Afterward

by Jennifer Mathieu

  “Tell him you’re looking for your lost puppy,” the man in the driver’s seat says, and he doesn’t have to open the glove compartment. He knows he doesn’t even need to bother with that part anymore. He knows I will do exactly as told.

  The truck slides over to the side, casual. The automatic window sinks down and the hot May air seeps in.

  “Hey,” I say, my elbow leaning out the window. “Hey, kid. My dad and I are looking for my lost dog? A big black lab?”

  The kid turns to look at me, and I know something is off. Something isn’t right. He puts both hands in his mouth and starts sucking his fingers. He steps right up to the truck, but he doesn’t say anything.

  The voice behind me speaks up. “Open the door. Right now.”

  I do. Of course I do. I open the door and when the man reaches over me to grab the kid by the shirt, I am reaching down and helping him, too. The kid starts to yelp and kick and when I’m told to get the gun from the glove compartment and aim it at this kid, I do.

  Of course I do.

  And we are speeding out of these streets that look familiar and strange at the same time, and the kid is on the floorboard, crying and making noises that I know will annoy the man, and the gun is heavy in my hands. My finger is on the trigger. The boy starts calling out, over and over, “Lost dog, lost dog.”

  “Shut up!” I shout. “There’s no dog. So shut up.” I tell the boy this because I know what will happen to him if he doesn’t shut up. And then I think it is stupid to warn him. Because it’s already too late. It doesn’t matter what he does or doesn’t do. The worst part isn’t over. It is just beginning.

  I can see the back of the boy’s neck and the way his light hair falls down over it, like it needs to be trimmed. I can see his whole body shaking. I can smell the scent of cigarettes on the man and I can hear the truck’s engine roaring. Roaring as we move and we move and keep moving.

  “Damn,” says the man in the driver’s seat. “That was a piece of cake.”

  By the time I am done telling Dr. Greenberg, I’m not crying anymore. The words tumble out, and when I’m done my whole body aches. I’ve been tensing my entire self as I’ve been talking, and it feels like I’ve just run a marathon or hiked through the jungle.

  Dr. Greenberg’s eyes are pink. He’s the one crying now.

  “Ethan,” Dr. Greenberg says, his voice a whisper. “Ethan, I’m so sorry that happened to you.”

  I shake my head, confused.

  “What do you mean, what happened to me?” I shout. “What about what I did? What about what happened to Dylan? I did that, Dr. Greenberg! I did it!”

  Dr. Greenberg takes a deep breath and leans toward me. “Ethan,” he says, “I can see how you would feel that way, but think of it like this. Is Caroline to blame for what happened to her brother?” he asks me.

  “No, of course not,” I say.

  “But she feels like she is, doesn’t she?” Dr. Greenberg asks.

  “Yeah,” I admit.

  “And you feel like you’re to blame even though you were under severe psychological stress the likes of which most human beings will never have to experience in their lifetimes, right?”

  I shrug.

  “Who are we not blaming, Ethan?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, confused.

  “Should we blame Dylan for running out of the house?”

  “No,” I answer. It comes out almost like a shout.

  “So who are we not blaming?”

  I stare across the street. I wipe at my runny nose with my sleeve. “You’re saying I should blame him. The guy driving the truck. The kidnapper.”

  “Yes,” says Dr. Greenberg. “In fact, I think he’s the only one we could blame.”

  I shrug, working Dr. Greenberg’s words over in my mind. I want to believe them, just like I want to believe his words about why I didn’t try to run away.

  “I want to believe you. But I don’t know if I can.”

  Dr. Greenberg nods. “I understand that. But with time I think you will start to believe it. I really do.”

  We sit in silence for a while, and Dr. Greenberg finally says, “I’m glad you shared this with me, Ethan. The truth is, the fact that this memory came back to you now is a sign you’re getting healthier. Your mind knows you’re in a safe enough space to process that sort of memory now, so it’s letting you have it.”

