Before Goodbye

by Mimi Cross

  And his face is memorable. Sky eyes set in shadow. He’s memorable, with his sometimes lazy, sometimes lightning grin, his dark curling hair. Beneath his leather motorcycle jacket he’s got on a black T-shirt, and I can’t help noticing now how it clings across his chest.

  He catches me looking and kind of smirks. “So you’re coming to the next show, right? You and your girlfriends?” He hands me a postcard—

  Deep Dark Love

  deepdarklove.com

  —and says, “Maybe we can get you up onstage for a song or two.”

  “What makes you think I play?”

  “By the way you listen, by the look on your face tonight. By these.” He reaches for my left hand, lifts it so I can see his fingers running over the tips of mine. “Calluses.”

  “You’re pretty observant.”

  “Yeah, you know what I’m observing right now?”

  “What?”

  “That you still haven’t told me your name.” He runs a finger down the center of my palm.

  “Cate Reese.” I slip my hand out of his. “And yours?”

  He gestures with one hand, half imaginary-hat tip, half two-fingered salute. “Dale Waters, at your service. So, are you going to come?”

  I turn over the postcard. On the flip side there’s a list of venues. Manhattan, Brooklyn, Connecticut. I glance up at him. Have a hard time visualizing him in Connecticut. “Maybe.”

  But he doesn’t hear me. Some girl has just thrown her arms around him, and now he’s lifting her off her feet.

  Laurel and Dee appear at my elbow. “We have to go or we’ll miss the ferry,” Laurel says.

  Dale Waters releases his latest victim and turns to Dee, who crushes him in a bear hug, presumably saying goodbye. A second later she spins and grabs Laurel, who grabs me. We race across the club.

  At the door I glance back. The singer is standing onstage, coiling a cable, slow smiling in that lazy way of his while a group of girls cluster around him and the next band sets up.

  The drummer bears down on the girls now, with a pile of postcards and a clipboard. I wonder how many email addresses they walk away with after a show like this.

  We’re outside, deciding which corner is our best bet for catching a cab, when Dale Waters appears in the doorway of the Winery.

  “Hey, where you girls going?”

  “We’ve got to grab a taxi,” Dee hollers as she follows Laurel across the street.

  “C’mon, Cate!” Laurel calls. “If we don’t catch a cab in the next two minutes, we’re not going to make it.”

  “Great show,” I say to the singer. “Thanks for the comp. See you.” I start across the street. No cabs in sight. Laurel and Dee are halfway down the block looking for a better spot.

  I’m surprised when the boy follows. More surprised when he says, “Where?”

  “Where what?”

  “Where are you going to see me?”

  I laugh. “I don’t know.”

  “You’re not so great at saying what you mean, are you?”

  A little flame of anger ignites somewhere inside me. “How can you—”

  “You said you’d see me. So, come on. Where? I want to see you again.”

  “Oh, right. You’re just looking for bodies, to pack your next gig.”

  “Whoa, that is a loaded remark, Miss Cate Katydid. Cynical, too, if I may say so.”

  “You ‘may say’ whatever. It doesn’t mean I’ll listen.”

  “Fickle girl. You sure were listening earlier, but that’s how it is, right? People only love you when you’re playing.”

  I glance sharply at him. But he’s grinning. That was just a throwaway comment, a slightly misquoted song lyric. He can’t possibly know that I feel like it’s the truth, that I felt just that way, about Cal. Maybe about everyone. If I didn’t play guitar, and play it really well . . .

  “I—I was listening tonight, yeah. Your band’s really great. But—” We’re walking fast now, trying to catch up with Laurel and Dee who, I’m guessing, are headed for Broadway. “But I really have to go.” And now I smile back at him, because even though I figure he just wants to make a new fan, I actually kind of like him, and I love his music.

  He glances at my mouth. Then he lowers his head slightly in a defeated, deferential nod.

  And I can’t help laughing again, because this humble expression only makes him more attractive, and I’m pretty sure he knows that.

