by Robin Benway
The note was still lying at the bottom of the box, still yellowed and soft, and I pulled it out and let the box fall on the floor. “Look!” I said again, shoving the note at him. “This is all I had for ten years, okay? The last time your dad was here, this was all I had left of you.” I was trying not to cry and failing miserably at it. “And I don’t want it to be all that’s left, either.”
Oliver’s face was stricken, and the note seemed so small between his hands. I could see his jaw tighten, his eyes filling with tears as he read the words. “Emmy,” he said, his voice strained. “I’m not going to leave you.”
“Stop saying that!” I screamed. “You keep making it sound like it was your fault when it was all his fault!”
“That’s what you don’t understand!” Now he was yelling, too. “All of this is my fault!”
“What are you talking about?” I cried. “You were seven! That’s ridiculous!”
“Not then! Now! All of this”—he waved an arm toward his house, toward the daily struggle of trying to return home after ten years somewhere else—“this is all my fault.”
“How?” I yelled, throwing my hands into the air. “Because you let them take your fingerprint? Enlighten me, Oliver, please! How exactly is all of this your fault?”
“Because I made sure my dad wasn’t in the apartment that day! That’s how it’s my fault! He wasn’t arrested because of me. I made sure of it.”
It was like all the air got sucked out of the room. We were both breathing hard by now and for a few seconds, that and the blood pounding in my head were the only things I could hear. “What?” I finally said when I was able to speak again. “What are you . . . ?”
“I told him,” Oliver said, and his eyes were rapidly filling with tears, so fast that as soon as he wiped them away, fresh ones took their place. “That next morning at breakfast, I told him about how they had fingerprinted me at the police station. He didn’t really say anything. He just said he had to go out for the day. And then he left.”
He sank down onto my desk chair, the tears starting to come fast and furious, but I didn’t move from the bed. Oliver was full-on crying now, but I didn’t want to stop him from talking. “Did you—tell him that you knew?”
Oliver shook his head. “No, it just happened that way. But I didn’t think I wouldn’t get to say goodbye to him, you know? I thought I could tell him or at least hug him once more or something. And now he’s here and I just want to see him again, Emmy. That’s all I want. I just miss him so bad and I fucked up everything and I ruined my mom’s new family and the twins and Rick and I thought it would be okay but it’s not and I’m sorry, Em, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. . . .”
Oliver was about to say something else, but when he took a breath, the tears finally got the best of him and he pressed his palms to his eyes as his shoulders started to shake. He cried silently, in so much pain that there was no sound to equal it, and in that moment, he reminded me of his mom, of those nights when she would sob at our dining room table, aching for something she couldn’t have.
I got up from the bed and walked over to him, sitting down on his lap and gathering him in my arms. He hung on to me tightly, so tight that I thought my ribs might crack, but it was okay. I could take it. I could do it for him. I stroked my hand over his tangled hair, protecting him from anything and everything that had happened, from everything that was about to happen, and I held Oliver while he sobbed.
We sat there for long minutes, until he was gasping and shuddering against my shoulder. My sweatshirt was wet and cold with his tears, soaked straight through to my heart, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything except the fact that Oliver had been carrying way too big of a burden for way too long. I tucked his hair behind his ear, smoothing it off his forehead the way my mom would do to me whenever I woke in the night with a nightmare about Oliver.
“Fuck,” was the first thing he said, and we both laughed a little. “Sorry. Wow. Sorry.”
“Stop saying you’re sorry,” I murmured. “Better?”
He nodded, and I started to get up to get some tissues for him, but he just wrapped his arms around my waist and held on to me. I sat back down, resting my cheek against the top of his hair. “I just don’t want the next time I see my dad to be in a courtroom.” Oliver sighed. “Or through a plate-glass window while he’s wearing an orange jumpsuit.”
I just hugged him and didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything to say. Sometimes there just aren’t enough words to fill the cracks in your heart.
