Picture Me Gone

by Meg Rosoff

I never had the courage to talk to her about the day we almost went to Brussels or to ask about the text. As time passed, I began to think I’d imagined it.

  twenty-four

  I have learned today that my father can lie to me and that I will put all my instincts on hold and believe him because I want to believe that he wouldn’t. I didn’t discover that he was a murderer or had a secret son, like Matthew. But nonetheless. So much relies on one person assuming the other is telling the truth. If a person can lie to you about one thing, he can lie about something else.

  Of course I lied to him too, in a way, but it wasn’t the same. Matthew’s text was, after all, for me. I was merely protecting Gil from feeling sad. Or was I? Perhaps it was just me thinking I could handle something Gil couldn’t.

  Another lie.

  It makes me think about the nature of truth. I don’t lie as a general rule because I’ve never thought there was much to be gained by it. My parents don’t bully me or impose expectations in ways that inspire me to make things up.

  I blame the quietness of this arrangement for my innocence. Though it’s not as if I’ve never experienced dishonesty. It starts early in life with girls at school, saying they’re only allowed eight friends at a sleepover and you would be the ninth. Or talking about what they’ve done with some boy when you’re pretty sure they haven’t. Some lies barely deserve the effort that goes into telling them.

  In theory, I would like to lead a transparent life. I would like my life to be as clear as a new pane of glass, without anything shameful and no dark shadows. I would like that. But if I am completely honest, I have to acknowledge secrets too painful even to tell myself. There are things I consider in the deep dark of night, secret terrors. Why are they secrets? I could easily tell either of my parents how I feel, but what would they say? Don’t worry, darling, we will do our best never to die? We will never ever leave you, never contract cancer or walk in front of a bus or collapse of old age? We will not leave you alone, not ever, to navigate the world and all of its complexities without us?

  They will leave me. It is the first thing you learn that makes you no longer a child. Someday I will die too, but I’m not nearly as frightened of that as I am of being left alone. This is my darkness. Nothing anyone says can console me.

  Is Matthew coming here? I ask.

  Gil shakes his head. No, we’ll go to him. He’s staying nearby.

  I would hate to have parents who were always looking over my shoulder, reading my diary, checking my thoughts. I would hate to be exposed. And so, perhaps, when I say I long to be a pane of glass, I am lying. I long for partial obscurity at the same time that I long for someone to know me.

  It is confusing and difficult being me.

  Sometimes I need to cry in order to release the great welling sadness I feel in my head.

  For this I need privacy. I do not want anyone to see me and ask why, almost as much as I would like to be comforted.

  Somehow, without ever being present, Matthew has exposed all of this, brought it wriggling to the surface like worms. They gather there now, vaguely nostalgic for the dark.

  twenty-five

  Matthew is staying thirteen miles from here. His disappearance, when you come right down to it, was modest in scale. For all the driving we’ve done up and down the state, his big break for freedom took him less than ninety minutes from home.

  I am recalculating all the coordinates I’ve known so far, but am still lost. I take out my phone and text Jake.

  We’re seeing Matthew today.

  I want to tell him more but don’t know how. The phone bleeps back almost immediately.

  What???

  I text back. Long story.

  There’s a pause. I wonder if he’s gone and then the phone bleeps again.

  Ok. And then a second later: Report back.

  I will. Wish us luck.

  Luck

  The landscape we drive through is dazzlingly white, every angle and corner softened by great drifts of snow. Icicles have appeared like magic, giant dripping stalactites anchored to the edges of roofs and gutters. I have never held an icicle before and feel an almost unbearable desire to do so. They look precious as fairy jewels and if I broke one off I could wave it about like a scepter.

  I sit in the back with Honey. Gil glances round at us occasionally but says nothing. He holds a map between his knees. I could be helping, but I don’t.