  “I wish it had kept it,” I mutter. Dr. Greenberg doesn’t say anything. I shift my feet and more silence passes. I wonder how much time has gone by. How much time is left before my mom comes back. I want her to come and take me home where maybe I can escape into playing my drums or my video games or some medication-induced sleep. But at the same time, it’s like I know being here and talking about this makes me feel better, too. Even if I do need a break.

  Still, I know I can’t really take a break because there’s been something gnawing at me ever since the memory came back to me in my mom’s car. Thinking about it brings on a wave of panic, and I know the only way to slow it down is to tell Dr. Greenbeg about it.

  “The thing is, I don’t think I can keep hanging out with Caroline if I don’t tell her about this,” I say. “I feel like I need to tell her how Dylan was taken.” I grip the arm rests of the chair.

  At this Dr. Greenberg starts scratching his chin, and he seems a little lost in thought. It’s happened. I’ve finally stumped my Harvard-educated therapist.

  Eventually, he looks at me and says, “Ethan, you have to understand that Caroline may react really poorly to this. You have to know that this won’t be easy for her to hear.”

  I nod. That’s stating the obvious.

  But I can’t imagine playing music with Caroline and singing stupid songs and sharing Cokes in my garage again if I don’t share this. If I don’t stay 100 percent honest with her. Because if I’ve figured one thing out about Caroline and me these past few months it’s that the two of us—we don’t do bullshit.

  “I know, Dr. Greenberg,” I say. “But I want to tell her. I think I have to.”

  “What if this ends your friendship?” Dr. Greenberg asks gently. “What if that’s the outcome? Do you think you could handle that?”

  I look at the floor. The idea makes my insides hurt. “I think I could,” I say. “At least, I know I could handle that more than I could handle being friends with her with this secret.”

  Dr. Greenberg nods and then takes a deep breath.

  “I think you and Caroline must be in the same karass,” he says.

  “What?” I ask, confused.

  “It’s from this book by one of my favorite authors, Kurt Vonnegut,” he says. “In his novel Cat’s Cradle. He invented a religion just for this particular story.” At this Dr. Greenberg grins like he is remembering the story for the first time in a long time. “In this religion, people who were linked cosmically, who were put together in teams of sorts to do God’s will, were said to be in the same karass.”

  “Like fate brought Caroline and me together?” I ask. “Like God?”

  “That’s what Vonnegut would say,” Dr. Greenberg answers. “Or what the religion he invented for this book would say, anyway.”

  I think about Caroline and me and, really, Dylan, too. I think about the three of us connected by some invisible thread, and I wonder why God or fate would have connected us in such an awful way. What it could possibly mean.

  “I don’t know about a karass,” I say. “But I know if we’re going to keep being friends, I have to tell her.”

  Dr. Greenberg doesn’t say anything. He just nods, and I try to read his face to see if he thinks this is a good idea. But I can’t be sure.

  CAROLINE—291 DAYS AFTERWARD

  I don’t go to Ethan’s on Friday night or Saturday night, but by Sunday afternoon I’m missing him. I feel bad that I haven’t texted him back. From my bed where I’ve been trying to do some homework, I finally do.

  Feel like playing?

  I’m ready to get out of the house. My dad
is gone, there’s nothing in the house to eat except frozen pizza, and my mom has spent all day on the phone with her sister while Dylan zones out in front of the television with his Jeopardy! episode playing over and over again. At least I got to spend most of Saturday at work, distracting myself with orders and Jesse’s easygoing smiles and jokes. But a few hours at a yogurt shop aren’t enough to make home easy to take.

  I glance at my phone, wondering what’s taking Ethan so long to write back. Finally, it lights up.

  Sure. Come over whenever.

  It’s dusk when I bike over with my guitar, my knees bumping into the soft guitar case that I balance on my handlebars.

  “I’ll be glad when the time changes, so we can have more daylight to play in,” I say as I plug in and get ready.

  “Yeah,” Ethan says, and something about the way he says it makes me look at him more closely. Like something is chewing away at him. But maybe I’m just imagining it. And anyway, Ethan counts off like nothing’s up.

