Before Goodbye

by Mimi Cross

  “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

  Dale Waters sits to one side of the bed, on the couch near the windows. A book sits beside him.

  My hand flies to my chest—

  But my shirt’s neatly buttoned.

  My heart gallops—not so neatly—beneath it. I try to slow its wild stride.

  I’m sitting up, in Dale Waters’s bed. A blanket lies across my lap. I look around. The room is awash with lavender light. It’s early morning. My boots are off. But that’s all.

  His lips twist. “Don’t worry. I was a gentleman. Still am, in fact. You, however, Katydid, are a wild child, a wanton woman. I had to struggle to protect my virtue. And you’re lucky I’m a fool for love. I let you stay. Should probably have my head examined. I mean you never know. You could be an ax murderer or something.”

  Or something. I finally take a breath.

  Now I notice he holds a phone in one hand. My phone.

  When he sees me looking at it, he says, “It’s for you.” And hands it to me.

  “What the hell, Cate? Where are you? Why didn’t you answer your phone last night?”

  I cringe at the sound of Laurel’s voice. Her volume level’s set to Stun. And I am. Stunned. I can’t think. Can’t figure out—

  Dale mouths “Coffee” and rises from the couch, heading toward the kitchen.

  Laurel’s soundscape continues, populated with craggy peaks and canyons.

  “Are you with that guy you told me about? You know, the one you didn’t tell me about? He sounds really hot, by the way, all like—” She lowers her voice. “‘Yes, Cate’s here. She’s fine.’ Except he said ‘fine’ like fiiine, in this hot I’m-in-my-bedroom voice. What have you been up to, Miss Cate Cat? I thought you just met him?”

  “Laurel,” I say, in an unsuccessful attempt to interrupt her.

  “Didn’t think I’d actually have to cover for you, but when your mom called this morning—”

  “Wait. My mom called?”

  “Yes, she said you didn’t leave a note or anything. No email. No text. She and your dad wanted to know where you were, so I—”

  “My dad? What did you tell them?”

  “So I told them, you went to a yoga class. Something sunrisey. In the city. Have you checked your messages? They want you to meet them at Johann’s studio. Also? Your mom must be taking lessons from my mom. She got all touchy-feely-talky with me.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not. She said she misses you. I told her I miss you, too.”

  I blink at the phone. “And I miss you, L, but Dee—”

  “Dee and I are done. We broke up.”

  “When?”

  “Last night. She told me what she said to you.”

  Dale sets a creamy-looking bowl of coffee on the low table near the couch. Points at it. Points at me.

  Laurel sighs. “The boo thing. That is just messed up. You were right. She’s a bitch. Not to mention the fact that she was trying to turn my best friend into a druggie. Hey, I’ve got to go. Bryn and Kimmy are here.”

  “Bryn and Kimmy?”

  “I know, right? Kind of cool, though. Of Bryn.”

  “Very cool. What are you guys going to do?”

  “We’re going horseback riding—the Bennets bought Bryn a horse.”

  “Wow. That’s . . . amazing.”

  “Bryn says she’s gorgeous, a chestnut. Sixteen hands. Her name is Alina. Bryn’s calling her Al.”

  “Sounds like Bryn.”

  “It does. Which is a good thing. So we’re going to the inside arena. At Sunnyside. If you get your butt back here in time, you might just be able to go with us. Lovecats?”

  GHOSTS

  CATE

  Dale walks with me to Johann’s gallery on Twenty-Third Street, where my mother pounces on him, then pulls him around the spacious rooms, extolling the virtues of each painting.

  Dad and Johann try to talk to me about paintings, too, but my head is splitting—no way could I have gotten on a horse today, although I am kind of excited to meet Alina, and I think it’s time for me to start riding again—so when my parents ask if I want to go for Sunday dinner at Johann’s, I say no thanks.

  The disappointment on my mother’s face surprises me.

  Then again, when was the last time I really looked at her face?

