Streetlights Like Fireworks

by Pandolfe, David

  We sit there eating pizza, not talking for a while. Then, Lauren closes the curtains, goes to the bed and stretches out. She pats the spot next to her. “Feel like sharing again?”

  I go and lie down next to her. I cross my arms over my chest and stare up at the ceiling.

  “No matter what, this was nice,” Lauren says. “We need to remember that.”

  “It was incredible,” I say. Which is totally how I feel. At the same time, I can’t help wonder how I’ll feel about it years from now. Whether all of it will seem like a ridiculous event experienced by some kid who used to be me.

  “I guess we could try looking at the bright side.”

  How is it possible that Lauren always seems to know what I need to hear? She’s just intuitive, I guess. “What’s the bright side?”

  “Well, it looks like you get to keep the Telecaster. I know that’s not what we set out for, but you did say it was a good guitar.”

  “True, it really is a nice guitar.”

  “You never know. Maybe something will come of it.”

  “You never know.”

  “That’s just it, you never really do. You just work with what you have and go from there. Then, there’s the future and hopefully it’s good.”

  In that darkening motel room, those words make all the sense in the world. Work with what you have and go from there. We’ve done just that and gotten this far together. When I’d just imagined the future closing in like a dark tunnel, suddenly I see light again.

  “So, there’s something maybe I should have told you,” Lauren says.

  I can sense her waiting, so I ask, “What’s that?” But I kind of know.

  “When I asked you to hold that compass. Can you tell me what you saw again?”

  I know better than to think she’s forgotten. Still, I tell her about the cloudy skies, the rivers and bridges, the apartment building with ivy growing up the side. I tell her again about the guy looking out the window.

  Lauren doesn’t say anything for a few moments. Then, softly, “It sounds like Portland.”

  I shake my head, my hair rasping against the pillow. “I don’t know. I’ve never been there.”

  “Me neither. But I could totally see him living there. It just seems right to me.”

  I don’t ask who she’s talking about. Something tells me I don’t have to, that Lauren now wants me to know what she was wondering about when she asked me to hold the compass. Possibly, why she committed to this journey in the first place.

  “I was just a little kid when they left,” she says. “We lived in Pennsylvania back then. And the night before, it was the Fourth of July. We went to see the fireworks. That one night, we seemed just like everyone else. You know, a happy family. I honestly don’t know, even now, but I still sometimes imagine we really were happy that night. That my parents were happy, like they must have been at one time.”

  I wait for her to continue, not sure what to say. Outside, I hear the thump of a car door and an engine start as whoever it is drives away. Then, silence again. Just the two of us alone in the dark.

  “Later that night, after they put us to bed, it wasn’t like the fighting even ruined it.” Lauren keeps her voice to nearly a whisper, almost as if speaking to herself. “It was background noise to us at that point. Other kids fell asleep to the sound of the TV downstairs, or maybe quiet conversation from their parents’ bedroom. But we didn’t know that. Nick was eight and I was just six, so what did we know about how things were supposed to be?”

  Lauren reaches out and I take hold of her hand.

  “We fell asleep listening to two people who drank and fought. Who’d reached the end of the line together. I guess we were just used to it. But there was something different about that night that kept me listening. I don’t know, I guess it was the intensity. Or maybe it was just me being me, but I knew things were finally going to change. I could feel it.”

  Lauren inhales deeply, trying not to cry. Her fingers remain intertwined with mine in the space between us.

  “But it was so quiet the next morning. And I remember thinking—hoping—that I was wrong the night before. That it was just another fight and everything would be back to normal. But when I walked into the kitchen, it was just my mother sitting at the table. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy. I asked her where Nick and my dad were. All she said was, ‘They’re gone.’

  “And that was it. She got up, walked down the hall and closed her door. In a way, she never came out again. Part of me understands. I mean, who could experience something like that and not be totally damaged? These days, she has her boyfriend, his kids and his family. I’m just part of a past she’d rather not think about. But that’s now, a million years later.”

