Stay (ARC)

by Catherine Ryan Hyde

  was no “as if ” about it. Maybe that was just the truth of

  the situation.

  * * *

  Zoe Dinsmore came up to us after the meeting. Met us

  at the door.

  “You boys want a ride home?” she asked.

  But my brother Roy said, “No, thanks. Thanks any-

  way, Mrs. Dinsmore. My brother and I can take the bus.”

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  He didn’t seem to be afraid of her, or avoiding her. I

  didn’t hear a lot of subtext. It sounded like he just figured we were okay. And maybe like he even enjoyed those

  little bits of time we spent, just the two of us, making

  our way back and forth to the meetings.

  But I might’ve been reading that last part in.

  As I followed Roy out the door, I looked at Zoe

  Dinsmore and she looked at me. And she nodded at me,

  the way she’d nodded at my brother. A nod to a lot of

  history. I nodded back. Maybe to acknowledge that it

  was a huge deal that she’d showed up in the meetings

  again. And also that it was a huge deal that my brother

  had unburdened himself and joined the group for real.

  And maybe those two things weren’t even entirely

  coincidental to one another, though I wasn’t sure where

  that thought had come from, or if there was anything to it.

  I turned and stepped out into the dusky parking lot,

  hurrying to catch up with Roy. I was thinking I knew

  approximately what history Zoe Dinsmore and I were

  acknowledging with our nod, but what could possibly

  have transpired between her and my brother?

  I’d been so shocked and saddened and compelled by

  Roy’s story that I’d forgotten to wonder.

  We walked side by side toward the bus stop.

  “You know her?” I asked.

  “Just a little. I know who she is.”

  “How do you know her?”

  “Don’t you remember my first real girlfriend?”

  He was struggling now on his crutches. I could tell he

  was tired. Part of me wished he would have agreed to the

  ride. But then we couldn’t have had this talk. I was torn.

  It was an evening of feeling torn.

  “Yeah. I remember her. Mary Ellen. Right?”

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  “Right. Mary Ellen Paulston.”

  “Oh. I didn’t remember her last name. That sounds

  really familiar. Why does that sound so familiar?”

  It may seem like a strange thing to have said. Because

  it was his girlfriend’s last name, and I’d known her. I

  must’ve known her last name at one time. But that name

  was familiar in a whole different sense. I knew it from

  somewhere else, and the context felt strangely important.

  “Wanda Jean’s little sister.”

  “Oh crap,” I said.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Oh crap.”

  “Do you hate her? Is that why you didn’t take the ride?”

  “No. I don’t hate her. I just wanted to take the bus

  home with you. I wanted to see how you were doing

  after … you know.”

  But I didn’t want to talk about that yet. I wanted to

  talk about this Zoe Dinsmore connection.

  “Did Mary Ellen’s family hate her?”

  “No. They didn’t hate her. They avoided her because

  it brought up too many feelings and they didn’t know

  what to say to her. But they didn’t hate her. They knew

  she didn’t do it on purpose.”

  “So did you meet her back then? Or did you just

  know who she was?”

  “I met her once, but it was years after the thing hap-

  pened. I think it was after she got clean for the first time and was going to meetings. I think she wanted to make

  amends to the family. You know. Like the ninth step of

  the program. You know which one that is?”

  Of course I knew. I’d been sitting in meetings. The

  twelve steps were read at the beginning of every meet-

  ing. I had them memorized. I heard them in my head as

  I was trying to fall asleep at night.

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  Nine. We made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.

  Roy kept talking.

  “But I guess you’re not supposed to do that if it would

  only hurt people more. Or maybe she was just respecting

  the family by staying away, I don’t know. Or maybe she

  was scared. I know I would’ve been. But she knew I was

  Mary Ellen’s boyfriend. Everybody in town knew that. So

  she saw me at a bus stop one day. She was in the market and

  she saw me waiting for a bus, and she stepped out and came

  over and told me who she was. But I already knew. And she

  asked me if I would give a message to the family for her.”

  He limped along in silence for a time. The bus stop

  had just come into view, and not a moment too soon.

  “And did you?” I asked, when I could tell he was not

  going to continue on his own.

  “I did.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  I figured I shouldn’t ask. It felt wrong to ask.

  We reached the bus bench at long last. He settled

  himself on the seat, even though he might not be there

  for long. I knew he was really tired.

  We sat staring off into the distance together, as though

  we could make the bus materialize by watching hard

  enough.

  “Was it private, do you think?”

  It surprised me that I asked. I hadn’t known I was

  about to ask.

