"So then, how-what happened?"
She reaches her locker and opens it. I see a page from a magazine hanging up on the inside of the locker door showing a road heading into the woods. There's writing underneath that I can't make out.
"This isn't the first time, Chris."
"Yeah, well, maybe it needs to be the last."
"Listen, we can talk later-after school, okay? Not when others are around. Not with Poe and Rachel."
"Do they know?"
"Of course," Jocelyn says. "They're not idiots."
"Why would he do this?"
She laughs. "People do a lot of strange things when they're outof-their-mind drunk."
"Listen, if you want-"
"I want you to just calm down for the moment. You can't do anything here and now, okay? Wade would kill you. He's stupid and crazy."
"But you have to let someone-"
"No. We'll talk after school. He's gone tonight."
"When does your aunt come back home?"
"Wednesday. The day before Thanksgiving."
I've forgotten that Thanksgiving is this week.
Guess I haven't been thinking of many things to give thanks for.
Seeing the discoloration on her sweet, beautiful face, I don't feel like starting now.
"Don't," Jocelyn says.
"Don't what?"
"Don't get any crazy ideas. I can see it on your face. You're an open book, you know that?"
"You sure aren't"
"No, I'm like that book you're looking for in the library but that's always gone."
"That's always checked out?"
Jocelyn shakes her head. "No. More like stolen. See you in English."
Even though I hear her words, I can't help them coming.
Those "crazy ideas."
I wade around in them, plunging deep and feeling the darkness.
I've seen and heard about things like this, sure, but never firsthand.
There were kids who had issues and problems at my last school, but when it wasn't in your face it was easy to forget about it.
The suicide attempt by the freshman.
I didn't know him.
The kid called out of class because something happened with his parents. Something like his mother shooting his father.
The kid was a bit crazy, so it all made sense.
I think of the lyric from the song I've gotten used to hearing by The Smiths. I've seen this happen in other people's lives, and now its happening in mine.
This sweet, dark angel with her secrets and her scars.
I want to wipe them away.
I feel like I need to talk to somebody, but there's only two people I think of telling.
My mother. And, strangely enough, Newt.
But I can't. I don't think either will be able to do anything.
If Rachel and Poe have any concerns about Jocelyn, they sure don't show it. I have to listen to Poe bemoan her upcoming trip to New York to visit her relatives. Rachel complains about having to stick around here and endure a Thanksgiving with a houseful of crazy people. Jocelyn doesn't say what she will be doing.
"How about you?" Poe asks me.
Then suddenly something comes out of my mouth that I don't expect.
As if someone else is talking.
"I have a date."
"A what?"
"A date. Jocelyn didn't tell you? We're hanging out together."
Rachel and Poe look at Jocelyn. Jocelyn smiles, then nods and confirms.
"How far do you think a tank of gas will take us?"
Jocelyn glances over at me, an adult looking at a child. "Not far enough."
She's driving me home, though we don't seem to be headed anywhere close to my house. We haven't talked anymore since this morning. As I look at her profile, I can't see the bruise on the other side of her face.
"Are we running away?" I ask, trying to lighten the mood.
"You can't run away from things," Jocelyn says. "I've learned that the hard way."
"What's going on, Jocelyn? Is this all about your step-uncle?"
"Just ..." She looks at the road, and then she takes my hand. "Just-please continue to be patient with me. Okay?"
"I just want to help."
"I know. And you are."
"How?"
"By being there."
"I'm not doing anything here."
"You're doing a lot, Chris. More than you can know."
She drives for ten minutes on Sable Road, the main stretch of road that flows into Solitary from the north and the south, then turns off onto a dirt road that doesn't look much traveled. We bounce around for several minutes until we reach a clearing with a wild, uncut field and a dilapidated old church that looks like a fire torched it. We park in front, and Jocelyn gets out.
I follow her along the side of the church. There are holes where there once were windows, rotting wood, weeds scattered around like stubble on an old man's face.
"Come on," she tells me.
The field is mostly full of overgrown bushes up to our knees. Jocelyn seems to know exactly where she's going. She heads straight into an open area surrounded by trees on all sides and stops about fifty yards from the church.
She kneels down.
As I approach, I see something sticking out amidst the tall grass and weeds.
A gravestone.
I reach Jocelyn. She's staring at a set of matching tombstones about three feet tall. I can't see the writing on them-they're too small and too dirty.
"I come here more than I should," she says, still looking at the stones. "You'd think that one of these times I'd actually clean up these stones. I never do. I always leave them dirty."
She touches them gently, as if she's touching someone's head. "I was only six years old when they died."
Deep down I already seem to have known this, but it still hits me hard. I look at the stones as if the bodies are right there in front of me, lying in open caskets with gazes planted toward the skies.
"Do you know I was actually baptized in this church? Can you believe it?" She sighs. "Amazing how things can change in ten years."
I look back at the church. The back wall is gone, with several blackened walls inside still clinging on for dear life.