  We fiddle around for a while, but it’s like we’re playing when we first met. Hesitant. Careful. Ethan keeps stopping, steadying his cymbals, and counting off again.

  “I’m just off tonight,” he says.

  “It’s okay,” I say.

  We struggle through a song or two and then all of a sudden Ethan’s arms go limp, and his drumsticks drop to the floor by his feet with a clatter.

  “Caroline, I have to tell you something.”

  I’m standing, still holding my guitar. “Should I sit down?” I ask.

  “I think so, yeah,” says Ethan, and his voice is tight and quiet.

  Maybe Ethan’s therapist thinks we shouldn’t hang out together anymore. Or maybe his parents want to move back to Austin. Maybe his mom found out somehow what happened that night at the creek, and she hates me so much now I’m never going to be allowed over again. My heart starts pounding hard. I slide my guitar off my body and sit down on the cement. Ethan isn’t looking at me. I can tell from the way his chest is moving under his black T-shirt that his breathing is coming quickly. Maybe too quickly. I’m worried he might pass out.

  “Ethan,” I say, “do I need to … like … go get someone?” I picture myself sprinting across the backyard in the fading sunlight, rapping my knuckles on the back door until his mom or dad comes to see what’s the matter.

  But Ethan shakes his head no. He just starts talking.

  “I have to tell you this, Caroline. Because … I like you.” He flushes and shakes his head, embarrassed. “I mean … you know what I mean. I like playing with you. You’re my friend, and it’s so easy to be around you. I can’t say that for a lot of people right now. You’re funny. And you’re smart.”

  I nod, my eyes big.

  “When you first came here,” he pauses, takes a breath, “you wanted to know what I remembered about Dylan. About how he was taken. And the truth is I couldn’t remember much. Not then. But my memory … it’s weird sometimes. There are holes in it, and sometimes the holes get filled in when I don’t even expect it. Dr. Greenberg says that’s what happens with traumatic memories.”

  I nod again because it’s all I seem able to do, and I wonder if Dylan is having the same sort of feelings and memories as Ethan, only he doesn’t know how to voice them.

  But why is Ethan mentioning Dylan now?

  And then, suddenly, I feel it. Like when you know someone is walking up behind you. Or when you sense that it’s just about to rain. I know that Ethan is about to tell me something I don’t want to hear but have to listen to. My heart starts hammering away inside my chest.

  Now Ethan’s mouth is moving and words are sliding out, lining up one right after another. I want them to stop coming, but they won’t. He’s careful how he puts them in order, with pauses in between. He isn’t looking at me as he talks, just staring at his drums.

  He tells me a terrible story with the scariest monster in it. Scarier than the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood or the evil stepmother in Cinderella. Scarier than Jason in those old eighties horror movies Emma and I used to watch. Scarier than anything I’ve ever seen or heard.

  And in the story, Ethan is the scary monster’s helper.

  And my brother is the prey.

  I blink. I blink again.

  Ethan isn’t crying, but it’s like he’s going to.

  “I understand if you never want to see me again,” he says at the end of the story. “But I wanted to tell you this. So you wouldn’t think it was your fault what happened. And Dr. Greenberg tells me it’s not my fault either, but I don’t know. Either way, it isn’t yours.” His voice is barely a whisper.

  We sit there in silence, and I find myself reaching for my guitar. How can I be here, with Ethan? How can I sit here with him after what he’s just said he did?

  How can I want to reach out to him and want to cover him with a raincoat or my arms or something and protect him? How can I want to scream at him, yelling at the the tops of my lungs, my fists clenched? How can I feel both wants tugging at my insides?

  And then I hear myself saying, “I have to go,” and I’m standing, somehow, my guitar still strapped on. “I’m sorry, but I have to … go.”

  Ethan is nodding like he expected as much, and I am on my bike and I am pedaling and I am crying so hard. I can barely see to make it home, and the darkening sky doesn’t help. As I reach my street my entire body is gripped with panic. I have to see Dylan. Now.

