Afterward

by Jennifer Mathieu

  I remember during those years when Ethan was missing and we would come and ring the doorbell. They would appear, the two of them, Mrs. Jorgenson’s face searching ours as we stood on their porch, our bags outstretched and open. I remember her distracted half smile as her eyes skimmed over us, taking us in one by one. As if she almost expected Ethan to show up on her front doorstep dressed as SpongeBob SquarePants or Captain America.

  After two years I stopped trick-or-treating there. It was too sad.

  But here I am on my ten-speed in the driveway. My eyes search the house, wondering if I could just go up and ring the doorbell and ask this guy—this poor kid who suffered what was probably some sick, crazy shit for four years—what went down with my brother so maybe I can get an idea of how to help him. Assuming he can even be helped.

  Then I hear the drumming coming from around back, from the detached garage.

  Whoever it is, it’s pretty good. I mean, it’s no Keith Moon, but still. Decent.

  I drop my bike on the front yard and head around toward the source of the noise. And there he is in the flesh. Ethan Jorgenson. Carlotta King interview subject. Nationally known crime victim. Small town cautionary tale.

  He’s wailing away on a Ludwig. Deep blue. That set must have cost more than one of my dad’s weekly paychecks.

  He doesn’t see me at first. His eyes are closed, and he’s playing along to some song making its way out of some fancy wireless speakers near his feet. I listen for a few seconds. It’s some crappy song by Green Day. God, I hate that band so much. Not only are they ancient, the lead singer’s facial expressions always look like he’s about to have a seizure or something. But Ethan is drumming like he’s in some perfect mental place. He’s wearing a light blue polo and dark jeans and a soft smile. He looks weirdly old to me. I think it’s because even though I saw him briefly in the gym during those news conferences and, of course, on the Carlotta King show, in my head he’s still the same middle schooler staring at me from those MISSING posters in his dad’s waiting room. That eleven-year-old boy wearing some Abercrombie shirt and trying to seem cool.

  I wait until he’s done and he opens his eyes. When he sees me he gasps out loud.

  Way to go, Caroline. Great plan sneaking up on a kidnapping victim.

  “Can I … are you…,” he stands up, his expression confused.

  “Hey,” I say, holding my hands up in an I-bring-you-no-harm-take-me-to-your-leader pose. “I’m sorry if I scared you. I’m, um … I’m Caroline Anderson? I’m the older sister of … Dylan? Um…”

  The lunacy of this plan hits me hard. This entire idea seemed much better inside my head when I was stoned.

  I hear a back door slamming and turn around to see Mrs. Jorgenson heading over to us across the backyard. She’s wearing some super classy summer getup. Like, who wears khaki shorts with a belt? She must not buy her clothes at the Fallas Paredes or the Wal-Mart like the rest of us, that’s for sure.

  “Hi!” she shouts way too loudly. “Well, look at who I’ve spotted!” Like I’m a rare bird or something.

  “Hi, Mrs. Jorgenson,” I say.

  “Hello, Caroline!” Her smile is really big and wide, and I can see the tops of her gums.

  At the mention of my name, Ethan’s face seems to register who I am. He sits back down at his Ludwig really slowly, and I can feel his eyes first on me and then on his mom and then on me again. But he’s gripping his drumsticks so tight his knuckles are white, and suddenly I feel like the biggest jerk on the planet for even being here.

  “So…,” Mrs. Jorgenson says, still bright as the Texas sun, “how is your family? How is Dylan doing?” Her face does this weird cross of maniacally upbeat and super concerned, and I’m surprised her eyes don’t cross.

  “He’s … okay,” I say. “We’re just … getting back to normal.”

  “Of course,” Mrs. Jorgenson says, nodding vigorously. “It takes time. Lots of time. That’s what our therapists have been saying. Time, time, time.” She smiles again. Too big. She’s nervous I’m here. She doesn’t want to be rude, but I’m making her anxious. With every word she scoots microscopically closer toward Ethan. I try to cut the tension.

  “Is that a real Ludwig?” I ask Ethan even though I know it is.

  Ethan frowns a little, and his eyes go all wide. He peeks down at his drums like he needs to check.

