To: Ezra
Date: Sun 14 Apr 11:47 CST
I walk to the market at the end of the street. It’s an Italian market, of course, being located on the Hill, and it smells like sweet vinegar and garlic. There is a man who works behind the long wooden counter who looks like he’s been there since they opened, back in 1923. His name is Franco, and he has the bushiest eyebrows I’ve ever seen. The first time I go in, he watches me like a hawk. I have to pick up every single bottle and jar and vegetable because it’s all beautiful, like instruments from some foreign world. All I can think is People cook with these things. People come here and put this in their basket and then they take it home to their nice house, with their nice family, and they cook a delicious meal instead of ordering pizza or throwing down a cereal box and shouting, “Dinner’s ready.”
All this careful examination makes old Franco antsy, like he’s afraid I’m going to steal something, but instead of following me around the store or yelling at me, he says, “Kid, I’ll make you a deal. You don’t steal from me, and I won’t steal from you.” I think, The joke’s on you, buddy, because I’ve got nothing you’d ever want to steal. But instead I say, “Deal.”
So now I go in there every day. It’s the only routine I have in this new life. Franco’s wife, Irene, is the one who buys everything for the shop. She has long gray-black hair that she piles on her head, and a vast collection of parrot earrings. She says one of their daughters lives in San Diego and is always sending them to her even though Irene hates birds. All I hear is what a good mom she is, wearing these earrings she doesn’t like just because her daughter sends them to her.
Yesterday, Franco let me use the computer in his office. Before that, it was the public library, but today I’m sitting here in this big wooden chair with wheels, an ancient metal fan creaking out air at me. There’s a big daybed with lots of pillows and a red blanket and posters of Italy framed on the walls. (Irene reads interior design books when she isn’t shopping for the store.) The office smells like spices and I’m hopeful. Not happy. Not yet. But hopeful. When was the last time you could say that?
You’d love the library, by the way. I know reading’s always been more my thing, but you have to see this place, Ez. Marble floors, arched windows, ceilings as high as the treetops, chandeliers straight out of Hogwarts. Sometimes I go there in the mornings, choose a stack of books, and read until they close.
Back to Franco’s.
Right now, right this minute as I type these words, I’m sitting here breathing. This is one of the things I do in my new life. I breathe. Today I’m not looking over my shoulder, afraid Mom and Darren will walk in, because there’s only the one door, leading to the market, and the longer I’m away from them, the easier I feel. The easier I breathe.
The art museum isn’t far from here, but far enough so it’s not right next door. Same with the hostel. Just in case someone were to recognize me from the nonexistent “Missing” posters that are not circulating on the news right now. These are the things you think about on the run—where is the exit, what do I do if Darren walks in, would I be able to run away from my own mother if she came after me. And so on. I’m still careful. It’s better to throw people off the scent, just in case.
I know you’re wondering about this Mystery Guy. MG from now on. He doesn’t live with me but he’s here in the city. It would be weird for me to live with him because technically I haven’t seen him yet. At least not in person. Soon, though.
Am I nervous? Yes.
I’ve turned my life upside down and that’s partly due to him.
But I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t think I needed to. I hope you know that. All this isn’t just some whim or me being angry or an F.U. to Mom and Darren.
Shit.
Subject: A Day in the Life of Bea (Part Two)
From: Bea
To: Ezra
Date: Sun 14 Apr 12:03 CST
I heard voices in the market and it freaked me out. Surprise, surprise, it was not Mom or Darren or the police coming to search for a missing girl. It was Irene, stacking the shelves with new items, whistling to herself, parrot earrings jangling.
I wonder if you’d recognize me now. I feel less like a bug these days. Still bug-adjacent, but I’m changing back into human form. My hair is different and my clothes are different. I thought it was best to disguise myself a little on the off chance anyone started looking for me.
The market is open till 9 pm. I might stay till it closes or I might finish this and go for a walk down by the river. Yesterday I went to Scott Joplin’s house, and you’d never know all that music was written inside it because it looks just like all the other houses around it.
I’m starting to feel like that. Like I can walk out of this market and up the street and down to the river or over to the art museum and no one will look at me twice except to think, I wonder what that girl’s so hopeful about? Maybe someone will make up stories about me. Maybe they’ll wonder where I’m on my way to and who I’m heading home to. Maybe they’ll envy me and wish they had my life. I might even smile at them and say hi.
I meet MG tomorrow, and I don’t know what I’ll do until then. I feel like a kid, Ez. Like I’m Han Solo all over again. Like I really might just save the world.
Love,
Bea
Subject: Behind Closed Doors
From: Ezra
To: Bea
Date: Sun 14 Apr 13:35 EST
Your life sounds very…different.
Mine doesn’t feel all that different.
You’re going to have to let me know what this breathing thing is like. How does it work?