  I dump my bike and guitar in the front yard and race to the door, trembling. I can barely manage the key in the door. I imagine walking in and finding all the windows wide open, my brother vanished, my mom racing up and down the halls of our house calling his name.

  But inside all that’s happening is the television is on, and I catch a glimpse of my mom’s ponytail and her hand clicking away at the remote.

  I dart up to Dylan’s bedroom and open the door. He’s curled up around his pink horsie blanket, gripping it tight. The glow of his nightlights makes him look golden. Peaceful. Perfect.

  I sink to my knees at the side of his bed, and I watch him take breaths as I try to catch my own. My mind is frantic with questions. How could anyone frighten my brother? How could anyone hurt my brother?

  And how can I be friends with someone who did?

  ETHAN—306 DAYS AFTERWARD

  My dad shuts the front door and turns to look at me and my mom. He’s smiling, of course.

  “I think that went well, right?” he says.

  My mom is smiling, too, but I know she’s trying too hard. Maybe not as hard as my dad, but still.

  “I think it’s good,” I say, and I do, actually, but I look down and see my thumbs traveling up and down my knuckles.

  “That’s great!” my dad answers, and he sits back down on the living room couch and picks up the pieces of paper that Principal Berry and the school’s counselor have just dropped off. He leafs through them even though we’ve spent the past two hours talking about every single word that’s written on them. Everything from optimal schedules to classroom seating to locker placement.

  “So you’re ready to be a junior in high school next fall?” he asks me.

  I shrug my shoulders. The idea to go back to school came from Mrs. Leander. She said I was ready—that I’d made tremendous progress over the past several months. When she asked me about going back, even part-time, it was like she was asking me if I wanted to run for president. Technically, it was something I was able to do. But in actuality, I wasn’t sure I wanted to.

  What if I don’t go back? Do I just stay at home every day, visiting Jesse at the frozen yogurt place when Caroline isn’t there? If I don’t go back to school, do I live here with my parents for the rest of my life? If I don’t go back to school, and I don’t have Caroline, do I never have another real friend again outside of my semi-awkward, semi-cool video game and frozen yogurt friendship with Jesse, who probably still wonders if everything that happened to me is his fault?

  “What do you think about the schedule,
Ethan?” my mom asks, taking a yellow piece of paper where Principal Berry has sketched some times and course names.

  “I think it’s good. It’s good to go in for the stuff I feel I’m strongest at for now, and keep meeting with Mrs. Leander in the afternoons for everything else.” That means homeroom, Spanish I, English Literature, and US History in the mornings, then lunch in the cafeteria—maybe—and then home to work on math and science with Mrs. Leander.

  My mom stares at the paper and then looks up and across the room like my dad and I aren’t there.

  “I can’t believe we’re here already,” she says, finally. “Talking about going to school.”

  I nod. I can’t believe it either, really.

  “I think it’s good that Principal Berry will be meeting with the students first and letting them know your schedule and that you’re excited to be going back,” my dad says, “but that you don’t necessarily want to talk about what happened.” The words what happened are as close as my dad can get to naming my kidnapping. Dr. Greenberg says my dad is probably having a harder time dealing with everything than my mom because he likes to pretend he’s all right all the time even when he isn’t.

  “Maybe,” I say. “But maybe I should just go there and not stand out? I mean, it’s not like everything wasn’t already all out in the news and everything.” My parents glance at one another but don’t say anything. I imagine Caroline sitting in on a student meeting in the auditorium about how to handle the Kidnap Victim. I’m glad she’s a year ahead of me and there’s no chance we could be in any of the same classes. But still. I imagine walking past her in the hallway and her ignoring me, like we never knew each other at all.

  My throat tightens like it has the past few weeks, whenever I’ve thought about Caroline. Suddenly I need to stop thinking about school. I need to stop talking to my parents about it at least.

  “Can we take a break and come back to this?” I say. This is something we talk about with Dr. Sugar. That any of us are supposed to be able to “take a break” from talking about something when it gets too stressful as long as we “come back to it” later either at home or during a session. Whenever I ask to “take a break and come back” to something, I think I sound like I’m forty years old.