Before My Eyes

by Caroline Bock

  “I feel like I spent the summer in a fog. I spent the summer worrying about the wrong things,” he says, as if he’s talking to himself.

  “What things?” I have to call after him.

  “Like if I could make the next penalty kick or not—and other stuff. I’ve got to admit that I’ve been worrying about all the wrong things, and maybe I have to start trusting myself. I don’t know. Does any of this make sense?” He keeps on going.

  “You’re asking me?”

  “And you’re answering with a question?”

  Sometimes things don’t make sense. Like, I don’t understand why my mother had to have a stroke. You can explain to me all you want about the science, about the weakness in the neurovascular system, but I don’t understand why she had to be the one to have a stroke. Why didn’t we see warnings? Why her? Why my mom? And with Barkley, I understand that schizophrenia is a disease, that he heard voices, or a voice, that was speaking to him, telling him to take control, to demand answers, to what? And why that day? Why in that tent? What questions require a gun?

  I rock forward. Hug myself. “Why did Barkley choose me to track down online? Was it that random? Did he just want a girl with long brown hair? If I were short and blond and petite, would I have been passed over? If I were pretty?” I am unmoored, cast off, alone.

  “Claire,” Max interrupts me, pivoting around on the front walk to face me.

  I keep on reaching for the questions that are flooding my thoughts, drowning out Max. If I weren’t so lonely, would I have answered him? Was it me who caused this, too? Should I have written something else to Brent/Barkley? Should I have said something? Should I have known? My mother always said smart girls ask a lot of questions. A smart girl takes nothing at face value. A smart girl asks first. But maybe I do ask too many questions. Or maybe I’m just asking all the wrong ones?

  “Listen to me.”

  “What?”

  “I want to tell you something.”

  “You said you weren’t staying.”

  He brushes his dark hair back. His hand, bruised, tremors. “I’ve got to admit this to you, Claire. You aren’t pretty. You are beautiful.”

  Nothing is said for a long minute or so, nothing questioned.

  “Did you see how King lunged for him?” Max says in the space between us. “King, even blind, knew something was wrong.”

  I should have asked about King right after I asked about his mother. He was such a brave dog. I probably owe my life to the split second that King threw Barkley off-balance as much as to anything else.

  I squeeze my eyes shut. Tears burn. King!

  “My dog, my blind dog, was braver than me. My parents are now telling everyone that the real hero is King, and I agree with them. It’s the one thing this summer we all agree on.”

  At the memory of King during the shooting, my throat tightens.

  “King!” shouts Max, throwing back his head. His wounded leg stiffens. He is cursing in pain. I want my mother’s arms around me, and I don’t. I’m not a little girl anymore. I want to know why this happened, too. Why? One question is followed by another question, by another, and if you ask enough, maybe, someday it starts to make sense? Or maybe the question is never completely answered. Maybe the answer is only to keep asking the questions? The wind picks up. Feels like more rain. Geese appear on the horizon, flying in perfect v-formation, filling the sky with their sharp calls. The end of summer.

  “King!” Max’s shouting trims the air. I’m cold. It’s time to go inside. I remember yesterday: Max calling out my name above all the din and chaos.

  “King?” I whisper.

  And from the back of Max’s Jeep, King is up on all fours on the seat, sticking his snout out of the cracked-open window.

  “I promised him a special walk, and no matter what I want to keep my promise.”

  The squawks of the Canadian geese put King on alert even more than Max calling for him. He releases a series of sharp barks. He senses the end of summer, too. Good dog, I say to myself. Good dog.

  Max stares past me. I should return to my mother, let him go to his dog. The geese pierce the deep blue sky, signaling to one another, tracking the sun. They know instinctively which way to go. They know that time is short.

  “Come with me?” he finally asks.

  “Where?”

  “Always questions.”

  “How about that?”

  “The beach. Would you like to go with me and King to the beach?”

  I would like nothing more than to be able to say yes without any more questions. Life is fragile, but with possibilities, and here is one of them. I stick my hands in my jeans pockets.

  He shrugs and starts to leave, thinking I’m not going with him.

  “Yes,” I say. “Yes, to the beach.”

  * * *

  An after-storm scent settles across the wet sand and grasses. A cool breeze rides across the crests of high tide. Driftwood and seaweed are strewn on the sands. The beach is bereft of people, save a few strolling up and down the boardwalk, and one lone man in baggy shorts with a Geiger counter searching for coins or valuables or anything else left behind by the summer crowds. The high white lifeguard chair is vacant and will remain so until next year. At the far end, Max unleashes King, who plows over the sand, packed hard by the storm, at the edge of the water. He skirts the waves chopping at the shore. The water looks rougher than it did even two days ago—grayish black, with bristling whitecaps.

  King tests the water, dashing in and out. He marks the shoreline. Max and I haven’t said more than a word or two to each other since I climbed into his Jeep with him—my mother peeking out the front window. It feels strange being at the beach, or anywhere, without my sister—strange and free.