  “I’m really sorry,” I say. “I didn’t know.” It’s not much to offer but it’s all I have.

  “You couldn’t have,” Lauren says, squeezing my hand. “Anyway, we stayed in that house for maybe another year while she kept thinking they’d come back. But they never did. Like I said, part of me understands but the other part never forgave her. For her, it was like if Nick was gone I might as well have been too. I guess she just didn’t have any other way of dealing with it. But that didn’t make it any easier. Eventually, we moved two states away to the house we’ve lived in since. So much for the past, right?”

  Lauren takes another deep breath, then exhales, as she relives her pain from long ago that never stopped hurting.

  “I’m really sorry,” I say again.

  Lauren sniffs back tears. “Happy story. Sorry, I guess I’m just tired.”

  I’m not sure if I should say it but I do. “But there’s something you’re not telling me.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just know,” I say.

  “Wow,” Lauren says. “So, do you totally know or are you just guessing?”

  I hear the smile come back into her voice. “I totally know.”

  “Good for you, Jack.” Again, she speaks softly but in her voice I hear something new, an intimacy that wasn’t there before. Affection. “You’re right. There’s something I haven’t told you. Which brings us back to the happy story. The thing is, that compass used to belong to my grandfather. Then, my father. And at one point—I don’t know, probably when I was like three or something—my father gave it to my brother. Nick loved that thing, more than any of his toys or anything else he owned. He kept that compass on him at all times. He kept it in his pocket all day and when he went to sleep at night, he kept it next to his bed.

  “That morning, when my father left and took Nick with him, I sat at the kitchen table waiting for my mother to come back up the hall. She didn’t. She just stayed behind her door. I don’t know how long I sat there—a long time, I’m pretty sure—but after a while I went down the hall to Nick’s room. My father had taken everything. Maybe he’d packed it up the night before or early that morning when my mother was still passed out. I don’t know, but everything was gone. The toys, the clothes, even the books. But there on the bed, guess what?”

  In my imagination, I see it perfectly. “The compass?”

  “Right, the compass,” Lauren says. “I don’t know how Nick pulled it off. But there was just no way he did that by mistake. And there was just no way my father ever would have let him leave it there. Maybe Nick knew they weren’t coming back—I mean, I have no idea what my father told him—but somehow he managed to leave just that one thing behind. The very thing he loved most.”

  “He was trying to help you find him.”

  “Yeah, he was,” Lauren says. “But the thing is, I could never get anything off that compass. I just couldn’t remain neutral enough, you know, emotionally. Then you came along, stalking me and talking about some guitar you found.”

  “Hey, I wasn’t stalking—” That didn’t go all that well the first time, so I switch direction. “Okay, sure, I was deeply obsessed. But I also wanted to know about the guitar and that flash I experienced. I was confused.”

  �
��I know how that feels,” Lauren says. “I’ve been confused for a long time.”

  I’ve never once thought of her that way. It’s the rest of us who seem confused while she’s always appeared confident and self-reliant. I wonder if she’s admitted to anyone else that she feels as lost as the rest of us. Something tells me I’m the only one she’s confided in, that it’s me she’s chosen to trust.

  Lauren turns toward me. She keeps her eyes—those amazing hazel eyes—on mine as she draws closer. Despite all the times I’ve imagined kissing her, wondering how it would go, if I’d be clumsy or nervous or if she might even turn away, in that moment I don’t feel nervous at all. As our mouths meet, it feels like the most natural thing in the world, a moment that has always been waiting to happen.

  16

  Looking Back Just Long Enough

  I open my eyes the next morning to a world that feels completely different from the one I lived in the day before. Lauren remains curled up next to me, still sleeping, and I watch her even though I know she’d call me a stalker for staring at her. I’d be happy to stay right here, in this moment, for much longer but suddenly her phone buzzes against the bedside table. Lauren’s eyes open and meet mine, the corners of her mouth lift in a smile, then she rolls in bed to grab her phone.

