~
I tell Lewis to drive around the block, and we park at a slight rise where we can barely see the house, the windows glowing with light, not blue this time, but yellow/orange. I can’t see any flames, but I can smell the smoke. The truck is idling. Junky is licking my chin as if he knows more about what’s happening than I do.
Soon, we hear sirens. I watch the fire engine as it wails down Main Street with several police cars leading the way, others following.
“Rayleigh,” Lewis says. “I’m sorry if I doubted you.”
It’s not what he says, but how he says it, with pure, unwavering sincerity. I love him more because of it.
“I don’t think you ever doubted me,” I say. “I think you doubted yourself.”
George looks over at Lewis and smiles. “That’s one smart girl,” he says. “You’d be a fool to let her go.”
Lewis smiles. I smile from the back seat.
“If she’ll have me,” Lewis says. “I’ll stay.”
I close my eyes. Tears fall, but for the first, they’re for a different reason.
I savor, through the crack in the window, the smell of rain.
~
It’s still cold outside even though the rain has stopped. We watch for a while, the police sirens quiet now. We hear commotion, distant voices, people gathering, and suddenly I panic, thinking someone is going to investigate, and here are three people who just happen to smell like smoke, looking very suspicious as they watch the fire.
I hear no voices in my head. I see no visions.
“Do you mind stopping at the grocery store, Lewis?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “What for?”
“I want to get some flowers,” I say. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to do for a long, long time.”
Lewis nods. He puts the truck in gear, and we drive to the nearest King Soopers.
~
“Do you want to be alone?” George asks.
I nod. “Yes. Thank you.”
Lewis has driven to Louisville Cemetery. I have a dozen, long-stemmed roses in my hand. They’re not the best roses, but under the circumstance, they were the prettiest King Soopers had. This feels kind of silly, but it’s something I have to do, something I need to do.
I put my hand on Lewis’ shoulder, my way of saying thank you, and I step out of the truck. I take a deep breath of the cool night air, the quiet surroundings, and start toward the cemetery, walking over perfectly, lush green grass. It is wet and sparkling from the rain and the nearby lights. There is no gate. The cemetery is open. No one vandalizes in the number 1 place to live in America.
Weaving through the gravestones, I keep my thoughts to myself. The roses smell beautifully, of course. I don’t remember where Janeen’s grave is, but I do my best. From the nearby lights, I can make out the names on the headpieces once my eyes adjust. All is quiet except for the sound of distant traffic.
This sounds funny, but an insanely quiet calm is going on inside my brain, as if a cool wind is blowing in there. A picture of a smooth, glassy lake forms in my mind, and that is how it feels. Calm. Unbroken.
I weave through the headstones, looking carefully at the names. I try to remember the funeral so long ago, judging where her grave must be. I stumble upon it almost by accident.
It’s a small gray headpiece with, Janeen Abigail Kensington printed in elegant script across the front. A dove is etched into one corner of the stone. The date says, 1976-1988. In Loving Memory. Our Daughter.
My heart swells. In the ludicrous madness of the past, all those years ago, I do not see the urchin Janeen was. I do not see her obsessive madness. I see the soft, sprightly girl I met on that first day of school wearing her cute, pink, girly clothes, laughing as we made fun of the teachers. I think about the scary movies we watched, and how, as a friend, I truly did love her, the only way I knew how. No matter how hard I try, I cannot stop the tears from coming, and I am crying quietly now. I am so sorry for everything. I do not care about myself. I want Janeen to be at peace, to be at rest, to be untroubled.
“Hello, Janeen,” I say.
No one speaks. No ghouls today. No bloody visions. No nightmares. I wonder, after all this time, if everything is really over. I close my eyes and think. I pray for a second, but I can’t really tell. I’m simply trying to feel again. I’m just trying to recapture who and what I am, whoever, and whatever that might be.
I set the roses at the base of the marker. I put my hands in my pockets and stare down at the grave for a long time. The roses look almost magical in the gloom under Janeen’s name.
