The Things We Didn't Say

by Kristina Riggle

  We sat at the food court eating greasy egg rolls and I was still mostly ignored, but then Angel said, “Oh, Casey! Listen to this!” and she launched into an incomprehensible story about some romantic triangle involving a girl named Tessa. I didn’t know any of the kids involved and could barely follow her disjointed tale, especially when the other girls kept throwing in more details about other people I didn’t know.

  But I leaned in anyway, my elbows on the table, making faces and gasps of shock to match theirs, glowing with pleasure at my inclusion into the circle.

  After I moved in, Angel had the same girls over for a study date, which was really a pretense for gossip. I popped them some popcorn, and as I brought it in, I heard one of them mention Tessa.

  I said, “Oh, the one who was dating a football player and a marching band guy at the same time?”

  In the cold silence that followed, one of them stage-whispered, “Awkward . . . ,” drawing the word out, marking the moment. The girls then all looked at Angel, who stared at me with an unguarded fury.

  “Do you mind?” she hissed. “This is supposed to be a private conversation.”

  I backpedaled. I’d only made it to the first step down from the landing when I felt the door slam reverberate through the floor.

  At the table now, hunched over her coffee, Angel sighs and kneads her temples. Jewel comes down the stairs, her face wet, but composed, and doesn’t look at us as she heads for the living room to flip on the television.

  “I should have gone to school. Now they’ll have to rehearse without me. That’s irresponsible of me, to affect everyone else because Dylan decided to be a jerk.”

  I say nothing, listening for Michael to come down.

  She continues, “I need the practice, too. I’m supposed to be off-book by Monday.”

  I venture, not looking directly at her, “I could run lines with you.”

  “Shut up and go call your boyfriend.” She stands up and adds, “Then go write about what a bitch I am.”

  We hear Michael’s heavy step on the stairs at the same time the sound of the ringing phone jerks us to attention. Angel gets there first, seizing the phone hard, then immediately relaxing. “Oh, hi, Grandpa. No, nothing. Here, I’ll let you talk to Dad.”

  She hands the phone to her father, saying she’s going to take a shower.

  “Hi, Dad,” says Michael, closing his eyes and kneading the bridge of his nose. “Yes, I figured as much . . . Well, we shouldn’t get special treatment and I wouldn’t want it . . . We did hear that he really is meeting a girl . . . No, I don’t . . .”

  Michael’s shoulders sag as he talks more to Dr. Turner, a man I’ve found as scary as any I’ve ever known, and I’ve known some characters. Oh, he’s benevolent enough, but he feels he has great power. I’ve seen it in the way his eyes dance when things are going his way, and it’s as if he thinks he made it happen through force of will or intellectual manipulation.

  Only, his son hasn’t done what he wanted. For a doctor who has watched hearts beat inside open chests, who has held life in his hand and crafted a modest fortune and a foundation to do good works, it must be infuriating that his own son hasn’t fallen into line.

  So Dr. Turner relishes the small victories of control. Like owning this house we live in.

  I want to walk over and hang up. Just click the button down and free Michael of whatever lecture he’s hearing. It’s not that simple, though, as I’m well aware.

  I approach Michael and circle his waist from behind, resting my cheek on his back, listening to his heart thrum beneath my ear. His voice sounds low and rumbly like this as he murmurs, “Mmm-hmm.”

  Then his free hand untangles my fingers and he steps slightly away.

  I slip into my parka and pick up my cigarettes, this time adding a hat because it looks like the wind is whipping up outside.

  Outside on the sidewalk, I dial up Tony, having already received a voice mail I didn’t listen to, and two texts asking if I’m okay.

  “Can you meet me?” I ask, as soon as he’s picked up.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I can’t say it all on the phone, it’s too much.”

  “Just say where.”

  We agree to meet at “the Castle,” a chateau-esque granite building once a home, later a restaurant, now a dentist’s office. Fifteen minutes later, I’m leaning on a tree in front of it, staring at the garish magenta sculpture on the front lawn, when Tony pulls up in his ancient Monte Carlo.

