Take Me With You When You Go

by David Levithan

  “All right,” I said. And as soon as he was gone, as soon as I had a moment to think, I started to understand how I was going to take him up on it.

  * * *

  —

  A couple hours later, on my way to lunch, Jessica Wei stopped me.

  “How are you doing?” she asked.

  “I’m doing,” I said.

  She looked at me closely, tried to translate my tone.

  “We still need to get coffee,” she pointed out.

  It wasn’t a question, and I didn’t need it to be.

  I said sure.

  I know you’re probably thinking I should have plunged in right there, told her I needed us to skip lunch and go somewhere to talk. I have a feeling Jessica would have been down with that. But I’m not ready. That’s the simple truth: I’m not ready. I know what’s going to happen: She’ll tell me her story, and I’ll tell her my story. And maybe those two stories coming together will make us understand each of them better. Or maybe it won’t, but at least we’ll have someone to tell them to. I get that. But right now, there are parts of my story I feel I have to figure out before I show them to anyone else.

  * * *

  —

  That’s what I’m thinking about right now.

  In my mind, tomorrow seems months away.

  There’s a lot I have to do first.

  Subject: RE: Unexpected allies

  From: Bea

  To: Ezra

  Date: Tues 23 Apr 15:27 CST

  Dear Ez,

  I just have to tell you about the last letter. It’s from seven years ago. In it, Dad signs away his rights to us. He promises not to go after Mom or fight for custody or involve the police in getting us back. He just says okay, Anne, you can have them. I’m not going to fight you anymore.

  That’s what he says, Ez.

  You can have them.

  He gave up all rights to being our dad.

  And then he doesn’t even mail the letter.

  He knew you existed. He knew where we were. He knew our names.

  He couldn’t even bother to officially give us up.

  I was in the campus library when I read it. Patch was at practice and his roommate was in the room, and I had to find somewhere I could go, and it was easy enough to get another student to swipe me in with their ID. The people at the desk looked up and smiled at me and I smiled back, like oh, hey, like yeah, I go here too, and then I found a table up in the stacks and set the shoe box in front of me and started reading from where I left off.

  It was more of the same—Anne, talk to me. These are my kids too. But the letters were fewer and farther between. And then finally this last one. He seemed to be answering her. Like they’d talked or she’d written, or her lawyer had written, and he just couldn’t do it anymore. Fight for us. He was just done.

  You can have them.

  I laid my head down on the table and just cried. I cried for Madelyn and for Dad and for you and for me and even a little bit for Mom. I cried for Patch, who doesn’t want to play basketball, and I cried for Joe, who nearly died, and for Sloane, who wouldn’t have made out with Reggie Tan if I’d stayed at that party, and for Jessica Wei and for every person in the world who’s struggling and suffering in silence, and I cried for London, who misses his dad—because let’s face it, Jonathan Wooster was his dad, not ours—and then I cried for us again.

  The thing I realized when I finally sat up—all these years I’ve been carrying around this little nugget of hope, buried somewhere deep inside, that maybe we weren’t living the life we were supposed to, that maybe another, better life was waiting for us out there. I mean, who doesn’t wish that at least once in their life? During all the shitty, shitty times with Darren and Mom, that little nugget of hope was the place I could go and curl up and tell myself, It’s okay. This isn’t where you belong. There’s something better for you out there. You don’t belong here.

  And then you find out you did belong there all along, and there’s nowhere you can go now because this is your life. Your shitty, fucked-up, dead-end life.

  You can have them.

  You can have them.

  You can have them.

  Subject: Have you seen me?

  From: Bea

  To: Ezra

  Date: Wed 24 Apr 10:52 CST

  Here is what I come away with: Dad was a decent-ish guy. He may not have tried hard enough, but for a while at least he tried to do the right thing. He probably would have been a lot easier to grow up with than Mom and Darren. But we’ll never actually know.

  Maybe at some point he just had to say, I’ve got this other family, a wife and kid, so I’ll just concentrate on them. I think at some point he had to give up.

  I tell Patch I need some air, and he drops me at Walmart, because of course I don’t have a car and I don’t have money for Uber or Lyft or even the bus. Not if I’m going to buy tampons and toothpaste.

  So I’m in Walmart, and I walk and walk. I go down every aisle—even the gun aisle, even the tire aisle—and I try to breathe. At some point I realize my breath is amplified, like I’m on microphone, in and out, in and out. It’s so loud. And people are looking, but all I can do is concentrate on not passing out. It’s like suddenly everything I’m carrying around in my head and in my chest is expanding like an accordion, and there’s no room for all of it inside me.

  And then all at once the lights are too bright and the people are too loud, and there is too much stuff everywhere. I squint my eyes against it and hold my ears, trying to muffle the sound, and I head for the exit.