  “O-kay,” he says, drawing out the second syllable of the word. “Since you’re so sure. But since you can’t hang out, how about you let me call you?”

  “Cate!” Laurel and Dee are on the next corner, a yellow cab idling in front of them.

  “Sure, fine.” He hands me his cell, and I quickly thumb in my number.

  His lips twist— it’s a knowing look, although I’m not sure what it is he thinks he knows.

  Then he gives the slightest bow and that two-fingered hat tip salute, before he takes a step backward, and another—his slow smile simmering—then finally turns, jogging off toward the club.

  I run in the opposite direction and hop into the waiting cab.

  Before I can even catch my breath, I’m being subjected to Laurel’s laughing interrogation.

  Dee’s eyes make me think of those narrow slots in castle walls, the ones for shooting arrows.

  I’d give her the same go-to-hell look, but I’m laughing too hard.

  EMBER

  CATE

  The next evening I’m sitting on the front steps, melodies tangling in my head. I can’t seem to bring myself to go inside. The house feels . . . too empty.

  At the same time, it feels too crowded.

  Maybe because Mom’s home.

  I miss my mom, but it’s been so long since she’s acted like a mom that I’m kind of used to the feeling. Used to her not being around, although she’s around more than Mrs. Bennet.

  Between my fingers, I pinch the stem of a dried leaf, twirling it idly, before bringing it to my nose. After I inhale the wasted scent, I crush it against the step, brown into blue, rolling the fragile leaf body on the cool stone till it’s dust. I blow on it— but it doesn’t disperse. Instead, it catches on a cobweb hanging in a corner below the edge of one of the steps.

  Mom’s hardly been home since we moved here. It’s like she put in a month or two, decided the suburbs weren’t for her, then slipped away to the city. I’d overheard my parents talking about her disappearing act one night. Dad had been surprisingly supportive.

  “You’re an artist, Jan. You might say you’re not, but you are. You’re a shadow artist. Your art is supporting other artists. For that you need the city, the stimulation, the clients.

  “It was one thing when this was our getaway, a place of splendid isolation . . . But let’s face it. The suburbs, even suburbs as rural as Middleburn, aren’t for you. The PTA? Not an artists’ colony. And Cate can take care of herself.”

  Cate can take care of herself. Huh.

  Then Mom asked Dad, “So how is it the whole setup is working for you?”

  Standing outside the barn, flat-out eavesdropping by that point, I’d pictured Dad adding a daub of color to his canvas. “I can paint anywhere.”

  He can, too. As for Mom . . . fundraisers, bake sales, playground politics . . . it doesn’t sound fun to me, either. I do fine in school, despite the fact that I have no “parental presence,” so what does it matter? Let my mother live her life. It’s either that or slow death by depression.

  My mother’s depression. That’s how I learned to cook. It started with breakfast. One day she didn’t get up to make it. I was ten.

  Maybe I’m depressed. Maybe that’s why my playing sounds like crap. For the millionth time, I picture Cal’s face next to mine in the mirror.

  The door opens behind me. “Oh! Cate,” Mom says, bringing a hand to her chest. “You startled me.”

  I raise an eyebrow. I’m sitting here like a church mouse, you whip open the door, but I startled you? But I know wh
at she means. I’m forever startling her with my mere presence. Apparently, she’s never gotten used to having me around.

  “Ah—I’m going out. But I thought you and your father might like to have some stir-fry.”

  “You made stir-fry?” Hope and disbelief jockey with sarcasm in a struggle for dominant vocal tone.

  “No!” She sounds shocked. “I mean, no. But the ingredients are, well, in the kitchen, and your father would love to join you for dinner.” Translation: I should make dinner and fix a plate for Dad, because he’s already started working, and if I don’t take food out to the studio, he’ll paint all night with nothing in his stomach but caffeine.

  “I’ve got to run and catch the ferry.” She pulls on a pair of fitted gloves. I nod, and she blows me a kiss, then clicks away on heeled boots, headed for the garage.

  I’m just standing up when a movement at the side of the yard catches my eye. Across the leaf-littered lawn—red-and-gold distractions—someone ducks into the trees.