Oliver sighed again, still sounding shaky. His breath brushed against my collarbone as he spoke. “You think I’m crazy.”
“No, I don’t,” I said. “I think you’re a kid who got put into a shitty situation that can’t be solved. But I don’t think this will end with everyone getting what they want, Ollie.”
Oliver nodded and then sat up a little. His eyes were swollen and I pressed my thumbs against his cheeks to mop up the tears, just like he had done for me that night on the swing set, when he told me that coming home was like being kidnapped all over again. He looked up at me, his face tired, and I kissed his eyes, the leftover salt water stinging my lips. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“For what?” he whispered back.
“Just that you have to go through this. That I can’t help you.”
“You help every day,” he murmured, then found my hands with his and twined our fingers together, holding them between us.
“Do you want to lie down for a minute?” I asked, and he nodded.
We lay on my bed in the dark for a long time that night, Oliver’s head on my shoulder and my legs tangled with his. Once the lights were out, I raised the blinds again so we could see out the window. It was a full moon that night and its light cast through the room, throwing blue shadows against my desk, my clothes, my bed.
Oliver was quiet next to me, his fingertips stroking up and down my arm. “Can I tell you something?”
“It’s a little late to start asking that question,” I teased him, but I kept my arms tight around him. “You can tell me anything, you know that.”
“Remember last night when we were outside with Drew and he was saying that he was jealous of me?” Oliver paused for a few seconds. “The truth is that I was jealous of him, too.”
“Why?” I asked him.
“That night at the party. He had this huge house and the fact that his parents are married and he has this cool older brother that’s, like, always there for him. I thought he had it so easy. And plus, he’s known you all these years and I haven’t. He got to spend all that time with you.” Oliver shifted a little against me and I could feel his chest tighten. “You don’t think I should go see my dad, do you?”
“No,” I whispered back. “But that’s just because I’m scared.”
“Why are you scared?”
I looked at him, trying to be brave. “Because I’m scared you’ll leave with your dad and I won’t know where you are again.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” he said, and he kissed me as if to ground himself, to prove that he would stay. “I would never do that.”
“And I’m scared that your dad is on the run from the police and you might get hurt.”
“He would never hurt me, Em.”
I turned so we were facing each other, sharing my pillow. “He hurt you enough the first time.”
He didn’t say anything after that, and I ran my hand under his shirt, stroking his stomach, then rested my arm in the curve of his hip. “Are you going to tell your mom?” he asked.
“No,” I whispered. “Are you going to tell yours?”
Oliver hesitated too long for my comfort. “You should,” I said. “You should tell someone besides me. Like, an actual adult who can make things happen.”
“I know. But I keep picturing him sitting all alone in the restaurant, waiting for me and . . .” Oliver’s voice caught a little and I wrapped my leg around his, curling closer to him. “I just can’t d
o that,” he said when he could talk again. “I can’t have that image in my head.”
“Okay,” I whispered, even though nothing felt okay, not at all.
Oliver closed his eyes and was about to say something else when his phone started to buzz. “Shit,” he muttered, and then he was up and trying to find it. I snuggled into the warm spot he had left behind, smelling his shampoo on my pillow, trying to slow my brain down from its breakneck pace.
“It’s my mom,” he said. His voice was raw after crying so hard. “She wants me to come home.”
“Okay,” I said, sitting up a little. “Do you think she’s going to tell my mom that you came over?”
“I’ll make it sound like we were just studying if she asks about it,” he said. “Can I?” He gestured toward the bathroom and I waved him in. I watched as he splashed water on his face, then used my towel to dry it off. I had to look away when he looked in the mirror. It hurt too much, watching him look for answers in his own reflection and not finding anything there.
I got up and walked him downstairs. My hair was probably a disaster and my shirt was still damp, but I didn’t care. It was funny, I never cared about those things with Oliver. I didn’t worry about how I looked. All that mattered was how I felt.
“See you at school?” he said.
