“Connected,” I repeat, like Caroline and I are puzzle pieces or threads in a spider’s web. I know what he means, of course, but I don’t want to think about Caroline’s little brother. My brain has gotten good at shoving memories around where I can’t get to them. And the ones about Dylan are hazy and gray and untouchable and probably right where they belong.
“Do you want to share what she wanted to talk about?” Dr. Greenberg asks, interrupting my thoughts.
I shrug. “We didn’t really talk about anything.” I remember Jesse’s last visit, and him bringing up his guilt over the past. “She didn’t, like, bring up, you know…,” I offer. I’m gripping Groovy’s brush hard in my hands. “She plays guitar. She mostly seemed to want to talk about music.”
Dr. Greenberg nods. “What if she did bring it up?” he asks.
This is the closest Dr. Greenberg and I have ever come to really talking about me in any kind of serious way. I mean the stuff that happened to me. I feel the slightest wave of nausea building in my stomach. I drag the brush over Groovy’s fur and close my eyes for a moment.
“I mean … I know my parents want to protect me,” I say. I wonder if they’ve told Dr. Greenberg to tell me to stop talking to Caroline. The idea bothers me. I feel guilty for making my parents worry about me so much, and I feel guilty that I get so annoyed by them worrying. I want to be able to decide who I hang out with. Not that I necessarily want to hang out with Caroline. I mean, it was kind of cool how Caroline knew so much about my drums and music, but the idea of hanging out with her makes me nervous.
How am I supposed to come talk to a therapist about my feelings when I don’t really know what the hell I feel?
Dr. Greenberg gives me a half smile again. “Of course your parents want to protect you,” he says. “I wonder why they might feel especially protective with regard to Caroline.”
It’s not phrased like a question, but it’s like he expects an answer. I give Groovy one last brush and try to respond. “Maybe they’re worried that talking to Caroline would bring stuff up about … everything,” I say. “And I could get, like, hurt?”
“Drawing healthy boundaries is something that’s sometimes hard for victims of trauma,” Dr. Greenberg says, resting his hands on top of his belly. “I’m sorry. To translate that into normal language, what I mean is that people who have been through something like what you’ve been through sometimes have a hard time knowing who to trust. Knowing who to make friends with.”
“Yeah,” I say. I mean, what am I supposed to say to that? No shit?
“If you’d like, that’s something we could talk about here, during our sessions,” Dr. Greenberg says. “How to have good friendships. Good relationships.”
“Okay,” I say.
Friendships. I’m not sure I have any left. I’m not sure if Jesse is still my friend, or if I even want to be his. And I think back on Bennie and Narciso, the two guys from the apartment complex. I try to imagine what they’re doing now—skateboarding, complaining about their teachers, talking about girls—and I wonder if they ever think of me.
All of a sudden, I want to stop thinking about all this. Talking about all of this. So I flip through my mind for something to say. “I liked brushing Groovy. I put him to sleep.”
Dr. Greenberg smiles. “I’ve found he helps patients relax because he loves to relax himself.”
An idea dawns on me. “Wait, did you get me to brush Groovy to make it easier to talk?”
“Well,” Dr. Greenberg says, and he looks a little bashful. “The answer is yes, I admit it. Groovy has a way of knowing when people need an extra little security blanket during a session.”
It should piss me off, but it doesn’t. “It was nice to brush him,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. I bury my hand into Groovy’s fur. I don’t care that he’s a trained security blanket and Dr. Greenberg set it all up. It just feels good to sit next to this dog.
Dr. Greenberg takes his notepad off the end table next to his chair and scratches a few notes with a pencil he has tucked behind his ear. His hair is so wild I didn’t even notice the pencil until he slid it out.
“We’re getting to the end of our session,” he says, glancing up at the clock I know is on the wall behind my head. “But we’ll be seeing each other soon.”
I nod. I wonder how long I’ll be seeing him as a patient. Like I said, Dr. Greenberg is nice enough. But these sessions don’t ever make me feel normal. Whatever feeling normal is supposed to mean. And there’s no way that someone as screwed up as me can ever be normal again, probably. I should just accept it already.
