Lauren nods in my direction. “You get used to the snoring. Kind of like white noise after a while.”
Trevor chuckles. After a moment, he says, “You know, it’s strange. I had a dream about John Gavuzzi last night. I guess it must have been you guys showing up here with Jessica’s guitar.”
Whoever John Gavuzzi is, I have no idea. Lauren’s expression shows she doesn’t know either.
Trevor picks up on the two of us looking back and forth and says, “Right, sorry. I don’t know why I thought you’d know. John was our manager. He was with us from the start. Hang on, I dug out an old picture when I got up. It’s on the counter.”
He gets up from the table and comes back with a photo. He hands it to me. “John was a cool guy,” he says, then goes back to eating his breakfast.
Trevor doesn’t notice my eyes widen as I look at the picture of John Gavuzzi. Long hair to his shoulders, probably in his late twenties, rings on most of his fingers. In the photo, he’s smiling, confident and happy like the future will open many doors. I haven’t seen the smile before but I have no doubt where I’ve seen him. I lock my eyes on Lauren’s and pass her the photo.
Trevor looks up from his cereal a moment later. “John died in a plane crash just before the band broke up. Most people don’t know about that. They don’t really focus on band managers all that much unless maybe your band is super famous.”
I’m still seeing the photo inside my mind. I don’t imagine I’ll forget it anytime soon.
Trevor runs his hand through thinning hair. “John was an awesome guy. Sorry, kind of morbid for breakfast conversation.” He must notice our reaction to the photo because he adds, “Hey, are you guys okay?”
It takes us a moment but we both nod without saying anything. It just doesn’t make sense trying to explain.
“Okay, cool. Like I said, didn’t mean to get all depressing on you.”
Half an hour later, I’m still feeling shell-shocked walking out the door. While last night we’d felt reconciled to having reached what seemed likely the final dead-end, now it seems beyond unfair. Like the biggest clue of all just dropped on us but we have no way of knowing what to do with it.
Lauren doesn’t say anything as we open the back of the van and toss our bags inside. She climbs behind the wheel, I get in next to her and she starts the engine. Time to head back. Lauren doesn’t have to say it and neither do I as she shifts into reverse.
We’re just backing out of the driveway when the front door opens and Trevor puts his hand up. We wave back at him but then he shakes his head and trots down the driveway. He comes around to my side and I roll the window down.
“Look, I’ve been thinking,” he says. “What I said last night was totally true. I have no idea where Jessica went or what she’s about these days. That was her choice and I decided long ago to respect that.”
“Yeah, that’s cool. We completely understand,” I say, hoping he hasn’t stopped us just because he feels bad about not knowing.
Trevor takes a breath, still winded from his trot down the driveway. He really needs to drop a few pounds. “And, to be honest, we weren’t all that close to begin with. They needed a bass player and I was just a bass player who happened to be around at the time. All that, you know?”
“Sure,” I say, a sinking feeling already sucking away my hopefulness. He really did just want us to know he hadn’t been holding out on us.
“What I was getting at is this.” Trevor hands me a sticky note through the window, on which he’s scrawled something. It’s hard to read, like he’d been in a hurry, but it’s definitely a name and address. My heart starts beating faster.
Trevor points at the note in my hand. “Michelle lives in Colorado these days. She doesn’t let on either but it’s possible, you know? They were pretty close, is all I’m saying. Up to you.”
With that, Trevor walks toward his Lexus and I sit next to Lauren holding the address for Michelle Carter, Purge’s lead guitar player, who’d at one time co-written the bands’ songs with Jessica Malcom.
14
All Her Pretty Horses
Trevor drives off to work and we remain parked in front of his house. “Holy shit,” Lauren says.
“Yeah, no kidding.”
“Total game changer. But first things first, just so I’m sure. Was that the same guy you saw? He was the ghost, right?”
“You mean the guy in the photo?”