  Before I go, Johann pulls me aside. “How bad is it, Cate?”

  And now I get it, why my parents wanted me to meet them here.

  I study Johann for a minute, thinking of all he’s been through, all Dad’s been through. “Well,” I say, hesitating. “I might have a couple of questions for you.”

  “Shoot,” he says.

  So I do.

  Then it’s time to go, and Dale and I step outside.

  The wind whips down the city sidewalks, smelling of sugared street nuts from the vendor on the corner, and the hard-edged tang of winter. While we were inside, it started to snow.

  Dale catches a few snowflakes on his hand, where they melt in an instant. He smirks.

  “Oh, come on,” I say, and catch a few of my own.

  But they stick around a little longer on my skin than they did on his, and he laughs.

  Then he says, “I’ll get you those players, okay?”

  “Yeah? That’d be great.”

  “Trevor will do it, if we throw him some cash, and Ruby can sit in, unless you play lead. What do you say, meet in a week? We can use my place, if you want.”

  I look at him intently, but his sky eyes are guileless. “That would be easiest. Thank you.”

  “Sure thing. But like you may have gathered, I’ve been where you’ve been. Trevor’s still in it, but he’s a good friend. Me, Ruby—we’re clean, just so you know.” He checks his watch. “Angels and demons. That’s what I used to see.” His voice holds a question.

  But I can’t answer it. Not in its entirety. Not now, anyway. Maybe not ever. I look away.

  He doesn’t.

  And I find, as I gaze down the sparkling street, that I want to answer him, and although I don’t have all the words to do that, I have at least one.

  “Ghosts,” I say softly. Then I say goodbye and head uptown before walking over to the East River to catch the boat home.

  SKY

  CATE

  Even though it’s cold enough to see my breath, after I get on the ferry, I head up to the top deck. The boat speeds away from the city, white wake cutting dark water.

  Along the receding skyline, tall buildings glint with final flashes of silver and gold. A fuse of fiery sunset separates the sea and sky, reminding me that winter days are short.

  Searching for gloves in my coat pockets, the fingers of one hand come across a sharp edge—no, a corner, the corner of a tiny envelope.

  God, this stuff. It’s permeating my life, permeating me.

  Blinking hard, I stare down at the packets.

  One is already open, the powder gone, disappeared into a drink maybe, or the folds of material inside the pocket, the white grains as irretrievable now as the sand from the beach that most likely lines the pockets of my summer Windbreaker.

  Summer . . .

  When I fell in love with David Bennet.

  I was never in love with Cal, not even for a minute, and I know that now. But I loved him because he was my friend, and I was in love with the way he played. I was in love with the music.

  “You can’t keep it, you know.”

  I start at the sound of his voice, at his dim, wavering reflection in the deck’s silver rail.

  I don’t have to ask what he means—I get it. Cal lost his life. And he’s right. It all goes.

  But it’s all here, too, in every infinite second. Life.

  I’d be a fool to throw it away on a bunch of shitty powder.

  I look up, up, up. High above me, a single gull hangs— hovering on some invisible air current like a still kite, its wings two stenciled white arcs against a darkening cobalt wild.

  And when
I look back down to the rail, Cal’s reflection is gone.

  But that’s because . . . it was never there.

  Like his voice, that was me. All me, and my wanting. With a little help from the K.

  Still, I say softly, “It’s you I can’t keep.” It’s you. And the music we loved.

  Now the last light of day plays tricks on my eyes. The last spark on the skyline—

  Is fire.

  Then it all rushes through me—that night that I’d buried—in a terrible wave of remembering.

  Like a kick in my gut, a knife in my side—I start shaking and crying. Hands to my ears, eyes squeezed shut tight—but I can’t keep it out any longer.

  The wind and the stars, the car going so fast—

  Like a film, it plays now, scene after scene, sound after sound, and then—

  Silence.

  The rail is slick with snow and my hands slide as I sag against it—

  But I’m still clutching the envelopes. Still clutching Cal.

