by Jeff Zentner
It is certainly that.
“Pareidolia,” I say.
“Come again?”
“Pareidolia. One of my favorite words. It’s when your mind sees a pattern you recognize where there isn’t one. Like seeing a face in the moon. Or shapes in clouds.”
Dr. Mendez smiles and says, mostly to himself, “Pareidolia. What a beautiful word.”
“For something that isn’t always beautiful.”
“For something that isn’t always beautiful.”
Sometimes I forget they’re gone for a few seconds. I’ll hear something at school about an upcoming dance or theater production. I’ll read about an upcoming movie or video game. Something we shared in together. There’s a spark of excitement. And as quickly as it comes, it evaporates as though the air itself has some higher claim to my happiness than I do. You’d expect this would happen less often the more distance I get from their deaths. But it only seems to happen more as summer surrenders to autumn.
I’ve heard that people who lose a limb have a “phantom limb,” which itches and senses pain as though their body’s forgotten that it’s gone.
I have a trinity of phantoms.
We’re inside, but we shouldn’t be. We should be enjoying the perfect seventy-two-degree late afternoon. The waning summer is my favorite miniseason, with its temperate days: gentle, crisp nights with slowly singing crickets, and mornings like cool satin on your skin. I usually walk around happy for no reason at this point. Not this year.
We’re at the Bellevue library. It’s a new, modern building and dozens of wooden birds, carved from the trees cleared from the library site, float above us on cables. The same as we do with our memories once our lives are clear-cut and bulldozed over. We carve them into birds and hang them, as if they’re still really flying.
Jesmyn sits across from me. She’s watching and listening intently to something on her laptop with headphones. I’m supposed to be working on an essay about Toni Morrison for AP English lit, but Jesmyn distracts me. She’s seemed pissed all day. I try to read her expression but I’m still unacquainted with all her shades.
She starts sniffling. She quickly wipes her eyes with the sides of her thumbs. I debate whether to pretend not to notice or whether to say something. I settle on saying something.
“Hey,” I whisper.
“Hey,” she whispers in a wobbly voice, wiping her eyes again.
“You wanna go hang outside?”
She nods and closes her laptop. She stuffs it in her bag, not making eye contact and letting her hair cover her face. I quickly gather my things and follow her outside, where she sits on a bench, her bag at her feet.
I wait for her to start, but she doesn’t.
“Did I do something?” I ask.
She doesn’t speak for several seconds, watching cars go by. Finally: “I want you to be completely honest with me.”
“Okay.” I shift uneasily.
“Have you been telling people we’re hooking up?”
I feel cold and my mouth goes dry. “No. No. What the hell? Who would I even tell?”
“ ‘Who would I even tell’ isn’t that comforting. Dudes would tell the pizza delivery guy if they wanted to brag about getting with a girl.”
I’m consciously willing myself to appear truthful, which I am. The problem is that the harder you try to seem credible, the less so you seem. “Jesmyn, I swear. What have you heard?”
“Today, in music theory, Kerry told me that she’d heard you and I were hooking up and that we’d started even before Eli died.”
Nothing strips you and leaves you lying there, naked and bruised, like finding out someone has been maliciously lying about you. I guess it’s why people do it. People who hate you. A rising tide of fury and humiliation swells in my chest. “Gee, I wonder who could be spreading such a rumor.”
“Adair? You think?”
“She hates the shit out of both of us.”
“But why lie?”
“Because she wants to hurt us? It legitimately bums me out your mind went to me before it went to her.”
“Well.”
“No, seriously. Even if it were true that we were hooking up, I would never tell anyone.”
“We’re still getting to know each other.”
“You should know me that well by now at least. Dude, Georgia trained me right.”
Jesmyn looks slightly relieved. “Sorry. It’s just this happened at my last school. I started dating this guy, and his old girlfriend started everyone talking about what a slut I am.”
“See? Girls are as capable of spreading shitty rumors about other girls as guys are.”