  “Uh … yeah?”

  “Wow,” I say. “It’s totally gorgeous.”

  Mrs. Jorgenson is watching us. Watching me. Deciding what to do.

  “Thanks,” Ethan says. “I just got it. For my birthday.”

  “Hey, happy birthday,” I say.

  “Thanks,” Ethan offers again. He glances at his mother.

  Silence.

  “I don’t drum myself,” I say, and now I think I sound like the nervous one, just talking spastically, filling the air up with my words. “I play guitar,” I tell him. “It’s this cheap little Fender Squier. I mean, it’s not fancy like this Ludwig or anything. But it’s still kind of cool, I guess.”

  Ethan is staring at me. When I mention my guitar, he breaks into this goofy, lopsided grin for the briefest of seconds. It’s the same grin that stared at me from the MISSING posters. He’s got a touch of stubble around it now, but it’s the same grin. The same goofiness.

  “Well,” Mrs. Jorgenson says. “Can I … would you…” She crosses her arms. She uncrosses them. “Would you two like some lemonade?”

  “Oh,” I answer, “I … well…,” but Ethan gives her a half nod and I hear myself mumbling, “Sure, that would be nice.”

  As Mrs. Jorgenson crosses the backyard toward the door, she looks at us over her shoulder three times.

  “So,” I say, leaning back, sliding my hands into the back pockets of my shorts. “This is a pretty cool gift.”

  “Yeah,” Ethan says, rubbing his thumb over a drumstick. Now that Mrs. Jorgenson isn’t here, I should try to start in on my plan. But how? Just wander in here and ask this trauma victim why my little brother keeps repeating the words damn, damn piece of cake all the time? And why he can’t even go outside our house anymore?

  It’s not like Ethan and I were friends before he was taken. He was a year behind me in school. You don’t live in a town like Dove Lake and not coexist constantly, like you’re all a bunch of marbles in the same pinball game, bouncing off of and into one another all day long, most of you looking for a way out. But we don’t really know each other.

  I normally hate it when people don’t just say what they’re really thinking, but just because we’ve lived here together for most of our childhoods doesn’t mean I can come right out and just ask him about what happened. No, I need to “engage” with him. At Jackson Family Farm, Enrique is always telling me to engage with customers. Build rapport. At the farm I do it so maybe I can get the lady from the city to buy one more jar of Meemaw’s Kuntry Kitchen Preserves. With Ethan I need to do it to figure out just what happened to my sweet baby brother. Just what that bastard did to him.

  “So,” I start, “what were you playing?” I know it was Green Day, but I’m just trying to get him to relax. Maybe I’m trying to relax, too.

  “Green Day,” he says.

  “Oh,” I answer. “Have you ever listened to The White Stripes?”

  Before he can answer, Mrs. Jorgenson is back out with two glasses of lemonade in these cut crystal glasses that are fancier than anything my family owns. These have to be the two fastest poured glasses of lemonade in the history of the world. Ice cubes clink together as she hands me mine.

  “Thanks,” I say, taking a swallow.

  Mrs. Jorgenson stands there, smiling frantically. I end up drinking all my lemonade as she stands there watching, and then I hand her back the glass. She takes it and clutches it tight. Ethan just takes a sip of his drink and places it carefully on the garage floor next to his feet.

  “So…,” says Mrs. Jorgenson. I know she wants me to leave.

  “I was just, you know, talking to E
than about music,” I say.

  Ethan isn’t looking at either one of us. Just down at his drums. But then I hear him ask sort of quietly, “Which White Stripes album is the best?”

  “Oh,” I answer, all in a rush, “White Blood Cells. Their third album. It’s really good.”

  Ethan nods and glances back at me, then at his mom, then at his drums again.

  “So…,” Mrs. Jorgenson says again. “Well.”

  “The White Stripes are just drums and guitar,” I keep going, and Ethan is actually looking at me now, peering out of the sides of his eyes. “I mean, you wouldn’t think that would be that great, but it really is. It’s awesome.” Even though I just gulped down all that lemonade, my mouth is super dry.

  “I’m sure Ethan will give them a listen,” Mrs. Jorgenson says, and she puts one hand on my shoulder. Her touch is firm and means business. Her nails are a perfect pale pink.

