More Than We Can Tell

by Brigid Kemmerer

  Mr. Murphy’s breath shakes. “I’m so … I’m so glad you boys are still friends.”

  “Of course,” says Declan, his voice uncertain.

  They fall into silence, just staring at each other. The air is full of nervous energy, on both sides. I want to leave the table, to give them some space, but I don’t want to leave Dec here when it all still feels so unpredictable.

  His father takes a long, shaking breath. “When they—when they told me you were here—” His face almost crumples, and he presses a hand to his eyes. “I thought it was a joke.”

  Declan’s eyes are wet, too, but he snorts. “That would be a shitty joke.”

  His father laughs through his tears. “You’re right. It would be.” He reaches out a hand and places it over his son’s. “I’m so glad you’re here. I have missed you—” His voice breaks. “I have missed you so much.”

  Declan’s breath catches, but he turns his hand to clasp his father’s. “I missed you, too.”

  “Murphy!” the guard barks. “Three seconds.”

  They let go. Draw back. A reminder that this is not a normal father-son reunion.

  But the interruption seems to help them move past the tears.

  “Does your mom know you’re here?”

  Declan shakes his head. “I thought—” He hesitates as if unprepared for this question. “I thought it might upset her.”

  His father nods, and a wave of emotion washes over his face. “She’s doing okay, though?”

  “She—” Declan takes a breath, and his hesitation is full of things he’s not sure he wants to talk about. Her marriage to Alan. Her pregnancy. I know this because he talked about all of it in the car. “Yeah. She’s okay.”

  His shoulders are tense. He’s worried his father is going to press for more information, and this visit is going to go south.

  But his father doesn’t. He reaches out a hand to touch Declan again, almost as if he can’t help it. “I need—I need to tell you how sorry I am. How sorry I am for what I put you through. How sorry I am for poor Kerry.” A tear snakes down his face.

  Declan nods. “I’m sorry, too.” He pulls his hand back, then glances at the guards. “I don’t want them to yell at me again.”

  His father smiles through the tears, then swipes at his face again. “They’re yelling at me.”

  “Oh.” Declan looks abashed.

  “Tell me about you. Tell me what I’ve missed.”

  Declan takes another breath and lets it out. “I don’t know how to put five years into thirty minutes.”

  His father’s eyes mist over again, and he quite visibly shakes it off. “Try. Please.”

  Declan’s face changes as he sifts through memories. I wonder what he’s looking for. His mom isn’t a safe target. He may not feel comfortable talking about Juliet, given the way they met, and how so much of their relationship is woven through grief and healing.

  It’s strange, to sit here with them and know I was a part of Declan’s life for so long, and his father knows none of it.

  With a start, I realize the opposite is also true.

  Declan finally says, “I still have the Charger.”

  “You do!” His father lights up.

  Declan nods. Some of the tension drains from his posture. He can talk about cars with anyone, anywhere, until the end of time. So can his dad.

  Declan says, “I finished rebuilding it after—” His voice stops. “After. I’d show you a picture but they wouldn’t let us bring our phones in.”

  “That’s okay. That’s okay. I’d kill to get my hands on an engine again.”

  His words hang in the air for a moment. It’s like they both realize what he’s said.

  Declan lets it go. “I’ve been doing some work with this auto club. All custom stuff. It’s been fun. I’m putting away some money for school.”

  “School! That’s right, you’re graduating this year. Where are you going?”

  “Hey,” I say, and it’s almost as if they’ve forgotten I’m there. Which is fine. Which is good, actually. “I’m going to go wait by the door so you can have some privacy.” I glance at Dec. “Okay?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “Thanks, Rev.”

  I’m worried the guards are going to give me a hard time for not sitting “with my party,” but I walk over to the door, and the guard standing closest asks me if I’m ready for an escort out. I say that I’d rather wait, if that’s okay, and he gestures to an empty table.

  “Rules still apply,” he says.