“I want to say so much,” I tell her. “And I really can’t think of a single thing, Janeen. Except I’m sorry. And that I love you. And I hope and pray, somehow, that you can forgive me.” A note of finality fills my voice.
A slight breeze stirs the air.
I stare at the grave for a few seconds more, not knowing what else to say. Warmth spreads inside me, a peace I thought I’d never know.
“I love you,” I say again.
I do not mention how she is free now. I do not mention how she is in a better place. I do not say any of the predictable clichés often said in a moment like this. It just doesn’t feel right. Janeen is too good for clichés. I love you, I think, is enough, and it should be.
Doing all I can, I turn away, making my way back to Lewis and George, who are talking idly as I get back into the SUV. I shut the door behind me. Junky is staring at me.
“You okay?” Lewis asks.
I nod and smile. I turn and look over the cemetery. To my shock and surprise—maybe even relief—I see a large dog casually trotting between the headstones. It moves to Janeen’s grave, puts its head down, and smells the roses I put there. It is not a dog, I think. It is a wolf. It pauses, looks up, and turns its head in our direction. Just as quickly, as if it has remembered something, it bounds off and disappears.
With all that’s been happening, I wonder if I haven’t imagined this. It wouldn’t surprise me if I did. Either way, I’m okay with the fact that it might be real or pretend.
“Where to now?” Lewis asks.
“Home,” I say, and feel as though I finally know the meaning of that word.
16.
R.A.T.
Mom says Pug is an absolute treat. He’s been helping with the dishes and is developing a passion for cooking. He is always asking questions about certain ingredients, like what temperature to cook things at. Dad says Pug has a great sense of humor, and they joke and laugh all the time together, telling inappropriate jokes Mom absolutely detests, but Pug and Dad swear are uproarious. Dad likes having a boy in the house. What the hell is that supposed to mean, I say?
Mother tells me not to take things so personally. She was happy to hear from me the next morning. It was a pleasant surprise because she didn’t expect to hear from me for at least a few days, I think. Pug says he’s not ready to leave their house yet.
I tell George and Lewis I want to spend some time alone for a day or so, collect my thoughts, and get some sleep. They are more than generous, if not a bit reluctant. George knocks on the door frequently ‘just to check up,’ he says. I love it and do not mind.
I don’t know how I can repay them for the things they’ve done, the kindness they’ve shown me, their unwavering, unquestionable friendship, but for now—at least today—I need some time alone. I have something very important I must do.
The day is balmy and cool, but the clouds are breaking up. Every now and then, the sun comes out to warm the leaves, the grass, and brightens my otherwise gloomy apartment.
Today, I am going to write a letter.
Junky is starved for attention. I think he misses George and Lewis already, but he can wait. As I sit at my dining room table and think about everything that’s happened, Junky is weaving in and out of my legs. I bought him his favorite canned food, chicken and salmon, but he wants attention instead.
I grab several sheets of paper and a pen. The radio is on pl
aying light, classical music. I am going to cry while writing this letter, I know. It’s my last bout of madness, the final thing I need to do before I can truly be at peace.
I take a deep breath and bend over the table. I begin to write. It is harder than I thought. Already, I feel a whirlwind of emotions. The pages will be wet. Either way, this is what follows:
My Dearest, Loving, Most Beautiful Lacey,
I think this will be the most difficult letter to write that I have ever written. I never knew it would come to this, never imagined—and in some ways—still don’t know how to feel about it all. Betrayed? Hurt? Relieved?
Not relieved, no. But I know none of this is your fault.
I still can’t believe it, I guess, but I need to do this for me, for you, and for the days ahead, I suppose. So, just bear with me, okay? This one time. Try not to think me mad.
Lewis and I are doing very well. I think he likes me. How’s Dave at work? Does he still try to get into your pants? I don’t think he’s that worthy or fortunate, so you go, girl, and you get him, and you do everything you can to make those grown men cry. You tell yourself you’re doing it for your darling, Rayleigh. I love you all the more because of it, and I can’t wait to hear further tales from the Pacific, whatever that means.
