We Now Return to Regular Life

by Martin Wilson

  “Donal,” I say.

  “I’ll catch you later,” he says, and I can hear the hurt in his voice. He turns and starts running back toward the field.

  “It wasn’t a mistake,” I say, but he’s too far away to hear.

  When I get home Mom is in the kitchen, prepping for dinner. She asks how school was, as usual, and as usual I tell her it was fine. Better than it’s been in a while, except for the incident with Donal. The sourness of that like a smudge on an otherwise spotless day.

  “Where’s Sam?” I ask. We hadn’t said much to each other since Thanksgiving weekend.

  “Out back, drawing,” she says.

  Of course. Every day, he’s out there—even in the cold—with that sketchbook. It’s like he hates being indoors.

  “You should go say hello,” Mom says.

  “I don’t think he’d want me to,” I say.

  “Don’t be silly,” she says.

  Today, I don’t feel like arguing. Plus, I think Mom’s right. It’s what I should do.

  Like Shelley and Dad said—Sam needs me.

  I set my bag down and walk out to the patio. “Hey,” I say. He glances up at me and I can tell he’s unsure why I’m there.

  “Hey,” he says, then goes back to his drawing.

  “Can I see?”

  He shrugs. I move behind him. It’s the start of a drawing of Josh. “That’s really good,” I say.

  “It could be better. I need him to sit one more time.”

  “Cool,” I say. I don’t know how to talk about drawing. “So, would you want to kick the ball around?”

  “The soccer ball?”

  “No, the golf ball,” I say, trying to be jokey. But he doesn’t smile. “Yeah, the soccer ball. I need more practice.”

  “I’d like to finish this,” he says.

  “Oh, okay. Some other time, then.”

  “Sure,” he says, but he’s just humoring me.

  He keeps sketching, acting like I’m not even there, and I walk back inside. I guess I can’t blame him. Mom’s on her cell, and so I take my bag and walk back to my room. At the end of the hallway, Sam’s door is open—it’s usually closed. I set my bag inside my door and look toward the kitchen. I can hear Mom still on the phone. I walk into my room and look out my window and see Sam still at the patio table.

  Quickly, I walk into Sam’s room. It doesn’t seem very lived in—no dirty clothes on the floor, and the bed is tightly made. On his little desk a few textbooks and notebooks are stacked in an orderly way. I walk over and flip open one of the notebooks, but it’s just study notes from his tutoring, some stray doodles.

  I guess I’m looking for something—something that can help me figure out the new Sam.

  I go to his closet and ease the door open. It’s pretty bare in there, with just his new shirts hanging, a few sweatshirts. All the old stuff is gone—maybe thrown out, or donated somewhere, put in the attic. The hamper is filled halfway with dirty clothes. And next to that, kind of squashed in a corner, is a knapsack. The one he brought back with him from Anniston. I creep back to the doorway and look down the hall and still hear Mom on the phone. I go back to the closet. I think about grabbing the knapsack, opening it, but right then I hear the door to the patio squeak open. I shut the closet and dash quickly back to my room and shut my door, my heart pounding.

  ===

  On Saturday, I’m taking a break from homework and watching some girl-in-peril movie on Lifetime. Sam’s outside as usual, with Josh. Finishing that portrait, I guess.

  The phone rings. I hear Mom answer in the kitchen, where she’s at the table going through receipts or something. She sounds upset, so I turn the volume on the TV down slightly so I can hear.

  “No, I don’t think that’s possible,” she says. “I’m sorry, no—” and then she’s quiet again. On TV, a blond girl is running up some stairs. “Look, I told you, that’s not a good idea. How did you even get this number? . . . Uh-huh. Well, I’m sorry. . . .”

  I put the TV on mute.

  “No,” Mom says in a louder voice. “Please don’t call here again, I mean it.” Then she hangs up.

  I turn the volume back up a bit on the TV. The girl is bawling, slamming a door. “Who was that?” I shout.

  Mom doesn’t say anything at first. Then she shouts, “A telemarketer.”

