“Yeah?”
“My parents split. Divorced.”
“Your parents are divorced?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Yours?”
“No.” She thought of Julia’s lacy black underthings, her perfume in the bathroom. “Well, not yet. But they’re separated. So I guess almost.”
He nodded sagely. “It’s not so bad, you’ll see. I mean, it sucks moving your stuff around, and you forget shit at one place, but… I don’t know, it’s okay. My dad buys me tons of snowboarding stuff. Out of guilt. There’s a lot of guilt. You gotta play off the guilt. And me and my brothers, we’re in it together, you know, so that’s okay.”
She nodded and said, “I don’t have any brothers.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I remember that. Cousins?”
“Not that anyone keeps in touch with. They’re far away, in Australia.” She thought of her father’s pathetic little family tree, scratched out on a piece of paper and then abandoned. He was probably looking for the same thing: a connection. But then, of course, he found Julia.
“That’s cool.”
“But I never see them.”
“Bummer.”
“I know.”
He said, “What do you think of Ms. Ramirez?” and then, before she had time to answer, “Kind of a tough bitch, right?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I think she’s all right.”
After a beat he said, “Yeah. No, you’re right. She’s all right.”
When they were finished eating they parted; Christian’s dad was renting a basement apartment on Marlborough Street (“a real shithole, but whatever”), and Natalie turned toward home.
The Web page was awful, really terrible, so bad that she didn’t even know what to make of it, what to do, but until Christian Chapman saw it she thought she could pretend that it didn’t exist, had never existed.
How long until he saw it, though? How long until everybody did? And what would come next?
Stand firm, Kathleen, she told herself. Katie.
Kathleen followed the mother—born again, risen from the dead—inside the front door, through a small living room (artificial tree, ornaments mostly homemade), and into a galley kitchen, long and thin, with a rectangular oak table and three chairs. Three chairs, like Goldilocks and the three bears. A father bear, a mother bear, a Natalie bear. But where was the Natalie bear?
On the kitchen table sat a stack of mail, though calling it a stack was rather generous; really it was a mound, or a small mountain, with envelopes of all shapes and sizes mixing casually with supermarket circulars, catalogs, a sample of Oatmeal Squares cereal.
“I’m sorry,” said Kathleen, as Natalie’s mother motioned toward one of the chairs, “I didn’t get your name.”
“Carmen.” She extended a hand and they shook, though it seemed late in the game for that, and also inadequate.
“Carmen,” said Kathleen. “Any relation to the opera?”
Carmen seemed not to have heard; she neither affirmed nor denied; she motioned to the table, and dutifully Kathleen sat. Carmen’s eyes seemed hazy and unfocused, the way Lucy’s had the time, some years back, when the vet had to put her on tranquilizers to keep her from aggravating a strained leg. Was Carmen all right?
When they were both seated, Carmen said, “Wait.” (And although, in fact, nobody was speaking or moving, and there was nothing to wait for, Kathleen waited.) “Wait,” she said again. “Let me get this straight. Natalie said I died? She said I was dead?”
“Well,” said Kathleen. But what else was there to say? “Yes,” she said finally, and, because she didn’t want to meet Carmen’s eyes, she cast her gaze around the kitchen. Aside from the mail mountain the kitchen was tidy enough, but in the unfresh way of a kitchen that had not been used properly in some time. The rectangular sponge propped against the side of the sink was desiccated; the dish towel hanging on the oven handle had a forlorn, hopeless look to it, as though it had been abandoned by a lover.
Carmen curled her lip up. This too made her look like Natalie; it was like seeing Natalie’s face on an olive-toned, dark-haired body. Carmen took a deep breath.
“How did I die?”
“I don’t know,” said Kathleen. “She didn’t say. I guess I assumed cancer—”
“Cancer?”
“No!” Kathleen held up a hand. “She didn’t say. I just assumed.”
“Oh. I see.”
“It’s always cancer, right? I mean, with a young parent. Cancer or car accident. Right?”
