by Alexis Bass
FIFTY-TWO
I sit next to Jonathan in a frozen yogurt shop Thanksgiving weekend, watching my butter pecan turn into a puddle. It was hard to convince him to come here with me.
We haven’t said a word to each other since we left the house.
“They’re late,” he finally says. “Maybe we should take the hint.”
I don’t dignify this with an answer. It was Gary who thought it would be a good idea to do a sit-down with Sutton and Henry. Since Sutton is still trying incessantly to get in touch with Jonathan, and Henry and I are “what we are,” Gary told us it would be an excellent opportunity for us to all have a “real conversation.”
“A chance for Jonathan to talk about Grace and what happened, with people who care about him and know the situation.
“And before Jonathan’s scheduled to go back to jail,” he added, turning to me, so I’d remember that time is of the essence. As if I’d forget.
The word closure was also used. Jonathan doesn’t believe in closure. He believes that by condemning himself, he’s actually freeing himself, and freeing us, too. I don’t know how to argue with him about that.
But Sutton deserves more.
“We’re being stood up, baby sister,” he says, nudging me with his elbow. We’re sitting next to each other in the booth, because I think the best seating arrangement is not one where Jonathan sits next to Sutton, and definitely not one where Jonathan sits next to Henry.
I glance at my phone again to see if I’ve missed a call from Henry.
“They’ll be here.” Though the truth is, I don’t know. Henry seemed almost as against coming here, doing this, as Jonathan. They both agreed to come here only out of their love for Sutton and me.
“That’s a lot of faith you have in Henry.” Jonathan says it like he’s scolding me, as he lifts my spoon and watches the liquid glob away slowly. He declined a bowl of his own. I take that as a good sign—he’s too nervous to eat.
Jonathan and I glance at the same time at the front of the frozen yogurt shop, the smudgy windows giving us a view of the parking lot. It’s raining outside, so besides an old man sitting at one of the round tables in the corner doing a crossword, we’re the only ones here.
Jonathan clears his throat as the small bells on the door chime and Sutton and Henry walk in. We wave at them as they come toward us; Jonathan even smiles. Sutton slides into the booth while Henry props up her crutches and closes their umbrella. He can’t look at Jonathan, which means he doesn’t really look at me either. He’s gone quickly, up to the counter to place an order.
“This is London weather,” Sutton tells us, scowling as she slips her coat off her shoulders. She’s pretty dry, since Henry held the umbrella for her, but she still has small droplets gathering at the front of her hairline. She tries to shake them off. Jonathan hands her a napkin from the dispenser at the end of the table. He’s smiling when he gives it to her, and she finally lets herself smile back before she starts dabbing.
“I hope you weren’t waiting too long.” Probably the most polite thing I’ve ever heard from Sutton.
“Oh, you know me,” Jonathan says as both of their eyes glance to the puddle of slush my frozen yogurt has turned into. “Always fashionably early.”
And they laugh, the way they used to, at something small and silly. I feel embarrassed and queasy all at the same time at the reminder of them together over a year ago and awareness of how unnatural it feels for them to be like that again.
It’s a relief when Henry comes back, toting a bowl of peppermint for Sutton and a bowl of vanilla for himself. He’s soaking wet, but he doesn’t bother taking off his dripping jacket. I think it’s a statement. He’s not going to be here very long, so there’s no reason to get comfortable.
“Sorry we’re late,” Henry says, and no one answers him. “And sorry about . . .” He doesn’t have to finish. We all know he means the fight, bruises still showing faintly on Jonathan’s face.
“Just doing what you had to do, I guess,” Jonathan says, not being discreet about rolling his eyes.
Henry takes his first bite of frozen yogurt, I assume as an attempt to contain himself.
“Boys are such heathens,” Sutton says. I think she must be talking to me, the only other non-boy here, but her eyes stay locked on Jonathan.
Jonathan looks away, taking my frozen yogurt and stirring it with purpose.
“So, how’s this supposed to go?” Jonathan asks.
I glance at Sutton, but she looks unmoved.