  We’ve left the town and are driving through a hilly landscape that’s white as far as the eye can see. Fences and stone walls have become soft slopes, and farmhouses wear high slouchy hats. Everything looks clean and new and I like this world of perfection despite knowing that all sorts of barbed wire and dead things lie beneath. The road is clear and black, which makes a change from England, where they’d just wait for it to turn to ice and then melt eventually, while not going to work and complaining that the services can’t cope.

  I like the way snow piles itself at the top of telephone poles and even collects on the wires in long thin white lines. There are gaps where birds have landed, spelling out Morse-code messages. Dot dot dot. Dash dash dash. Dot dot dot.

  We pull off the road into what looks like a low-rent shopping mall and see the MOTEL sign. We’re moving slowly now and I’m glad for Suzanne’s big car, which feels solid even when we skid.

  Gil leaves Honey and me in the car while he goes in. The path is drifted with snow that no one’s bothered to re-shovel in the past hour. Gutters all along the front glitter and sag with ice. He comes slithering back out and moves the car nearer to Matthew’s part of the motel.

  We’ll see what happens, he says. As I get out of the car, I step through ice into a deep pool of freezing water. It fills my boot and feels horrible. Honey neatly avoids the puddle. She seems unnaturally alert, head high.

  I blame Gil for my frozen leg and follow him up the path, dragging my foot and limping conspicuously. He ignores me, which is just as well. I’m behaving badly and don’t feel like being cajoled.

  The girl at the front desk buzzes us in. We follow the corridor round and knock on Matthew’s door. I can hear footsteps. Gil looks down at me suddenly and reaches out his hand. I am not so horrible that I refuse to take it. His face is full of anxiety.

  I don’t recognize the man who opens the door but Honey does. She bounds at him, launching herself through the air like a missile. Darling Honey, I hear him say, laughing, his voice cracked with emotion. Darling dog. Honey is incandescent with joy, ecstatic, and it’s contagious. If I had a tail I’d wag it too.

  At last.

  Matthew buries his head in her thick white ruff. He holds her face in his hands and his tired features fill with light. At last he stands up and embraces my father. Their faces disappear and the two men seem to merge. They could be twins, so similar are they in height and stature. I can imagine them as children, or on the side of a mountain, the closest either had to a brother.

  Honey stands looking up at her master, alert to every expression, every inch of her electric with love. She has lost the melancholic expression of the last few days. Matthew cannot resist kneeling again, and she licks his face and neck till he grasps her head in his two hands and pushes her gently away. Not content to step back, she turns sideways and rubs the length of her body across his chest, first one way, then the other. If she could eat him, she would.

  Matthew has strong features and unnaturally intense eyes; his hair is thick and gray. Even I can see that despite his age he is handsome. He doesn’t attempt hugging or kissing, just looks at me, his head tilted slightly, watching.

  It is hard to get over the habit of dislike that has grown in my head, but Matthew is not what I expected. His expression is complex; he looks athletic, but holds his shoulders stiffly, as if in pain. I wish now that I hadn’t sent those texts.

  While he speaks to Gil I examine his face. There are purple shadows under his eyes. He smells clean and has recently shaved; he wears a faded green flannel shirt. I expected desperation, but in
stead he is quiet and reserved. It is impossible to ignore the fact that he looks unspeakably sad.

  We sit down, me on the bed, Gil and Matthew in chairs. Matthew asks Gil if he wants a drink, doesn’t wait for an answer and pours wine into two glasses. I don’t need to check my watch. It is not yet ten in the morning. Gil looks ill at ease. When I tune in to my father, the signals all line up. Is this because I know him so well or because he has nothing left to hide?

  I get no clear signal from Matthew. What little comes through is scribbly and erratic. Something scrambled is not the same as a lack of information; it suggests interference. Matthew’s signals are blocked, as if he has a glass wall buried a few inches beneath his skin. He is accustomed to hiding.

  It is fairly obvious that they would like to talk without me present, but I am not in a mood to cooperate. I sit absolutely still, waiting for resolution. Matthew drinks with steady deliberation and pours another. They make small talk about our trip. Gil tells him about Lynda and Jake. Matthew listens quietly, asking questions that may or may not mask a depth of emotional involvement. The mood in the room becomes increasingly odd. Honey searches Matthew’s face. I do too, and am abashed, suddenly, to feel that I may be contributing to his unhappiness.