  I listen as she tells whoever it is that we’re still close to Boulder—that, sure, a couple hours sounds good. Then she puts the phone down. “Okay, then,” she says. “I guess we should get moving.”

  “Come on, for real?” I say.

  “I didn’t tell you who it was.”

  “Michelle Carter, right?”

  Lauren sits up. “I don’t know—you tell me. I mean, it could have been another one of my Facebook friends.”

  I prop myself up on my elbows. “It was Michelle.”

  “Doesn’t everything you experienced yesterday tell you it couldn’t possibly have been Michelle. Seriously, the woman’s a complete bitch.”

  Of course, I’m totally grasping at straw. I feel my face turning red. “Right,” I say, shaking my head. “Who was it?”

  Lauren bursts out laughing. “Michelle Carter! Give yourself some credit. I knew that as soon as the phone rang.”

  “Not true. When it rang, you were sound asleep.”

  Lauren is already out of bed, walking toward the bathroom. I throw my pillow at the back of her head and miss.

  “Nice shot, Pajama Boy. How do you know I was asleep? Was I snoring?” She kicks the pillow aside and keeps walking. “I’m taking a shower. And locking the door, so don’t even think about it.”

  There I was thinking we’d finally moved past “Pajama Boy.”

  ~~~

  “Figures we’d have to drive back in her direction,” I say, once we’re on the road again.

  “Hey, Mr. Negative, don’t complain. Are you forgetting the part about us being shit out of luck yesterday?”

  I haven’t forgotten at all. And the possibility of getting some sort of tidbit to keep us heading onward together couldn’t make me more happy. Still, I resent Michelle for the way she treated us. Who can say if maybe she isn’t luring us back for some creepy reason? Chances are, that’s exactly what she’s doing. Probably, as soon as we pull into the parking lot of the restaurant where she told Lauren to meet her, cops will pounce on us for having stolen Jessica’s guitar. Something like that. I’m not sure if it even makes sense but I just don’t trust her.

  “Stop sighing,” Lauren says.

  “I didn’t sigh. That was just breathing.”

  “Breathing? You sound like a dying whale.”

  “Oh, come on.” I have to laugh and, after that, I do my best to stop sighing. I’m not entirely successful.

  Half an hour later, we park in front of a Ruby Tuesday’s about twenty yards from the highway. “Why did I expect something more upscale?” I say.

  “Try to stay positive,” Lauren says, as we get out of the van.

  Still, I look around, expecting cops or some sort of double-cross. Nothing like that. Just people heading inside for lunch before going who knows where. We open the door and make our way through the foyer. Michelle sits waiting on a wooden bench near the front desk, ticking her nails against the screen of her iPhone. When she sees us, she puts her phone in her purse and stands. She looks tired, with dark circles beneath her eyes. In contrast to yesterday’s affluent-suburban-mom ensemble, today she wears faded jeans and a soccer team t-shirt, presumably having something to do with the boys I spotted in her living room photos.

  Michelle doesn’t say anything past hello in the time it takes the hostess to guide us toward a table. A waitress appears almost immediately and we order coffee, then Michelle changes her mind and asks for a glass of red wine.

  After the waitress leaves, she says, “I’ve already been up for hours.”

  We both know what she means. The wine, of course. After all, it isn’t even noon yet. Neither of us say anything. Really, what is there to say?

  Michelle adds, “Didn’t really sleep all that much either.”

  “Are you okay?” I ask. It seems strange feeling suddenly sympathetic toward her when only yesterday she acted like the we might steal something on the way out of her house.

  Michelle nods, but then says, “Yeah, not so much.”

  The waitress drops off our drinks and Michelle tastes her wine. She grimaces and sets her glass down. “The house wine is even worse than expected,” she says, smiling just a little.

  We both nod, again not sure what to say, but Michelle saves us any more discomfort. “Look, here’s the deal. You weren’t supposed to happen. Whatever you’re doing wasn’t supposed to happen. That thing, that whole life…” She goes to pick up her glass again but changes her mind. “Well, it was just a really long time ago.”

  I stop stirring sugar into my coffee. “But we’re just—”