  I hop into the car, warming my hands at the heater vents. Inside I’m overheated from my walk and my anxiety; my exposed skin is almost numb.

  Tony scratches his chin through his red beard, now threaded with more gray than I remember from our days as neighbors.

  “What’s going on, Edna Leigh?”

  I ignore his use of my given name and explain about Dylan, the presence of Mallory. As I finish up my story, I notice I’ve been twisting my engagement ring, which would now slide off easily, should I choose to remove it.

  “I used to run away all the time,” he says, and because I know what kind of life he’s lived, I laugh.

  “Oh, that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

  “I’ve turned out okay.”

  “Yeah, finally at age, what, fifty-five? I’d like Dylan to be spared some of your more colorful adventures. Besides, he’s not—”

  “Not what?”

  “He’s not worldly. He’s quiet, a little awkward around new people. He has this stammer that comes out sometimes—”

  “Yeah. I get it.” Tony taps his steering wheel. “So what are you going to do? Anything I can do to help?”

  I tip my head back on the seat. “I don’t know. I’m not sure why I wanted you to come, even. I just had to get out of there for a bit.”

  “Yeah. Oh, hey, why don’t you send me a picture? I can send it to some of my trucker friends. They can keep an eye out. Rest stops and whatever. Hell, maybe he’ll stick out a thumb and one of my friends’ll pick him up. You never know.”

  I smile at him, and just then my head feels swimmy with cigarettes and lack of sleep and food. I pull out my phone. “I’m sending you a cell phone pic I’ve got. It’s not the best, but it will help.” I send it to Tony’s phone, and he looks to make sure he got it.

  “Great. Need a lift back?”

  I shake my head, hard. Tony doesn’t know that Angel read my journal, that a sighting of him now would be almost the worst possible thing.

  “Stay warm, kiddo,” he tells me as I get out of the car, before I shut the door. “They say there’s a blizzard coming.” He squeezes my hand before I step back into the cold.

  I wonder if the blizzard will hit Ohio. I don’t think Dylan has his warm coat.

  I hurry back to the house, because I’ve been gone too long for a walk around the block. No one seems to have noticed my absence.

  Michael is at the computer, the Web site of the National Center for the Missing open in front of him.

  Three small pictures on the screen have the mottled blue backgrounds and strained smiles of school photos. They have “missing” dates and cities attached.

  One day these kids were posing for a photographer, having greasy school lunch pizza, getting scraped knees on the playground. Now they’re gone.

  How would we know where to find a girl from Greeley, Colorado?

  And how would anyone else know how to find Dylan?

  “Time to call the hotline,” Michael murmurs, and picks up his phone.

  From my end of the conversation, it’s clear the person on the other end is well trained in reassurance and warmth. Michael repeats, “Yes, exactly,” and “We’re very worried,” and keeps pinching the bridge of his nose.

  He lets go of his nose long enough to grab a narrow spiral notebook out of his desk drawer and starts writing in pencil. But he shoots me a look, shaking his head slowly. I walk around him to look at what he’s writing. There are things that we’ve already done, like break into his co
mputer, search his room, call his friends. There are things the police already said they cannot do for us. We can’t use GPS to track down his cell, because he didn’t take it.

  Michael has written, Missing poster—(like for lost cat?!).

  Now Michael is nodding as if the other person can see him. He seems to be holding his breath.

  He drops the pencil and crumples down to the desk, putting his head on his arms. He lets the phone receiver roll out of his hand.

  I wrap my arms around him, feeling his body heave with the effort of holding everything in. This close I can hear the woman on the phone saying, “Hello? Mr. Turner? Are you there? Hello?”

  Chapter 20

  Michael

  Casey doesn’t understand that her attempt at soothing me is making this worse. I don’t want soothing, I want answers. Action. Results.