“No, I mean that old man walking his dog over there. Yeah, of course, I mean the photo. You saw the same guy, right?”
I actually look to see, like it even matters if an old guy is walking his dog. Which, of course, is the case. I turn to Lauren again. “No doubt about it. That was definitely him. What’s up with that?”
“First of all, it means your ghost has a name.”
“I know. John Gavuzzi.” Even as I say it, a chill runs up my spine. I don’t know why I haven’t imagined the ghost having been a real person before. I wonder if maybe that way I’ve been trying to make him less real overall. “Hang on. Why would the ghost of Purge’s band manager have any interest in me?”
Lauren taps on the steering wheel as she thinks. “Well, you did find Jessica’s guitar.”
“True, but why would he care? I mean, wouldn’t he have better things to do in the afterlife?”
“Interesting point,” Lauren says, “but, evidently not. Which kind of suggests it’s important that she gets it back.”
“But why?”
Lauren pretends to consider, pursing her lips and frowning. “You know, that question never occurred to me before.”
I can’t help laugh. “Right, I know. That is the question, after all.”
“Exactly, amigo. That is the question. Let me see what Trevor wrote on the note.”
Wait, amigo? Did she just miss an opportunity to call me Pajama Boy? Maybe it was an oversight, but still.
Lauren unfolds the note. “Shit.”
Not what I expect at all. “What’s wrong?”
“He didn’t leave her phone number. That would have been good.”
“I kind of got the feeling that was totally a last minute decision,” I say.
“Yeah, no doubt. Well, I guess we’ll just have to drop in on her. That’s sort of how we roll these days anyway. Okay, Boulder. Pretty sure that’s near Denver.” Lauren laughs and adds, “It’s in Colorado, definitely. Of that, I feel confident. I think we can do this.”
Boulder? Denver? Either way, it has to be like a million miles. But that part never seems to bother Lauren. Also, I have no idea how far we might be from either Boulder, Denver or even Colorado.
My mind shoots back to our conversation with Trevor last night. So, people know where you are, right? A very reasonable question. Maybe it’s because I’ve been trying not to screw things up with Lauren (after all, she’s been hanging out with me for days now). Or maybe because I’ve kept telling myself that it really isn’t my business. I’ve been trying not to push it, definitely, since each time I’ve gone there Lauren has found a way to change the subject. Still, I’ve been wondering the whole time. So, this time I ask her directly.
“Have you told your mother where you are?”
Other than that first night when she left the motel room to call her “boyfriend” and the other time when she texted Tohru, I haven’t seen Lauren use her phone.
Lauren stares straight ahead. “Don’t do this, okay?”
“Do what?”
She shakes her head and still doesn’t look at me.
“Don’t you want her to know you’re okay?”
Lauren sighs. “Remember what I keep saying about being more observant?”
I’m not sure what that has to do with anything, but I say, “Sure, of course.”
“Then, what do your observations tell you about my relationship with my mother?”
Then it’s my turn to stare straight ahead and have nothing to say. Only a fool could have missed it. She’s been gone for days. She took her father’s old VW bus and d
isappeared. And the fact is, no one seems worried about it. Unlike me, she hasn’t turned off her phone or stopped charging it. Still, no one has been calling. I’ve imagined it in reverse, as Lauren being the one who doesn’t care. I keep staring out the window, my face burning.
~~~
Soon, we’re driving again. Which still feels right, even if we’re totally screwing up. I watch as the miles pass, thinking how this is always what I’ve imagined life being about—being next to someone I truly like as things keep changing and getting more interesting. Sometimes, I’ve feared the future might hold some sort of dead end where I’ll end up like my parents, repeating the same steps each day just to make it to the next. Maybe some small perk on the weekend—a dinner with friends, a movie, a game of tennis or golf—but nothing you haven’t done a million times before. In this moment, though, the future seems vast, limitless and unpredictable. I can’t imagine any way it won’t keep bestowing magic.