“You better,” I replied, then stood on my tiptoes to kiss him goodbye. “I mean it. I’m driving you there and back tomorrow.”
“Noted,” he said, then kissed me one last time before pulling his hoodie up over his head and going out the door. I watched until he had disappeared into the dark, then locked the door, turned off all the lights downstairs, and went back upstairs. Usually, it freaked me out to be home alone in the dark at night, but I was too exhausted to care that night.
Even so, I lay awake for most of the night, blinking at the man in the moon as he stared back at me. I heard both of my parents come home separately, and I also heard both of them open my bedroom door to check on me. I pretended to be asleep then, but part of me wished they could tell I was faking it, that they could figure out the truth without me having to tell them.
But they just closed the door and walked away, their footsteps fading down the hall, and that night when I finally fell asleep, I dreamed I was chasing Oliver down the same hallway, his hooded figure getting smaller and smaller until I couldn’t see him anymore, until he was gone once again.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
School was a joke the next day. Between insomnia and nightmares, I was sort of a disaster and managed to forget my math homework, my lunch, and my house keys. “Trifecta,” I muttered to myself once I realized that they were all missing.
When I wasn’t busy forgetting things, I was keeping an eye out for Oliver. I normally didn’t see him until lunchtime, but I caught a glimpse of him ducking into the counselor’s office at the start of lunch, which made me relax a little. Maybe he was telling her about the letter? Maybe they were calling the police right now?
I spent most of lunch in the library, redoing my calculus homework that was due next period. I kept glancing up, waiting to see Oliver standing in front of me, but he never appeared. I dashed through the problems, not even checking to see if they were right, and as soon as I was done, I went to where Oliver, Caro, Drew, and I had all eaten lunch the day before. (Had that really just been the day before? It seemed like a lifetime ago.) “Sorry!” Caro yelled when she saw me, and I froze. “The burrito queen is out of stock today! You’ve exhausted her benevolence!”
Drew just rolled his eyes. “Today is DIY day, apparently,” he said to me. “Hope you brought something. Because otherwise, it’s a giant bag of Funyuns for you. Which, despite the clever name, are never fun.” He looked pleased with himself for realizing this.
“Where’s Oliver?” I asked, and there must have been something in my voice because Caro and Drew seemed to sober up fast.
“Um, I don’t . . .” Caro looked around like he was hiding behind her, ready to pop out and yell, “Surprise!” “I haven’t really seen him, but I don’t see that much, anyway.”
“Yeah, same,” Drew said. “You okay? You look a little . . .” He grimaced, which was apparently the universal facial symbol for “stressed and terrified.”
“Yeah, I. I, um, I have to find him,” I said, backing away from their lunch. The bell suddenly rang, shrill and impatient, and I jumped. “I have to go.”
“Wait, Emmy,” Caro said. “You have class, Em, you can’t—”
But for the first time in my life, I didn’t care if I got caught ditching. Oliver wasn’t on campus. I knew it. I just knew it. I knew it the same way I knew he was gone when he didn’t show up that Tuesday for school ten years ago. Even back then, something hadn’t been right and that rock in my stomach was settling back into its old, familiar spot once again.
I did a quick loop of the campus, then went past his locker and scanned the library, just in case I had missed him. But he wasn’t anywhere and it felt like my dream from the night before was suddenly becoming a horrible reality. Oliver was gone and I couldn’t find him.
But this time was different. This time, I knew where he was.
I ran to my car, my hands shaking so hard that my keys jingled together. The parking lot was packed with people returning from lunch, so no one noticed when I pulled out and sped down the street. I wanted to call my mom, but I was scared that she would freak out. I wanted to call Maureen, but I didn’t have her number. And I wanted to call the police, but I was scared that Oliver would somehow be in trouble, that he’d be charged with helping his dad. I didn’t know what the rules were, or if his dad was even waiting for him.
