The Last Kid Left

by Rosecrans Baldwin

  When Emily arrives, the clinic is nothing like she imagined. No green meadows, no old buildings, no working farm. For no reason, she’d expected to find dozens of women in robes, hair tied up, happily working outdoors, hanging laundry, while they sang songs together. Instead it’s like a nursing home, brown and yellow, sandwiched between a shopping development and woods. The sky’s low and gray. She no longer feels so sure of herself. The blind yearning’s gone. She pulls the truck slowly around a cul-de-sac. Vines crawl along a low brick wall. An old man watches her. He’s got tubing up his nose, he doesn’t move a muscle, he could be dead.

  She keeps driving and avoids eye contact. She pulls back out into the road, then turns into the shopping complex next door, humping a rear wheel over the protruding curb when she takes the turn too hard.

  She parks in front of an antiques shop. She wants to leave. A sign in the window says STORE CLOSING. For a long time she sits, squeezing her legs. She’d been mistaken, stupid to feel encouraged. How dumb can she be? Without looking, she counts the number of heater vents in the dashboard. She counts backward from twenty, and when she gets to zero she’ll go. Then at seven the sun breaks through the clouds. She gets out and walks slowly around in circles in the sunlight to warm up. People must think she’s a lunatic. Her stomach’s raw. Her thoughts are still dark, competing with each other to collapse her spirits, reviewing everything said and done, covering years. What does she want? She gets in the truck again, locks the door. The light bounces off the glass and gets in her eyes, off the tiny starburst she made that time with the rock. She wonders …

  Out of the truck bed she grabs a crowbar. No one’s around. Without another thought she whacks the windshield. On the second try it cracks with a muffled booming sound. Two more times and it shatters with a smash, first into big pieces, then tiny shards.

  She laughs out loud from shock.

  Then she takes off her jacket. Yielding to an irresistible urge. She whacks the windshield from both sides, until it’s totally gone. In the front of a store, a middle-aged man ducks down to peer out, to understand what’s going on. Emily rings the crowbar around the window frame. Tiny diamonds spray across the hood and the dashboard and the front seat.

  There was a night, early days, with her mother, when they’d gone for a winter hike and the snow was like diamonds. It’s one of her favorite memories. She’ll never forget it. Early December, after a two-day storm. Father thought they were crazy to go out. They’d put on boots and snow pants, wandered down the hill and out to the main road. They slipped through the dark, throwing snow, singing to themselves. Her mom came over at one point and hugged her. They stood there looking around at the quilted fields, all white. The valley below them was quiet, and it was just the two of them, forever, standing there while the world stood still.

  She goes around to the back of the truck and sits in the bed. Her arms are hot and tired from swinging the crowbar. The exertion cleared her mind, the doubt, the anguish. You’re fine. You can do this. Next to the shopping complex there’s a culvert full of scrappy young trees, followed by a small hill. She stares for a moment, then gets down from the truck, walks over and climbs the hill, sidling her way up through the underbrush. It takes her ten minutes. From the top she’s high enough above the treatment center that she can see down through a pair of skylights, into what looks like a recreation room. Small figures in a landscape. People who wave their arms up and down in a funny dance. It’s mesmerizing, until her mind interrupts when she recognizes a woman and feels a pang in her heart. Raising one hand, lowering another. Swinging her arms like everyone else, moving at a speed almost too slow to describe as motion, as something other than robotic.

  Emily hurries down the other side of the hill. Sweating, filled with nervousness. The old man is gone. Inside the front doors is a lobby, a desk, a tall potted houseplant with Mardi Gras beads strung in its branches. No one there, just a bell and a small sign, PLEASE RING FOR ASSISTANCE.

  And though the tiny lobby’s walled with frosted glass, she can see straight into other rooms. The room where the dancers face away from her, in sweatpants, T-shirts. A few people in the main room see her and stare at her presence, muscles tensed. She’s never felt so alone. At that moment the dancers lean backward, hands raised, one hand facing out like a stop sign, the other hand beckoning, as if to fan the air. She wants to run. Instead, she taps the bell.

  The sound is shattering. Half the dancers turn to look. Her mother turns. Recognition. Her face cracks in several places. She looks around as if searching for permission from someone, then hurries into the lobby.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I don’t know,” Emily says. “I don’t know.”

  “Let’s go to my room.”

  Her mom pulls her away by the hand, then fear seizes her into stopping.

  “Is he here?”

  “It’s just me,” Emily says. Her chest tightens. Her heart caves.

  “Where is he? I swear to god—”

  “Mom, I promise, he’s not here.”

  “I’m not going home,” her mother stutters, her voice cracking into harmony. “Am I going home?”

  “Not if you don’t want to.”

  But she can’t do it any longer. She found what she woke up craving. She breaks, completely, and her mother’s face softens in recognition. She wraps her arms around Emily and holds her up in place.

  * * *

  Dear Nick,

  I am writing to you from an airplane, so this envelope will likely have a California postmark, where I’m visiting my daughter, as we spoke about. From there I’ll return to New Jersey, most likely, and resume my normal life, so if you ever want to reach me you can do so at the address that I left with Ms. Brenner.

