by Gayle Forman
“Sounds like a plan,” Ben says.
We head outside. He unlocks his car. It’s remarkably clean compared to the last time I was in it.
“Do you want me to drive first?” I ask. “Or don’t you let girls drive your car?”
“I don’t make a habit of letting anyone drive my car.” He looks sidelong at me. “But you’re not a girl anyway.”
“Oh, right. Have you categorized my species yet?”
“Not quite.” He tosses me the keys. “But you can drive.”
x x x
As soon as we hit the interstate, I relax. I got my license when I was sixteen, but I so rarely get to actually drive anywhere, I forget how freeing it is to just have open road in front of you, and wind in your hair. With the windows down and the stereo on, it’s too loud to talk much, and that’s fine. Ben can’t ask me about Bradford, can’t ask me about the last month, and can’t mention the kiss, either.
Outside of Baker City we stop for lunch at a place Ben knows. I’m skeptical about a Chinese restaurant in the middle of redneck eastern Oregon, but Ben says the dumplings are the best he’s ever had. It seems like he’s been here a lot. The young waitress clearly knows him and keeps finding excuses to come by the table to refill our tea and talk to him until her stern mother comes out from the kitchen and shoos her away.
“Wow. You know everyone on the I-84 corridor?” I ask him.
“Just in the Chinese restaurants. Along I-5, too.”
I motion toward the waitress, who is smiling at him. “Is she a fan from when you came through here with one of your bands?”
Ben gives me a look. “I was never here with a band. I ate here with my little sister, Bethany.”
That name is familiar. And then I remember that was one of the girls Ben was talking to on the phone when I went to see him in Seattle that first time.
“Bethany is your little sister?”
He nods. “Yeah. She was having a tough time at home. Back then I was couch-surfing in Portland, so I swooped in, all big hero man, to pick her up and take her on a road trip. I was going to take her to Utah. To Zion. I’ve always wanted to go there.” He swigs his tea. “Car broke down here. Piece of shit Pontiac.”
“What happened to your road trip? You guys hitch?”
“Nah. Bethany was only eleven.” Ben shakes his head. “I had to call my stepfather to come get her, and we hung out here while he drove up. He was so pissed at me that he refused to give me a lift back to Bend. I didn’t have anything going in Portland, so I wound up hitching to Seattle. It’s how I landed there.”
“Oh.” It’s not exactly the rock-star-chasing-his-dreams story. “Where is she now? Bethany?”
Ben’s eyes go flat. “There.”
I’m not exactly sure where there is, but by the way he says it, I know it’s not a place you’d want to be.
“Let’s finish up and get back on the road,” he suggests. “You know, Chinese food means we’ll be hungry again in an hour.”
“Ha. We only have a couple of hours till Boise. And Richard texted to say that they’re grilling tonight.”
Ben perks up. “Grilling? Like real meat? Nothing tofu?”
I text Richard back to ask if there will be tofu, and he texts me back a puking emoticon. “You’re safe,” I tell Ben.
We gas up and Ben takes the wheel, and it’s only when we get into the car and back on the interstate that I notice Ben didn’t smoke after lunch. In fact, he hasn’t smoked the whole time we’ve been on the road.
“If you’re not smoking for my benefit, don’t worry about it,” I tell him. But then I notice that the car doesn’t smell like an ashtray the way it did before.
Ben smiles kind of bashfully. He lifts up the sleeve of his shirt to show me a flesh-colored patch. “I quit.”
“When?”
“A few weeks ago.”
“Why?”
“Aside from the fact that cigarettes are deadly and expensive?” he asks.
“Right, aside from that?”
Ben slices the quickest of looks my way before turning his attention back to the road. “I guess I needed a change.”
x x x
By six o’clock we are in the outskirts of Boise, the tilting early evening sun making the foothills surrounding the city go red. I pull out the directions that Richard emailed me, and guide Ben through the downtown and out past the military area to a pretty tree-lined street with sprawling ranch houses. We stop in front of one with an overflowing orange bougainvillea bush and a big white van in the driveway. “This is it,” I tell Ben.