I am trying hard to be a good guest and not listen in on the conversation that’s going on in the next room. But since the conversation is basically about me, it’s really hard not to. I feel like a total jerk because Joe’s in there with his parents explaining to them that I have nowhere else to go, and that it’s their Christian obligation to let me stay here. He’s even playing The Accident Card, and talking about how much you helped him recover, and how it’s the least they can do to help me out in my own time of need. That’s the exact phrase he used just now: time of need. He’s much louder than they are, so I can’t really hear their responses. One thing’s for sure—he’s not giving up.
I feel like a total jerk because it’s this quality—the not-giving-up quality—that’s been annoying me so much the past couple days. And now here it is, about to save me from going back to our house. Which I can’t can’t can’t do.
I definitely see what you mean about Joe. Every minute, every second for him is a time of need. I’m not dating him, but I definitely think he’s auditioning me to be his sidekick. I figured that since it was the weekend, I’d get to sleep late and chill out and think things over. Maybe, you know, breathe? But the minute he got up, he was getting me up too. You know why? To play video games. For hours. I’ve always thought that the whole point of video games is that they’re something you can do on your own. And I imagine if I wasn’t here, Joe would totally be playing them on his own. But since I’m here, it’s video gaming as a social sport, with him giving a running commentary on every shot fired, every life point gained, every room entered. It makes him so happy to have someone to talk to, which is why I’ve been trying hard to get some happiness out of it too. But lord, sometimes I want a pause button.
Now he’s asking them for just another week—that can’t be a good sign, if he’s trying to bargain for seven more days. But wait—now he’s thanking them. I have to put this down so he doesn’t know I’ve been doing something other than Call of Duty for the past fifteen minutes.
Subject: Behind Closed Bathroom Doors
From: Ezra
To: Bea
Date: Sun 14 Apr 13:53 EST
Hiding out in the bathroom now.
Here’s the news:
There is no news.
Meaning: Joe came back to the room, picked up his controller, and resumed playing. Asked me what he’d missed. Then started telling me about this time he and Walter single-handedly won Vietnam in a single afternoon. Or something like that—honestly, I wasn’t following. The point is—he didn’t say a single thing about the conversation he’d just had with his parents. I was in the room when his mom asked if they could talk for a second. He knows this. But I guess he doesn’t want me to worry. If it’s just for another week, maybe he thinks he can get an extension. Or maybe he wants his sidekick around for as long as possible. No—that’s not fair. He doesn’t have to do any of this for me. I need to show more gratitude.
I also need to come up with a Plan B.
Thank you for letting me tell Terrence. I need his thoughts on this.
The big question is: How do I get out of this house without hurting Joe’s feelings?
Subject: ????
From: Ezra
To: Bea
Date: Sun 14 Apr 18:53 EST
Mom called Joe’s mom. It was like Mom’s name was a dog whistle and I was a golden retriever—the minute Joe’s mom said it, I was all attention. I paused the game Joe and I were playing, and at first he was confused, but then I gestured to the kitchen and he understood.
We listened in, and it soon became clear that Mom was calling to say she’d thrown Darren out of the house and was desperate for me to come back and make a new start.
KIDDING. What actually became clear was that Mom was accusing Joe’s family of harboring a fugitive, and was demanding my return so I could be tried and executed. Darren was let out on bail, or maybe he was let go without charges—I couldn’t tell, only hearing one side. Mom didn’t dwell on that, only the send-Ezra-back-to-be-slaughtered part. I’ll be honest—I thought Joe’s mom would fold and say, “Sure, you can have him.” But instead she surprised the hell out of me and stood her ground. She kept saying, “Now, I don’t think that’s a good idea, Anne. I don’t think anybody’s ready for that.”
I wanted to run in and hug her. And at the same time, I felt so trapped. My whole life was being decided by two people who weren’t me. Four, if you counted Joe and his dad. Five, if you counted Darren, who was no doubt standing over Mom, telling her what to say. I didn’t want to feel so reliant. I didn’t want to feel so dependent. I know this is stupid—I’ve been reliant on other people my whole life. But the trick is not to feel it, right?
Then Joe—Joe—said to me, “She’s not going to kick you out. She won’t send you back to them. She knows how bad it is over there. She understands.”
But I haven’t said a word. I haven’t told him anything.
You must have. Because I could see it—he knows the lay of our land. At least a little.
I don’t know what came over me. I heard his mom hang up. I knew I wasn’t supposed to be listening. But I went right for the kitchen. Behind me, Joe said, “Hey!” but he couldn’t stop me. His mom was standing next to the kitchen table, staring off. She didn’t even try to cover it when I got there, didn’t try to float a smile to her face, didn’t try to change the subject that was suffocating us. No, instead she stopped staring off and looked at me, this stranger who was temporarily her responsibility.
I know that Joe almost died. I know his mom lived through that. But honestly that’s not why I said what I said. I wasn’t thinking about him at all.