I don’t really know where or how to begin. My brain is a tumultuous wave of pain and emotions. I’m unsure how to devote my time anymore.
The bookstore is gone, and I’m not sure if I can rebuild it. Maybe Lewis can help me. I don’t know. I’m still thinking things out.
Anyway, it’s a rough letter. It’s hard, choppy, and sporadic, and I’m unsure what to say really, darling.
But, to hell with it. Here goes:
Lacey, I love and miss you so much that it hurts! It’s tearing my heart out! Blood is gathering at an impossible rate inside my chest, and my head is a thick, wet sponge of tears. I don’t tell myself you were never real to me, because that’s worse than thinking you lost your life or that you ran away. I guess, in my own way, I looked at you like a personal lover, one that I could always confide in, share my dreams with, and love without worrying about you ever loving anyone else but me, even if you do like girls and I like boys. It was something special we always shared, and for that, I am truly thankful, and I love you so much more because of it.
You are in my memories as you will always be. For me, you will always be real, and for that, and for your friendship, I thank you from the bottom of my heart.
I know you have always been there for me, Lacey, whether I realized it or not. I think, deep down, if it hadn’t been for you, I would’ve never made it through any of this. I believe that, and I know that’s why you came into my life, and in a way, I know that’s why you had to walk out of it again. I’m not mad at you for any of this. I think it makes me love you even more, in fact.
I want you to be happy. I want you to remember me. I want us to laugh and be thankful we knew each other, and that all the good times we had were exactly that. Good times, Lacey. And real. God, I love and miss you so much! I am crying as I write this. It is a hard letter for me to write. I wish to God I could hold you one last time and cry on your shoulder, smell your hair, and be and do everything that made us the friends we were and will always be. I will hold you through the years if you will hold me, and I will never share my thoughts or dreams with anyone the way I did when I was with you.
I hate to say goodbye. I love you too much to ever say goodbye. Please, dear God, as much as I know it has to be, it is—I know—goodbye.
I love you, Lacey. Remember that. You will always be an angel to me. You have never been anything but an angel. And even though they tell me you are only a memory, imagination, you are so much more. That is the secret you and I share. That is something we will keep to ourselves. That is something we won’t let anyone else know about…but you and me.
You are real to me Lacey, and that isn’t madness. It’s plain, simple truth. And that’s the way I want to live the rest of my life. That’s how I want to think of it. So, if that’s okay with you, it’s okay with me, too.
Okay?
I’m going through the rest of my life convinced that, no matter what happened to me or what I experienced, you were the one thing that truly mattered. It is that thought alone that keeps me sane. It is that thought alone that gives me hope. Because I love you, and I know you will always love me, too.
I like to think you took a little vacation is all, to an island maybe, someplace tropical. And you are spending your days on the beach with someone you love, who maybe—even if for a second—might look like me. You are soaking in the sun. You are laughing and writing me postcards. You are watching the dolphins play because I know how much you love the sea.
It’s a good way to remember you.
Please remember, I will always be and have always been devoted to you. Know that I am with you and that the impact you left on my life was so powerful, I would not forget you even if they told me I had to.
You keep me bright. You keep me smiling. You keep me happy, make me beautiful, and you put me where I need to be.
I love you, Lacey. Nothing is more real to me than you. Nothing in my past—that I remember—was more real to me than the moments I shared with you.
Goodbye, angel. I’m going to miss you terribly. I already do. It’s the price you pay for lunacy, I suppose.
I’m looking forward to the hope of tomorrow. I can’t wait to savor today.
Always think of me. Never forget.
Your darling angel,
forever in your memory.
With every ounce of love,
truly and faithfully, forever and ever…
R.A.T.
~
It is a beautifully, sunshiny day at the beginning of May on a Saturday. It seems a lot of time has gone by, but I think it’s only because so much has happened in such a short span.