“I don’t know,” said Carmen. She studied her hands, which were folded on the tabletop.
Kathleen said, “So! What’s Natalie up to today?” She almost called her our Natalie but thankfully she stopped herself in time: what an overstepping of bounds that would have been. She was thirsty; she wished for water, but none had been offered.
“Not home from school yet,” said Carmen.
Gently Kathleen said, “It’s five thirty. It’s dark out.”
“It is?” Carmen looked startled. “Well, then, I’m not sure where she is. With her friends, I guess.”
Kathleen knew better.
If the mother lived here, alive and well (or alive, anyway), maybe the father lived elsewhere. That might explain the untended mound of mail, the unused kitchen. H. Gallagher, Kathleen could see on one of the envelopes.
Carmen said, “You said you have something of Natalie’s?”
“I do,” said Kathleen, patting her shoulder bag. “Something she left behind with me. But really I wanted to talk to you about something else. Or, actually, I thought I’d be talking to Natalie’s father.”
“Good luck with that,” said Carmen evenly.
Kathleen waited.
“He doesn’t live here anymore.”
Kathleen nearly shouted, Aha! But she didn’t; her mind was buzzing along.
How to lead into the trouble at school, which now had a name (cyberbullying) and a professional attached to it (Professor Jacob Paterson who, Kathleen was certain, was at home, standing in his midwestern kitchen, a gaggle of children swarming around him)?
Her head hurt. She was so thirsty.
She said, “Do you think I could… may I have some water, please?”
“Of course,” said Carmen. She rose, dislodged a glass from the cupboard, filled it from the tap. “Sorry, I should have offered. I’ve been… I’ve been a little out of it lately.”
Best to be frank, thought Kathleen. Best to come right out with it. One, two, three: under.
“I think Natalie’s having some trouble at school,” she said. “I thought that someone close to her—someone who knows her well—should be aware of it.”
Carmen said nothing, just blinked at Kathleen in her strange befuddled way.
So Kathleen began to talk. She talked about the text messages. She talked about the way Natalie broke down in the car with Kathleen. (“Wait,” said Carmen. “You drove her home? She doesn’t even know you!”) She told her about Professor Paterson’s website, and the information about cyberbullying it contained. She even told her about Ashley Jackson. (“I’m sure you’ve seen the story on the news,” but Carmen shook her head, no, no she hadn’t, she didn’t watch the news.) When Kathleen was finished, she took a long, deep, shuddering breath, and waited.
Carmen said, “Let me get this straight. You’re a total stranger—”
“Not a stranger to Natalie,” Kathleen broke in. “I’m helping her with a project.”
“I haven’t heard anything about any project.”
“Maybe,” said Kathleen, “maybe she didn’t tell you. If you’ve been distracted—”
“So you’re a stranger,” said Carmen again. “But you come to my house, and you tell me about what’s going on with my daughter?”
“That’s right,” said Kathleen, holding her ground. “I thought someone should know.”
“It doesn’t sound so terrible me,” said Carmen. “What, some texts, some emails? How bad can that be?�
� She shifted in her chair. She was very thin—Kathleen could see her collarbones jutting out, like Natalie’s.
“It is,” said Kathleen. “It is that bad. I mean, it can get that bad. Ashley Jackson—”
“I don’t know,” said Carmen, “why you keep talking about someone I’ve never heard of. I’m still not really sure what you’re doing here.”
“It’s all over the news—”
“I told you, I don’t watch the news.”
“With all due respect,” said Kathleen, “maybe you should.”
“This stuff never happened to you in high school? You never got teased? God knows I did. But it’s part of growing up. You move on, you forget.”
“Yes, but.”
“Do you think I didn’t go through this? You think you didn’t? Everybody does.” Carmen rose from her chair and looked steadily at Kathleen until she rose too, gathering her things.
“I think it’s different now,” said Kathleen. “I really do.” Kathleen paused, unsure how to frame the question. One, two, three. Under. “So are you going to do something? I mean, what are you going to do?”