“I didn’t say they weren’t.”
“Sexist.”
“Whatever.”
“I’m really sorry for getting you into this.” But not too sorry.
“Into what? Being friends? Shut up. I’ll be friends with whoever I want. Adair can eat me. I just don’t appreciate people lying about me.” But she still seems burdened despite her defiance.
“Was that all that was bugging you?”
She fiddles with her bracelet. Her nails are painted dark gray, almost black. “No.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Only if you promise not to try to fix the problem. Guys always want to fix things.”
“I promise. In fact, not only will I not try to fix things, I promise I’ll screw things up worse.”
She laughs. “Don’t do that either. Only listen.”
“Only listening.”
“So I have this neurological condition called synesthesia.”
“Is…that the thing where—”
“Where one sense triggers another sense. So when I play or hear music—or any sound, actually—I see colors.”
“Oh. Wow. That’s awesome. I’ve heard about that.”
“I guess. It’s awesome sometimes. Not always. Anyway, this piece I’m working on for my Juilliard audition? ‘Jeux d’eau’? I was barely watching Martha Argerich performing it. It’s supposed to sound crystal, cobalt blue. Like…blue glass set on a windowsill. That’s how it sounds when she plays it. But when I play it, it sounds brownish-green. All snotty. It’s gross and awful. It physically hurts to listen to myself.”
“It sounds amazing when you play it.”
“No offense, dude, but I have to play it for people with way pickier ears than yours.”
“You’ll nail it.”
“Well, for the last almost two months, everything I’ve played sounds snot colored. It’s like Eli’s dying broke something in me, and now I have this weird sickly greenish-yellow photo filter over everything I do. It’s horrible to have something I love so much feel so completely wrong.”
“I get that.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
In response, I’m conspicuously mum and motionless. Jesmyn gives me an expectant look.
“This is me not doing anything whatsoever to fix the problem,” I mumble out of the corner of my mouth.
She laughs. A sound that’s become a sanctuary to me. “Okay, you can give me a hug. That’s sufficiently nonfixing.”
We stand and hug, swaying slightly. “You give good hugs,” she murmurs in my ear.
“Careful you don’t let me fix something by accident.”
“I won’t.”
“Sorry you’re viewing the world through snot-colored lenses lately.”
“Me too.”
She pulls back, and maybe I’m imagining this but she lightly drags the edges of her lips along my cheek as she does so. (Personal growth, so I have to sit back down carefully.)
Jesmyn sits. “Do you think it would help me if I had a goodbye day for Eli like you did for Blake? No joking about how you’re not supposed to fix anything.”
I was not expecting this question, given recent events. “Possibly. I mean, Blake is definitely quieter now in my mind than he used to be.”
“Maybe we should both have a goodbye day for Eli with his parents. Mig
ht help us both.”
Because of Adair, this had not even occurred to me. The idea weirds me out. “Do you want me to see if they’re into it?” I’m hoping she’ll say no.
“Maybe.”
“What about Adair?”
“If Adair’s a problem, they’ll say no.”
“What do we do about Adair in general? Should we try to talk to her?”
“After one attempt at it, I can’t imagine that helping much.”
We sit in wordless contemplation, my thoughts bubbling up and breaking on the surface.
“So,” I say finally, “what color is my voice? When I talk?”
She rubs her chin and squints. “Hmmm. Usually bullshit colored.”
I don’t recognize the number on my phone. “Hello?”
“Carver Briggs?” The voice on the other end is brusque. Not the sort to deliver the news that you’ve been randomly selected to swim with baby dolphins while someone yells compliments at you through a bullhorn. It sounds like a black leather gun holster looks.
“Speaking,” I say over the blaring klaxons in my head.
“This is Lieutenant Dan Farmer of the Metro Nashville PD. We wanted to speak with you about the car accident on August first involving Thurgood Edwards, Eli Bauer, and Blake Lloyd. We understand you were friends with them. When could you and your parents come down to the station and speak with us?”