  “Was what private?”

  “The message.”

  “Oh. We’re still talking about that. Well. I don’t know.”

  Then he veered in a slightly different conversational dir-

  ection. “Do you know her? How do you know her?”

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  “That’s a really long story. Longer than we’ve got.” I

  flipped my chin in the direction of the bus, which had just

  come into view. A little dot several blocks down. “But I

  will tell you, just … when we’ve got more time. But you can never, ever tell Mom about any of it.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I guess I can wait.”

  We stared at the bus, watching it grow larger in the

  distance.

  Then, just out of nowhere, he said it.

  “Tell them my heart is broken, too.”

  “What?” I had no idea what he was trying to tell me.

  “That was the message. ‘Tell them my heart is bro-

  ken, too.’”

  “Oh,” I said.

  I tried to imagine the scene as he passed those words

  along. He was likely around my age when he was given

  that task to perform. I wondered how it felt to say a thing

  like that to the family. I wondered if they said anything

  in reply. If they cried.

  But I never asked. To this very day I’ve never asked.

  So that was one part of the story that will stay with only

  the people involved. And maybe that’s okay, because

  maybe it’s theirs alone. Maybe nobody else has a right to

  one damned second of it. One damned feeling.

  “I let you down,” Roy said.

  “Is that another part of the message?”

  “No, I’m
saying that to you right now.”

  “Well, don’t ever say it to me again.”

  And he never did.

  We’re not dead yet. And he might have some more

  apologies for me on his death bed, but I hope not. He

  doesn’t owe me any. But up until now he’s done as I asked.

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  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Worth

  “Why didn’t you tell me you knew my brother?”

  It was the following morning. I had just come back

  from running with the dogs and hadn’t seen her on the way

  out. It was astonishingly hot for not even eight o’clock in

  the morning. I could feel sweat running down every part

  of me. My chest, my back, my face and neck. Every limb.

  For a minute she didn’t answer. Just stood on her porch

  and petted her panting dogs. I thought maybe she hadn’t

  understood the question because I’d been breathing so

  hard when I asked it.

  She straightened up, and the dogs trotted around the

  side of the cabin to drink from their bucket.

  “Honestly?” she asked. “I didn’t remember his name

  after all this time. Even back then I mostly knew him by

  sight. I saw him around town with one of the families. I

  knew he was dating that girl. The sister. Until I saw him

  with you in the meeting last night, I never put two and

  two together.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  I had been mad, and now I felt silly because of it. I felt

  deflated, feeling all that anger drain away. She might’ve

  noticed; I’m not sure. She seemed to be watching my

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  face as though it was an interesting process, whatever

  was happening there.

  “Don’t be too hard on your brother,” she said. “We’re

  all just doing our best, even if it doesn’t look so good from the outside. Try not to judge him.”

  “I’m not judging him,” I said.

  To the very best of my understanding, I think that

  was true. I wasn’t angry about what he’d done, and I

  didn’t blame him for it. The whole thing just made me

  incredibly sad.

  “What will you do when you’re eighteen?” she asked

  me. “And it’s time to sign up for the draft?”

  “Hope the war’ll be over by then.”

  “And if it’s not?”

  “Cross that bridge when I come to it.”

  I walked home. I did not run.

  I was still feeling pretty sad.

  * * *

  I think it was two days later when my mom flipped out

  about Roy. About his suddenly being gone.

  I was up in my room, lying on the bed, because right

  in that moment there’d been nothing else I could find

  to do. And I guess without realizing it, I’d fallen asleep.

  See what I mean? You never know you’re falling asleep.

  You only realize it later, when something wakes you up.

  My mother came barging into my bedroom, pushing

  the door so hard it slammed back against the wall.

  “All right, where is he?”

  I sat up. Swung my legs over so my bare feet touched

  the rug. Sat on the side of the bed—but I swear I was still

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  sleeping. The image of my mom in the doorway seemed

  to be an extension of whatever I’d been dreaming.

  “Wait. What?”

  “Where. Is. He. Don’t mess with me today, Lucas.

  I’m in no mood for it.”

  “He who?”

  “How many are there? How many people could I be

  talking about?”

  I shook my head hard, as though that might help put

  things in order up there. It didn’t.

  “Well. Dad. And Roy.”

  “I know where your father is. He’s at work. Now

  where is Roy?”

  In a weird, sleepy moment, I wondered if she real-

  ly knew my dad was at work. He’d become quite the

  missing person around our house. I heard him come

  in sometimes at night, but later and later. Sometimes I

  didn’t know if I’d slept through his coming home, or if

  he’d never come home. I actually wondered, I think for

  the second time, if he still actually lived here. I didn’t

  say any of that.