As we knock on the front door, I kick myself. We should’ve brought something, some kind of gift or something. That’s the kind of thing you’re supposed to do. Too late now.
No one answers. We ring the bell. Still nothing. People are home. There’s a TV on and there’s a sound of voices inside. We knock again. Still no answer. I’m about to text Richard when Ben opens the door and sticks his head inside. “Hello,” he calls.
A kid bounds up, a huge grin zigzagging across her face, which is sort of messed up by a cleft palate or one of those things you see in those TV commercials asking for money. “Maybe we have the wrong house,” I whisper. But then the kid shouts, “Wichard, your fwiends are hewe,” and five seconds later Richard ambles over, scoops the girl up, and ushers us inside.
“This is CeCe,” he says, tickling the girl under her arms as she screams in delight. He points around the room to where three more kids are sitting on beanbags and cushions, watching a movie. “That’s Jack, Pedro, and Tally.”
“Hi,” I say.
“Hey,” Ben says. “Toy Story?”
“Three,” Pedro says.
Ben nods knowingly.
“Who are they?” I whisper to Richard as he sets CeCe down.
“Family 2.0,” Richard says.
“Huh?”
“They’re my brothers and sisters, the second string, though really more like first string. My other brother, Gary, is out back, and my sister Lisa is currently in Uganda working with orphans or something extremely noble.”
He slides open the glass door leading out to the patio. Only then does he acknowledge Ben. “Ben,” he says cautiously.
“Rich,” Ben says back. “Thanks for having us.”
“I’m having her. You’re just along for the ride.”
Out back two men are arguing over the grill, while a woman with cutoff shorts and a cute halter top stands in the kiddie pool, watching them bemusedly.
“You’ll let me know when to bring out the corn,” she calls. Then she sees us. “Jerry, Richard’s friends are here.” She climbs out of the pool and comes to introduce herself. “I’m Sylvia. You must be Cody. And you must be Ben.”
“Thank you so much for having us,” I say.
“And having us for a barbecue,” Ben says, eyeing the grill lustfully.
“We’ll only have a barbecue if these mountain goats can stop arguing about what wood to smoke with,” Sylvia says.
“Pop,” Richard calls.
Richard’s dad is very tall, so tall he’s stooped, as if he’s spent his entire life bending down to listen to other people. “Hello,” he says in a quiet voice. “Thank you for joining us tonight.”
“I hope we’re not imposing.”
Sylvia laughs. “As you can see, the term full house is relative around here.”
“We think Pop is going for twelve kids in all, so he can have his own gang of disciples,” Richard’s brother Gary says.
“Inherent in the word disciple is some sort of discipline, of following one’s father, which is a far cry from what goes on here,” Richard’s dad jokes. He looks at me and Ben. “We’re having ribs tonight. The boys and I are disagreeing over hickory or mesquite to sm
oke with. Perhaps you have an opinion.”
“Either’s fine . . .” I begin.
“Mesquite,” Ben says emphatically.
Richard and his brother fist-bump. “Smartest thing I’ve ever heard you say,” Richard tells Ben.
“Richard!” Sylvia admonishes.
“Mesquite it is,” Jerry says, throwing up his hands in good- natured surrender. “We’ll eat in about two hours. Richard, why don’t you take your road-weary guests inside and offer them something to drink.”
Richard raises an eyebrow.
“A cold soda,” his father says.
“There’s some lemonade, too,” Sylvia says.
“The monsters drank it all,” Richard says.
“So squeeze some more. We have a ton of lemons.”
“When life gives you lemons . . .” Richard begins. Then he looks at me for a second and stops himself. Like he thinks it’s wrong to make this joke in front of me. I’m not sure why now, all of a sudden, he should get shy in front of me. So I finish for him.