“It’s just . . . it’s not supposed to go a certain way,” I say. I glance at Henry for support, but he’s not looking at me; his scowl rivals Sutton’s in intensity. “Just talk.”
“To Sutton,” Henry adds, and the reaction that follows—another eye roll from Jonathan, a deep sigh from Sutton—makes me realize that this could very well be the worst idea ever.
“If this is supposed to be your chance to grill Sutton and me about being in the same room together with a bottle of vodka, well, worry no more—it won’t happen again,” Jonathan says.
“Don’t you have anything else you’d like to say . . . ?” Henry says.
“Plenty. But nothing that’s appropriate to say in front of my baby sister.”
Sutton lets the spoon linger in her mouth a second longer after she takes a bite; I suspect this is to hide how badly she wants to smile.
“Seriously . . .” Henry sighs.
“Jonathan—” I start.
“Sutton knows how it is with us.” It’s intimate the way Jonathan says it, his voice low, his stare fixed on her. He looks to Henry, and goes cold. “Don’t sit here and pretend this is really about me and Sutton.”
“You’re right,” Henry says. “It’s about you.”
“It’s about you, man,” Jonathan says, ticking his finger back and forth at Henry and me. “Because you’re mad at me, and it’s affecting how you feel about her.”
“That’s not exactly—”
Jonathan cuts him off. He turns in the booth so he’s facing me. “There’ll be someone better, someone who won’t hold me against you—”
“Right, then.” Henry lets go of his spoon and lets his hand fall to the table with a thud. “I only agreed to this because you don’t return any of my sister’s phone calls, and I thought that maybe, with Amanda here, you’d show her the respect you should have shown over a year ago by having a real conversation with her—”
“That’s enough, Henry. Shit,” Sutton says.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jonathan says to Henry.
“Why not say something about Grace?” Even Henry’s eyes widen when her name flies out of my mouth. I’ve got glares all around: Too soon, from Henry. How dare you, from Sutton. I warned you, from Jonathan.
“There are some things only Sutton and I understand,” Jonathan says.
But I don’t know what Sutton understands and what she doesn’t; if she knows that his behavior in public, crass and unforgivable as it is, is partly, maybe mostly, for her—so she’ll stop fixating on all the ways she thinks she’s to blame. I don’t know if he’s ever actually explained it to her, even in the roundabout way he attempted to clue me in. And sometimes, it doesn’t matter what anyone tells you to think or feel, your own mind and heart will decide for you and make an inarguable case against any sort of logic or reason.
I take a quick swipe at my eyes. Here, now, is not the time or place for me to cry, but I don’t try to hide my tears.
“Hey.” Jonathan’s hand is on my shoulder. “I told you this was a bad idea. It’s okay, let’s just go.”
“That’s a great solution. Just brilliant,” Henry says. But he’s the one who leaves, walking away from his frozen yogurt and Sutton and me. The door swings back and forth with a squeak, letting in a short rush of outside traffic noise.
Sutton seems unaffected, staring down into her frozen yogurt dish, stirring it, lifting a small spoonful to her mouth.
As I stand to go a
fter him, Jonathan grabs my hand. “Don’t,” he says. “You shouldn’t go after him when he’s upset.”
Maybe Jonathan is looking out for my best interests, but I can see something else in his pleading eyes. He’s afraid. He doesn’t want to be alone with Sutton.
I tug my hand away and ignore Jonathan when he yells, “Hey.” I know Henry won’t abandon Sutton here, but I still walk quickly.
Henry’s standing with his back to the large windows. He has his keys out, and his grip around them is tight.
“Let’s go for a drive?” I say.
I can’t tell if he’s surprised to see me when he turns around. It’s still raining, but not very hard. There’s more of a mist in the air. I have the stupidest urge to grin at the way it’s left small droplets clinging to Henry’s hair.
“I’m not going anywhere.” His voice is deadpan. “I would never just take off on her like that.” He glances over his shoulder, then turns toward the windows. “I wouldn’t do that to you either.”