  I get up off the couch and walk in there. She’s just staring off. “You okay?” She seems not to hear me. “Mom?”

  “Yeah,” she says, finally looking at me, then back down at the receipts and checkbook spread before her. “Yeah,” she says again. I don’t push her, even though I know she’s lying to me. I go back to my movie. I sit on the couch just as the blond girl swings a baseball bat and knocks a guy on the head.

  ===

  Monday, at soccer practice, Coach announces that Ainsley is out with the flu. She’s our usual goalie. And Ronda, the backup, has a doctor’s appointment. “Beth, I need you to fill in today,” Coach Bailey says.

  “Me?” I protest.

  “Yep,” Coach says.

  I put on the pads and accept my fate. It’s not bad at first, even if my hands start to hurt, not used to the ball slapping them so hard. I make a lot of blocks though. And each time I prevent a goal, I start laughing. I guess I’m surprised I’m so good at it.

  Then it’s Chita’s turn. She’s our best kicker; she scores the most. I bounce on my heels as she lines up her shot and connects with the ball. I guess right, catching the ball with a thud against my chest. I can tell by her expression that she’s pissed.

  “Nice job!” Coach Bailey yells.

  A few minutes later, Chita’s back. I ready myself, as she lines up again. She runs toward the ball, then stops short, dribbles, then takes her foot back and kicks, sending the ball right at me. I can’t get out of the way, and then—BAM! The ball smacks me right on the side of the head. Dazed, I cup my hands to where the ball hit, just above my ear, and I stagger to the side. Soon everyone surrounds me. Coach Bailey gently peels my hands from my head, looks at my face. “You okay?”

  I nod. My head throbs, but I’m fine. Just a little shell-shocked. “Here, let’s get you seated,” Coach says, taking me by the shoulder and guiding me to a bench on the sidelines.

  “I’m sorry,” Chita says. But I know she’d been aiming right at me. I give her a quick scowl. Someone gives me a cup of water and I take it and chug.

  “Okay, everybody, back out there. Beth, you’re done for the day,” Coach says, heading back to the field. But Chita stays and sits next to me.

  “I said I’m sorry,” she says again. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “Yeah you did,” I say, cutting her off.

  For a few seconds, no one says anything. But then Chita says, “Well, you gotta admit, I have pretty good aim.”

  There’s a silent moment of shock. And then I start laughing, and I see her face relax, and she laughs, too, relieved. What she said was not that funny, but our laughter is like a ball rolling down a hill, gathering speed, and soon we’re both in hysterics, so much so that my belly starts to hurt and I have to lift my head up to catch my breath and calm down.

  After a few minutes, Chita says, “That felt good.”

  “Yeah,” I say, smiling over at her, my knee knocking hers playfully.

  Again, we sit in silence for a few minutes before Chita starts talking again. “You were always the one we went to,” she says. “When we had problems and stuff. Like when I came out to my mom. You always knew what to say. So when Sam came back, we just wanted to be there for you.”

  “I know,” I say, the shame making my face burn. A breeze blows through as a cloud covers the sun, casting us in a brief cold shade. “I just . . . I wanted to deal with all that in private. At school, with you guys, I didn’t have to think about him and stuff at home. And then suddenly, I did. And
you guys kept treating me like I was this fragile thing. It was so weird. And I just wanted you guys to be normal so that I could be normal. I don’t—I didn’t want you all to pity me.”

  “It’s not pity, dumbass,” she says. “It’s like love, I guess.”

  “You’re such a cheeseball,” I say.

  “And you’re such a jerk,” she says.

  “I know,” I say. “That’s why you love me.” I reach out and grab her hand and hold it and squeeze it, and she squeezes back. We both sit there like that, not looking at each other, because I guess this is all a little embarrassing, for both of us. “I’m a mess, but I’m getting better, I think.” I pull her in for a hug.

  “Careful,” she says, “people might think you’re gay, too.”

  I laugh. “Who cares,” I say.

  But after a few more minutes, we unclasp our hands, because both of us can only handle so much corniness.