It has been quiet ever since we came back from Louisville. At least, mentally. I do not hear from Janeen or Carmilla. I begin to wonder who Carmilla really was. Just a nuisance, maybe. Someone who drove the force of madness.
We are having a barbecue in my parents’ backyard. Pug is trying his hand at the grill, and he looks very professional. I smile watching him flipping the New York’s. It’s going to be a good barbecue. Pug looks intense. He’s concentrating very hard, making sure he does everything right. He is grilling zucchini, the steaks, and some peaches my Mom has made in a fancy, spicy sauce. She has made her zangy coleslaw as well with a million ingredients. Trust me, it tastes phenomenal. A burst of flavors later, like the Fourth of July, will be going off in my palate. My mouth waters thinking about it.
For an added bonus, something Pug is very excited about, he is also grilling barbecued pineapple, one of my favorite treats. Pug, after a week, already looks better. His color has returned, and his gut is filling out. He doesn’t look as rebellious as I remember him. He’s dressed quite nicely, in fact, wearing stylish jeans and a white shirt Pug would call ‘preppy.’ He’s complained about it, but I think he has taken to this new style. He looks good. He has even combed his hair for this special occasion. But he still wears the bracelets, the earrings, the eyeliner, and the horned-rimmed glasses. The style is new, but I think he looks cool. He looks healthy. He looks like a good, happy kid, and my parents like him. I don’t know what’s going to happen to Pug in the future. I don’t know about his father. But I do know my parents have taken to him. He is one of us now. They like each other. Pug has been invited everyday to this house, and I can see it makes him very happy. It makes me happy, too.
The sun is shining high and bright in a cloudless blue sky. I am burning, but I could use a little color. I’ll put on some sunscreen later.
Dad is slurping an iced tea. I’m having the same. It’s a good change. It keeps my head clear. These days, that seems more important than anything. So, no more cocktails, wine, or beer for me. I have given up smoking. I’m going all natural, all healthy, and it is making one
hell of a difference. I feel crisp, bright, and maybe…yes…even beautiful, despite my touchiness and short-tempered nature due to lack of alcohol and nicotine.
It’s one of the more interesting barbecues we’ve ever had and, by far, the largest.
Mom and Dad don’t talk to me about what happened. I think they know in their own way, something I’ll tell them in time, I guess. They look at me, and I can see it in their eyes. They’re waiting for me to talk about it, but it will come out when it’s damn good and ready and not a moment sooner.
Junky, despite Mom’s aversion, is stalking a robin in the backyard on the plush, green grass. The lawn is perfectly manicured. Dad has recently mowed it. The smell of fresh cut grass and the mower still linger. I love that smell. It’s a summer smell, even though it’s still technically spring.
Mom seems genuinely pleased. Every time I look at her, she is looking at everyone else and smiling. Music comes from a stereo Dad has set up in the kitchen window: jazz.
The other surprising guest today is George. I asked Mom if I could invite him along, and she was more than anxious to meet him. She started crying, in fact, because I have all these friends she didn’t even know about. She says people are watching out for me. It makes her realize, perhaps, that I’m in good hands. I’m glad she didn’t try selling me car insurance. Ha ha.
George and Dad are sitting in lawn chairs to the side of the picnic table. They are having a serious discussion about men’s fashion and Vietnam. Strange, I know. Could a conversation be any more extreme? They are both, strangely enough, dressed in Hawaiian shirts and shorts. For some reason, these two men and their conversations are working well back and forth, and they are laughing together. It’s a pleasant sight to behold. Dad not only has a new kid in the house, but a new friend, too. Mom told me later it was one of the best days she remembered having in a long time.
Pug is the boy Mom never had, and I don’t feel an ounce of jealousy. I watch my Mom when she says something to Pug about grilling. He turns to her and smiles. His entire face lights up. My mom, as she always does, puts a warm, affectionate hand on Pug’s shoulder. I like this gesture. It makes me glad I’m here, that I’ve come from where I’ve come from, that I’m who I am, and that all of these people are here today.
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