  I’m starting to walk out, automatic doors opening, people behind me, and I freeze. Because taped to the window, the one by the doors, is this poster. It isn’t very big—the size of a For Sale sign—but there are all these faces. Young faces. Kid faces. Some as young as four or five. Others as old as I am. Have You Seen Me? That’s what it says at the top. And then below each picture, the name of the kid and the date they went missing, and where they were last seen and what they were wearing.

  I study each face.

  Kayla was allegedly abducted by her mother on July 5, 2017.

  Elijah went missing from Woodland, California, on November 4, 2018, under suspicious circumstances.

  Of course I’m not one of them. There’s no picture of Beatrix Ahern, age eighteen, last seen wearing a red hoodie and faded jeans, missing since March of this year, or Madelyn Wooster, age three, missing for fifteen years.

  King went missing from Gary, Indiana, on July 25, 2017.

  Relisha went missing from Washington, DC, on March 19, 2016.

  I’m frozen, practically committing these names and faces to memory, and then I remember the people behind me, trying to get past, and I’m bumped and jostled as I move aside, and someone may swear at me under their breath. But it’s okay because at least they see me.

  “Have you seen me?” I ask the woman trying to juggle kids and bags as she gets around me.

  She just stares at me and keeps juggling.

  No, I think. How can you when I’m not even here? I’m Bea, I’m Madelyn, I’m missing, I’m a runaway, I was kidnapped by my own mother. I’m a high school dropout. A nobody. No one misses me except for you, Ezra. No one is looking for me because Dad is dead, and also, oh yeah, he just gave up. You can have them.

  All of this—the faces on the door, every thought I’m having—gets me thinking about what it means to be seen. I feel like Terrence sees you pretty clearly, in a way Joe was never able to see me. I feel like the only person who’s ever seen me clearly is you. Maybe that should be enough—to have one person who sees you. Some people probably don’t even get that. And they probably don’t see themselves. Am I Madelyn Wooster? Or Bea Ahern? Or both? I don’t think I know
who Beatrix Ellen Ahern Madelyn Sierra Wooster is. Maybe I never will.

  I leave Walmart and start walking. I walk right past Patch, waiting in his car, and head down the street toward I don’t know where. I hear the horn behind me and ignore it. I tell myself, Why should I wait for him? He’ll only leave too. They always leave, don’t they? I guess technically I left you and then I left Franco, and in a way I left London. So maybe if Patch doesn’t leave me, I’ll leave him because it’s in my blood and that’s just what I do.

  I walk and then I start to run, and I’m going nowhere, Ez, but I’m telling myself I’m running to something. Maybe I’m running to Beatrix Ellen Ahern Madelyn Sierra Wooster. Or maybe I’m just running to nowhere, after all this time. Maybe that’s where I belong.

  * * *

  —

  I slept in the daybed at Franco’s, cocooned by the pillows, trying my best to disappear. I still had the key he gave me, and I didn’t think twice about using it. I felt like he wouldn’t mind somehow, like he’d rather I stay there than on the street.

  I woke up with him standing over me, ear hair twitching, dark eyes flashing.

  He let out a stream of Italian, so loud I had to cover my ears.

  I got up, made the bed while he yelled at me. I put the pillows back in place. I pulled on my shoes. So calm. I was so calm. I know what to do when people yell at you. Hugs, no. Niceness, no. Yelling, yeah, I get that.

  At some point he switched to English, and he calmed down a little, but by then I was halfway across the store heading to the door.

  “Beatrix,” he said. It was enough to stop me from leaving.

  “What?”

  “Stop running.”

  I didn’t say anything because I wasn’t going to cry, even though I wanted to because he would have hated it.

  “Stop running. No more running.” His voice was quiet then. Like he was suddenly leading a meditation or teaching yoga. “No more running. We were worried, Irene and me. We don’t know where you go or if you’re okay.”

  “I’m sorry.” And I actually stood there resenting him, resenting the two of them for caring about me.

  “No more running. If you don’t want to stay here anymore, we need to know that you’re somewhere safe. You are young. But you’ve already lived a life. More than you should. But you have so much life to come. If you are safe.” He rubbed at his eyebrows, what was left of the hair on his head. “It’s been a long time since we worried about one of our children. They’re grown, they’re gone. They are okay. But now we worry about you.”

  Now we worry about you.

  There was a boulder-size lump in my throat. It was all I could do to say, “I’m sorry.”

  “No more running. You won’t get anywhere with all that running.”

  For just a second—light as a feather—he rested a hand on my shoulder. And then he took that hand and patted me so hard on the back that I almost fell over.

  * * *

  —

  I called Patch from the store and he came to get me. Without me telling him where I wanted to go, he headed for campus. He turned the music (Tupac) up loud and we rode the whole way without talking.

  It wasn’t until he parked the truck and shut off the engine that I said, “I’m not going in there with you until you talk to me.” I meant in there as in his dorm.

  “Okay,” he said. “Let’s talk about you just taking off yesterday.”

  “Sorry.” But it didn’t sound like I was because I wasn’t really.

