Look Closer

by Stewart Lewis

  I think about how I’ve been pretty brave recently, like him. That I’ve gone out of my comfort zone, broadened my usual scope. That’s something Dad loved to do.

  She walks up to the Xs that cover almost the entire wall behind my bed. She runs her finger across the columns.

  “I still feel him. Do you?” I ask.

  “Absolutely,” she says. “I still expect him to be standing here, right next to me. But I’ll never feel him like the way you do, because you’re an actual part of him.”

  “I know.”

  She turns, patting her eyes with the edge of her finger. “What I’m trying to say is, I’m so grateful for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  She sighs and heads toward the door.

  “Mom?”

  “Yes, honey?”

  “You’re doing everything you should be doing. You’re living your life.”

  She smiles and says, “Right back at you.”

  I don’t tell her not to say right back at you. When she’s gone, I walk over to the box and open it slowly.

  There’s a stack of receipts, and at first I’m confused, but then I realize they’re for ice cream. From our secret trips. He must have saved every one.

  It seems like everything in the box has to do with me. My grade reports (mostly good), my school picture from second grade (short bangs, ouch). A magnet from the Thai restaurant he used to take me to outside the city (I always got the pad thai). My driving permit test results (satisfactory).

  Under it all is a crayon drawing I made of my father in a helicopter with a giant sun behind it. I look at it for a second, one of my tears dropping onto the corner, blurring the edge of the sun. I walk over to my desk and tape it to my wall.

  * * *

  Sharon is there when I get to the pool. She looks different again. Is it her hair? It seems bigger, like she had a blowout or something.

  “Hey,” she says.

  “Hi. How come you never said hi to me before?” I ask.

  “I’ve been kind of antisocial since I split up with my husband. But that’s all changing now.”

  She shows me her phone. It’s a man’s profile on a dating site. The guy in the suit looks pretty generic, like it may be a stock photo. Still, I tell her he’s cute. Which he is, if you like that generic-guy-in-a-suit sort of thing.

  “I’m so out of the loop,” Sharon says. “I’ve never dated in my whole life. I married my high school sweetheart, who ended up taking off with some girl to India. India! He hates Indian food!”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s been more than a year. I should be over it. I think he thought I was going to be in the limelight with swimming. When that dream died, so did his passion for me. But now I think I’m finally ready. I’m going on a date. It feels good, you know?”

  “Good for you.”

  I go through the turnstile.

  “Swim well,” she says.

  “Thanks,” I say. “Your hair looks good.”

  She smiles, touching it with her fingertips.

  “Just a trim, but yeah. Yours, too. You got it colored?”

  “A little. Thanks for noticing. My boyfriend didn’t.”

  It feels great to say boyfriend, even though Edge and I haven’t defined what we are. But he asked me to wait for him.

  “I bet he knew something had changed but couldn’t pinpoint it. Guys aren’t as good with details. As if I would know. I’ve only been with one!”

  “Well, not for long apparently.”

  “Exactly.”

  I wave, and she starts scrolling through her phone again as I head off. I can see the resemblance to the Sharon Moss in my scrapbook now. Edge was right; I wasn’t looking close enough.

  It’s cloudy today, which makes the pool give off a dull sheen instead of its usual bright shimmer. Gwen is already in her lane when I get there. She looks better today. I tell to her to pace me and that we’ll start with the 200-meter freestyle. The water feels cold at first, but I give in to it, and eventually I’m warm. I concentrate on the angles of my upper arms and the undulations of my torso, on how they work together. After a few laps, other thoughts distract my focus. I picture Edge’s aunt when she realizes the credit card is gone. I remember the warm feel of my fingers on Edge’s smooth chest. I think about my mother singing that song. That makes me smile underwater.

  After training, we head to the locker room to change, and Gwen says, “So, is that guy you were with your BF?”

  “I think so.”

  “He’s cute.”

  I give her a look that says, Stay away.

  She puts up her hands. “What? I was just asking!” Then her pretty little pout sinks back into a serious face, and she says, “You can come over if you want.” I still haven’t heard from Edge, my afternoon is free, and nothing is normal anymore, so I say yes.

  Gwen’s house, perched on a hill on a leafy, brick-laned street in Georgetown, is pretty much a mansion. The massive white door leads to an expansive foyer, which is, like, three times the size of my room. Everything inside is gleaming like it’s a photograph of a house in a glossy magazine, not a real house. I start touching things to make sure they’re real. The kitchen has what seems like miles of marble and shiny chrome. There’s a bucket of apples, like a still life I once saw at my favorite museum, and I pick one up. It’s an actual apple, but doesn’t seem to be ripening. I put it back without Gwen seeing. The fridge has a see-through glass door that reveals perfect lines of slightly blurred Pellegrino bottles and LaCroix cans and other colorful drinks. Gwen grabs us two Snapples and says, “Follow me.”

  Her room is basically the entire third floor. The bedspread is white and puffy, and her window looks out onto a giant weeping willow with a tire swing hanging from it. My father made my swing with rope and plywood. This one looks like it grew out of the tree, as if it’s been there since the beginning of time. A group of starlings flutter around a small birdhouse that was made to look like a mini rustic cabin.