  No. Not someone—no one and nothing. Just a gust of wind rifling through the woods, making them rattle and bend. Just the wind, that’s all.

  That’s all. Suddenly, I can’t bear to be here another minute.

  Leaping up, I head across the lawn and out to the street. Then I walk away from the house that doesn’t feel like home.

  I walk and walk, and finally, I start to run.

  In a few minutes, I fly by The Killing Tree. Turning my head at the last minute to look, I stumble— but don’t stop.

  It’s only after I’ve nearly exhausted myself and am almost all the way to Laurel’s that I slow to a walk. Breathing hard, I pull out my phone and punch in her number to tell her I’m here.

  But the phone only rings, then goes to voicemail. I text. Nothing. She’s not home, either.

  With a sigh I look up at the cloud-covered cobalt.

  There’s really only one other place I can go.

  By the time I reach the Bennets’, night’s officially fallen, and it’s only because of the hot orange ember of her cigarette that I see Bryn on the terrace that juts off the side of the house.

  “He’s not here,” she says by way of greeting.

  “Yeah, no, I’m not here to see—wait—do you mean David? Because I’m not—I came to ah, to . . . Kimmy . . . homework . . . just checking . . .” It’s obvious I have no real excuse for dropping by, especially when I haven’t returned any of the Bennets’ phone calls lately.

  Bryn stubs out her cigarette. “Want to get high?”

  She pulls a mangled joint and matches from a pocket of her jeans.

  I’ve never smoked anything—no gateway drug needed here, I’d gone straight to K, in fact I have an order in for more—so it’s easy to say no. Plus I’m allergic. I’m not in the mood to be alone, though, so I make a few more stabs at excuses. “Kimmy . . . and Midnight . . . and—”

  “Sure,” Bryn says. And hands me the joint.

  “I can’t. I’m allergic to smoke.”

  “Isn’t everybody?” She takes a giant hit off the joint and holds it in, so her voice is all squeaky when she says, “We had to get a new babysitter, you know.”

  “I know. I’ll be back, I’m just—taking a break.” Just broken.

  She expels a huge cloud of smoke and it billows around us.

  “I heard about that kid. Heard what happened. I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks.” I stand up. I can’t talk to Bryn about Cal.

  Peering through the glass doors of the terrace into the lighted den, I catch a glimpse of Kimmy, sitting on the couch in front of the TV. On the screen, a ridiculously handsome boy sinks his teeth into a girl’s neck. She seems to like it. He pulls away, blood dripping from his mouth. The girl falls to the ground.

  I rub my temples, remembering suddenly what Bryn’s room looked like last time I saw it: papers spilling from the desk, closet door gaping, clothes piled on top of shoes, empty hangers askew. Bryn’s hand-painted universe had shimmered softly from the ceiling, a pulsing galaxy out of reach, as always, but something about the room, besides the fact that it was a wreck, had fundamentally changed. At least, that’s what it felt like.

  Bryn’s changed, too, and I can’t believe I didn’t notice it before. Didn’t notice the dark circles beneath her eyes, the hollows beneath her cheekbones. Like David this past summer, she’s lost weight, lots of it. The blue TV light reflects off the glass doors, highlighting her pale face. And I see Bryn the bitch, Bryn the center of the universe—she’s none of those things, not anymore. She’s only . . . lost. Lost out here in the night.

  I have a sudden urge to ask what she’s thinking, but she gives me such a penetrating look now that I get a chill, along with the feeling that she’s really seeing me, maybe for the first time.

  “It’s affecting you,” she says quietly.

  The words hang in the air between us, and I will them to dissolve. But then she says his name, and I know that they won’t.

  A small knife becomes lodged at the top of my rib cage. How much does she know? Laurel knew Rod was “bothering” me at Rafe’s party, but that’s all she knew. How does Bryn—

  David. He must have told her. Now I think through what he said. How he’d told me Rod had given Bryn “some trouble.” How he’d said, “She feels alone in this. I thought maybe if . . .”

  A TV voice screams and I jump.