  Just as I’m trying to figure out how to excuse myself, Matthew asks if I would mind sitting in the lobby for a bit while they talk. He asks politely, as to a social and intellectual equal. I appreciate this. It is not commonly the way people speak to children. Gil takes me out to the lobby, which has been designed as a pretend study, with a desk, an ugly red leather sofa, a lamp, a small bookshelf filled with paperback books, two chairs and a television. Strange snow light pours in through the window. No one sits in the reception area, which connects to a small office. Perhaps whoever is on duty hides back there when not required.

  Gil kisses the top of my head and apologizes for . . . well, he says, for everything. Then he goes. I look around for Honey and realize that she has stayed with Matthew.

  Horrible music is playing through tinny speakers in the reception area. I get up from the chair and go exploring. All the public areas are empty.

  I miss Honey, and despite the fact that she has been Matthew’s dog her entire life, I resent her absence. Gil and I brought her here. She should be grateful. Matthew’s the one who left her behind with Suzanne. He left Gabriel behind as well. And Jake. But dogs don’t hold grudges. At least this one doesn’t.

  There’s nothing else to do but return to the fake study.

  I text Jake again. We found him.

  What do you think?

  Not what I expected.

  There’s a longish pause and I can almost hear Jake thinking on the other end. I wait and wait but no answer comes. Maybe he doesn’t know what to say.

  I look up and Gil is there, talking in a low voice to the receptionist. She hands him a key.

  I’ve taken a room, Gil says, just for the night. So I can talk to Matt some more.

  Matt is nowhere to be seen. We walk out to the car to fetch our bags. I’m waiting to hear what Gil tells me next.

  Perguntador.

  I’m busy collecting my things and only turn to him after a minute. Yes?

  Forgive me, he says. I’m trying to do what’s best for everyone.

  I stare at him, studying his face. You didn’t have to lie to me.

  I know, he says.

  I’m not an idiot.

  Far from it. But everyone alive has secrets, he says. It’s terrible being a keeper of them. Worse, maybe, than being kept in the dark.

  I say nothing.

  Mila, I need your help.

  Like he needs to point that out. Our eyes meet again and suddenly I feel grubby and false. I am withholding help because it is the only power I have, except the power to be kind.

  I reach over and take his hand, the one that is not gripping his suitcase, and so the drama between us melts away.

  Who knows? Someday I may need him to lie for me.

  twenty-six

  All pretense of happiness has drained out of our journey. We have settled into our motel room and I feel tired and young. Too young to do what Marieka has asked me to do. Too young to look after my father.

  Also, I miss Honey. Why is she so loyal to Matthew but not at all loyal to me?

  Gil has come back from another conversation with Matthew. He smells of wine.

  What did you find out?

  I’m not a very good cross-examiner, he says.

  You could just ask him what’s going on.

  I tried. He doesn’t seem to know himself. He says he didn’t want me to see him this way.

  What way?

  Oh, I don’t know. Gil shrugs. All of it. It’s a complicated corner he’s backed himself into. Whichever way you look at it.

  I think about this. And then I think about Catlin.

  Maybe he can’t bear not turning out better than you.

  I can see the cogs in Gil’s brain turning. This won’t be the sort of thing he’d think of. I wouldn’t have thought of it either, without Catlin.

  Maybe you remind him of when he was young and hopeful. Before everything went wrong.

  It didn’t have to be such a mess, Gil says. If it had been just—

  But he stops himself. He realizes that saying just Owen is impossible. Yet I know what he means. It may be possible to lose a child and survive. But to lose one child and possibly be the reason he’s dead? And to have another you’ve kept secret? And then to leave the third? Even with my incomplete understanding of life I can tell that it’s too much. You would begin to twist, like a floorboard cut against the grain. And keep twisting, until it was impossible ever again to be straight.