"What happened here?"
"The church was small enough as is. When the fire happened, the few members that were left ended up meeting in secrecy. I guess that's what happened, anyway."
"Is this Solitary?"
She shakes her head. "No. We're actually not even in North Carolina anymore. My parents lived in Solitary but came here to church. This is where they got married."
I want to ask how they died, but I can't get myself to.
"Come here. Sit beside me."
So I kneel next to her.
"Do you want to know something, something crazy? I come here often and pray. Even with all the doubts I've had-I've still prayed. How crazy is that? Half the time I wonder if I'm just doing it for therapy or to make myself feel better. I don't know. Sometimes I think that maybe they can hear my prayers, that maybe Mom and Dad are somewhere around listening. It doesn't make sense, you know. If they can hear my prayers, why do I have to come here to pray? Same goes with God. I don't know. I just feel like-I feel like I can't pray back home, back in that darkness. But here, it seems different. Here it seems better."
I make out one name: Joseph Charles Evans.
"Crazy, huh?"
"I don't think it's crazy."
"I'm completely crazy, and so are you for liking me."
"Maybe," I say.
"Want to know something sad? I don't remember anything about my parents. Nothing. Six full years, yet I don't have any memories. And you want to know why? I think it's because of the ten dark years that have followed. Because there's just been-there's just been so much darkness...."
She begins to cry.
I don't know what to do, what to say, what to feel.
Yet I see my arm wrap around her shoulder
s and I feel her quietly cry against my chest.
I swallow, let her cry for a few minutes, and I don't say anything.
"Sometimes I think the darkness has swallowed up the light. That those ten years have sucked up everything good about those first six, you know?"
"I'm sorry," I say.
She moves away from me, her haunting eyes tearful, her bruise showing up more under the fading light of the sun.
"Then you came along," she says.
"What?"
"I got used to waking up and living and breathing in the dark, Chris. And then one day, your silly, smiling face came around." She wipes her eyes.
"Silly, huh?"
"Utterly silly. And utterly beautiful."
"Not sure about that."
"You're not infected, not like the others around here, not like me."
"Stop it."
"You're not. This place-not this place, but that place-that town. I'm telling you, Chris, it's evil. You can't know-I couldn't sum it up if I tried. That town killed my parents. I know that for a fact. And I have to live and breathe and walk around like it didn't."
"What happened?"
"Oh, they say it was a car crash. But something happened, something wrong. We're not in the big city around here. Things can get overlooked. Churches can burn down and life can move on like nothing happened."
"You think somebody did this to your parents?"
"I know they did. And I guess that's what I come back to, time and time again. I sit here and I pray, yet I know the truth."
"Which is?"
"God did this. Ultimately God let my parents down. God let them die. They believed in Him, that I know. I've heard bits and pieces from my aunt. They baptized me, hoping I'd follow in their shoes. Lot of good that did."
"Jocelyn-"
"The scary thing is that if-and I mean if-God is up there, then why? Why, God? Why would You let this happen? Happen to them? And now to me? Why?"
"What do you mean-" I say.
"And that's what I always thought, time and time again. I'd come here and I'd wrestle with belief, with wondering, with anger. And I prayed a prayer-I remember it specifically. I told God that if He was really up there, and if He really was all-loving and all-knowing, that I wanted Him to send me a sign. Not an omen-I've seen enough of those. But a sign. An angel. I wanted Him to send someone to show me-to remind me of the brightness. And you know what? The next day-the very next day-you showed up at school."
"Jocelyn-I'm far from what I would call an angel."
"But you were an answer to prayer. That I know."
I want to tell her that I'm not, that I can't be, but I see the belief in her eyes.
"I tried, Chris. Oh, I tried. I tried to ignore you and run away from you. I messed up, and I -you know, it doesn't matter. Not now. I just know that you really are an answer to that prayer."
"Maybe you should pray a few for me, then."
"I'm not saying I know all the answers," she says. "Because I'm not there yet. I'm not. But-but I just wanted you to know that."
We're alone, just the two of us. I no longer feel watched. I no longer feel awkward or young.
I look into hazel eyes and then see the glow of the sun beyond the crests of the trees behind her.
I move toward her face and kiss her lips.
She's still holding my hand, and as we kiss I feel her grip it tightly.
This is what I believe in, right here and now.
That I think I might love this girl.
And that I don't want her to leave my side for any reason.
Maybe, just maybe, I can help her in some way.
If that means I'm an answer to a prayer, so be it.
If I can, I'll be her guardian angel.
I stare out at the stars from the deck. It's chilly, but I still feel warm and light-headed from the afternoon.
I picture the field and picture her eyes and feel her lips against mine.
I replay the last conversation we had before she dropped me off at home, how I told her I was serious about seeing her on Thanksgiving. She told me she would see, that it would depend on certain things.
She said she would email me later tonight since she would be on her own.