There was a new resolution in the way Carmen walked Kathleen to the door, and Kathleen found herself following her like an obedient child. “I’m going to take care of it. I’m going to tell her to turn off her phone, her computer. It will work itself out.”
“But—”
“Think about it. When you were a kid, if you can remember that far back”—here she seemed to take in Kathleen’s silver hair, the sagging skin that Kathleen was sure was in full view in the unforgiving overhead light—“did you want your mother messing with your affairs?” She gave the word affairs an inflection, sort of flat, almost southern, that Kathleen couldn’t place. But she wasn’t from around here, that was certain.
Kathleen had her hand on the doorknob. She turned and said, “Maybe not. But I think this is a different ball game kids are playing now.” She paused. Two. Three. Under. “And if you lose your child over this, you will never forgive yourself.”
Carmen took the door from her. “Nobody’s losing anything,” she said. “I’ll take care of it.” Thinking about it later Kathleen had the sense that she had been swept out royally, as though by a queen.
Neil was standing by the car, leafing through a book with a bright green cover. “Look what I found!” he said. “Life in Newburyport, 1900 to 1950. That little bookstore is fabulous. The Book Rack. I could have spent a thousand dollars in there.”
“Back on the road,” said Kathleen, unlocking the car door. She tried to steady herself, although she was reeling.
“And they allow dogs. Lucy got a treat. She didn’t eat it, though. Doesn’t she like those?”
Kathleen glanced at the biscuit in Neil’s hand. “Yeah, she loves them. Must not be hungry.”
“Maybe she lunched with the ladies.” He tipped his head toward the house. “How’d it go with Natalie?”
“Natalie’s not home.”
“Did you leave the notebook?”
“Of course I did.” She hadn’t. She didn’t trust the mother. She said, “Do you mind driving? I’ve got a headache, suddenly, a bad one. Straight out of nowhere. Feels like there are staples in my brain.”
“I don’t mind,” said Neil. “Sweet little ride like this.” He tapped the book he was holding on the hood of the Camry.
“Oh, stop,” Kathleen said, but she felt herself begin to soften.
In the car she closed her eyes and leaned back in her seat. Again down 95, then onto Route 1, the leaning tower of the Prince Pizzeria, the red letters against the white sign. Happy birthday indeed, Susan McDonald, thought Kathleen. And many happy returns. It was beginning to snow, Carol had been right, the mysterious “they” had been right, and the traffic immediately slowed, a line of brake lights marching down the road.
She had not saved Natalie, she had not saved anyone, she had certainly not saved Susannah. I have to get out of here, Kathleen had said that night. Screamed, really. I have to get out of here for a minute. She’d never felt such rage in her life, it was like a fire. And when she returned, ready to fix things, ready to make a plan, Susannah was gone. Two pairs of jeans, a navy blue sweatshirt that said GAP across it in white letters, a rain jacket, no toothbrush. No note.
“Want to stop for something to eat?” said Neil. “Hilltop? Big plate of beef for you?”
“No,” she said softly. “No, I’m sorry, just drive, please, Neil. Just drive.”
She thought she might cry, there in her car, cruising toward Boston and then eventually through the city, past it, over the Zakim. What had changed, really? Nothing. But everything.
“Natalie,” said her mother, knocking on her bedroom door. “Nat, I need to talk to you.”
Natalie said, “What?” As surly as she could manage. She had her laptop open; she was looking at the Web page. It was like poking at a wound: it hurt, and yet she couldn’t stop doing it. When her mother opened the door she closed the laptop.
“Are you hungry?”
“No.”
“Well, did you eat?”
“Yeah. I ate downtown.”
“Oh! That’s nice. What’d you eat?”
“Nothing. Pizza. It doesn’t matter.” She thought of what her father had told her about her mother: She stopped being the person she was.
“By yourself?”
“With a friend.”
“Which friend?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Natalie, is anything going on at school?”
“What? No. No. Why?”