“I know I have to get up,” I say, “but I hate to wake up Groovy.”
Dr. Greenberg grins. He gets up again and goes to his desk, to the glass jar that holds these biscuits Groovy likes. The clink of the lid coming off is all it takes for Groovy to bolt up off the couch and race over to Dr. Greenberg.
“He’ll eat too many and get fat,” he says, scratching the golden retriever on top of his head. “But I can’t say no to him. Here, you can give him one, too.”
I get up and take a treat from Dr. Greenberg, and Groovy bumps his wet nose against my hand in gratitude before gobbling the biscuit out of my palm.
“Good dog,” I tell him. “Good dog.”
“Okay, I’ll walk you out,” says Dr. Greenberg as he opens the door that leads into the room where my mother sits, perched on the edge of a chair wearing an anxious smile, waiting for me, her only child, to appear.
CAROLINE—157 DAYS AFTERWARD
The weekend before Halloween at Jackson Family Farm is like the day after Thanksgiving at Walmart. Which is to say it’s epic madness. Parents from the city come, desperate to capture fifty million photographs of little Sage or little Olivia surrounded by orange pumpkins or taking part in a gen-u-wine hayride or whatever. Pictures they can post online later to prove what amazing parents they are. I’m glad when Enrique puts me at a cash register instead of making me smile and give directions to families trooping out into the patch to pick what they hope will turn into a picture perfect jack-o-lantern. That way I don’t have to engage as much with the Prius and organic snack crowd.
But it’s hard to focus on my job when Jason McGinty is winking at me from the other side of the barn, by the barrels of overpriced jams and jellies. Jason is pretty cute with a good body. He’s kind of a dumbass, I know. But still. Cute.
My phone buzzes. I manage to sneak a peek in between customers.
Let’s go hide behind a hay bale and get nekkid
I glance up and find Jason laughing at me. I roll my eyes but I can’t help but grin a little.
“Excuse me?”
“Oh,” I say, glancing at Mr. Suburban Dad standing in front of me, his harried wife and two blond kids behind him. “I’m sorry. Let me help you check out.” I glance back toward Jason, but he’s not there anymore.
When the final customers are driving back to civilization in their hybrid SUVs, I get another text. This one is from Emma.
Hey girl … u done? Meet us in the parking lot
I don’t know who the “us” is until I find Emma and Jason sitting on the edge of the bed of Jason’s blue Chevy pickup. I know I shouldn’t mind, but I do. I mean, we all go to school together, so yeah, it makes sense we would all hang out. And it’s not like Jason’s asked me to be, like, boyfriend girlfriend or whatever. But I guess I was looking forward to just hanging out with him alone tonight. And hopefully getting just the right amount of messed up and seeing what comes next.
The messed up part seems like it might still happen, though, even if Emma’s playing third wheel. The two of them are pouring some amber liquid into cans of Coke. It’s Jason’s go-to beverage—whiskey.
“Got you one,” Jason says to me, handing me an open can. “Already doctored it myself and everything.” It’s a pretty sweet gesture, and this makes me wish we were alone even more.
“Thanks,” I say, and Emma bumps Jason with her hip, forcing him down to one end of t
he truck, freeing up a space next to her. This puts her in the middle, in between Jason and me. I get prickly all over again and take a big sip of my drink.
“There’s a party at my cousin’s house in Healy,” Emma says. “Like, some Halloween thing. If you want to drive out there.”
I wrinkle my nose and sip some more. I hate going to parties where I only know two people. And plus, her cousin is this super annoying popular type who’s head of the dance squad or whatever.
“We could go hang out at my place,” Jason says. “My parents won’t care. We could text people to come over.”
“Then the guys will just sit around and play Call of Duty all night long,” Emma says. “And the girls will just sit around and bitch. Fuck this town. It’s so boring.” She frowns the same tight frown she’s had since we were in kindergarten together and became best friends after Ms. Sweeny assigned us to be shepherds instead of angels in the Christmas pageant.
