Wherever You Go

by Heather Davis

  "I'm very happy to be with la mia famiglia," said Grandpa.

  "That's good. And how is the caregiving going?" she asked. "You're helping with medications, bathing, getting him to appointments?"

  "Right now Holly's helping me with the day-to-day," Mom said, her cheeks pinking up. "I work a lot of hours. Have to work a half shift tonight even," she said.

  Ms. Granger nodded. "It's tough to be a single mom these days. If you don't mind my asking, is the girls' father still involved?"

  Mom's face went stony. "That's a whole other conversation, Ms. Granger."

  "Sure, sure. Just trying to get a picture of the family dynamic." She set down her silverware on the plate and pushed it slightly forward on the table. "So, going back to careem"back togiving—Holly, how are you managing to balance school and taking care of Aldo?"

  "And me," piped up Lena. "She watches me, too. She has since I was a baby, practically."

  I shrugged. "It's all right."

  "And you still have time for activities? I heard that you were attending a grief-counseling group. Are you still able to go to that?"

  My cheeks felt hot. "Um, I don't understand what that has to do with anything."

  "Sorry. Being nosy is part of my job," Ms. Granger said, unfazed. "I just want to make sure that Aldo's getting adequate care here—and also that it's not too much for the family to handle."

  "There's really no alternative, so we're managing," Mom said.

  Ms. Granger said, "Actually, Aldo's government health plan would help defray the cost of a permanent care facility. At least a small portion."

  "I want to be here," Grandpa Aldo said, slamming his hand on the table. His face was stormy, his eyebrows drawn.

  Ms. Granger turned to him and said softly, "Yes, we understand. Don't worry. We're just discussing options."

  "Family takes care of family," Mom said. "I've heard horror stories about those facilities."

  "There are some good ones in the Northwest, and quite frankly, when your teenage daughter is the only caregiver here in the house—"

  "What do you want me to do? Quit both my jobs?" Mom said, her voice loud, angry.

  "No, no. I'm just saying that it's a lot for Holly to shoulder. Here she is, a teenager on a Friday night making dinner for everyone instead of going out with friends."

  "It's fine," I said, my lips tight. "I didn't have plans or anything."

  Ms. Granger gave me a sympathetic smile. "You should know, as Aldo's disease progresses—"

  "We're all going to pitch in to keep him well," Mom said, her voice shaking.

  "Yes, I hear that you want to do that. But as his condition worsens, so will his needs. Holly, can you handle all this stress?"

  "I'm good at holding things together," I said.

  My mom shot me a look that I couldn't quite decipher. "The bottom line is, we're going to be fine here."

  Ms. Granger dabbed at her lips with her napkin and then set it on the table beside her plate. She fished a card from her pocket and slid it across the table to my mom. "Julia, I think your intentions are good, and I'll do what I can to help youhei to hel if you ask. I promise you that."

  Mom didn't touch the card. It lay there, unwelcome, near her water glass.

  "Now, unfortunately, I'm expected at another home visit, so I need to get going," Ms. Granger said. "Thank you again for a wonderful dinner, Holly."

  "Sure," I said.

  "Aldo, you take care, now. I'll see you at the center next week. Nice meeting you, girls."

  My mom stood up and walked her out. I heard them whispering and then the door shutting.

  "Why was she saying Holly can't do it alone?" my sister said as Mom came back to the table.

  "Don't worry about that," Mom answered. "Why don't you finish your broccoli?"

  "She meant that we're all going to need to help out," I said.

  "Holly..." Mom sighed, staring at me for a long moment. Then she got up and started to clear the dishes from the table. That was odd—but having her there through a whole dinner was odd.

  When Mom did eat with us, she was usually grabbing something quickly, rushing out the door, the scent of her floral perfume trailing behind her, proof that she'd been there. Often I would wake in the middle of the night, listening for the sound of the turning lock and the door opening, followed by the sound of keys hitting the bowl in the hallway. And then I could close my eyes again, knowing that we were all safe.