  The reason I’m writing is because I want to say that I know as well as anybody that nothing’s been easy for you lately. Everything gets turned inside out during a crime and a trial and people’s emotions can get intense, as you well know. People react under pressure in ways you don’t expect. You figure out who your real friends are, as the saying goes. So, I want you to know that I’m one of those friends.

  Nick, I hope you heard me say that you are in no way responsible for what happened to the Ashburns. One man committed those crimes, no one else, and now he’s gone, as I imagine you know by now, so you should strive to put this all behind you.

  Also, I guess one of the reasons I’m writing is because I formed a sort of connection with you, which I would consider to be a friendship, even if it’s only on my part. I can be sometimes a pretty emotional person, and I don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing, it’s just how I’m wired. But I do feel compelled by some recent events in my life to share this bond with you and what I think it means, because I haven’t ever been good about sharing those feelings when I should.

  I guess in a way I see myself in you. I bet that sounds strange. But it’s another reason why I’m writing. There were moments in our time together when I saw looks on your face that were looks I recognized from the mirror, to be honest. Which made me empathize with your situation. I probably would have done many of the same things you did had I been in your position, at your age.

  As I said, by now you’ll likely be aware of the news regarding Emily’s father. I only heard last night. Considering the level of security I saw in their office, I can’t say I am shocked he got away with it. In any case, I don’t know if you’ll ever have the closure you seek, but I’ll just say that if at some point you can find something to pity or forgive about him, then believe me it will help you let go of all the pain sooner than later. Even if that sounds crazy or offensive considering everything that has happened.

  Nick, you are a good and honorable person. Not a lot has been easy for you. The conversation we had in my hotel room, trust that I will keep my side of the bargain. And if I can ever provide any assistance going forward, please reach out.

  Oddly enough an idea occurred to me on the airplane this afternoon, which you’ll
probably think is nuts, but if you ever think about a “career” I’d suggest that you consider law enforcement. You probably didn’t see that coming, did you? There’s bad news out there about police officers, and there are different kinds of cops, and we have problems, big problems. But you’d be surprised how many men and women who uphold the law started out being familiar with its other side. Anyway, we always need all the good guys we can get, and it’s not boring to say the least. So I thought it might appeal to you.

  Whatever you choose to do next with your life, and whether or not I hear from you ever again, please know that you’ve got a friend in an old man, and I wish you lots of happiness and good luck and all the best for your future.

  You have my admiration.

  Sincerely yours,

  Martin Krug

  * * *

  Nick extracts the mail from the mailbox and reenters the living room. Suzanne’s asleep on the couch. An hour earlier he’d picked her up from an AA meeting, number five in three days. She was jittery, upset, and angry. She smoked the whole drive. Then as soon as she got inside the house, her nerves wore out, exhaustion kicked in, and she fell asleep on the couch.

  He dumps the mail pile on the piano. Mostly it’s junk-mail flyers, two bills demanding payment. A clothing catalog slides off the piano and out tumbles an envelope addressed to him in square block letters. No return address. Postmark: Burbank, California. He’s breaking the seal when his phone rings.

  “I need to see you,” Emily says urgently.

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m at Little Horse.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I just need to see you. Can you come?”

  “Are you okay?”

  “It’s not like that, I promise.”

  He drops the envelope and heads out the door. It’s gotta be her dad. They haven’t spoken about it yet. She must have been among the first to hear, but in how much detail? Brenner had told him over the phone that morning, how the sheriff had gotten ahold of a plastic bag and tied it off with a piece of bed fitting. Dead when they found him. There was more: images found on his laptop, downloaded from websites known to the police, that catered to pedophiles. Nick didn’t know how to feel about it beyond sickened. He’s glad the guy’s dead. But for Emily it had to be way more complicated. He’d called her when he heard. She hadn’t answered. They hadn’t spoken all day.

  By the time he reaches the beach, he’s sweating. The distant water’s flat. The parking lot’s empty except for somebody’s abandoned trailer, and then her, standing beside her truck. Which is missing the windshield for some reason.

  He already hates the look on her face.

  She climbs into the Explorer. She’s dressed just like the girl who smiled at him in a restaurant, back in the day. But something’s wrong. She’s been crying. Instantly, he knows what’s going to happen next.

  “I really don’t want to do this,” she says.

  “What is it?”

  He was right. He pulls away, stunned.

  “I’m so sorry,” she says calmly.

  “You’re breaking up with me.”

  She doesn’t respond. His heart thumps.

  “You are. Holy shit.”

  “I’m leaving town,” she says.

  “What?”

  “This weekend.”

  “What?!”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Wait a second. That’s bullshit. What does that even mean?”

  “I’m going with Alex and Meg,” she says. “To Oregon.”

  “To Oregon?”

  He laughs, it’s too crazy. What the hell is happening?

  “You’re kidding right now. This is all some practical joke.”

  “Nick, I’m sorry.”

  “You’re serious. I can’t believe this.”

  “Look at us. Look what happened to us. It destroyed everything,” she says. “You know that.”

  He says, hysterically, “I went to jail for you.”

  She gasps.

  “What did you say?”