“We never drive into the city,” I say. “How come we never drive into the city?” I look down and realize my can feels pretty light. My face is starting to feel pleasant and numb. When Jason told me he doctored my drink, he didn’t tell me he’d dumped half a bottle of whiskey in it.
“The city’s too far,” Jason says. “Too weird.”
“Why is it weird?” I say. “It could be cool.” There are some artsy hipster types from my school who go into the city sometimes. Who go hear bands play and everything. But I don’t know them, and they don’t know me. I hang out with Emma and Jason and that crowd, not the artsy types. It’s too late now to change groups. I hate how in high school you’re stuck in a group and when you realize later you probably belonged in another one, it’s too late to change because you’re already who you are.
Jason shrugs. “I wouldn’t think you’d want to go into the city anyway after that sick fuck took your brother there and did whatever sick, fucked up shit those people do to kids.”
Emma takes a sharp breath and glances at me.
“What?” I say. My pleasant numbness is gone, replaced with a hot anger that makes me want to spit. “What the hell did you just say?”
“Oh, shit,” Jason says, a lopsided frown on his face. “I’m sorry, Caroline. That was … man, I’m sorry. I’m drunk.”
“I hate when people blame the shit they say on being drunk,” I tell him. “I told you never to talk about my brother again!” I feel like I’m going to start crying, which I hate even more than people blaming dumb crap they say on alcohol. I think I hate crying in front of people more than anything else.
“Jesus Christ, Jason,” Emma says, sliding off the truck. “Come on, Caroline, let’s go to my house.” I’m grateful but almost surprised because I thought Emma wanted to party or hang out and lots of times that comes first before anything, including me.
“Man, don’t leave. I’m really sorry.” He’s pleading a little, but he doesn’t come after us as Emma and I walk off. He just sits there, holding his Coke can. I give him the finger as I march away.
“He’s such a dick,” I say, tossing my ten-speed into the trunk of Emma’s old Toyota and getting in the car. I swallow the lump in my throat because I don’t want to cry even in front of Emma.
“He’s just clueless sometimes, you know?” Emma says, sliding into the driver’s seat.
“No, you’re supposed to say he’s a dick,” I say, irritated. I sip glumly from my Coke can.
“Yeah, he’s a dick,” Emma agrees, and we’re silent until we pull up in front of the trailer where Emma lives with her mother.
“My mom’s working the night shift,” Emma says. “We have the place to ourselves.” She lets us into the front room where she busies herself by finding some of her mom’s Marlboro Lights in a drawer in the adjoining, closet-sized kitchen. She knows I only smoke when I’m drinking and irritated.
“Jason McGinty can be so dumb,” Emma says, lighting her own cigarette and sitting down next to me. “He needs to learn that mouth is only good for one thing.”
I sink into the Naugahyde couch that’s at least twice as old as I am. “I hate that he’s such a good kisser,” I tell Emma. “I hate that I’ll probably kiss him again after tonight. Even after what he said.”
“Please don’t get mad at me, but he probably didn’t mean it like it sounded,” Emma says. “Even if it did come out sounding awful.”
I shrug. I don’t have the energy to debate Jason McGinty anymore. I don’t want to spend another sentence on the situation.
Emma’s mom has a couple of Shiners in her refrigerator, and after we drink those I realize I’m telling her about going by Ethan Jorgenson’s house the other week.
“Seriously?” she says to me, tapping her ash into an empty bottle. “You just went over there? I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”
“Yeah. I think it was stupid,” I say. “But I keep thinking about him.”
“Is he, like, cute?” The question bugs me because it’s all wrong. But that’s mostly what Emma and I talk about when we talk about boys. How cute they are or aren’t. Maybe that’s why I didn’t mention Ethan to her before.
I haven’t actually considered the cute question. I mean, Ethan isn’t bad looking. But he’s not really my type. A little too lanky for me. Too dark-eyed and lost puppy dog for my liking. I wish it weren’t true, but my type is muscular dumbass. Which explains Jason McGinty.