  I sat there at the kitchen table, forcing down the rest of my mashed potatoes and watching Mom at the sink. She loaded the dishwasher slowly, setting each plate in a deliberate place, nestling each cup in the wire rack like it was precious. When she reached under the sink to grab dishwasher soap from the cabinet, she came up empty but then, muttering a swear word, found where it lived on the other side.

  "Is there cake?" chirped Grandpa.

  Lena bounced in her chair. "Yeah, can we have cake?"

  "Maybe," I said, taking a last bite of chicken.

  When she was done with her task except for my dishes, Mom dried her hands on a dishtowel and left the kitchen, probably to change for work. She didn't look back at us. At me.

  I didn't know what to make of that, except that maybe Ms. Granger made her realize this was just going to get harder for all of us, that Grandpa was going to get worse. Or maybe she was mad that I'd moved the dishwasher soap and forgotten to tell her.

  It occurred to me that part of us not discussing things was about her making me have to guess all the time. Decipher her intentions, figure out her moods. Maybe to her there was some comfort in letting people guess what you think, what you feel. Maybe even some control in keeping stuff tlatping sto yourself. If it was up to me, I'd rather have the plain old truth.

  The faucet in the sink was dripping in a steady tink-tink-tink, and Lena hopped up to turn it off. "Conserve water," she said in singsong voice.

  Grandpa gave her a pat as she came back to the table. "Good girl."

  I set my plate and silverware in the dishwasher and pushed the start button. Then I took some flour, sugar, and cocoa down from the cupboard, along with my little wooden box of 3 x 5 cards, some of them yellowed and stained, inherited. I needed to follow a recipe. I wanted to measure and stir and know I could depend on the result.

  Lena clapped her hands in delight. "Yay, Holly!"

  "Some cake?" Grandpa said, his face brightening.

  "Yeah," I said. "Coming right up, guys."

  "Big plans tonight? It is Friday..." Jason's mom, Mona, stood in the doorway of the living room, snapping a gold cuff bracelet around her wrist.

  As always, she's the one with the big plans, thought Jason. Running off to have dinner downtown with her friends, leaving behind the big, empty house with its stark cream walls. He couldn't blame her, he guessed. The house had seemed larger lately, now that it was mostly just the two of them—well, and Rosie, if you counted her coming to clean and cook for them. Rosie made it feel more like home when she was there.

  "Nothing on tap, then? You're just going to sit around and watch TV?" She walked over and perched on the arm of the beige leather couch. "That's pretty boring for a Friday night."

  "I don't know. I might head over to Dan's pretty soon," Jason said, muting the basketball game on the flat screen.

  His mom smiled. "Good. You should spend more time with your friends. Any chance Faith will be there?"

  "Mom. Seriously. We're not getting back together. Please give it up." He swung a throw pillow at her arm, but she moved away just in time.

  His mother laughed but then said, "You two were such a sweet couple. At the club this week, her mother told me that Faith was just accepted to Vassar."

  "Great." Jason couldn't help rolling his eyes. He didn't care what Faith was doing or where she was going. They were over months ago. And they'd never be again. "No offense, but can we talk about something else?"

  She gave him a disappointed shrug. "Sure. I'll butt out. You're right. You can't blame a mom for
wanting to see her son happy."

  "No, a mom wanting to see herself happy," Jason said, winking.

  "Well ... maybe." Hiv h. maybes mom stood up and adjusted her wrap dress, making sure the tie was tight. She looked pretty, Jason thought. Thinner, too—but that was probably because he never saw her eating, not since his dad had been working down in Portland so much. They hadn't had dinner together as a family in weeks, it felt like.

  His mom gave him a little wave. "I'm heading out, but you know Rosie can make you something if you get hungry."

  "Mom. I can heat something up myself," he said.

  "Well, she's off at seven, so if you change your mind, be sure to let her know soon." She moved toward the front door, grabbing a coat from the closet. "If your father calls, maybe you could ask him to call me about the boat-moorage payment."