  I swallow hard, exhale, shake off Casey like a dog shaking off the rain and pick up the phone again, finishing up my conversation with the well-meaning woman on the other end who won’t stop expressing sympathy.

  The phone rings again. It’s not a hopeful sound anymore.

  “Hello.”

  “Are you the father of Dylan Turner?”

  “Yes.” I sit up straight at this, my ears pricked, my hand reaching by rote for the notebook.

  “Your goddamn son has run off with my daughter. I’m pressing charges on him when they find that sonofabitch.”

  “My son did not coerce your daughter anywhere. In fact, we have e-mails that show this whole stunt was her idea.”

  “I’ll just bet. I know what horny boys are like. He just wanted to get her alone and vulnerable, away from her parents and their strong moral values!”

  My hand grips the phone so hard I might break it.

  “We need to help each other. Two families looking betters the odds. And last I heard they were in Cleveland. Are you in Cleveland?”

  There’s a beat of silence. I can feel the anger wafting from him and I feel it, too, both of us hurt and furious.

  “Yeah.”

  “Then you can put up posters. Let me send you a picture of Dylan, and you can put your daughter on the poster, too.”

  He huffs into the phone. “Fine. But this isn’t done. When we find them, it sure isn’t done.”

  This guy is an asshole, but I appreciate that confident “when” in that sentence.

  It takes me a moment to identify that rumbling in my gut as hunger. I haven’t eaten breakfast and only picked at last night’s pizza. Not that I feel like eating—can’t help but wonder, Is Dylan eating?—but it’s something to do, once I send the picture of Dylan to Tiffany’s father.

  Angel comes down the stairs with her damp hair making dark circles on her purple T-shirt. The shirt’s neck scoops low, and her collarbone juts sharply from her upper chest. As she walks into the kitchen, I notice her grab a belt loop and hike up her pants.

  “Angel, have you eaten today?”

  “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “A bagel.” She scowls as she pours more coffee.

  “We’re out of bagels.”

  “I don’t know, whatever. I don’t remember.”

  She’s not yet gaunt, but there’s less of her than I remember.

  I grit my teeth, considering. I could let it go, today. But how many times in the last weeks have I wondered about Dylan—when his stammer showed up again, when he quit inviting Casey to hear him practice—but something else came up, swept me along in the tide of everyday busywork, and I never asked? And now he’s gone.

  “You have to eat something.”

  Angel sighs, tosses her head. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Eat something small.”

  “I don’t feel well.”

  “Then don’t drink that coffee. It’s acidic.”

  She pours out the coffee and slams the mug down on the counter. For a moment I remember her mother, hurling another mug from that same set. They look so very much alike, and I recognize the expression on Angel’s face now, as Mallory Furious.

  “I don’t want to see you starving yourself.”

  “God.” She leans hard on the kitchen counter, folds her arms. “Is this what it’s going to be like now? Dylan acts like an idiot and runs away and I’m under surveillance?”

  “Can’t you see that I love you? And I don’t want you making yourself sick?”

  She looks at me sideways now, a wet strand of hair hanging over one eye. In the silence there’s a sad awareness of how rarely I’ve said out loud, “I love you.”

  “I’m fine,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “Don’t take Dylan’s problems out on me.”

  Mallory approaches from behind me. I’d almost forgotten she was here, she’d been so quiet with Jewel in the living room, no sound but the racket of commercials and dopey Nickelodeon shows.

  “What’s your problem now, Mike?”

  “I’m worried. She’s not eating.”

  “Of course she’s not! I’m not eating today, either.”

  Mallory walks to Angel and folds her in a hug, and together they walk out, arm in arm, looking even more alike from the back, as they retreat from me.

  Does she think I don’t love her? How could she think that? I stayed with their mother years longer than I should have, because I couldn’t bear to be apart from my children. I kept them with me after the split instead of surrendering them to Mallory’s unpredictability, I have given up any life outside of work, home, and one hour at the gym . . .