  I can’t exactly touch anyone from here, but I guess he means I need to keep my hands visible. I can do that.

  It feels odd, though, to be sitting at a table, my bare forearms right there. I take off clothes to shower and change, obviously, but I don’t really look at myself. The scars are many and varied. The arcs from the stove. The thick white lines from the knife wounds that probably needed stitches, but never got them. Small pink patches where I was burned with a match or a lighter. The embedded ink where my father wanted to make sure a message really stuck with me.

  Like seeing Jim Murphy, these marks are familiar, but they feel foreign, too. I stare at them so long, I begin to think I’m staring at someone else.

  “Rev. We’re done.”

  I look up at Declan—and he looks … raw. My eyes flick to the table where they were sitting, but his father is gone.

  “You okay?” I say.

  “Yeah.” And then he just turns for the door.

  He doesn’t say much as we sign out, get our things, and leave the facility. The sun has begun to set, bringing a bite to the breeze. When the air hits my arms, I don’t want to put the sweatshirt on. I want to stretch my arms out and feel it.

  I feel like a fool, walking along beside my friend, who is so obviously Going Through Something. When we’re in the parking lot, he pulls the keys out of his pocket and holds them out.

  “Can you drive?”

  I don’t question this; just close my fingers around the steel. “Sure.”

  It’s not until we’re climbing into the car that he finally seems to look at me. “You didn’t put your sweatshirt back on.”

  “I know.” I start the ignition and put the car in gear. “Are you hungry? I told Mom we might not be back for dinner.” She knows where we are. I can’t lie to them anymore, and I know she won’t tell Declan’s mom.

  “No.” He stares out at the sinking sun. But then he glances over. “If you want to stop, go ahead.”

  “I’m fine.”

  When we’re on the highway, the road humming below us, he finally speaks. “I don’t know what I expected. I think I turned him into this monster in my head. If that makes any sense.” He glances at me and doesn’t wait for a response. “Of course it makes sense. But I was so worried he wouldn’t want to see me, that he’s blamed me all this time. But he doesn’t. He blames himself. And he’s so sad. I didn’t expect him to be so sad.”

  Declan rubs his hands across his face. “He’s just a man who screwed up, Rev. He’s just—he’s just a man. I don’t think I ever realized that. Isn’t that stupid?”

  “No,” I say.

  He doesn’t say anything else. The car gradually darkens as the sun sets, and we’re trapped in the safety of this little cocoon. He’s so intensely quiet for so long that I glance over.

  He’s sound asleep.

  Wow. At least he asked me to drive.

  I glance at the clock on the dash. We’re almost home, but it’s only half past six. I don’t have to meet Emma for another ninety minutes.

  So I skip our exit. I drive. And Declan sleeps.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Emma

  There’s a meeting at the church tonight, so the lights are on, the parking lot crowded. A few people mill around by the front entrance. I wasn’t sure if Rev wanted to meet on the benches again, but we don’t have that option unless we want to share with a man wrangling two toddlers.

  I go around the other side, Texy trotting along dutifully bes
ide me. I can’t let her off the leash with this many people here, and I want to prevent some do-gooder from yelling about how I can’t let my dog crap on the lawn.

  Then I drop in the grass, fish out my phone, and wait.

  I have a little surprise for you.

  So far, nothing more from Nightmare. And every passing minute feeds tension into my muscles. Outside of the game, his messages are full of subtext, but they contain nothing directly threatening. I don’t even have a way to prove they’re coming from the same person.

  I wish I could turn my thoughts off.

  Rev must have Declan’s car, because I recognize the vehicle that slows and parks along the curb.

  When he gets out of the driver’s side, I watch him pull on a sweatshirt, then muss up his hair to shake the static out of it.

  He wasn’t wearing a sweatshirt. Interesting.

  Texy is excited to see him, and I drop the leash so she can greet him properly. She practically tackles him.