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.” And I don’t know, Ez, I was just so tired by this point. Which is why I said, “It’s not like I owe you anything.” And my heart started racing because I kind of do owe him. I mean, he helped me out when no one else would, not counting Franco and Irene.

  “Nice.”

  “What?”

  He sits back against his door, staring at me and shaking his head. “You act like you’re this hard-ass who never feels anything.”

  “Maybe I am. Maybe I don’t.”

  He’s still shaking his head. “Yeah, but we both know that’s not true. At some point, you gotta just own it, Martha. You’ve got a heart. And it’s been hurt. And you’d rather hurt someone else than have them hurt you, but then you’re only hurting yourself.”

  “Did you learn that in Psychology 101?”

  “No. It’s pretty fucking obvious. And I’m not stupid.” This is the first time I’ve heard him swear, and it kind of gets to me. Like this is what a bad influence I am and I’ve pushed him past his limits.

  He slams out of the car, and I sit there for a minute trying to decide what to do, and then there’s this rapping on the window and I nearly jump out of my skin. Patch is waving at me like come on. So I get out and wait for him to storm off toward the dorm, not speaking, but instead he takes my hand, twining his fingers through mine, and this is how we walk across campus. I keep looking down at my hand in his, expecting it to evaporate, leaving my hand clutching nothing but air. But it doesn’t.

  “What about Everly?” I say. Because some part of me needs him to tell me again that there is no Everly. That there’s only Martha and Patch.

  “Fuck Everly,” he says. Together we walk to the dorm.

  And the thing is, Ez, he’s right—not about Everly but about me ultimately hurting myself. And I know he’s right. And he knows I know he’s right.

  Which is why there’s a lot I have to do too.

  Subject: Your heart

  From: Ezra

  To: Bea

  Date: Wed 24 Apr 12:15 EST

  The boy’s right. You do have a heart. And it has been hurt.

  Part of the hurt’s come from that nugget of hope—so many nuggets of hope—bouncing around in there.

  Yes, Dad gave up on you. Mom did at some point, too.

  But fuck it, Bea. I didn’t.

  And you know what?

  NEITHER.

  DID.

  YOU.

  So Dad said, You can have them.

  So Mom acted like having us wasn’t exactly a prize.

  So Darren clearly wished he didn’t have to be with us at all.

  So. What.

  Your heart is stronger than any of the hurts inflicted. Even the ones that were self-inflicted.

  Don’t believe me? Put your hand right there on your chest. Pledge of allegiance, to yourself. What’s that heart doing? What’s it saying to you?

  I thought so.

  Now, my heart needs some answers.

  More soon.

  Subject: This is how it ends and begins

  From: Ezra

  To: Bea

  Date: Wed 24 Apr 22:22 EST

  So there’s a lot to tell you here. I’m trying to remember it all.

  Here goes:

  * * *

  —

  School ends. I tell Terrence I’ve made plans with Joe. He looks a little surprised, but also doesn’t want to act like me living with him means I have to spend every moment with him. I’m counting on that.

  I texted Joe right after I emailed you earlier.

  I needed a driver.

  * * *

  —

  First I have Joe drive me to the house, to make sure she isn’t there.

  Then I have him drive me to her office.

  I’m betting that now that tax season is over, it’s going to be understaffed. I remember how she used to talk about that all the time over dinner, how the accountants’ summer started on April 16th. Not that she ever treated it like summer with us.

  I deliberately wait until it’s after five. Her car is in the parking lot with only two others. When I walk inside, the receptionist desk is empty. That room, the r
eception room, is the one I remember the most. Because whenever there was a school closing or something and she had to take us to work, that’s where she’d park us for the whole day. Remember how boring that was? I swear, it looks like they still have the same magazines. I almost open one up to see if I can find any scribbles of ours. Then I realize the only reason I remembered there’d be scribbles was because of the way we were yelled at for scribbling in them. Not in the reception area, not with anyone else around. But the minute we got in the car. I remember being so ashamed. I remember feeling like I’d ruined everything, that all the people who’d been nice to us in the reception area over the last few hours probably thought we were monsters now. We’d ruined their magazines!

  I have to wander around a little to find her actual office. I don’t have any real memories of doing anything fun there, just waiting obediently for her to finish up so we could go. I double-check to make sure my phone is on, just in case I have to prepare Joe for a speedy getaway.

  The door has that frosted glass, so I can see her moving around inside. It sounds like she’s getting ready to leave. I stand there for a second, watching this blurry version of her, our mother reduced to color and movement, just the suggestion of a person. Then I open the door and see her for real.

  The opening of the door startles her, and my presence startles her even more.

  Does she say my name?

  Does she say how sorry she is?

  Does she thank God that I’m back?

  No. She says, “What are you doing here?” Like I’m something that’s fallen off the shelf of her past, breaking on the floor of her present.

  “I’m here to talk,” I say. “That’s all.”