  I don’t know if I’ve built any rapport. Mostly, I think I’ve come across as a really hyper fan of The White Stripes. This is not going at all like I’d planned. Then again, I didn’t really have a good plan in the first place.

  “I guess I should be going,” I say, disappointed but trying not to show it. “It was nice talking to you, Ethan.”

  Ethan nods at me, then looks away. He’s gripping his drumsticks again.

  “Nice to talk to you, too,” he murmurs.

  “Maybe I’ll see you around,” I manage, but nobody answers me. I hop on my bike and as I glide toward the end of the driveway and turn onto Ethan’s street, I listen for his drumming to start up again, but there’s nothing but silence, and I feel so bad about this that my stomach twists a little out of guilt.

  ETHAN—149 DAYS AFTERWARD

  I normally meet with Dr. Greenberg on Fridays anyway, but if I didn’t have an appointment today I think my mom sure would have scheduled one for me anyway. Because of what happened with that girl Caroline coming over yesterday. I know my mom wasn’t crazy about Caroline showing up randomly because after Caroline left, my mom asked me like five hundred times if I was okay. Then after I started playing video games, she took her phone and went into the living room and started talking in this hushed voice, I think to my dad or to her therapist or maybe even to Dr. Greenberg.

  Anyway, I have an appointment this morning already, so now here I am, having survived the nightmarish drive into the city. I sit, swallowed up by this big, overstuffed beige couch, glancing first at Dr. Greenberg sitting across from me in his office chair and then out the window at the pecan tree, wishing I could be that ordinary.

  I know I said Dr. Greenberg looks like a skinny Santa Claus, but if you dressed him in more worn-out clothes instead of in the khaki slacks and plain button-down shirts he usually wears, he could also pass for one of those guys who stands at freeway off-ramps holding a sign that says HOMELESS VET ANYTHING HELPS. Plus, Groovy usually joins us in sessions. Groovy is this big golden retriever with liquid-brown eyes like a human’s, almost. The first time he came into Dr. Greenberg’s office while I was in there, he leaped up onto the couch that I sit on during appointments like some sort of dog superhero. Then he curled up next to me and did this dog sigh of total contentment.

  I thought it was weird at first, but I got used to it. When I walk into the office for today’s session, Groovy follows me in and sits down right next to me, and I spend the next ten minutes scratching behind his ears and giving Dr. Greenberg the shortest answers I can come up with, wondering how much more time until our session is up.

  “Groovy likes you,” says Dr. Greenberg, giving me a soft half smile.

  “I like Groovy,” I answer.

  Silence.

  I wonder how much my parents are paying Dr. Greenberg. If he’s so famous, probably a lot. Which sort of makes me feel guilty since in the five months I’ve been seeing him I just answer his questions as simply as I can, and we make basic conversation about the weather or what we ate for breakfast. I mean, I’m not rude or anything. He’s a nice enough guy. I’m just not sure why I keep coming here if we don’t even really talk about everything that happened.

  Not that I’m dying to talk about any of it.

  “You don’t have any pets, do you?” asks Dr. Greenberg.

  “No,” I answer. “My mom doesn’t like animals in the house.” I bet if I asked for a dog now, though, I would get one. I could get five, probably. I feel so guilty over that realization that I’m pretty sure I’ll never ask for a dog ever. Probably not even a goldfish.

  And suddenly a memory comes at me. The image of that stray tabby Marty let me feed sometimes. The one I found hanging out around the apartment complex. The one I found after he finally started letting me go outside and breathe fresh air. The picture shoots through me like a needle through fabric. Quick and sharp and exact.

  No, don’t think about it.

  I squeeze my eyes tight.

  “Ethan, you with me?”

  I blink a few times, and my left hand moves to pet Groovy’s soft, silky head. It steadies me a little.

  “Yeah, I’m with you,” I answer.

  My eyes scan the back wall of the office. I’m trying to get my bearings. After all these months of sitting in this room in Dr. Greenberg’s house, the room that he’s turned into his office, I’ve memorized the diplomas with the names Harvard and Columbia on them. Along with the diplomas there’s a framed black-and-white photograph of a younger looking Dr. Greenberg with a darker beard marching in a street, surrounded by other guys with crazy beards and girls with long, messy hair. I’ve always wondered about it.