  He rubs her face and neck, wrestling her a little. I can see his grin from here. It lights up his whole face. I don’t think I’ve seen him smile like that before. He looks more … relaxed than he’s been. I wonder what’s changed.

  Also, I’m jealous.

  “Hey,” Rev says. “I didn’t know this place would be busy.”

  “Me either.”

  “Do you want to go somewhere?”

  Allow me to fall over. I glance behind him at the car. “Your friend wouldn’t mind dog hair in the car? And where could we go with Texy?”

  He shrugs. “I meant we could walk for a bit. Dec is asleep in the passenger seat.”

  “Really? It’s eight o’clock.”

  “He’s had … a long day.”

  “We can walk. Is it okay to leave him?”

  “We’re not really leaving him.” He points. “We can walk up to the dead end.”

  “Okay.”

  So we walk. The grass surrounding the church has been mowed recently, and the scents of cut grass and pollen are thick in the air. The few days of rain have brought colder temperatures, and the breeze bites at my cheeks.

  I have no idea what to say.

  He must not either, because he walks in silence. Texy’s dog tags jingle as she jogs along.

  “I’m sorry,” Rev says. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you in the car when you were asking about my parents.”

  “You don’t have to apologize.”

  “No. I do. It’s okay to ask. You know that saying about how there are no bad questions, only bad answers? Dad says that all the time. He loves that people ask questions. He loves when people ask questions, especially about race or politics or religion. He says the Internet makes too many people loud, and too many people silent, but the loud people are all we hear. We have to ask questions to hear the silent people.”

  “I think I’d like your dad,” I say.

  Rev smiles, and there’s genuine warmth there. “I didn’t mean to get too serious. But you apologized, and I felt like I needed to.”

  He didn’t need to. Or maybe he did, because he’s removed the wedge between us so simply, with just a few words. “I liked the quote in your note. About one person sharpening another.”

  He nods. “It’s one of my favorites.”

  A car slides down the street, and Rev glances behind us, to make sure it goes past his friend, and then he turns his gaze forward again.

  “I actually looked for a lot of quotes about divorce first,” I say. I frown and push a strand of hair out of my face. “They were all … terrible.”

  “Sometimes I have to remind myself that the world was different when those words were written down. And even though they’re supposedly inspired by God, they’re still being interpreted by humans—and humans can be wrong. When you zoom out and look at everything, any belief system can seem a little crazy. Especially when you look at what people do in the name of religion.”

  “Are you talking about wars?”

  “I could be, but no. I’m talking about people.”

  “What kind of people?”

  We’ve reached the end of the road, where there’s a guardrail backed by woods. Road grit and debris sits thick in the street, because we’re half a block from the intersection, and the only house here has a For Sale sign, and looks deserted. The overhead light has burned out.

  Rev turns and sits on the guardrail. We can see the church from here, Declan’s car sitting quietly in the street. The stained glass windows of the church are stunning with the light from within, the crucifixion images blurred into masses of color that don’t depict suffering from here, only beauty.

  “All kinds of people,” Rev says quietly.

  And then I realize he’s talking about his father.

  I sit down on the guardrail beside him, then drop Texy’s leash to let her nose around.

  “You weren’t wearing your sweatshirt in the car,” I say.

  He’s quiet for a moment. “We went to visit Declan’s father. They wouldn’t let me wear it inside.”

  My eyebrows go up. “Jeez. Where’s his father? In prison?”

  I’m joking, but Rev nods. “Dec hasn’t seen him in five years. Like I said. Long day. I think he’s wiped out.”

  Five years. I try to imagine going five years without seeing my father.

  Right now, I welcome the idea.

  I glance over at Rev. Every time I’m with him, I want to stare. Some of that is because he keeps so much hidden. All I ever see is the edge of his jaw, the sculpted arch of his lips, the line of his nose. His eyes, always in shadow.

  I think of gaming, where I’m in control and no one sees the real me. I wonder if the computer is my version of the hoodie.