It seems okay not to talk for a while. I tune in music and Lauren keeps her eyes on the road. A team, used to working together. I guess we both feel the same way since we stop just once for gas and food, then keep driving. As long as there’s another string leading us forward, what choice do we have but to follow it?
~~~
We left Kansas City so early that it’s just past rush hour as we drive through Denver. I’ve always imagined it being some sort of mellow mountain town but it’s bigger than I thought and people drive like maniacs for some reason. I can tell Lauren isn’t exactly loving it but thankfully it isn’t too long before we’re outside the city again. Forty minutes later, we cruise past countryside, mountains visible in the distance. We leave the highway and soon there are tree-lined streets with houses set far back from the road. All we can see are mailboxes and fences, basically.
Finally, we turn into a driveway marked by a white sign with black lettering. Reardon Ranch. The property is massive, the driveway almost a road itself that leads toward a huge white house with columns suspending a wrap-around porch. Behind the house, stables stand in the distance. Horses graze in green fields.
“I suspect she’ll see us coming,” Lauren says, as dust swirls in the air behind the bus. As soon as we pull up and park in the circular driveway, the front door opens.
“Yeah, she saw us coming,” I say. “Maybe we should have called first.”
Lauren nods. “That probably would have been good. Remind me to give Trevor some shit about it later.”
From the doorway, a woman stares back at us, crisply dressed in black slacks and a maroon shirt, dark hair cut to her jawline. If I didn’t know otherwise, I never would have guessed. She could be any one of a thousand affluent, suburban mothers I see every day in Edmonds. But when she walks toward the van and I roll down my window, I recognize Michelle Carter, despite only seeing her before in photos with half her head shaved, wearing torn, faded jeans and black tank-tops. I wonder if she still has the tattoos on her arms.
“Hi, sorry to bother you,” I say. “We’re—”
“I know,” she says. “Go ahead and turn the car off.”
Michelle waits while we get out of the van. I go to the back, slide the guitar case out, then we approach her.
“I guess you must be Jack and Lauren,” she says, looking us up and down. I’ve never heard our names paired together that way, like we’re an actual couple. But I don’t have time to think past that. “Trevor called, just in case you decided to come here. Haven’t heard from the guy in like ten years and then the phone rings and he tells me two kids are driving across the county with Jessica’s guitar.” She glances at the case weighing my arm down. “I guess that must be it.”
I nod and a moment passes before she says, “ I suppose I should invite the two of you in.”
She turns and starts toward the front door. Lauren and I exchange glances, both of us communicating the same thing: She totally doesn’t want us here.
Inside, the house is every bit the palace you’d expect from the outside. Polished wood floors, ornate rugs, winding staircase and a grand piano in the living room where it doesn’t seem particularly large given the space around it. Framed photos hang on the walls, too far off to make out clearly but definitely family shots—Michelle alongside a man and two boys in many of them.
Michelle doesn’t invite us to take a seat in the living room. “Why don’t we go into the kitchen,” she says.
The kitchen is expansive as well, with granite counters, a massive stove and steel appliances. We take a seat at the table and Michelle sits across from us.
“So, you two think you have Jessica’s guitar,” she says.
“We’re basically sure at this point.” I wait for her to ask me to open the case but she doesn’t.
Michelle’s eyes narrow. “And, what? You were thinking you could sell it back to her or something?”
“No, it’s not like that at all,” I say. “We’re just trying to return it to her.”
Michelle stares first at me, then at Lauren, then at me again. “Why?”
It’s like all the air gets sucked out of the room. After all, it’s a very good question. Sure, I’ve had a number of unusual experiences that have compelled us to keep pushing forward. Strange, interesting, mysterious, all that. But, still. Why? Michelle is obviously wondering what’s in it for us.
“Well, she must want it back,” I say. “I mean, it’s her guitar. From when you guys were in Purge together.”