“Make lemonade.”
x x x
Dinner is late and chaotic and delicious. Ten of us crammed around a picnic table under a clear Idaho sky. Ben eats so many ribs that even Richard is impressed, and when Ben explains that he lives in a vegan household, Sylvia throws a few hot dogs on the grill to top him off. I look at this nearly emaciated man and wonder how he can possibly pack it all away. But he does. Two more hot dogs and a pair of ice-cream sandwiches from the Costco box that comes out after dinner. It’s past nine when Sylvia and Jerry begin the epic undertaking of bathing and putting to bed all the hyped-up little ones. Gary heads out to meet some friends. Richard throws some logs on a fire pit in the back of the yard and sneaks into the garage for a couple of beers.
Through the window I can see Richard’s dad, a picture book open, reading to a bunch of kids in bunk beds. I hear the clatter of Sylvia doing dishes. Over the flickering firelight, I catch Ben’s eye, and I swear we are thinking the same thing: How lucky some people are.
I’m hit with a sudden wave of aching nostalgia. I miss this. But how can miss this when I never truly had it in the first place? It was secondhand through Meg. Like pretty much everything else in my life.
The firelight crackles. Richard finishes his beer and stashes the empty in the bushes. “You want another?” he asks us.
Ben shakes his head. “Better not. We have a big drive tomorrow.” He looks at me. I nod.
“So where you going, exactly?” Richard asks Ben.
Ben looks at me, asking the same silent question. I still haven’t told him the whole story.
“Laughlin, Nevada.”
“I caught that much,” Richard replies. He goes to the cooler and grabs another beer for himself and a couple of Dr Peppers for Ben and me. Something in my chest twists, and it’s ridiculous because I’m getting emotional because he remembered what soft drink I like. “I guess my question is really why Laughlin?”
I don’t say anything. Neither does Ben.
“What? Is it a secret or something?” Richard asks.
Ben looks at me. “Apparently.”
“Wait, you don’t know?” Richard says.
“I’m just along for the ride,” Ben fires back.
They glare at each other for a second, and then look at me. Inside, Jerry and the kids are saying prayers, calling out a long list of people to be blessed.
“This is between us,” I say, pointing back and forth between me and Richard and Ben.
“A sacred circle,” Richard jokes. “Or triangle. A ménage à silence.”
I give him a look, and then he goes solemn and promises.
“Remember when I came down and Harry was helping me with the computer thing?” I ask.
Richard nods.
“We found an encrypted file on Meg’s computer, and it turned out that it was instructions from this suicide support group, a group that supports your decision to end your own life. I did some more digging, and I uncovered her posting to these discussion boards. There was this one guy; he was like her mentor. He encouraged her.”
“That’s messed up,” Richard says.
“Yeah, it is,” I say.
“I can’t believe Meg fell for it.”
“I know,” I say. But I lack the conviction on this one. Because now that I know Bradford, I can believe it. “So I found this guy, and now I’m going to see him.”
“You’re what?” Ben interjects.
“I’m going to see him,” I repeat, but it comes out tepid this time.
“I thought you needed to talk to someone who knew about her death, like the Seattle people,” Ben exclaims. He frowns at me like I’ve violated some treaty.
I take a deep breath to keep my voice level. “I’m talking to the person who caused her death.”
“Except she caused her death,” Richard says. “That’s the definition of suicide.”
Richard and I glare at each other. “Bradford made her do it.”
“Which makes going to see him a brilliant idea!” Ben fumes.
“You knew I was looking for him,” I shoot back.
“I don’t know shit, Cody. Because for the last six weeks, you’ve refused to talk to me.”
“I’m talking to you now. I spent the last six weeks trying to smoke this guy out.”
“And how’d you do that?” Richard asks, his gaze ping- ponging between Ben and me.
“Harry helped, but mostly it was me. I kind of posed as someone who was suicidal. You know, me appetizing mouse. Him hungry snake.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Cody!” Ben exclaims. “Are you insane?”