  Our hands are side by side on the guardrail, but tonight is different from Saturday. I don’t have the nerve to take his hand.

  “Why’d you put it back on?” I ask him.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Liar. You do know.”

  He goes still, but then he shakes his head and gives a little laugh. “You’re fearless.”

  I must be dreaming this conversation. “I’m what? No, I’m not.”

  “Yes. You are. You never hesitate.” He turns his head to look at me fully. “I think it’s what I like best about you. It’s why I thought of the verse about iron sharpening iron. Every time I’m around you, I want to be braver.”

  My head spins. And here I thought that Ethan calling me a badass couldn’t be improved.

  Rev turns and looks back at the road. His foot kicks at the grit there. “I put the sweatshirt back on because I didn’t want you to think less of me.”

  “Rev.” I’m shaking my head. “I could never—”

  He takes his sweatshirt off.

  All the breath leaves my lungs in a rush. I was wrong before. Now I’m dreaming.

  He drapes the sweatshirt beside him. He’s not looking at me.

  “If I have a stroke, call my parents,” he says.

  I can’t help staring. The black T-shirt clings to his frame, and we’re sitting at the dark end of the street, but the scars on white skin are obvious. So is the black, spidery writing that stretches down each arm from wrist to sleeve, making for unusual tattoos.

  Though honestly, I can’t look away from his biceps. “Okay. If I have one, you call mine.”

  He laughs, softly, and glances at me. “That’s the second time I’ve done that today. Each time, I expect it to be horrible—and then it’s not.”

  “Horrible how?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what I think is going to happen. Isn’t that strange?”

  “No.”

  “Before this afternoon, I would have said there are only a handful of people who’ve seen me in short sleeves.”

  “I can’t believe you’re sitting here like this, but you called me fearless.” I pause. “And you’ve never gone to school like this?”

  “No.” He pauses. “Don’t you know? They call me the Grim Reaper.”

 
; “I do know. I didn’t know that you did.”

  He gives me a look. “Come on. I’m weird, but I’m not stupid.”

  I think it’s funny that he calls himself weird. He’s the most self-aware teenager I’ve ever met. “Does it bother you?”

  “In middle school, it used to bother me a lot.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing happened. I sat in the back of the classroom and ignored it, and eventually they got bored and found a new target.” He shrugs, like this is nothing. “This is so strange,” he says. “I forgot what air felt like.” He stretches his hands out over his head, then lets them fall into his lap. “I feel like a little kid.”

  If he doesn’t stop stretching his arms around, I’m going to start swooning. I lean closer. “What does your tattoo say?”

  “It’s not a tattoo.” He pauses. “I mean, it is, but—my father did it himself. It goes all the way across my shoulders. From one arm down the other.”

  Every time he tells me something about his father, I don’t think it can get worse, and then it does. I swallow. “He did it himself ?” I stop myself before asking if it hurt. Of course it hurt.

  “Yes.”

  I begin to make out the words. “ ‘… so shalt thou put evil away from among you—’ ”

  He slaps a hand over his forearm. “Don’t read it out loud.”

  I jerk back and straighten, horrified. “I’m sorry.”

  “No.” His voice is tight. After a moment he very deliberately pulls his hand away, then braces both hands on the guardrail. “I’m sorry. It’s a verse about how a disobedient child should be put to death.” He pauses. “He sent it to me in an e-mail this afternoon, too.”

  Wow. I don’t know what to say.

  “I hate it,” he says, and I think it’s the first time I’ve ever heard venom in his voice.

  “Do you want to put your sweatshirt back on?” I whisper.

  “Yes. And no.” He makes no move to grab it.

  “Do you want to hold my hand?” I hold mine out.

  He looks over in surprise.

  Then he takes a slow breath and laces his fingers through mine.

  His palm is warm against my own, his fingers sure and strong. This is what’s missing from my online friendship. The warmth of a human connection. The sound of his breath and the feel of his skin. For a moment, I want to close my eyes and revel in it.