”
“I didn’t think that much about it.” He slid a cigarette out and tapped the end on his pack. “No harm done on my part.”
“I don’t want it to be awkward when we see each other.”
“Too late for that.” He bent his head down to light his cigarette. I noticed the straight line of his part, his pink scalp. It seemed so delicate.
So I ended things with Mike for no good reason. Which he knew, of course. And that’s what makes things harder. Seeing him every day on the farm since then hasn’t been easy. But it’s for the best. He’ll understand that, in the days ahead. Why I had to break it off. Some people aren’t built for love.
* * *
The inside of the Whitlocks’ car smells like hamburgers.
“Sorry about that,” Mr. Whitlock says. “You go to these dinners and all you get is a chicken breast and two mini potatoes. How’s that supposed to fill anyone up? So we went through the drive-thru. I should’ve asked if you wanted anything.”
“That’s okay,” I say. “I don’t eat late at night.”
“Neither do I,” he says. “I have a feeling I’m going to have a severe case of heartburn.”
I like being in Mr. Whitlock’s car, the glow of the dashboard, the quiet song on the radio that I can’t remember the name of, the darkness outside. I feel safe inside his car, especially when I think of what could be out there, in the dark night around us. Animals waiting to pounce. People hiding. Ghosts, maybe, even though I’m not sure if they exist. Trisha asked me once if I thought my mom was a ghost.
“Have you ever seen her?” she asked. “Like, in a fog? Or really quickly? Like you turn to look at something and catch just a glimpse of her wearing a petticoat before she disappears?”
“Why would she be wearing a petticoat?”
“All female ghosts wear petticoats. And their hair is always in a bun.”
But there’s been nothing from my mom. No sign. No foggy appearance. She’s dead and she’s forgotten about me. I’ll forget everyone too. Even Mr. Whitlock, although this makes me sad. I glance over at him and wonder: If I reached for him right now, at this moment, what would he do? What would he say?
“How were the girls tonight?” he asks.
“Good,” I say. “They always are.”
“They have their moments.”
I see the half-smile on his face and I realize, for the first time, how much he loves his daughters. How much he cares about them. A father’s love. It’s something I’ve never known.
* * *
That day at Tops would play over and over in my head for years. The strange smile on my mom’s face as she told me the story, the swirl of smoke from her cigarette. The first image I had of my father, standing on the stage in his hat and clogs, a voice that sounded like an angel. What did that sound like, I often wondered. I’d try to imagine it in my mind, but I couldn’t. Once, I heard a man sing in a movie, one of those old black-and-white ones that Grandma Kay watches on Saturday afternoons, and his voice seemed to fit the space my mom had described, somewhere between male and female. But I couldn’t be sure.
He. Was. Magic.
Those words too. I imagined their letters bordered by light bulbs. My father was a singer. What kind of songs did he sing? Had I ever heard him on the radio and not realized it? Did he have albums? (I checked once at the record store in the mall but didn’t see anything.) Was he ever on television?
My father, this hole in my life, was someone real and unreal at the same time. After hearing my mom speak about him, I wanted to meet him more than ever, more than when he was just a faceless mist, before I knew his name (“Arthur, Arthur, Arthur,” I’d whisper in my bed at night, as though saying his name was going to make him materialize). Before I knew what he wore. Before I knew we had the same eyes. I wanted my father to return. He’d come back one day, dipped in gold with swaying, snow-coloured wings, at first a trick, but then, not a trick, because he was real and warm and there, right in front of me, so close I could feel his breath on my face.
After that day at the restaurant, my father took on a new shape. The few details my mom shared gave me something to work with. Bits and pieces that could help me build him. To create him as the father I wanted him to be. To fill the space that I always kept for him, hoping he’d fill it one day.
A singer. The plaid hat. His green eyes, which, when I imagined them, shimmered like jewels, my own face reflected in them.
* * *
Mr. Whitlock turns into our driveway. The living room light is on. Grandma Kay is likely asleep in her rocking chair, her mouth open. She’d be so embarrassed if she knew what she looked like sleeping.
“We’ll likely need you in another week,” Mr. Whitlock says as he puts the car in park. “Anne has some kind of concert. I’m not sure what it is. She’ll let you know.”
“Okay,” I say. “Do you have anyone else who babysits for you? Just in case I can’t make it sometime.”
Mr. Whitlock frowns. “Hmm. That’s a good question. I don’t think we ever thought about it, on account that you’re always free.”
“But I might not be,” I say. “It would be good to have a backup. Just in case. You never know.”
“I’ll mention it to Anne. I’m sure there’s someone. And I agree, a backup plan is always smart.”
My fingers touch the pills inside my pocket.
“Thanks again,” I say and get out of the car. I’m halfway up the driveway before I hear Mr. Whitlock calling my name. I walk back to the car.
“You forgot your money,” he says, handing me a twenty through the open window.
“Right,” I say. “Thanks.”
“Toby, is everything all right?” he asks. “You don’t really seem yourself.”
“Oh?” I blink back at him, trying to look calm.
“You just seem a little . . . distracted. Anything going on that you want to talk about?”
“No, there’s nothing. Just the usual.”
“I can only imagine what ‘the usual’ must be,” he says. “Especially for teenaged girls living in this day and age. If you ever start feeling down, or if you’re having thoughts that don’t seem right, can you promise me you’ll tell someone? It doesn’t have to be me. It could be anyone. Your grandparents. Or a teacher at school
. Even a friend. I’d feel better if you promised me that.”
There’s something that he’s not mentioning. My mom. But both of us know she’s there, sitting in the back seat, watching us have this conversation. Maybe there are ghosts, after all.
I need to put Mr. Whitlock’s worries aside. I can’t have him calling my grandparents. I can’t have him questioning me, wondering if I’ve gone searching for things inside his drawers.
“I promise,” I say. And then I do something I probably shouldn’t, but given everything, I don’t really care. This is our last moment together.
I lean through his open window and give him a kiss on the cheek.
“Good night, Mr. Whitlock,” I say, and before he can say anything back, I hurry up the driveway.
I stand there, at the front door, blinking back at the pair of headlights. I wave and hold my smile in place until I see the lights slowly make their way down the driveway and onto the road and disappear into the night.
I hope he remembers me. I hope he tells stories about me when June and April are older. In case they forget about the sad girl named Toby Goodman who used to babysit them.
When I open the door, Grandma Kay isn’t sleeping like I thought she’d be. Instead, she’s sitting on the sofa, her eyes red and raw.
“What’s wrong?” I ask her.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” she says in a shaky voice. “I have some news. It’s about your father.”
I stare at her blankly. What did she just say?
“Toby, he’s coming back.”
Chapter 5
I can’t move. I’m stuck in the doorway. This can’t be real life. But there’s Grandma Kay in her blue housecoat, the one I bought her for Christmas. Her red eyes, her hands squeezing together, like one hand is trying to strangle the other.
“What did you say?” I ask.
“I wasn’t expecting this. Not after all these years. I wasn’t even sure if I should tell you. I didn’t know what to do.”
“Why wouldn’t you tell me?”
“There I was, in the middle of watching Wheel of Fortune when Shirley called. Out of the blue. It was a regular Friday night. Then everything flipped upside down. I haven’t been able to settle out since.”
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