“You mean like Meg was?”
That shuts him up.
“How does one do that? Pose as suicidal?” Richard asks. “My only experience is the opposite. Someone suicidal posing as okay.”
I could bullshit. I could say I lied, made it all up. But I tell the truth. “I found the part in me that was tired of living,” I say quietly. “And I put her out there.” I look down, unable to face their shock, or anger, or disgust. “I suppose that does make me insane.” I sneak a peek at Ben, but he’s staring hard at the fire.
“Nah,” Richard says. “Everyone goes there. Everyone has their days. Everyone imagines it. But you know why my pop says that suicide is a sin?” He points his thumb toward the house, where Jerry is now helping Sylvia with the rest of the dishes.
“Because it’s murder. Because only God can choose when it’s your time to go. Because stealing a life is stealing from God.” I parrot all the awful things people said about Meg.
Richard shakes his head. “No. Because it kills hope. That’s the sin. Anything that kills hope is a sin.”
I chew on that for a while.
“So what do you expect to accomplish? Now that you’ve found this guy?” Ben asks in a strangely formal tone.
“He has to be liable, somehow, as an accessory, or something.”
“So call the cops,” Ben says.
“It’s not that simple,” I say.
“Have you told Meg’s family?” he asks.
“You’re missing the point,” I reply.
“None of this will bring her back,” Richard says. “You know that, right?”
Yes, I know that. That’s not the point, either, though the point is muddled. But I can’t go to the cops or go to Meg’s family. I have to do this—do something—by myself. For Meg.
And for me.
32
I wake up the next morning to the international coalition of Zeller children leaping onto the couch. I get up, get dressed, and am helping Sylvia with the toaster waffles when Ben pads out, rubbing his eyes.
“Want to get coffee on the road?” I ask him.
&
nbsp; “You’re leaving already?” Sylvia asks.
I make apologies, say we should get out of their hair, but Sylvia says we’re no trouble. “And it’s Sunday.”
“Services start at ten,” Richard says, coming out in a cleanish- looking pair of jeans and a T-shirt with no drug references on it. “Can’t you stay? The rev will be bummed otherwise.”
I glance at Ben, who hasn’t spoken to me since last night. He shrugs the question back to me. I look at Richard and Sylvia and realize it doesn’t matter if I brought a gift. This is what matters.
I look down at my cutoff shorts and tank top. “I’d better change.”
“You can if you want,” Sylvia says. “But we’re a come-as-you-are congregation.”
We caravan over at nine thirty, Richard driving with me and Ben, the rest of the family in the van, which has one of those Coexist bumper stickers on it.
Outside the church the various Zeller children are scooped up by different congregants, and Sylvia and Jerry go into greeter mode. Richard slips inside with Ben and me.
We take our seats. The pews are a little worn, and it smells slightly of cooking oil. It’s the dumpiest of the churches I’ve been to, and this past year, I’ve been to a lot. Before that, I hardly went to church at all—Meg’s first communion, and the occasional midnight mass. Tricia usually works late Saturday nights, and Sundays are reserved for worshipping the pillow.
The service here is unlike any I’ve been to. There’s no choir. Instead, different people get up and sing and play guitar or piano and anyone can join in. Some of the songs are religious, but others aren’t. Ben’s all pleased when a bearded guy plays a soulful tune called “I Feel Like Going Home.” He leans over and tells me it’s by Charlie Rich, one of his favorite artists. It’s the first normal thing he’s said to me since we argued last night. I take it as a peace offering. “It’s beautiful,” I tell him.
Jerry sort of stays out of the way for much of the proceedings, allowing a younger guy who leads the youth ministry to run the show. And then, when all the singing is over and announcements have been made, he uncurls himself from his seat where he’s been sitting calmly, and in a voice that is quiet but somehow commanding, steps to the pulpit and starts talking.