I position myself in front of him, close enough to touch him, but I don’t. His eyes are locked on the scene behind me. I step to the side, standing next to him so I can see what he sees. Sutton and Jonathan. Jonathan’s talking fast, still managing to smirk, and Sutton’s nodding, looking down every once in a while, and not really smiling back. Out of nowhere, she laughs so hard her eyes close, and she’s covering her mouth, leaning forward as her other hand smacks once against the table. Jonathan’s laughing now, too, but his lips are still moving, talking.
“What do you think could possibly be so funny?” Henry asks.
“I don’t think we’d get it.”
Henry doesn’t answer right away. “Probably not,” he finally says.
I take his hand.
Staring at Jonathan through the dingy windows, I know there’ll always be a divide. I know there’ll be a lot I’ll never understand. Generally after someone says I’m sorry, there’s an exchange in forgiveness. Or there’s closure, plain and simple. But we don’t always get that. We learn the hard way. We do the wrong thing. We pay for it. We regret. We cry. We try to make it up to people. We punish ourselves. We lose, again and again.
“Amanda,” Henry says. He lets go of my hand to wipe the single tear that weaseled its way down my cheek. “Remember when I said there was an exact moment when I knew I liked you?” I nod.
“The more I think about it,” he continues, “I can’t choose one.”
This is the best thing he could’ve said to me, telling me that the way he feels about me isn’t an isolated incident. I picture a whole cluster of moments, stacked up tall and strong. I wrap my arms around him, so tight it’s like I’m trying to feel every molecule of him against me. He holds me just as firmly, bowing his head so his cheek presses against my temple.
We both jump at a loud pounding sound, and turn to see a white streak of frozen yogurt sliding down the window.
Sutton’s laughing, shaking her head, and Jonathan’s motioning for us to step away from each other, a good-humored frown playing on his lips. I lean into Henry, shaking against him with laughter. He’s laughing a little, too.
It’s an almost miracle, I think, that things can change so horrifically—that we can be the cause of that change—and we still manage to live with ourselves, to live with one another. An even bigger miracle is the ways we find to cope with our own brutal mistakes and accept them, especially when there’s no solution. Maybe, when there’s no repairing what we’ve wrecked and we have to navigate around the sharp, broken parts of our own destruction, that’s when we need one another the most.
CHAPTER
FIFTY-THREE
My brother’s tattoo, translated, says, “There is no greater sorrow.”
It’s plucked from the verse: “There is no greater sorrow than to be mindful of the happy time in misery.”
He lets me in on this secret mere minutes before he’s about to step through the prison doors. Again. This time he won’t be coming home for three years.
“I don’t know what to say,” I tell him.
He doesn’t smile. “Neither do I.”
“Good-bye,” I offer.
But he’s silent as my parents hug him, and Gary leads him through the doors back to jail.
“Wait—” Panic hits me all at once. My dad catches my hand as I step forward.
I want to scream. What’s going to happen to you?
Jonathan glances over his shoulder once, before the door falls shut.
It’s the late afternoon when we get back. There are two shadows sitting on the front steps, backlit by a gray sunset. I’d been texting with Dawn and Henry the entire ride home, and here they both are, standing up and coming toward me as I get out of the car and rush up the walkway.
I hug Dawn, even though it’s Henry who looks like he could use the hug. He nervously scuffs his toe along the pavement, marking a line in the snow dusted on the walkway after shoveling. He’s holding a pink box that I suspect contains ham-and-cheese croissants from Ludwig’s.
I pull back from Dawn. “What are you doing here?” I ask both of them.
“You know how my finals ended yesterday, but I wasn’t scheduled to fly out until tonight?” I’m nodding as she continues. I can’t stop staring at her—she looks the same! Except for the tan, of course. I’m amazed that I can even recognize her after the past few months, when she’s seemed like such a stranger. “I was able to switch to an earlier flight, so here I am.”
We both look at Henry at the exact same time.
“I was supposed to be the surprise,” Dawn says, smiling at him. “But I saw him sitting in his car across the street, in front of my house, after I got your text that said you were ten minutes away.”