  “This is out of a picture book,” I say.

  She hands me my drink and pulls up some music on her phone, which comes through hidden speakers in the ceiling. It sounds like country.

  “You like this stuff?”

  “Just listen. It’s cool.”

  I expect the song to be cheesy, but it’s not. It’s more like a sad ballad of a guy who’s been wronged by a girl, and it’s genuine. It reminds me of some of the songs my father and I listened to on our long drives.

  “I like it,” I say.

  “Tegan, how the hell did you know something bad was going to happen that day?”

  “I told you…”

  “A sign. What, like, some Stranger Things–type shit?”

  “Basically. Without the monsters.”

  “I keep thinking about it. I’m sorry I was such a bitch. I’m so glad you stole my purse to get my attention.”

  Wait a second, Gwen apologizing? Weird.

  “You should paint your nails,” she says, changing the subject.

  “I’m terrible at it.”

  “Oh. I could do it for you.”

  “Gwen, it doesn’t work like that. You don’t flip a switch from being mean to me and then paint my nails like we’re best friends.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t really know you. I mean, you seem nicer now, but would you be hanging out with me if I hadn’t, you know…”

  “I don’t know. But I know I’m starting to reevaluate stuff.”

  “Like, not getting into cars with drunk girls?”

  Gwen makes an ouch face. “That, and I don’t know, trying to be more real.”

  “Good luck with that,” I say, and she giggles.

  “C’mon,” she says, shaking a bottle of nail polish, “what have you got to lose?”

&nb
sp; “Any dignity I have left.”

  “Shut up. Give me your right foot.”

  Tentatively, I take off my shoes and she starts to paint my toenails dark red. As she carefully applies the polish on my left big toe, I say, “So, is this the ‘real’ Gwen? A nice girl who listens to sad country songs?”

  She makes a noise. “I’m a lot of things, I guess. Not really a nice girl.”

  “No. Look, Gwen, your house is incredible and all, and thanks for having me over, but why am I here exactly?”

  She stops painting and looks at me hard.

  “I saw a pic of the car. The whole back of it was crushed. If I’d been in the back seat, I would’ve died. You saved my life. I don’t want to be best friends or anything; we’re just hanging out. Is that okay?”

  “I guess.”

  “You still haven’t told me how you knew.”

  My phone rings. Blood rushes to my head, thinking it’s Edge, but it’s Jenna. I let it go to voice mail.

  “I had a feeling.”

  She shakes her head and starts on my other foot. The first one looks good. Professional. Another country song comes on, and it’s so bad it’s kind of good.

  “Why were you always so mean to me and Jenna?” I ask.

  “I wasn’t.”

  “Come. On.”

  “Well, I don’t know.” She pauses painting, and her face gets blotchy. “Maybe I knew you were better than me, and I was jealous.”

  The words hang in the room for a while as the song plays. After a minute, she starts painting my toenails again.

  “I knew you could look pretty without makeup, swim faster, get better grades. And I used to see you with your father. I saw the way he loved you, and I always wanted that. My dad’s always in Asia—that’s where his clients are. I don’t think we’ve ever even done anything together. Except he drove me to my driver’s license test. Big whoop.”

  A text comes in from Jenna.

  Girl, where are u?

  I turn off my phone.

  “What about your mother?”

  Gwen looks at me like, You really want to know? As if no one asks her that.

  “She’s got a lot of issues. She’s addicted to benzos and plastic surgery. She spends most of her time at our house down in Palm Beach. I was raised by my nanny. I loved her, but she left when I was twelve. It pretty much broke my heart. I’ve basically been on my own ever since. It’s only me and Ivan, our live-in cook, who doesn’t really speak English.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah. The fabulous life of Gwendolyn Murray.”

  “At least you’re popular.” I say to try and lighten the mood.

  “That’s ’cause everyone wants to party here. Freeloaders and bottom-feeders. Even when my mom’s here, she doesn’t really care. But that’s over now. After the accident, or avoiding the accident, I feel different. I realize a lot of people were using me for my house, for booze, for whatever.”

  “So you’re not going to have any more parties?”

  “No. I’m rearranging my priorities.”

  “That sounds like guidance counselor rhetoric.”

  She laughs. “Probably, but it’s true.”

  When she finishes, she blows on my toes, and it feels strangely intimate.

  “I’m sorry about your father,” she says, and I can tell she really means it.

  “This is going to sound weird, but I feel closer to him than ever.”

  The song changes again, and this time it’s a girl, singing about the one that got away. I think about Tom Elliot sailing through the air, the curl of his scarf behind him. What was he thinking in that last moment? Was he finally going to be free?

  Gwen puts clear polish on my fingernails, and after, Ivan the cook makes us chicken Caesar salads. He’s a tiny man with a mustache and a sweet smile who speaks in broken English. After he leaves, I decide to tell Gwen about the names and how hers was one of them.

  “Tegan, you expect me to believe that?”

  “Believe whatever you want. I never thought I’d believe in anything when my father died, but I’m realizing this might be the key. You have to want to get out of bed in the morning. Whatever it is, have something to believe in. If you don’t believe, you don’t live. There are a lot of nonbelievers out there, and they’re alive but their souls are dead. They’ve given up.”