“Well, some lady stopped by.”
“Some lady?”
“Kathleen something. I forget. She said she was helping you with a school project.”
“She came here? Today?”
“Yes. While you were out. And she said… she said you might be in some trouble. At school.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Natalie.
“If there’s something going on, you need to tell me.”
“Nothing is going on. It’s fine. Everything’s fine.” She closed her eyes, and on her eyelids she saw the We Hate Natalie Gallagher page. The ghastly blinking smiley face.
“All I know is, this strange lady stopped by, talking about a project that I’ve never heard of—”
Something sudden and searing rose up in Natalie. LMAO at this. She said, “She’s not strange. And anyway, what do you care?”
Her mother looked perplexed. “What?”
“You’re barely here.”
“I’m here all the time…”
Natalie sighed. “That’s not what I mean. I mean here. In spirit. How am I supposed to tell you anything?” She thought of Hannah Morgan’s kitchen, Mrs. Morgan’s racks of Christmas cookies on the gleaming counter. She thought of the slippers, just out of the package. She thought of riding in Kathleen’s car, Lucy’s paw on the console between them. Under her breath she muttered, “It’s like living with a ghost.”
Her mother said, “What?” and instead of saying, Nothing, as she easily could have, Natalie said, louder, “It’s like living with a ghost.” Her heart was beating rapidly, and her hands were sweaty once again. She said, “Did she leave anything for me? Kathleen Lynch? A book?”
“A book? No. She said she came to bring something back to you, but now that I think about it, she didn’t.”
Bridget’s notebook. “Are you sure she didn’t?”
Carmen rested against the doorjamb. She was wearing one of her usual costumes, old jeans and a ratty sweatshirt with the name of a college nobody they knew had ever attended. “I’m sure,” she said. “You can check the kitchen, but I’m sure.”
They were silent for a moment, watching each other, like two animals about to go on the attack. “I don’t care anyway,” said Natalie. “I don’t want it anymore. I’m not working on that project.”
“But what did she mean, trouble at school?”
“Nothing,” said Natalie. �
�I don’t know. I’m fine.”
She thought, Do something. Help me. Figure it out. Do something. But she couldn’t say it. (Why had Hannah said to Taylor, “I thought you took that down”?)
“Nat—”
“I said I’m fine.”
“Natalie.”
“What.”
“She said you told her your mother was dead. You told her I was dead.”
Natalie had no reply to this and so she said nothing. How long until everyone saw it, how long until Christian Chapman saw it? She wished she could reach inside the computer and wipe the gleaming string of drool from her mouth.
“Natalie. Why would you say something like that? To a stranger?”
“I don’t know,” said Natalie. “It just came out. And she’s not a stranger. We were working on a project.”
Carmen was silent, looking down, twisting her hands together. “Natalie,” she said finally. “Do you wish I was dead?”
“What? No, God, Mom, of course not. I don’t know why I said it, okay? It’s not a big deal. I said I’m sorry.”
No answer, just the twisting hands, the fingers pulling at one another.
“Mom, I’m sorry.” Natalie wanted to reassure her mother, but at the same time she wanted to be reassured herself; together, the two impulses canceled each other out.
Carmen walked to the window and placed the palms of her hands flat against the windowpane. “This snow,” she said. It was almost wistful, the way she said that. Then she turned to Natalie and considered her for several seconds. Finally she sighed and said, “You’re so beautiful. You know that, right? How beautiful you are?”
“No, I’m not,” said Natalie. It made her angry that her mother could be so divorced from the truth. Didn’t she know better? Was she really, truly going off the deep end? She thought of the website, the flashing smiley face.
“Oh, honey,” she said. “You are. You’ll see that when you’re older. I’m not sure I tell you that enough. I should tell you all the time.” Her father had said the thing about when she got older. How was it that all of this mysterious stuff was going to be apparent when she was older? It wasn’t, that was all, it was all bullshit, just something grown-ups said.
“Yeah.”
So Far Away (9780316202466) Page 20