Michelle nods. “I see. Why do you think she’d care after all this time?”
I strongly suspect there’s no way Michelle Carter is going to understand. One look at her, with her designer clothes and million dollar house, tells me this is not the kind of woman to believe in psychic events or ghosts. Maybe the Michelle Carter of long ago, but not the one sitting across from us now.
“We just feel strongly about it,” Lauren says.
“Really strongly,” I add.
Our words don’t exactly have the intended effect since Michelle bursts out laughing. “Well isn’t that nice. You both have strong feelings about someone you’ve never met and know nothing about.”
My face grows warm. “But we do know—”
“I know what you know,” Michelle says. “I get that part. You know she was in some sort of legendary punk band before you were born. You might even have her songs in your iPods and maybe even watch old videos some assholes keep putting out there as if they’re still relevant after all this time.”
She says all of it as if she’s talking about a band she had nothing to do with, people she never knew.
“And, of course, you know Jessica disappeared somehow. Just went and vanished. So, wouldn’t it be cool if you could dig her up and win some sort of treasure hunt trophy? Let me guess, you could blog about it! You’d be famous, right? Ooh, wouldn’t that be cool!”
“That’s really not what this is about,” I say.
Michelle arches her eyebrows. “No? Okay, then, why are you doing it?”
I can’t answer her question in any way that will change how she feels because I don’t know. I’m just trusting that there has to be some meaning to my flashes and other experiences. Lauren can’t answer either—and I know this even though she hasn’t said it to me yet—because there’s something she’s searching for too. But, for now, she’s not telling anyone what that is.
Michelle has waited long enough for us to answer. “Well, whatever it is doesn’t matter. How about this? Leave the guitar with me and I’ll get it back to Jessica. How does that sound?”
I know she doesn’t trust us but I’m not about to ignore the feeling that I need to see this through. That we need to see this through. I also seriously doubt Michelle will get the Telecaster back to Jessica. Something tells me she’ll shove it into a closet and forget all about it. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that she isn’t exactly in love with her past. After all, she’s completely erased it.
“We want to take it to Jessica ourselves,” I say.
&nbs
p; “That’s what I figured,” Michelle says. “So, I guess our little visit is over. I’ll see you to the door.”
The way she says it, I get the distinct feeling she wants to be sure we don’t steal anything on the way out. No more words are spoken as we walk down the hall, although Michelle steps outside with us and waits as we get into the bus. Not seeing us off, just making sure we go away.
Lauren takes another look around the property as we drive back toward the street. “At least the horses are nice,” she says.
Which is true. The horses are pretty to look at. A good thing, since we drove over two-thousand miles to see them.
15
The Very Thing He Loved Most
As we head out of Boulder, I don’t ask Lauren what the plan is. What does it matter? Done is done, and we’ve definitely hit done. Even worse, Michelle’s suspicions have cast the entire venture in a negative light. It hurts that much worse knowing in the end we’ll be remembered, at least by her, as two people trying to pull off some sort of scam.
Lauren isn’t all that into what’s left of our journey now either. Within the hour, she takes an exit. “I think we should find a place to stay,” she says. “I mean, if it’s all the same to you. I just don’t feel like driving much tonight.”
We grab a pizza and then drive another mile or so until we spot a motel that looks cheap. We get a room, throw our stuff on the bed and sit at the table with the pizza box open between us.
After a while, Lauren says, “I wonder what happened to her.”
I don’t have to ask who she means. “I’m still wondering if she might have been an imposter.”
Lauren sighs. “I wish. Amazing what time can do, isn’t it?”
That’s what I’ve been thinking about too—that somehow time can change a person that much. While a transformation like that doesn’t seem possible, who will Lauren and I each see looking back at us in the mirror twenty years from now? Ghosts aren’t the least bit scary compared to the possibility of our souls slipping away like that.
But all I can say is, “Pretty freaking amazing.”
Streetlights Like Fireworks Page 13