  “I’m glad you’re back,” she says.

  “Me too,” I say.

  “Because for a while there I thought you might join the cheerleading squad or something crazy like that.”

  “Oh yeah, totally, I had my pom-poms and everything,” I say, laughing again.

  Right then Coach yells for Chita, because there’s still some practice time left. Chita smiles at me and runs back out to the field.

  ===

  Back at home, I set my bag down in the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water. As I drink, the phone rings. I look at the caller ID on the landline, an Alabama area code. I’m about to pick up but then it stops ringing. That’s when I hear Mom’s voice down the hall, in her room. I creep down there.

  “Yes, your mother called the other day. Uh-huh,” I hear her say. I stand by the door, straining to hear. “No, I’m sorry. It’s out of the question. . . . I’m sorry. He needs stability right now, and this would only upset him. You seem like a nice young man, but I wish you’d listen to me. He won’t be able to see you. Please, stop calling.” Mom sounds exhausted, but also angry. “Good-bye, I’m hanging up now. Don’t call back.” I creep back down to the kitchen. Mom walks in a few minutes later, carrying her purse and jiggling her keys. “Oh, you’re home.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m going to go pick Sam up at Dr. Saylor’s. You have a good day?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Okay, we’ll be back in a bit.”

  I listen as the car starts and pulls out of the driveway. Who would be calling for Sam? I grab the cordless and look at the number again, typing it into my cell phone. My heart starts racing as the line rings once, then twice, three times, and then a boy’s voice answers: “Hello?”

  “Hi,” I say. “Who’s this?”

  “Who’s this?” he says back.

  “You just called here?” I say. “You spoke to my mom.”

  Silence. “Oh, hi. Are you . . . who are you?”

  “I’m Beth.”

  “Sam’s sister!”

  “Yeah,” I say. How does this kid know who I am? “Who’s this?”

  “I’m Tony. Tony Johnson.”

  I pause for a minute, searching my brain, but his name doesn’t ring a bell. “Who are you?”

  “I was . . . I’m Sam’s friend. I live with my mom, in the same complex where Sam lived. In Anniston.”

  Lived. You can’t call it lived. He sounds so nonchalant that I feel a flash of irritation. “Why are you calling?”

  “Does your mom know you’re talking to me?” Tony asks.

  “No.”

  “Well, my mom called last week. We’re coming to Tuscaloosa this weekend. My aunt is getting married there. I thought . . . I thought it would be nice if . . . If I got to see Sam while we’re in town.” He’s quiet, waiting for me to respond. In a softer voice he says, “He was my best friend,” almost like he’s embarrassed to use those words.

  “Best friend?” I say back to him. How could a boy who was held captive by a maniac have a best friend? It’s insane.

  “We lived across the courtyard, upstairs,” he says. “I . . . I really want to see him. I never got to say good-bye. I mean . . . we were all . . . I had no idea what was really going on.”

  I feel like shouting at this kid. Like, what do you mean you had no idea what was going on? How stupid are you? “I agree with my mom,” I say. “It’s not a good idea for you to see Sam.”

  Silence on the other end. Then, “Can I see you? Can we meet?”

  I’m about to say no. Mom would never allow this. But, I realize, I don’t have to tell her. And maybe, I don’t know, this might help me understand something about what happened to Sam. “Yes,” I finally say.

  “Thank you,” he says, “thank you,” sounding relieved and grateful. “Can you meet Saturday morning? We’ve got the wedding that night. It’s a quick trip.”

  “Saturday. Sure.” Already I have second thoughts. What am I doing, meeting with this kid, this stranger?

  “Where?”

  The mall, I think, and then realize I might see someone I know there. I tell Tony to meet at Monnish Park, Saturday at one. I tell him where it is.

  “Okay,” he says. “Thanks, Beth.”