I will my voice to stop shaking but fail miserably. “I—Actually, I’d better talk to my lawyer first.”
“You’re not under arrest for anything. We just want to have a conversation.” He sounds palpably annoyed.
“My lawyer said I shouldn’t talk to any police without him there. My lawyer’s Jim Krantz.”
Lieutenant Farmer’s annoyance becomes full-blown exasperation—he’s as terrible at hiding it as I am at hiding my nerves. “All right. You got my number on your phone?”
“Yes.”
“Call your lawyer and let me know.”
“Okay.”
Lieutenant Farmer hangs up without saying goodbye.
I tell my parents. Then we call Mr. Krantz.
This is happening.
There’s a dim, remote corner of me that actually welcomes it.
The next day, after the longest day of school in my life, we’re all seated around Mr. Krantz’s conference table. My parents are on my left. There’s an empty chair on my right for Mr. Krantz. A video camera sits on a tripod in a corner. Nobody says anything.
I hear voices; niceties being exchanged out front. The receptionist leads in two men wearing khaki slacks and sport coats. They have guns and badges on their belts. A young woman in a well-tailored suit and with an equally well-tailored professional air follows.
The older of the two men introduces himself. “Carver? Lieutenant Dan Farmer. Thanks for coming.”
Oh, you’re welcome! Couldn’t be more excited to be here!
The younger man introduces himself. “Sergeant Troy Metcalf.”
The woman steps forward. “Carver, I’m Alyssa Curtis. I’m an assistant district attorney for Davidson County.”
“The whole team showed up,” my dad says. He tries to play it casually, like we’re people who have nothing to worry about, despite the contemptful edge in his voice (my dad’s accent is a good fit for contempt). There’s awkward laughter. Not from our side of the table. My stomach is full of wasps.
They take seats across from me. I stare at my sweating hands. Nobody talks. Finally, Mr. Krantz bustles in, his glasses on the end of his nose, holding a legal pad. Neither of the officers nor Ms. Curtis looks especially happy to see Mr. Krantz. But they all shake hands.
“All right,” Mr. Krantz says, sitting with a grunt and looking at his watch. “I’m busy; my client’s busy; y’all are busy—or at least you ought to be. So let’s get this show on the road.”
“Fair enough,” Lieutenant Farmer says, clicking his pen. “Carver, we’re here investigating the accident that took the lives of Thurgood Edwards, Elias Bauer, and Blake Lloyd on August first of this year. Why don’t you tell us everything you know about the circumstances surrounding this accident?”
I swallow hard. As I’m about to speak, Mr. Krantz intervenes. He whips off his glasses and plops them on top of his legal pad. “No, no, no. You have a specific question? You ask. I’m not having my client telling you free-form campfire stories.”
Lieutenant Farmer winces and squirms in his chair. “Carver, were you aware at the time of the accident that the three deceased were traveling in a vehicle?”
I start to answer, but Mr. Krantz cuts me off. “My client exercises his rights under the Fifth Amendment to the United States Constitution and Article One, Section Nine, of the Tennessee Constitution and declines to answer.”
Lieutenant Farmer takes a here-we-go breath through his nose. “Did you text Thurgood Edwards immediately preceding the accident?”
“I—”
“My client exercises his rights under the Fifth Amendment and Article One, Section Nine, and declines to answer.”
“Were you aware that Thurgood was driving at the time you texted him?”
I wait a couple of seconds before even trying to answer. With good reason.
“My client never told you that he texted Mr. Edwards. You said that. Also, he exercises his rights under the Fifth Amendment and Article One, Section Nine, and declines to answer.”
Sergeant Metcalf sighs.
Lieutenant Farmer speaks softly. “Look, Carver, we’re just trying to get to the bottom of this. We’re not trying to trip you up.”
Mr. Krantz chuckles. “Dan, you can’t start playing good cop after you’ve already started out as the bad cop. Also, baloney. You’re trying to pin something on my client—a kid—so His Honor will stand down. Let’s acknowledge what this is.”