  I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t.

  Eyes back to the sky. Forgive me. Please. And please know . . . it wasn’t my fault.

  Snow falls thick and fast as I look down at the packets. Yes, one is empty. But the other is full. My pulse tick, tick, ticks as I take a deep breath—

  And hurl the contents over the side.

  The wind whistles across the top deck. Still, I swear, as I lean over the rail, I can see the tiny white specks of K among the swirl of snowflakes, falling straight down to the water, as if even the wind knows how worthless the powder is and doesn’t want to touch it.

  Crumpling the paper, I stick it back in my pocket and look out, vision blurred, to the Sunday sea beyond the bay. Look out at the great expanse of the Atlantic with its infinite colors, too myriad to name.

  And then pain—like the night of the accident—rips through my chest. So sharp it scares me, and I feel like I’ll fall.

  Still, I find strength, as the wind whips my hair, to throw my head back—

  And shout to the sky:

  “I love you, Cal Woods! I love you. Goodbye.”

  HEARTBREAK

  CATE

  Then my heart

  S h a t t e r s

  Into a thousand pieces—

  Breaking—

  free.

  PART IV: SPRING

  COFFEE

  DAVID

  I stop typing midsentence when I see Cate come through the door of Listen Up!

  She’s carrying a guitar case but doesn’t head to the back, where the shop is. She walks through the lower level and up the stairs to where I’m sitting behind the glass case, my temporary desk.

  “Cate Reese. You didn’t even glance at the vinyl.”

  “Or the CDs, I know.”

  “You must be extremely preoccupied.” I shut my laptop.

  “I am.” She sets down her guitar and a cardboard tray holding two takeout cups.

  “Milk, no sugar,” she says, handing a cup to me.

  She remembers. Even though we haven’t had coffee together since last summer, when, without even realizing it, she pulled me out of myself and back into the world. She remembers.

  “Thanks.” I nod at the cup in her hand. “Black?”

  “Yes.”

  Now she knows I remember, too.

  “How are you?”

  “What are you writing?” she says in reply.

  “Paper for English. About the similarities between an athlete running a marathon and a musician who’s touring.”

  One of her dark eyebrows lifts. “Guess we have a lot in common, David Bennet.”

  “Do we?” The two words disappear into the dark corner of a song that’s playing through the store speakers.

  “David, I’m sorry about that night, that Saturday night we were supposed to go out.”

  Her gray gaze is steady on me, but her voice . . . sounds different. My imagination kicks in and I see Cate’s eyes as twin bodies of water and Cate herself as a sea of changes, her voice coming now from some great depth, instead of from just below the surface, as it always has before.

  “And I’m sorry I didn’t give you what you wanted. But it wouldn’t have been cool. You were upset. As far as what happened on that canoe trip . . . I should have been happy you asked. Unfortunately”—I step out from behind the case, “my rudeness seems to have cost me a date.”

  She puts up a hand, like she wants me to stay back. “Maybe, but I could have handled things differently. There was just so much going on in my life . . . I got confused.”

  “I’m sorry if I had anything to do with that confusion.”

  She smiles. “You might have.”

  I think about asking if she’s looking for something in particular, but I don’t want to find out she’s come in for music, not for me.

  “So, David Bennet,” she says. “Have a girlfriend these days?”

  “These days, I do not. Why?”

  “Well . . . maybe we should resurrect that dinner date.”

  “Oh really?” I move to close the space between us—

  But again she holds up a hand. “Do you think we can make an actual date?”

  “Ah . . . sure. Absolutely. For when? Tonight? Tomorrow?”

  “Um.” She worries her lower lip between her teeth for a second. Then she says, “How about three months from yesterday?”

  STRINGS

  DAVID

  After Cate tells me that she’ll explain the time warp later, that is, the reason our date has to wait, she asks if I want to go downstairs with her.

  “Sure. What do you need?”