So I got into my car and went to find Oliver.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The restaurant was half empty when I drove past it. Apparently, my mom wasn’t the only person who hadn’t liked their fries. At first, I had been afraid that I wouldn’t remember how to get there, but then familiar markers—the gas station on the corner, the dollar store, the psychic who only charges twenty-five dollars to lie to you—started to pop up, and when I pulled into the parking lot, I saw Oliver and his dad sitting across from each other in a booth.
The rock in my stomach shifted again and I thought I might throw up. I couldn’t really see his dad but I could see Oliver, who was fiddling with a coffee mug. I had never seen him drink coffee before.
I parked, then got out and walked to the restaurant on wobbly legs. I had no idea what I was doing, but now that I had seen Oliver, I wasn’t going to leave. I wondered if, somehow, that’s how Maureen had felt when he came home, that once he was back in your sight, it was such sweet relief that you’d do anything to keep him there.
I walked past the hostess and went toward the booth. Now all of me felt wobbly and when I got close, I realized that the man he was sitting with was, in fact, Oliver’s dad. He just looked so much older than I remembered him. My memories were of a tall man with thick, dark hair and sharp eyes, just like Oliver’s. But this man was gray, with a thinning hairline, and when he glanced at me, his eyes were just tired and sad.
Oliver turned to see what his dad was looking at, and I stood there dumbly, staring at both of them. “Emmy,” Oliver said, but he didn’t say anything else. He didn’t have to.
The realization quickly dawned on Oliver’s dad—on Keith—that I was the little girl from next door. “Oh my God,” he exhaled. “Emmy. Oh my goodness, you’re so . . . grown up.” He smiled nervously and glanced at Oliver. “The two of you are so grown up.”
“It’s okay,” Oliver said to me. “Come sit down, it’s all right. It’s fine.” He patted the booth seat and I slid in warily next to him, then reached for his hand and grabbed on so tight that he winced.
“You’ve grown up to be so beautiful,” Keith said, and I just stared at him. For ten years, he had been the bad guy, the literal monster that takes children away from their homes, and now sitting across from him, he looked so normal, so average, like any older guy wearing kha
kis and a polo shirt with a wrinkled, slightly frayed collar.
“Thanks,” I said, my mother’s politeness training apparently still in place. My voice was flat, though.
“I was just telling my dad about you,” Oliver said.
“Yes, um, Oliver said that you and he have become close friends again. I’m so happy to hear that.” Now Keith was the one fiddling with his coffee mug. His hands were shaking just like Oliver’s had the night before. Oliver was watching him and I pressed my leg against his, feeling the tension in both of us.
“In fact,” Keith continued, “I was just telling Oliver how glad I am that he and his mom are able to be together again.”
“Oh, are you fucking kidding me?” The words slipped out before I could stop them. So much for Mom’s politeness training, after all.
“Em,” Oliver started to say, but Keith held up his hand.
“No, no, Colin—Oliver, it’s fine. Oliver, sorry.” Keith waved him off. “It’s all right. Emmy’s right. I, um, I did some things that were pretty terrible.”
“Yes, you did,” Oliver said softly, and I knew him well enough to hear the anger that laced his words. It was the quiet kind, the most dangerous kind of all.
Keith just nodded, glancing out the window and then back down at his coffee. “That’s why I wanted to see you today. I wanted to apologize, say I’m sorry. I know we didn’t get a chance to talk about it.”
Oliver sat back against the booth, then ran a hand over his face before hunching back over himself. “Why?” he said. “Why? Just tell me why you did this. Because I swear I’m trying to understand, Dad. I’m trying so hard to make sense of this and I can’t figure it out.”
Keith’s mouth wobbled a little and his eyes got even more watery. “I can’t explain it.” He shrugged. “When your mom and I, when we were divorcing, I was drinking a lot—”
“That’s what Mom said,” Oliver murmured.
“Yeah, well, your mom is right. And I knew she was trying to get sole custody because of that. Which she was right to do, by the way. I wasn’t a very suitable dad back then.”