  “He gave you a hard time, too, didn’t he.” Not a question. A statement. “At the Halls’.”

  “A hard time.”

  She laughs softly, looks down at her hands. “You’re funny, Cate Reese.”

  “Oh, Bryn—” But I can’t find any more words, and for once that makes sense—the horror of it is too much.

  Rod Whitaker. And Bryn.

  Bryn, in her own universe, with her untouchable beauty, her cold control.

  My thoughts scatter like a flock of birds flying back through time. When, exactly, had she dyed her gorgeous blonde hair black?

  As if she knows what I’m thinking, she takes a long lock of her inky hair in one hand, wraps it once, twice around her index finger— pulls.

  “David blames himself. Thinks it was his fault, because he left. But he’s my brother, not my bodyguard! I don’t want him taking this on, not on top of what happened in Canada.”

  But I don’t really know what happened in Canada.

  So I say, “I guess David told you? About how Rod—”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “Rod told me.” Her lips twist. “Guess I was his second choice.”

  “I’m so sorry, Bryn.”

  “It wasn’t your fault, either! Jeez. You needed a ride. That’s all. You had no way of knowing—David had no way of knowing. That fucking asshole—” She chokes on the words, looks back down at her hands. A few long black pieces of hair hang from her fingertips now. She’s ripped them out at the root.

  “I never told David,” she says quietly. “But he—he knew. There was another girl. She lives nearby. David told me how she was here, how he made her coffee and walked her home after—after Rod—in our house! And my dad—” She broke off, her upper lip dewy with sweat.

  Her voice drops. “I have the clothes.”

  All at once she brushes her hands together. The strands of hair fall from her fingers. Then she just looks at me. Waiting. Waiting for me to say something.

  This is the longest conversation I’ve ever had with David’s sister. I’m desperate to say the right thing—amazed she thinks I might possibly know what it is.

  “That party was the week before school started,” I begin tentatively.

  “And now it’s October.”

  “But you—kept your clothes, the clothes you were wearing when he—when he—”

  “I never washed them.” Her voice is so soft, I almost wonder if I imagined the words. I feel soft, too, now, like I might collapse in on myself. But also, I recognize that softness is not what Bryn needs.

  “So you can do something,” I
say as firmly as I can. My voice quivers, but just a little.

  Her eyes widen slightly.

  A breeze tickles my neck— but there is no breeze. It’s energy. I take it.

  “Right?” My voice is solid, is rock.

  “Right.” She’s watching me intently.

  I nod. David’s nod. And we’ve done it. We’ve made a pact. I’m going to help her. I’ll talk to Sandy, to the police, whatever she needs.

  But then she says, “Cate. I’m afraid—afraid if I don’t do something, David will. He . . .”

  “He, what?”

  “He said he’s going to kill him.”

  Instantly, I remember that day in the gym, how David wasn’t at all sorry he’d broken Rod’s nose.

  Bryn says, “I know him. He means it. He says he doesn’t care if he goes to jail forever.”

  My memory sparks. The way David lifted Kimmy in his arms, ran his fingers over her name on her duffel. The way he looks at me sometimes. In my mind I see him, watch the way he watches everything, the details of life, as if he’s seeing them all for the first time—or the last.

  I take a deep breath. “No. He wouldn’t.”

  “He’s in love with you,” she says.

  All the breath sticks inside of me for a long second— before it bursts out, along with a laugh.

  “Your brother? Please. He’s been with so many girls, he’s not capable of falling in love.”

  Bryn’s eyes are glassy. “You’re an idiot, Cate Reese. He cares about you. He’s not seeing anyone—he’s trying to change his life! He protected you, and you just blew him off.”

  Then we’re both crying, and the intimacy between us, instead of growing stronger, vanishes. Just like that, we are our own isolated islands of grief, and I know she’s mad at herself—for letting me in, for sharing her shame, for asking for help, and finally, for betraying David, telling me how he feels. “You need to go.”

  I jump to my feet. In those few moments, she had made me her friend, but already she’s pushing me away.