  Not true, I correct myself, sinking down into a kitchen chair, my bones so tired they have a will of their own. Not true because I dated Casey, fell in love, and moved her in.

  And now Casey and Angel spark up against each other like flint and tinder, have been for weeks, and it’s only been worse of late. And yet still Casey is here. Maybe Angel thinks I’m choosing Casey over her.

  Why should I have to choose? I tighten my fist and clench my jaw until my molars hurt.

  “Should” is meaningless. Reality is all I’ve got.

  Chapter 21

  Dylan

  Tiffany’s head is in my lap.

  This is not really so great.

  Because we’re in a mall and she’s asleep and my leg is going to sleep and we’ve been up all night and we’re not in New York City but Cleveland. I’m tired of dragging my sax case around, which is heavy enough even when I haven’t stuffed clothes in it, like it’s a suitcase.

  Also? I’m hungry.

  I wonder if this is how my dad felt when he married my mom, realizing he’d just made a huge mistake but it’s not like he can just erase it and start over.

  My dad would never say it like that; even when they split up, he was always careful to not say anything bad about her, and to say that he never regretted a thing because he’s glad to have us. I bet some days he wishes he could wave a magic wand and have us, and Casey, too, but not our mom. I see what his face looks like when he talks to Mom, like he’s fifteen years older.

  I look down at Tiffany and her hair has fallen over her face, so I brush it back. A security guard from the mall walks by, and he glares at us. He’s been by here, like, three times. I should wake her up.

  I jiggle my leg a little, but she doesn’t move.

  She started out kinda mad at me because I didn’t run into her arms and swing her around like something in a movie when I first saw her, but it wasn’t my fault I was surprised. She didn’t look anything like her picture, and I can’t be blamed for that because it isn’t her, and she admitted it right away. She didn’t think I’d like the real her.

  I’m not gonna lie, the picture she sent was prettier. She’s a little heavy, for one thing, and she’s got some pimples that she covers up with this orangey makeup. But that’s not her fault, and anyway, I like her because we talk and the things we say, and that’s what I told her. And I hugged her and it was nice.

  It was just a shock, you know? I can’t help being shocked. You get an idea in your head of somebody . . . Luc
ky for me I’ve learned to tell people just what they want to hear, so it’s mostly okay now.

  Well, obviously it would be perfect if she looked super-hot in addition to being witty and funny and nice.

  Trouble is, in person? In real time? She’s not as funny as she was over the computer.

  Or maybe I’m just being an asshat because she doesn’t look like her picture.

  I shake her awake by the shoulder before the security guard comes back to ask why we’re not in school. She sits back up, and I tell her we should walk like we have somewhere to go or we’re going to get hassled.

  She nods, and we stand up and start walking, having to swing around the moms pushing kids in strollers and the old people walking with their white sneakers. I’m starting to feel like a neon sign is over our heads going, TEENAGERS NOT IN SCHOOL! RUNAWAYS!

  “We should go somewhere else,” I say to her.

  She slips her hand into mine. It feels clammy. I resist the urge to pull my hand away and wipe my palm off on my jeans.

  “Where are we going to go? We’re out of money.” She pouts, like it’s my fault or something.

  The bus station people wouldn’t sell us tickets, being underage, and I remember feeling annoyed with Tiffany because I thought she was going to plan ahead and buy them through the mail, like I did, where they can’t check ID.

  We hung around until the bus station people started to look at us weird, and then we just started walking. We walked until we were so tired we couldn’t stand up and it got really cold and started snowing so we found a sheltered bus station bench and snuggled up as best we could, using my sax case as kind of a pillow, mostly so it wouldn’t get stolen. We had loads of time to study the bus lines and enough change for bus fare, so in the morning, we took a bus to the mall so we could eat at the food court and have somewhere warm to be.

  But then we found out her wallet was missing, probably stolen on the bus, and I was going to ask her why she had it in her backpack where it was really easy to get into, instead of, say, in her front pocket.