  "Okay."

  "He's coming to town on Monday, honey. I guess he'll probably want to take you out for a sail."

  "Is he staying here this time?"

  His mom paused near the front door and turned. "No, he's not staying here. He's getting his own place." She stuffed her arms through the sleeves of the coat and belted it.

  "Sorry," he said. "I didn't know."

  Her lips were pressed together like she was holding back something. More that she wouldn't share with him just then, and that was fine with Jason. Things had been weird enough without knowing what, exactly, was going on between his parents.

  "Remember to tell Rosie if you need some dinner. Love you." His mom pulled the door shut behind her. Closed the door on whatever pain she was feeling. The sound of the lock clicking echoed in the stone-tiled foyer and then faded into nothingness.

  That was what they did, thought Jason. Closed the door on a lot of things that had happened in this house. His mom hadn't been there for him when Rob had died. Hadn't been there for him when things were falling apart with Faith. But maybe some people weren't equipped to be there for you. Maybe some people could barely help themselves.

  And maybe he'd been one of those people once upon a time.

  He shrugged off the negative thoughts swirling in his mind and headed into his room to change. He'd go out after all. He'd lose himself in the world of his friends. And he'd try to forget about what he should or shouldn't have done all these months.

  ***

  Tonight you expect Jason to stay at Dan Blake's party to drink with the guys. It's a typical house in Lake Heights just a few blocks away from yours. A big two-level layout with decks to take advantage of the view. Done in the Northwest style: with rock fireplaces, big ridgepoles holding the finished pine ceiling above the open floor plan. A glass chandelier blown by a Seattle legend. It reminds you of a place you might have designed, had you stuck with your plan of being an architect.

  From outside, the music's not up too loud because Dan knows the neighbors will call the cops if things get too rowdy. Inside, the place is jumping, though. Bodies dancing, mostly out of sync to the beat. It's a sea of human movement where red keg cups bob like buoys. Jason is a sole, static figure in the foyer of the house. He's gazing in at the roiling mass. Girls check him out, and you hope he'll try to get with one of them, but he's searching the crowd, probably for Holly. As if she'd be there.

  You know right where she is. You were just in Holly's kitchen, watching her cutting a pan of brownies into neat squares. The homemade kind, like the ones she used to bake you for good luck before a big basketball game. There's no smile on her face tonight. She's lost in thought. Lost in everything going on around her.

  Jason's on the move, so you snap back to the moment. He gives Dan a small wave as if he's already done for the night. You wish you could ask him just what the deal is with him lately. Truly, the not-being-able-to-communicate-with-the-living thing is getting really old.

  You stick with Jason as he passes through the crowd. Around dudes with sloshing keg cups of Kool-Aid and liquor, past girls with half-finished beers in their hands. Though you can't feel the heat of the room, you feel the energy of the people. The woozy excitement is almost oppressive. To Jason, too, it appears. The door slams behind him and he stands on the porch for a moment, breathing in the night air, staring out at the quiet street full of parked cars.

  He seems to relish the darkness. Or maybe he's just glad to be free of all the commotion inside the house. You can't blame him. Wanting to be in that crush of people seems crazy. And you can't even remember why you liked partying with them while you were alive. The drinking had been fun in the moment, but now, looking back on a time when you didn't realize moments were precious, it feels like a waste. Another drunk night. Another set of stupid conversations. Nothing that means anything now.

  The music changes and some kids come out of the house to smoke, rousting Jason from his spot on the porch. He walks down to the Audi and climbs in. Quicker than a breath, you're beside him in the passenger seat, waiting for him to start up the engine, longing for the rush of the wind, and knowing you won't be able to feel it. That's too bad, because you need something to clear your head.

  "Hey, what's the deal? You're going?" Mark leans through the driver's-side window, startling Jason, and you, for that matter. "Things were just getting good. Faith's here with some jackass from the UW. That girl Annie's been asking about you all night ... She's pretty hot."

  "I just feel like taking off," Jason mumbles. "See you tomorrow, maybe."