“You’re saving my life,” I told her. “I know you don’t have to, and I know it’s a lot. If there’s anything I can do to be less of a burden, I’ll do it. But in the meantime, I just want you to know that you and your family are the only thing coming between me and a very bad reality. I am guessing that you know this, or else I wouldn’t be here. But I wanted to say it out loud to you. So you know for sure what you’re doing.”
She nodded absently, then said, “You can stay here, Ezra, but it’s not a permanent solution. I understand that you can’t go back there, but you do have to talk to your mother at some point. Especially with your sister gone…you’re all she has.”
“She has her husband,” I pointed out.
“Yes,” Joe’s mom replied. “But you’re all she has outside of that man.”
That man. Everything I need to know about why I’m living at their house is in those two words.
“Mothers worry,” she added. “It’s what we do.”
I wanted to tell her that children worry too. Especially when their parents don’t love them. Especially when they aren’t given any real options. Especially when their own lives are too heavy for them to lift on their own.
“Aw, Mom,” Joe said, heading over and giving her a big hug. “You’re the best.”
She hugged him back and I felt like I should leave, that even though it had been about me, there was still no place for me within it. I guess that’s one of the side effects of growing up in a home that hates you—you have no idea how to act around love.
I mumbled a “thanks again” and got out of there. I went back into the living room and realized that this was my chance to leave—before Joe returned, before Joe wanted to hang out some more. So I left the house and started walking to Terrence’s. I texted him to say I was coming. I texted Joe to say I’d left. Terrence texted back to say he’d be waiting. Joe texted back to say I shouldn’t have left, because we were only two levels away from this awesome firefight.
I’m walking to Terrence’s now—I’ll spare you all the thoughts that are crossing my mind, since most are just variations of What am I going to do now? I hope that Terrence can get me closer to the answer without feeling he has to provide it outright.
In other words: I don’t want him to think I’m asking him if I can move in.
More soon.
Subject: Good news, bad news
From: Ezra
To: Bea
Date: Sun 14 Apr 21:03 EST
I’m in the park now, stalling before I go back to Joe’s. Things with Terrence aren’t good. I’m going to try to get it down here—obviously, I’m not going to remember it word for word, but this is pretty much how it went.
When I got to his house, he was in his room, doing homework. I know his routines—he was just starting homework because all of the books and notebooks were open on his floor. (He won’t put them away until he’s done, so his floor gets clearer and clearer as he systematically completes everything he needs to do, usually left to right.) I laughed because there was barely enough room for me to sit down next to him—I had to slide his laptop over to make space.
“So I have some news,” I told him. It felt big, to be able to have this conversation.
“Cool,” he said, having no idea. “What?”
“I heard from Bea.”
Now I really had his attention. He leaned toward me. “Wow. Where is she?”
I knew he’d ask me this. I just didn’t expect it to come so soon. So I fumbled.
“Um…I can’t tell you.”
Now he sat back. Paused a moment before saying, “Okayyyyyyyy….”
“Seriously. I promised.”
Terrence didn’t seem happy about this. “You can trust me.”
But that wasn’t the issue. I had to make him see that. So I said something like I knew I could trust him—and I was sure that you trusted him too. (I could have quoted your email to him, but thought that would be weird.) I told him you were the one who’d told me it was okay to tell him I’d heard from you.
“I haven’t told anyone else,” I said to him.
Then he surprised me again by replying, “But you’re going to tell Joe, right?”
I s
aid that no, Terrence was the only person I could tell. I thought he’d be flattered that you knew I needed to talk to someone about it, and that he was the best person to talk to. I told him that. But instead of understanding or realizing how important this was, he said, “Isn’t Joe going crazy, not knowing?”
I genuinely didn’t understand why Terrence was making it about Joe.
“It’s Bea’s decision, not mine,” I pointed out.
“Why did it take her so long to get in touch with you?” he asked.
I know what comes next is a lie. The only way I can explain it is that I felt I’d already given a number of unsatisfying answers to his questions, and I felt that telling him we’d been in contact for a while would be the least satisfying answer of all. So instead I told him, “I just heard from her an hour ago. That’s why I came running over here.”
Again, he didn’t understand how important this was. How before I had him, I wouldn’t have had anyone—I would have kept it a secret forever.
“It’s pretty mean of her to keep you waiting that long,” he said.
I told him no, it wasn’t like that.
But he wouldn’t let it go. “Really?” he said. “Then what’s it like?”
He was getting irritated and I called him on it.
“Why are you sounding so angry? Isn’t it up to me whether I’m mad at my sister or not?”
“Sure. But you have to admit, a lot of the shit you’re in has to do with her ditching you and leaving you alone.”
I defended you. “First off, she had her reasons. And second, I’m not exactly alone, am I?”
That calmed him a little. He leaned back over to me, put his hand on my ankle. “No. You’re not. But you know what I mean.”
“Of course. You just have to believe me—it makes sense.”
Take Me With You When You Go Page 6