  “If he’s not in his room,” I said, “I have no idea.”

  She stormed over to the bed and grabbed my chin

  in her claws. She had these long nails, and they tended

  to dig in when she grabbed me. I was alarmed, but not

  awake enough to react much. At least, not on the outside.

  “You look me right in the eye,” she demanded.

  I did.

  I watched her face change. Soften.

  I think I was finally waking up by then.

  “Oh,” she said. “You really don’t know. Well, I’m

  going to get in the car and go look for him. You should

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  get up and put on your running shoes and run all over

  town and see if you can find him.”

  “But I already ran today.”

  “Well do it again. You won’t die.”

  She was halfway out my bedroom doorway before I

  could pull together an answer.

  “Wait!” I said. And it came out loud. Too loud. Like I

  was yelling at her. I adjusted my tone and went on. “Why

  are we doing this? If he left the house on his own, won’t

  he come back on his own?”

  She narrowed her eyes at me.

  “That’s a very naïve statement,” she said. “He’s injured,

  and taking pain medication. So he’s off somewhere not

  using his best judgment. And with the problems he’s been

  having with…”

  But then she couldn’t seem to bring herself to say it.

  “I’m not too worried about that,” I said. “I think the

  meetings are actually going pretty well.”

  “Glad to hear it.” The words sounded quite sincere.

  Especially for my mom, who was not the sincerity queen.

  To put it mildly. “Now put on your running shoes and

  go see if you can find him.”

  * * *

  I was running by the ice cream shop, the Place, when I

  saw her. I looked through the window of the store, but my

  view through the glass was partly obscured by reflections.

  But I saw the familiar face of Zoe Dinsmore, sitting at a

  table, one hand wrapped around a mug of coffee. Well.

  The coffee part was a guess. But it was definitely a mug

  of something.

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  I stopped running.

  I looked in at her, and she looked out at me. And we

  locked eyes as best we could through all those reflections.

  It seemed strange to see her downtown, like any

  other resident of the little town of Ashby. I knew she

  came into town now and then—she had to, for supplies

  if nothing else—but it felt strange to see her sitting at a

  table in a public shop, enjoying a hot cup of something,

  like any other townsperson. Like she belonged anywhere

  she cared to go.

  It also felt nice, though.

  Then I shifted back a step, and that was when I rec-

  ognized Roy’s crutches. He was sitting with his back to

  me, mostl
y obscured by the reflection of a light-colored

  brick building across the street.

  I turned back toward the door and walked inside.

  Roy looked around and watched me coming. Zoe

  must’ve told him. Or maybe he saw on her face that

  someone was there.

  I sat down at the table with them.

  My brother was drinking some kind of ice cream

  float, stabbing at it with the paper straw in between sips,

  as though breaking up ice floes.

  “Hey, buddy,” he said.

  “Mom’s flipping out.”

  “What is it this time?”

  “You.”

  “Right, I figured, but what did I do?”

  “You left.”

  “Don’t I get to leave?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’m nineteen.”

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  “Right. I know. I tried to tell her that. Well. Something

  like that. But she worries about you now. I think she figures you’re somewhere … you know.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Up to no good.”

  “Right,” he said. “Got it.” He frowned into his glass

  for a few beats. “But I plan to go out a lot more, so she’s

  going to have to get used to it.”

  “Maybe leave a note?”

  “Yeah. I could do that, I guess. I guess I didn’t know

  it would bother her so much. I went out yesterday, and

  she didn’t care. Oh, but come to think of it, maybe she

  didn’t even know. She was away. I got it in my head that

  I had to have one of the root beer floats they make here.

  I swear I was thinking about them when I was overseas.

  Hardly a day went by I didn’t feel like I could taste these

  root beer floats. And I figured I need to get better on the

  crutches anyway, so I walked down here.”

  He stopped. Took a long pull through the straw.

  “Only I saw him going down Main Street,” Zoe said,

  seamlessly taking over where he’d left off, “and I stopped

  and asked him if he needed a ride, and the next thing

  we knew, we were having a soda together. And we had

  a good talk.”

  And now here they were, doing it again the next day.

  There was some kind of subtext in all this, but I swear I

  didn’t know what it was.

  I think she saw the confusion on my face, because she

  looked at Roy, a question in her eyes. He nodded, and

  she offered it up without my having to ask.

  “Your brother asked if I would be his NA sponsor.

  Which I think your average recovering person would