  The Audi eases through the streets and winds down onto Winston Drive. Jason passes Mark's place and then pauses out in front of his own house—the big cedar-sided ranch house on the corner lot. The house is dark except for the porch light. Seeming to change his mind, Jason cranks the music on the indie station and puts the car into gear, zooming through the neighborhood. When he cruises down the hill and pulls the car into a tight turn, the route is all too familiar.

  And then you see it: the sign for McCallister Road.

  The guardrail flashes white in the headlights, and your stomach twists. You didn't know you could still get that feeling. Jason whips over to the side of the road and kills the engine at the edge of the bluff. At the edge of the last minutes of your life.

  You're frozen in the passenger seat as he gets out and walks toward the shiny new railing. This one is covered with reflectors now, but the one before it—the one that was in its place that night—wasn't. He takes a seat on the metal barrier, gazing down into the blackness of trees, bushes, and tall grass that cover the ravine below.

  You force yourself out of the car. "C'mon, man. What are you doing here?" you ask as you take a seat beside him. His eyes are dark, his lips set in a hard line. Loss is written all over his face.

  You think back to your memorial service—to your friends' parents talking to your parents, kindly pretending it was normal for your dad to get ripped on whisky and your mom to keep showing your baby videos on a permaloop. And the guys ... they headed to the backyard to smoke. To talk about football practice. To gossip about Holly, who had barely been able to speak to anybody and was inside, sitting with her mother on the stiff, upholstered couch, balancing a plate of uneaten food on her lap.

  Later, from the front steps, you watched Holly and her mother descend the long driveway in their junky Toyota that rattled like a tin can. And meanwhile, Jason seemed fine. He'd been as steady as ever chatting with the guys. They could have been outside the gym or the movie theater or anywhere, the way they were acting so freaking normal. Acting like no one had died.

  Now you see the grief welling in Jason's eyes. You'd thought you wanted to see that, to see some freaking emotion, but confronted with it, you look away.

  There's a night breeze stirring in the deepening darkness now; you can see it moving through the trees. It probably warrants a shiver. Jason feels it. He stands up from the awkward seat on the guardrail and rubs a hand across the back of his jeans. He's still staring down into the blackness below. The blackness they pulled you and Holly from. You can almost make out the scarred tree, its gnarled trunk raw and burned.<
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  Jason mutters. "What is wrong with me? You're not here."

  "Dude, I am here," you say softly. Raising your eyes to the sky, you notice the moon is shining in a crescent, a half-cocked smile mocking everything below. Like it knows the answer to some kind of cosmic joke. Like it knows why the hell you're still on Earth.

  "I get the I'm dead part," you say, half to the sky, half to yourself, "but if there's some kind of freaking spirit guide, could you send him my way? This wandering stuff is getting old. It's great to see everyone and all, but is this all there is?"

  Suddenly, headlights flash behind Jason's car, startling you both. A truck rounds the curve and then speeds off down the hill.

  "Stupid high beams? Nice. But I need some answers."

  Night embraces you and Jason and the canyon below. For hours, you both lay across the hood of the Audi, staring up at the endless night sky. And you realize that he's just as lonely as you are.

  Chapter Four

  "We'll be back to pick you up at four," I told Lena, handing her the wrapped birthday present for her friend. It was Saturday, and thankfully, she was going to be occupied for a while. As she ran off to join the party, the squeals of little girls echoed around the small house. The sound was irritating, and exactly the reason that aside from Lena, I never took babysitting jobs. My little sister wasn't much trouble. Messy and demanding in the way that a nine-year-old can be, but she was at heart a good kid. Other kids, I didn't even want to deal with.

  Her friend Ellie's mother put her arm around my shoulders. "Holly, are you sure you don't want to stay?" she said. "Let me fix you and your grandpa plates. We're barbecuing out back."

  "No, no," I said, taking Grandpa Aldo's hand. "We're gonna walk home." I bopped some pink and purple balloons out of the way and moved us toward the door.