I nod. Henry got the same text.
Dawn shrugs. “Since we were both waiting for you to get home, I thought we might as well wait together.” I don’t think the old Dawn, pre-UCSB—the Dawn who agreed that I shouldn’t cry in front of certain people, and who thought dating Graham was a great idea—would have done this.
“I brought an assortment from Ludwig’s,” Henry says, looking down again, now that my parents have started up the walkway.
“Dawn! Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” She laughs as my father hugs her, and glances at me over his shoulder. I’m sure she’s thinking about chapter 1: “Generalities.” Mumsy takes Dawn’s hand and gives her a cheek press in place of a kiss on the cheek, since she’s wearing lipstick. But I notice she doesn’t let go of Dawn’s hand right away.
My parents acknowledge Henry at the same time, in the same way—by holding their breath and smiling awkwardly. My dad tries to say something but ends up just letting out a big puff of air.
“You guys know Henry, right?” post-high-school Dawn says, surprising us all.
They only know Henry as Sutton’s brother, a passing face, in and out of our house to retrieve her. I’m trying to think of something to say to smooth things over, to introduce Henry as someone who’s important to me.
“What’s that you’ve got there, Henry?” My mother addresses Henry, and I’m shocked that she’s brave enough to speak to Sutton’s younger brother. She nods at the large box in his hands.
“From Ludwig’s,” Henry says. “He loaded me up with every flavor.” He glances at me, gives a half shrug. “I thought that maybe . . .” But he doesn’t finish.
“I don’t usually eat pastries,” Mumsy says.
He nods, straightening his arms and lowering the doughnut box.
“But today, I could really use one.”
He hesitates, but smiles as she reaches out to take the box from him.
“Come on,” my dad says, motioning like he’s going to scoop us all up and carry us. “It’s freezing out here, and those doughnuts are getting cold.”
“He was in his car, hiding,” Dawn says to my dad as she walks beside him up the walkway. I want to kill her. But maybe she’s helping us do what we should have done all along, breaking down the tension. May
be she’s been gone long enough to see right through it. Maybe it’s because she’s here for only a few weeks and doesn’t have time for this.
“No more hiding,” my dad says, looking over his shoulder and winking at Henry and me in a move he must’ve pulled from chapter 14: “How to Royally Embarrass Your Daughter.”
I grab Henry’s hand as we walk inside, and he seems more relaxed. I think that everything won’t always be so hard. Someday we’ll stop measuring things in sadness and anger. Someday we’ll learn how to live carelessly.
LIFELINE EXCLUSIVE: TROUBLED YOUTH SERIES: WHERE ARE THEY NOW?
PATRICIA JOHNSON INTERVIEWING JONATHAN TART, JANUARY, THIRTY DAYS INTO HIS INCARCERATION. UNEDITED.
Airdate: April 29
PJ: Jonathan, nice to see you again.
JT: Is it? Really? Nice to see you again, too, Patricia.
PJ: I wish it were under different circumstances.
JT: We can’t keep meeting like this.
PJ: Why don’t you go ahead and tell us why you’re back in here?
JT: Gross violation of my probation. Specifically, public drunkenness. Even more specifically, public urination.
PJ: After the leniency of your last sentence, why would you disregard the restraints of your probation? What happened?
JT: I never met a bottle of whiskey I didn’t like.
PJ: You’ll be twenty in a few days, I’m told.
JT: It’s true. I’m growing up.
PJ: You had the opportunity to put your mistakes behind you—frankly, a real shot at a second chance that not many people get. Several young people find themselves in this position, back in jail, breaking the rules set forth under their probation. Why do you think that is?
JT: Speaking only for myself—
PJ: Of course, of course.
JT: I felt untouchable.
PJ: Like nothing so bad could ever happen to you . . .
JT: Like, I didn’t care if it did.
PJ: That’s a shame. It was a real opportunity for you to set an example.
JT: A bad example, you’re right.
PJ: So why not rise to the occasion?