  “What’s that picture of?” I ask, motioning at the image. If I can take up time asking questions, the session will go by faster. And I won’t have to talk about myself.

  Dr. Greenberg twists around in his seat and smiles fondly.

  “Oh, that’s me protesting the war in Vietnam,” he says. “Back when I was a student. I was arrested shortly after that picture was taken.”

  “And they let you become a therapist?” I ask. There’s a mug shot of my therapist somewhere in a police station. I swear to God, this guy gets weirder every time.

  “Ha!” Dr. Greenberg says. “That’s terrific. Yes. They let me become a therapist. That’s not the only time I was arrested, just so you know. I used to be very active in the no nukes movement in the eighties.”

  “No nukes?”

  “Nuclear weapons. I protested against them, too.”

  “Oh,” I say. People don’t talk about countries firing nuclear weapons much anymore. It’s just terrorists blowing shit up or people shooting up schools that freaks everybody out.

  Dr. Greenberg picks at something in his beard with his enormous, old guy fingers. He probably gets a lot of food stuck in there.

  “You still playing the drums you got for your birthday?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I am.”

  “You like practicing on them?”

  “Yeah, I enjoy it.” I could say that I’m not sure if I’m any good or that it’s been so long since I’ve really played, but the whole idea just feels too exhausting to even discuss.

  “Your parents told me a girl came to see you yesterday while you were playing,” he says. Dr. Greenberg has explained to me that while our sessions are private, he talks to my parents about the “general course of my treatment.” Whatever that means. So it’s no surprise to me that he knows about Caroline. Although I guess I was hoping he wouldn’t bring her up.

  Almost right after he mentions her, though, he gets up and walks to his desk, where he puts his hands on the bottom of his back and stretches. His belly sticks out a little.

  “Now where did I put that thing?” he mutters, like he didn’t just mention Caroline. He opens one desk drawer, then another.

  “What are you doing?” I ask. I wonder again how much money my parents are spending on this guy. I mean, he’s nice. But still. He’s been arrested more than once, and now he’s randomly digging through his desk drawers?

  �
�I’m looking for Groovy’s brush,” he says, his eyes down, his hands opening and closing drawers. “Oh, here it is.”

  He walks over and hands me a plastic brush with a blue handle. I catch a faint whiff of the same Old Spice deodorant my dad uses.

  “He loves to be brushed,” he says, and then he settles back into his chair. “I mean, only if you want to.”

  Groovy notices the brush in my hand and flips over, squirming in excitement. His tail even wags. I’d have to be a pretty big asshole not to brush this dog right now.

  So I do. I start tugging the brush through his soft, golden retriever hair. The teeth leave tiny, orderly lines in his fur.

  “So this young woman…?” he says. I keep brushing. Groovy stays still.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “She’s the older sister of the other young man who was kidnapped. Right?”

  I nod. I keep brushing. I feel my face getting hot.

  “Okay,” says Dr. Greenberg, and I think he’s wondering what to say to me. I must be pretty messed up if this world-famous therapist doesn’t even know what to say next.

  There’s a long pause, and then I just can’t help it. “Did my mom seem worried?” I ask. “About me talking to Caroline?”

  “Is it important to you that you not worry your parents?” he answers. Answering a question with a question. I hate that.

  “Yeah, I guess so,” I say. “I mean, I made them worry so much while I was … gone.” I never know how to refer to the time that I was kidnapped. I hate saying the word kidnapped out loud because it makes me feel awful. But if I say my time with Marty, it makes it sound like I was there cutting school and having an okay time. I already know that’s what some people think is the truth. That I was just there hanging out. I feel my heart start to pick up speed, but just then Groovy scooches over to me and rests his head on my thigh. I keep brushing him. He’s starting to fall asleep.

  Dr. Greenberg waits for a while and finally says, “Maybe your mother seemed a little anxious about it. I think considering how you and Caroline are connected, she’s just concerned about how it might make you feel.”