  And now to have the friend come to visit. The one whose life you saved. The weaker one.

  Gil goes out to find dinner and Marieka picks up on the first ring.

  Hello, my dear heart. How are you?

  We’ve found Matthew, I say. Gil was in touch with him all along.

  My words hang in the air.

  I knew, she says.

  Yes.

  Oh, my love, she says softly. There is silence on the line and it crackles a little.

  I’m fine, I say out loud. But really? I don’t feel at all fine.

  My sweet girl, she says. Mila, please don’t cry. She speaks so softly now that I can barely hear her. Please, sweetheart. Matthew seemed so . . .

  Desperate?

  She sounds a bit surprised and says, No, adamant. Do you want to come home?

  I want to go home, of course I do. I want to go home more than anything I’ve ever wanted ever. But I also want to stay with Gil and see this thing through. Maybe now that Matthew is found, our job will be over and we can go home together. Maybe now that Matthew is found he will go back to Gabriel and Suzanne and they will all live happily ever after. Maybe it could all still work out.

  Marieka’s voice interrupts my thoughts. Tell me what you saw, she says. Tell me what you noticed about Matthew.

  He looks like Dad.

  Yes, Marieka says. Yes, I remember that.

  He’s very intense.

  What else?

  But I do not know how to explain what I see—the scribbly signals, the intelligent face, the stiff shoulders, the eerie calm, the dark dark feeling flowing off him. The wine.

  He drinks a lot.

  Oh, she says. I wish we hadn’t let you go. I should have said no.

  We’re coming home soon, I say. It’s nearly over.

  Gil bustles in with bags full of Chinese takeaway, so I send Marieka kisses and hand him the phone. They talk softly for a few minutes. I hear Gil say, Yes. No, we haven’t talked about it. And then, I know, I know. Soon. I’ve had enough of this. His voice sounds tired and he rubs his head as if trying to rub thoughts away.

  When he hangs up the phone, we talk about Marieka. She sounds worried, he says, and I nod.

  She may as well join the club.

  Yes, says Gil. She may as well. Let’s go home
, Perguntador, it’s time to go home. We’ll leave tomorrow.

  But as it happens, we don’t.

  twenty-seven

  Matthew does not come to breakfast until we are the last people left. He only has coffee and I can see his point. The food is awful, even the toast. Fake jam, fake juice, fake bread. Honey, at least, seems relieved with the outcome of our hunt. She never strays more than a few inches from Matthew’s side. When he stands, she stands. When he paces the room, she pads behind him.

  Dogs inhabit a world full of different information. Matthew is in the foreground of Honey’s life, throwing everything else into shadow, like Big Ben or the Andromeda Galaxy. She fears separation, can smell it hovering around Matthew. If Matthew goes, she will have nothing. Being without him makes her life impossible.

  How could he leave her behind?

  The receptionist comes in and asks Matthew to move his car to let the snowplow through. I watch from the window as he opens the door for Honey and she jumps in beside him.

  Matthew rejoins us, fetching more coffee for himself and Gil. I don’t like the look in his eye; it is oddly fixed. He stirs fake milk into the fake coffee but doesn’t drink it, instead filling a small glass from a flask he keeps in his pocket. Gil watches, his expression neutral.

  The funny thing about Matthew is that he never seems drunk. He seems the same as yesterday. He does not slur his words or fall over or anything.

  I take my book and go to another table so they can talk, but it is close enough to hear most of what they say.

  Look, Gil says, leaning in toward his friend. It’s not too late. You can start again.

  Matthew looks up at him. Shakes his head.

  You have to want to. Don’t you want to?

  A loud flat noise makes me jump. Matthew has slammed his hand down on the table. Of course I want to, he says. It’s. Too. Late.

  There’s a long silence and then I hear an awful noise. It’s Matthew crying.

  There’s not another woman? Gil’s voice is low.

  Matthew actually laughs. No, he says. Not another woman.

  Matt, says Gil, there’s always a way out.