  But I don’t say anything. I just hang up and sit there for a moment. The house is quiet, I’m still alone. I walk to Sam’s room. I open the closet and I see the knapsack, same place it was the other day. It’s light brown, with a few dark scuff marks on the sides. I sit down on the floor and hold it in my lap. This backpack is all Sam brought back with him from that place, besides the clothes on his back, and it feels light. I know the sketchbook was in here. But there must have been something else.

  I take a deep breath. I know what I’m doing is wrong. But after talking with Tony, I want more answers. I unzip the main compartment.

  It’s empty except for a flash of baby blue. I feel inside and it’s cloth, soft and worn. I pull it out and unfurl it and see it’s a T-shirt. A Superman T-shirt. It’s small, like a kid would wear.

  It’s the shirt Sam wore the day he vanished.

  And in that moment I can see him all those years ago, smirking at me before he closed my door, before he left us, before our lives changed. I press it against my face and sniff. It smells kind of sour, like it hasn’t been washed in a while.

  I wonder if this was Sam’s only connection to home.

  I stuff it back in the knapsack, which I then return to the closet, as close to possible as where I found it. Right then I hear Mom’s car door slam, and I rush to my room and close my door.

  I hear them come inside. I hear Sam go into his room and shut the door.

  Sam, I think. I’m trying. I’m trying to understand. Really, I am.

  ===

  At school, I still spend my lunch hour in the library. I just can’t deal with all those people in the cafeteria, most of whom I still want to avoid. Today, as I settle in at a study table and start doing some homework, I see Grace enter the library, her eyes searching around, and I think about ducking my head. But she spots me and walks to the table and sits down.

  “So this is where you go,” she says, gazing around the big room, like she’s never been in there. There are a few other kids here, and Mrs. Jansen, the librarian, is typing things on a computer at the information desk. “Can we talk?” she says.

  One of the kids shushes her, and Mrs. Jansen stares over.

  We haven’t spoken since that horrible party, so why now?

  “I’ve got some studying to do.”

  She sighs. “Fine.” She gets up and walks to another table. She takes out a notebook and starts writing. I try and focus on my work, but I keep stealing glimpses at Grace, scribbling ferociously. Finally, she rips the sheet, folds it, and walks back over. “Here,” she says, flashing a pleading look. I take the note and she walks out.

  I set the paper down. I’ll read it late
r, I think. But as I study my chemistry text, I keep seeing the folded square in the corner of my eye. I can’t focus with that note sitting there. So I shut my book and unfold the note and read:

  Beth–

  Until we can have a real conversation, I just wanted to say I’m sorry about that dumb party and the way Tark and the others treated you. I really enjoyed spending time with you and I thought we were going to be friends again, but if you don’t want to, I understand. But I don’t want you to think that I was being fake or anything. I really have missed you and I wish I could go back in time because I wasn’t a good friend to you after Sam disappeared and I’m sorry about that. I really am. And I want to make it up to you. Maybe we can talk or hang out again soon. (I hate writing!) Talk to me soon. Please?

  Your friend,

  Grace

  I fold the note and put it in a pouch in my backpack. I try working, but mostly I sit there, staring off at nothing, and it’s like a knot in my stomach loosens—a knot I never knew was there.

  ===

  The next day at school, instead of going to the library, I go to the cafeteria. My belly churns when I step inside, the noise and smells a bit much for me to take. I see Chita in our old spot, with Darla. I see Donal and Brendan and the other guys.

  I walk over close to Grace’s table and motion for her. She gets up and heads toward me, a cautious look on her face. “Hey,” she says. She looks back at her table. “We can clear a spot for you?”

  “No, it’s okay. I’m going to sit with Chita and those guys,” I say, gesturing over to the table. “But I wanted to thank you, for your note.”

  She smiles. “I really do hope we can hang out sometime,” she says. “Or something.”

  “Sure,” I say. “I’d like that.”

  “Good,” she says. I can tell she wants to hug me, but I can’t deal with that, not in front of all these people

  “Can it be just us?” I ask.

  “Of course,” she says.

  “Thanks.” We just stand there, not sure what to say. “Well, I better join my friends over there.”

  “Yeah,” she says. “I’ll see you.”