“We’re not enjoying this, Jimmy.”
“Didn’t say you were. Next question. I have a tee time.”
“Carver, who have you talked with about this accident?”
Pause. Hold for—
“My client exercises his rights under the Fifth Amendment and Article One, Section Nine, and declines to answer. Next question.”
“Jim,” Ms. Curtis says, “Carver’s cooperation would go a long way toward defusing this situation or giving you bargaining leverage down the line. Especially if our investigation eventually turns up something. Then it’ll be too late.”
“It would also go a long way to giving y’all the only hook you have to hang your hats on. This is your only chance to talk to Carver, so I suggest you keep things moving.”
Lieutenant Farmer’s eyes bore into me. As though daring me to stand up to Mr. Krantz and blurt something out. “Carver, is there anything you wish you’d done differently on August first?”
Oh, the ways that I could answer that question. Oh, the ways that question has come to define my entire existence. And my shocking, stunning answer is…
“My client exercises his rights under the Fifth Amendment and Article One, Section Nine, and declines to answer.”
There we go.
Ms. Curtis touches Lieutenant Farmer’s arm and stands. “Okay. This isn’t a productive use of anyone’s time.” She glares at me. “I can’t make any promises about how the DA will react to your lack of cooperation if we decide to go forward with the case.”
Her tone chills me.
Mr. Krantz chuckles an asshole-ish chuckle. “What case?” He stands. “Folks, always a pleasure.” He doesn’t offer his hand. Neither do the two officers or Ms. Curtis.
“We’ll be in touch,” Ms. Curtis says as they start to leave.
“I expect so. And, folks?”
The two officers and Ms. Curtis turn.
“I better not hear of any back-alley attempts to trick Carver into saying something he shouldn’t. No pretty young undercover officers in low-cut blouses. No forty-five-year-olds pretending to be sixteen-year-olds in chatrooms. No shenanigans; no bullshit. From here on out, my client is
unequivocally and unambiguously exercising his right to remain silent. He ain’t interested in helping Fred Edwards steamroll him. We understand each other?”
None of the three respond. They walk out.
Mr. Krantz looks at his watch as he gathers his things. “Sorry to be in a rush, y’all. I wasn’t blowing hot air about that tee time.” He claps me on the shoulder and squeezes. “You hang in there, son.”
Hang in there. That’s always helpful advice, especially because it always comes when you feel like you’re standing at the gallows.
When I get home, I tell Jesmyn I plan to approach Eli’s parents about doing a goodbye day. What I don’t tell her is that I’ve decided to do this because I’m worried about two things: (1) I go to prison before I have a chance; (2) I don’t go to prison and instead chew myself up from the inside before I have a chance. Either way. It’s something I need to do sooner rather than later.
I’m nervous about calling them until I remind myself that I recently informed a mother over the phone that her son died. If I can do that, I guess I can do anything. Phonewise. That still leaves Adair to be apprehensive about, but I’ll leave that up to them.
I thought I would have to explain more, but I don’t. I talk with Eli’s mom. She tells me Nana Betsy called them shortly after Blake’s goodbye day and recommended the experience as therapeutic. So they’ve been considering it but were worried about how to approach me. And it’s perfect timing, because they have a plan to scatter Eli’s ashes at Fall Creek Falls this autumn. They think he would have liked that. She tells me to invite Jesmyn. I tell her I will.
I don’t tell her how I hope this will allow Eli to finally rest in my mind, because death becomes real only when people rest finally.
“Tell me a story.” It’s the first thing Dr. Mendez says when we settle into our chairs. We skip the small talk entirely.
I came ready. Why not? I knew he’d wheedle it out of me eventually and I’d have to invent on the fly. “In 2001, Hiro Takasagawa was a safety engineer at Nissan. He was actually an artist—he built moving sculptures. But people didn’t buy them, so he had to take a real job with his skills.”