  “So, what do you do next?” Gwen asks, picking the anchovy off the top of her salad.

  “If more names come, you mean?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I do what I’ve been doing. React, follow my instinct.”

  “Why aren’t you scared?” she asks.

  “I don’t know,” I reply. “Maybe I get it from my dad.”

  “Duh,” she says.

  After we’re finished, Ivan clears our plates like we’re in a restaurant. Then he serves us a scoop of blood orange sorbet with a superthin cookie sticking out of it. It’s delicious, and I wish I could share it with Edge, who would probably know some cool fact about sorbet.

  “Well, I could never have imagined this happening,” I tell her.

  “What?”

  “Sitting here with you, in your house, eating sorbet after you’ve painted my nails.”

  “Me neither.”

  I look at her, and she’s not smiling, but her eyes seem different. There’s a glint of kindness in them. It seems like the person I saw from the outside wasn’t the real her. This is starting to become a pattern. Now, if I could only figure out the pattern to the names. And why I’m seeing them.

  That night, in my bed, I grab my father’s purple medal and hold it to my chest. Show me a sign. Help me figure this out.

  16.

  keep your enemies close

  In my dream, I am at Rehoboth Beach with my father. We are sailing in his Sunfish. The ocean is such a deep blue it could be ink, heavy and churning, stretching endlessly in all directions. When the wind blows, pieces of his hair fall off and drift away, but then it instantly grows back. He sails the boat right onto a deserted island, and we laugh at a seal sunning itself on the sand. We both pull off our life jackets and dive into the water. He lets me jump off his shoulders, and like a dolphin in slow motion, I make a slow, elegant arc through the air, leaving a tiny splash as I cut through the water. When I come up, he’s already at the shore. He’s writing something with a stick in the sand.

  When I swim in, I can see what he’s written.

  jeremiah park

  His face turns serious, and black clouds form above us. The next wave washes away the name, and I wake up. I look over at my windowsill, and I realize that like the name in the sand, Tom Elliot’s name was also in the same lowercase writing as my father’s. Could he be the one behind the names? Is that why I keep feeling his presence?

  I google Jeremiah Park, but no one comes up locally. I wish I had Edge to help me, but he’s still MIA, so I text Gwen.

  Do you know anyone named Jeremiah Park?

  Within minutes, she texts back.

  No but there is a kid named Jeremiah who skates at the skate park

  My heartbeat starts banging in triple-time. That must be who it is. Jeremiah. Every single instance has been linked. There’s a reason I know Gwen now. My whole body starts pulsating. This is what it feels like to have special power.

  I text back.

  You want to pay it forward?

  Omg is this your Wonder Woman thing?

  Yes. Meet at the skate park in twenty?

  I guess.

  As I’m getting ready, I finally call Jenna back and put her on speaker.

  “I thought I lost you,” she says, her voice sleepy. I realize it must be super early on the West Coast.

  “No, I’m fine. There’s a lot going on. And I’m coming in a week, so we can totally catch up.” I figure I c
an fill her in then, although I don’t think she’ll really believe me. She practically dismissed it when I brought it up before.

  “I miss you tons.”

  I want to say it back, but I haven’t had time to miss her. Also, I feel like we’re both becoming different people. I’m starting to wonder if it’s okay to have a friend for only part of your life.

  “How’s the actor guy?”

  “Ugh…end scene, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, too bad.”

  “It’s all good. I’m concentrating on my career anyway.”

  That makes me roll my eyes because she doesn’t have a career yet. But she will, someday. I’m sure of that.

  “Okay. Well, I have to make myself pretty. Big day at the film offices. Casting!”

  At least she didn’t name-drop. We say goodbye, and I tell her I’ll see her soon.

  * * *

  The skate park is in the grungy-but-hip neighborhood of Shaw, which was formerly crime-ridden, but now is dotted with cool cafés and stylish farm-to-table restaurants. When we get there, the gates aren’t open yet, so we go to this little coffee shop that’s on the bottom floor of a row house around the corner. Gwen gets us both iced mochas, and we sit in the sun-soaked chairs by the bay windows. The AC is blasting, so the warmth feels good.

  “So,” Gwen says, “are you gonna compete at regionals?”

  “I think so. It’s weird. I wanted nothing to do with competing, and now I can’t see my life without it.”

  “Yeah, for me it’s been the one solid thing I have, you know?”

  “I do.” Except I now know that nothing is really solid—you just have to try for the best.

  A woman comes in with her service dog, who steps on Gwen’s white sneaker. She makes an agitated noise, then gets a napkin and cold water and starts cleaning it.

  “So, you really think J-Rod’s gonna…you know.”

  “J-Rod?”

  “That’s his nickname. His real name is Jeremiah Rodman. His father is a famous race car driver, and he’s always in his shadow, blah blah blah. So he skates, for fun. But everyone knows J-Rod’s the best at the park. I used to watch him skate all the time. He can do mad flips and shit, like, everything. He told me he named one of his signature tricks after me. The G-Fly.”