  Max calls to King. The dog bounds out of the waves, shakes himself on Max and me, a cold spray, before sitting down, facing the sea and the pale afternoon sun. I have an intense desire to go into the water one last time this summer or at least feel the sand and ocean run through my feet one more time. I stand toward the sea. The wind rises and my hair whips behind me. I’m at the edge of the earth. The taste of sea salt lines my lips. I turn to Max, my hair whirring around me, and feel the rushing of my heart. He’s looking at me. I wait for him to say something or do something. He glances back at King, who seems to be waiting, too. The sea could take me, but I’m less interested in the rough ocean right now. A spray flits across my face, a taste of salt mixed with the recent storms.

  “You’re a hero,” I say.

  He hesitates. “No, I’m not. I’m just a guy who didn’t want to die. I didn’t want to be shot, or see my mom killed, or you.”

  I have to steady myself. I take my flip-flops off, toss them behind me onto the beach. I dig my toes into the sand, and feel the pull of the tide, the moon, gravity at play.

  “I wish,” he says, “that I felt like a hero. But you know, I feel like a regular guy, someone ordinary, and I think that’s okay.” He asks me, “Is that okay? That I don’t think I’m a hero?”

  He gives me his shy, lopsided smile. I step closer to him. We are eye to eye. The cold whitecaps swirl around my bare feet. I sway.

  Yelping sea gulls descend: seizing the beach, landing in lines like military columns. I shudder, but realize that I’m not that afraid of them anymore, not after what happened. I stare down their black steely eyes. Still, I’m glad when King attacks them with a fury of barks, evicts them from our corner of the beach. Max keeps looking at me. He brushes my hair away from my face. I will him to kiss me. But he doesn’t. He just stares at me right before his eyes.

  “Are you going to kiss me?” I have to say. But I don’t wait for an answer or for another question from myself. I just kiss him full on the mouth, wrapping my arms around his neck. His taste is salty, a mix of sea and tears. I hold on. He tugs me toward him. He kisses back as if he’s never going to stop kissing me. I keep my eyes open. I want to see that I am kissing Max. Soon enough, he opens his too and anchors me to him. We
kiss on. I want to always remember: this is how the summer ended.

  Tomorrow, Wednesday, school starts.

  Author’s Note

  As I complete this novel, I am particularly thankful to my mother-in-law, Dr. Frances Bock, Ph.D., a neuropsychologist, who read this novel while it was in progress and offered me her expertise, and to my brother David Blech. As a nurse practitioner with experience working on psychiatric wards, his insights into people afflicted with schizophrenia and his careful readings of the manuscript were invaluable. For those families suffering with mental illness, the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) is one of the largest nonprofit grassroots organizations for education and support. In addition, my mother suffered a stroke when I was four and a half years old and spent more than forty years brain-damaged and paralyzed. I wish when I was growing up there had been the information now readily available from the American Heart Association/American Stroke Association for victims and their families.

  Acknowledgments

  I am so grateful for the insights and skills of my editor, Sara Goodman, and my agent, Rachel Sussman. I could not have written this book without their enthusiasm and encouragement. And I couldn’t have written this novel without Jessica Koenig reading first drafts with her discerning eye, or without knowing that dear friends Kim Becker, Susan Kaplan, and Charlene Weisler were near. I couldn’t have kept writing without the camaraderie of my book club: Sophia Brogna, Maureen Cook, Paula Gilman, Lisa Mintz, Kathie Ring, Mary Sussman, Maria Schultz, and Gail Soffer, or without good neighbors, including Phyllis Baychuk. I don’t know if I would have had the courage to write this book if not for Heather Greco, an extraordinary young adult librarian at the Plainview–Old Bethpage Public Library, who read a draft of this work, and even more, recommended armloads of fine young adult books for me to read and learn from. I would not have finished this without the cheering-on of my father, Morris Blech, may he rest in peace, and my father-in-law, Hal Bock. I’ve dedicated this book to my siblings: Mark, Susan, and David—they will always see me in a way no one else does—and I am so thankful our family now includes Moshe and Leah and Cindy and Jacob. Most of all, I know I wouldn’t be a published writer at all if not for my husband, Richard, who reads and rereads all my work as well as reads, almost every night, to our children, Michael and Sara.

  Also by Caroline Bock

  LIE

  About the Author

  Caroline Bock is the author of the critically-acclaimed young adult novel LIE. She currently lives in Maryland with her husband and two children.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  BEFORE MY EYES. Copyright © 2014 by Caroline Bock. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.stmartins.com

  Cover design by Lisa Marie Pompilio

  Cover photographs: sky © Shutterstock.com; man © Stephen Mulcahey/Arcangel Images; flags © Benjamin Harte/Arcangel Images

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

  Bock, Caroline.

  Before my eyes / Caroline Bock.—First St. Martin’s Griffin edition.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-250-04558-4 (hardcover)

  ISBN 978-1-250-03567-7 (e-book)

  [1. Family problems—Fiction. 2. Schizophrenia—Fiction. 3. Mental illness—Fiction. 4. Politics, Practical—Fiction. 5. Long Island (N.Y.)—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.B63352Bef 2014

  [Fic]—dc23

  2013032019

  e-ISBN 9781250035677

  First Edition: February 2014