  “I understand,” Michelle says. “I talked to Trevor. Which, by the way, is how I got Lauren’s phone number. He said he trusted you two. Oh, and like I said before, I haven’t talked to him in years. Just so you get where I’m coming from with all of this, okay?”

  Michelle stares at us like we should understand but I definitely don’t.

  “Okay, here’s what I’m getting at. There’s a reason I haven’t talked to Trevor in such a long time. In case it wasn’t obvious, I’ve changed over the years. A lot. As in, I became every freaking thing I thought I’d never become. The house, the cars, the money, the horses. Oh, let’s not forget the husband who’s working all the time, if you catch my drift.” She pauses, then says. “I’m sure you get it. But the thing is, I spend a lot of time trying to convince myself that I’m actually happy. There’s the kids, right? They’re almost your age now, so they have basically zero interest in me now. But, still.”

  Michelle’s eyes start to fill as she speaks. She grabs her napkin from the table and scrunches it at the bridge of her nose.

  “I’m sorry,” Lauren says. “Maybe we shouldn’t have bothered you. We just weren’t sure what else to do.”

  Michelle shakes her head. “Don’t be sorry. Not your fault, okay? Sure, I’m bitching about it now but it hasn’t been all bad. The fact is, I’m lucky. Shit, people are starving out there in the world. Living on the streets, dying in wars, who knows. So, I have a crappy marriage these days. Whatever. The thing is, once upon a time, I was a totally different person. A renegade chick in a band, the girl who told the world she stood for something meaningful. What pisses me off is that I tried to forget her—that amazing girl. And I almost convinced myself she didn’t matter anymore.”

  At that moment, the waitress returns to see if we’re ready to order. Michelle reaches into her purse and hands her two twenties, then tells her, “This is for the drinks. The rest is for you. Thank you.”

  The waitress hesitates a few seconds, not quite sure how to react. Then she thanks Michelle and rushes off again. Michelle turns her attention back to us. “Sorry. Like you need to hear all this crap.”

&nbs
p; “What you did still matters,” I say. “You guys created something that hasn’t been forgotten. Most people can only dream of doing something like that.”

  Michelle dabs at her eyes again. “I can’t tell you how much that means. Especially from someone who came all this way expecting nothing in return. The fact is, I treated you two like crap yesterday and I hated myself for doing that. It’s not you I’m mad at. It’s me. And I have been for a long time. I just couldn’t admit it to myself.”

  Michelle takes another sip of her wine, then turns to Lauren. “Check your phone when you leave. I left you a text when I saw the two of you come in.” She looks back and forth between the two of us, waiting to be sure she has our attention. “Here’s the deal. I spoke to Jessica last night. It wasn’t easy, believe me, but I managed to convince her that I trusted you. I told her what you had. It took about an hour but finally she allowed me to give you her address. Do you want to know what she said?”

  Lauren and I both nod furiously.

  “Jessica said, if you share that address with anyone she will stab you in the heart twenty-five times after you’re already dead. Just so you know.”

  When Michelle says it, I have no doubt we’ve finally found Jessica Malcom.

  ~~~

  Once we’re outside, Michelle gives each of us a hug, something unimaginable the day before. As she draws away from me, she slips an envelope into my hand. Before I can ask, she says, “Right, it’s money. Don’t worry about it. I’ve got plenty. And, yes, I do remember what it’s like to be young and broke. Just be safe, okay?” She looks quickly back and forth between us, then turns and walks toward her car.

  A moment later, she’s sealed inside her white Mercedes and driving off. I check to be sure, but it doesn’t seem like she looks back. Maybe a glance in her rearview mirror, but I guess I’ll never know. Somehow that seems about right for Michelle. From what we’ve learned about her, she isn’t a person who, for good or bad, spends a great deal of time looking back.

  We climb into the bus and Lauren immediately tugs her phone from her pocket. She checks her texts, bounces in her seat and starts laughing.