I want to walk to her home and be with her.
I stare up at the sky and think about everything she said.
An answer to a prayer?
If only some of my buddies back home could hear that. They would laugh.
I almost want to laugh.
But another part of me wonders.
It makes me think back to my father, to all of his prayers and urgings and answers and leadings.
All his God-talk.
Why have I suddenly been surrounded by this notion of God in my life?
Not a go-to-church-on-Sunday sort of God.
No, He seems to be in my face every moment.
I don't want to think of these things every day. I shouldn't have to.
I know some of my resistance is because of Mom.
If God is up there, I blame Him solely for my parents' divorce.
It's easier not thinking about God. Anytime I do, it gets messy. I start feeling bad. I suddenly feel like I need to be better, that I need to believe, that I need to confess.
I'm not a bad person.
But I remember my father saying that we're all sinners. I remember him talking about Jesus and about the cross and about death and resurrection.
I remember.
I just don't want to think about it.
It's just my luck. I fall for the hottest girl in school, and she ends up not only being the most tortured soul there, but she also ends up sounding like the ghost of my father.
It doesn't matter if she ends up sounding like Mother Teresa or the pope.
I know this.
It doesn't matter because I care for her, and I care deeply.
The things she said to me echo around in my head.
"Do we have any plans for Thanksgiving?"
"Oh, I meant to talk to you about that."
I have a feeling I already know what Mom is going to tell me.
It's Tuesday afternoon, and she's off work tonight, and we're having some frozen dinners while watching television.
"I'm going to have to work half the day. But not too long. I figured we could do a Thanksgiving dinner that night."
"Sure," I say.
Maybe this is bad, but I'm glad she's working.
It helps with the idea I have.
I finish up the mystery Mexican dish on my plate and go upstairs to email Jocelyn.
She told me at school her step-uncle would be working tonight.
I clean up, and Mom asks what my rush is.
"Just want to go online for a while."
She nods, uninterested, picking at her meal and sipping at another glass of wine.
WHAT WOULD YOU THINK OF HAVING
THANKSGIVING DINNER AT MY HOUSE?
I wait for a while to see her response. It comes after a few minutes.
WHAT TIME?
LUNCH TIME?
LET ME SEE. I'LL HAVE TO COME UP WITH SOME
EXCUSE.
MAKE UP ONE. ANY ONE.
DINNER WITH YOU AND YOUR MOM?
NOPE, MY MOM'S WORKING.
There is another pause.
OKAY.
OKAY WHAT?
I'LL FIND AN EXCUSE.
I can't help but smile.
I wake up truly thankful on the very day you're supposed to give thanks. The plan is in place, and nobody knows except Jocelyn and me. It's not like we're running away to Vegas or anything (though if she asked I would probably say yes). My mom will head out around nine thirty or ten. Jocelyn will be coming by around eleven.
Worst thing that could happen is that Mom sticks around and has lunch with us.
It's not like she doesn't want Jocelyn around.
She would probably think it's a good thing, seeing her son with the gorgeous gal from school.
I
go downstairs, but I'm not in the mood for breakfast. Instead I head outside to the deck to see what the weather's like. I'm on the deck for a minute when I see something odd.
Tracks.
Muddy tracks coming up our stairs and then stopping at our window. They proceed around the deck.
I'm wearing jeans and a sweatshirt since it's pretty cool out, but I'm in my bare feet. I tiptoe on the cold deck as I look to see where the tracks go.
This is probably stupid, because the person who made them could be waiting right around the corner where the deck wraps itself around.
Instead the tracks keep going and disappear where the deck ends and the forest ground begins.
I put my bare foot beside the track, a skinny white block on the dark wood. Whoever made the tracks was big. Gigantic.
The dirty tracks look like they were made by boots.
Not only was he big, but he also didn't seem to care much that he left a nice little trail behind him.
As I head back inside, I stop and notice how the tracks seem to make a resting place right by the window.
Someone was watching us.
And it had to be last night or this morning, because I know for a fact those tracks weren't there yesterday.
I go inside to tell Mom.
Before she leaves, I mention the muddy tracks to her again.
"I'm sure it's not anything," she says.
I wonder if she's saying this because she's running late or because she doesn't want me to worry or if she really, truly believes it.
I'm thinking A or B myself.
"So some creepy guy standing by our window looking in doesn't scare you?"
"How do you know it's a creepy guy? It might not even be a man."
"That would be even creepier, if a woman made those tracks."
"I have to go."
"Okay."
"We'll do dinner later tonight, okay? Make sure you take out that stuff and follow the instructions."
"Got it."
She glances at me, then gives me a nervous smile. "Keep the doors locked, just in case."
"Always do."
"I'll see you this afternoon."
I nod and instantly forget about the tracks.
I have a visitor coming over for lunch.
For what I guess I can say is truly an official date.
I hear the knock and stop for a second, breathing in.
Solitary: A Novel Page 17