  “A new guitar.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah. My guitar . . . needs some repairs. But more than that, it’s not the right instrument for me anymore. Classical guitar . . . just isn’t my thing. I mean, I love it—I love all music. But just because you love something doesn’t mean it’s right for you.”

  Downstairs, we walk through the door near the back of the store that leads to Ye Olde Guitar Shoppe, the part of Listen Up! that sells instruments, mostly guitars and what players need for the care and feeding of guitars: amps, cables, pedals, strings.

  Cate gets out her guitar, which, I can tell by the way she handles it, is precious. Precious to her or in value, I don’t know. But when Bird sucks in a breath and says, “What the hell happened?” Cate’s eyes tear up, so I assume it’s both. As Bird turns the instrument this way and that, I understand his alarm. But he assures Cate he can set up and sell the guitar, no problem.

  He disappears, off to check numbers. Cate continues the conversation she started upstairs.

  “It’s like with people. You meet someone, maybe you really like him—or her—maybe you even get that feeling, like, you know. But just because you know doesn’t mean that person’s the person for you.”

  “But if you know—”

  Bird comes back, and I drop it. But I’m not so sure I agree with Cate.

  She, however, is very sure that she wants to trade in her nylon string guitar for a steel string. She strolls around, checking out the guitars lining the walls. Every once in a while she calls to Bird to pull one down. Then she sits and plays.

  “Compared to my classical, these almost chime. There’s something . . . magical about their sound. This one . . . sounds like sunlight. This—is The One.”

  “That was fast,” Bird says. “You got lucky. Be right back.”

  Cate murmurs, “That Lucky Girl.” But then she smiles, plays a few chords on the black Takamine. “Definitely, this is it. Sometimes you just know.”

  “Hold on,” I object. “You just said—”

  “I did. But, see, you have to go with it, that feeling, the ‘you know’ feeling. Because usually you’re right, you do know. It’s just what you know—that’s where you can get confused.”

  “Was I actually supposed to follow that?”

  She doesn’t look up from the guitar in her arms, just says, “Mm-hmm.” And I imagine the hum of he
r lips on my skin.

  Bird reappears. They talk about the Takamine. It’s an acoustic electric, so Cate can play it through an amp, if she wants. She wants. Bird shows her a few models.

  “These are great,” she says, “but I need to be able to lift it.”

  “I’ll carry it for you.” I wince. I sound like a Boy Scout.

  Bird laughs. “Bet you will.”

  “My own roadie,” Cate says. “Could be cool. But you might be too busy writing articles about athletes and musicians. About all the things they have in common.” She grins.

  Bird finally shows her the smallest tube amp they carry, possibly the smallest tube amp in existence. Then he hands Cate a cable. She plugs in the Tak.

  The fingertips of her right hand race over the strings, her left hand forming chord after chord.

  But after a while, she plays the same three chords, over and over, humming a little.

  “Three chords is enough,” she says.

  “Enough for a song, yep,” Bird agrees. To me he says, “Gonna be a riot girl, with wicked chops.”

  I simply stare at Cate. It’s like something’s been stripped away. I can see her more clearly now than before.

  Cate and Bird toss around some prices. In a few more minutes, she’s ready to go.

  She kisses—yeah, kisses—her old guitar goodbye. Puts the new one in a fake-fur-lined case. She says she’ll take the amp, two sets of strings, and half a dozen picks—because you never know. A new tuner, two cables—she’s done. She pays Bird the balance due.

  I hold the door for her, since she insists on carrying both the guitar and the amp.

  But just as she’s about to cross the threshold back into the store, she stops. “Hey, Bird, can you show me some microphones?”

  STEPS

  DAVID

  Coffee. School. Homework. Practice. Horseback riding with Laurel and Bryn.

  Coffee. Meetings. Coffee. Practice. Sleep. Rinse. Repeat. Again.

  This is Cate’s life now. There’s no room for me.

  Not yet.

  Once in a while, we talk on the phone.