“He’s okay,” I answer. “He actually turned out to be pretty cool or whatever, but I guess I mostly went to see him to find out what he could tell me about what happened to Dylan. Since Dylan can’t, you know … tell us. But I didn’t actually ask him anything. We just talked about music for, like, five minutes until his mom made it pretty clear I needed to leave.”
Emma wrinkles her nose and gives me her tight frown again. She’s drunk, but I can tell she’s trying to pick her words carefully, so I won’t get mad at her like I did with Jason.
“Are you sure you … want to know? What happened to Dylan?” Emma says. “I mean … can’t you sort of … guess?”
Flashes of Dylan being touched or hurt jump in front of my eyes, and I squeeze them shut like this can block out pictures I don’t want to see. “Yeah,” I say. “I could guess. I mean, I already have. I know it’s messed up, but I guess I want to know details. Because then maybe I could help him. Like, he’s scared to go outside. He freaks out at loud noises. And this is weird, but he keeps talking about a piece of cake and he keeps cursing, which he’s never done before. I don’t know how this guy got him. What he said to him while he had him, you know? If I knew, maybe … maybe I could figure out how to help him be less scared now.”
Suddenly, other images run in front of my eyes. Other sounds. From that Saturday afternoon when Dylan went missing.
Dill Pickle, give me a second, okay? Can you let me finish something? Go play somewhere else, okay?
Caroline, wasn’t Dylan in here with you? Weren’t you watching him?
Mindy, I think we need to call the police.
“You want another beer?” Emma asks me, eyeing me carefully.
“No,” I answer, pressing my hands over my face. Things are starting to feel loopy and twisty and not so good inside. I’ve had too much to drink, and I’m going to pay later. I know it. “I need to stay here tonight,” I say. “Is that okay?”
“You know it is,” says Emma.
“Let me just text my mom.”
I manage to put together some sort of coherent message about spending the night at Emma’s, and I wait for my mom’s response to be that I should come back or I’ve been gone too much lately or she needs me home or whatever, but there’s no response for almost twenty minutes, and when she finally texts me back, all she writes is That’s fine.
I consider texting her one more time to tell her Emma’s house is full of crystal meth users and they want to pimp me out to support their sick habit, but I’m too scared to get another That’s fine response in return, so I just put my phone on vibrate, stumble into Emma’s r
oom, and pass out on her bed.
ETHAN—161 DAYS AFTERWARD
There are clumps of mud and a few cigarette butts on the closet’s hardwood floor.
There’s one lightbulb on above me, and when I adjust my body to try and find a more comfortable position to sit in, the cord to turn the light on and off slides over the top of my head like it’s trying to get my attention.
I can’t stop worrying about what it will be like if the lightbulb goes out.
There’s a navy blue winter coat with a broken zipper and a few flannel shirts lined up next to it, all hanging on wire hangers. I’m not tied up like when I first got here, but even though my arms and legs are free, there’s no room for me to lay down and spread out. When I get tired I pull one of the shirts down and fold it up into a pillow and curl into a ball, crying into the shirt and wishing it didn’t smell like him. Like cigarettes and sweat and everything scary and dirty and sick.
There’s a bucket like the one Gloria uses to mop our floors jammed into the corner, only I’m supposed to use it for the bathroom. It’s so close to me I can smell its stink.
And there’s me.
And I’m eleven.
And the door to the closet won’t open.
He put me in here after he hauled me out of the truck.
I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been locked in.
“Ethan! Ethan, we’re right here!”
Someone has me by the shoulders, and I can hear a lady’s voice, high-pitched and far away, screaming, “Don’t shake him so hard! Oh, Ethan, sweetheart, wake up! Please wake up!”
Everything is swimmy and sideways. I can’t breathe. I throw my hands up, my arms up. I swing them around, trying to reach out until I find something solid. Something real.
My shirt is clinging to me, covered in sweat.
“Ethan!” Voices are shouting my name over and over again.
I heave like I’m going to throw up, but nothing comes out.
Afterward Page 6