  He clutches his forehead. “What is happening right now? What are you even talking about? Why are you doing this to us?”

  “I can’t stay,” she says after a long silence. “I can’t be around this place.”

  “Which includes me.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “What about our plans? How come I’m not included? Did you think to talk to me about any of this?”

  He can’t bear to make eye contact with her. The ocean’s calm through the windshield, endlessly murmuring.

  “I’m a hundred percent serious,” he says. “About us.”

  “What about the trial? What about your mom?”

  “Forget my mom. What about your mom?”

  “She’s staying in Maine. I talked to a lawyer.”

  He bursts out laughing. “Whose lawyer? My lawyer?”

  “The insurance company’s taking care of it. So she can stay.”

  His body is rigid with anger, to hear how much she’s thought out. It means the end is certain. Maybe she met somebody else, another guy. He can’t get his mind to slow down.

  “You know what? This is his fault, okay? Even now your dad’s messing with us.”

  She won’t even look at him. She tricked him, she changed when he wasn’t looking. He’s about to say, You can’t do this to me. Except it hits him: she can.

  “I’m making a choice,” she says.

  “You’re not even making sense. You should hear yourself,” he says hurriedly. He starts the car, puts the gear into reverse. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Nick,” she says, “turn off the car.”

  After a second, he does.

  “I’m so sorry,” she says.

  “I can fix this. I can fix this. Just tell me what I did.”

  “You didn’t do anything.”

  “I hate this so much.”

  “I know, I love you.”

  “Then why are you doing this?” He gags, he’s almost sick. She reaches across the console to clutch him. All his angry pride wants to do is kick her out and feed the flames, but he lets her lie there across his back.

  And his body won’t allow him to do anything but stay hunched over like that for another five minutes. Sinking deeper and deeper into memories while she talks, he talks, they cry together. She finally goes, he’s obliged to acknowledge. With no signs of encouragement. The sound of the door when she closes it echoes sharply, penetrates all the way down to where he lies crooked at the bottom of his consciousness.

  Later, late in the evening, in the house he shares with his mother, Nick Toussaint Jr. will glimpse at himself in the bathroom mirror and think in so many words, The mind has needs you can’t even begin to guess. When he’d been sitting there, with all that pain, still his mind wouldn’t do a single thing except be paralyzed, remembering. He was back in the hospital with his leg again, with the pain, when he couldn’t run away from the retrospections. She’d said she loved him, she gave him the poignant certainty he craved. And they’re still breaking up, damn their feelings. It will take years before he understands how two such facts can coexist. Instead they bear him deeply into his memory on two tracks, an empty mining cart tumbling down into a mine shaft, picking up speed.

  For the moment, that night, for weeks and months to come, he will consider and reconsider every hope, every happiness fixed in his mind, all the ways she influenced and encouraged him and everything that he loved about her, that he lost. But first he needs to sit there and burn, miserable, sweaty, and cold.

  * * *

  Dear Nick,

  I’m writing from my new room. From my bedroom window I look into the yard behind our building. In the morning it was gray and chilly and the same for the afternoon. People say it’s like that here a lot but it’s actually been sunny for the past week. There’s a chicken coop I can see, it belongs to the people who live downstairs. They’re pretty snobby actually. Meg says they think we’
re on welfare.

  There are four big gray trees, and a yard full of weeds, and an old metal fence between us and the neighbor. We live in the northwest part of the city. I don’t know the city yet so I’m not sure where we are compared to everything else. I don’t know if you know this, but Portland is on a river. The city’s really big. It’s pretty different from Claymore. There are so many people first of all. And it’s so noisy sometimes, too, all the cars and buses and the people. There’s a whole house of college kids who live two doors down the street and play in a band. They practice at night and we can hear them in the kitchen. Alex already said hi to the girl who plays drums.

  Alex loves college. They’re letting her live off campus. It’s a special exemption. We still don’t see her a lot. Mostly it’s just me and Meg unpacking stuff and trying to get settled in the apartment. I didn’t bring much, mostly clothes. Registering for school has been really tough. Because of what happened they’re sort of letting me go through it slowly. Meg’s handling all of the paperwork. She does all the phone calls for the New Hampshire stuff. She said she wants me to start seeing a therapist. She’s changed a lot, you’d be surprised. We talk about pretty much everything. I think she thinks of me as some kind of half sister, half daughter. She took me out for lunch yesterday. We went out for pizza. It was across the street from the biggest bookstore I’ve ever seen. Honestly I don’t mind how Meg’s acting, I kind of like it. I’m glad to be taken care of, I guess.

  There are so many people, so many different people. I’m really nervous about starting in a new school. Meeting new people and all of them knowing whatever they think they know about me. The last six months already feel like a blur. Isn’t that weird? Is it true for you, too? Sometimes I wish I could be a robot who was built yesterday and just start out brand-new. Actually I’m thinking pretty strongly of not going to school at all. I want to see if I can be homeschooled. That was Meg’s idea. We got a book from the bookstore about it. Can you picture her as a teacher? She’s thinking about going back to school, to get her teaching certificate. She’s been dancing in a club to make money, but she’s cutting back on her hours.