Eyes Wide Open

Epilogue





On the first weekend of the fall, Max Erlich bounded down the steps of the music shop onto Greenwich Avenue, lugging his guitar. He had found it on Craigslist, an old Gibson—for all of sixty bucks—and he was learning how to play. His dad had bought him a series of lessons on Saturday mornings at ten.

Down the hill, his mom was grabbing a latte at Starbucks or window-shopping at Richards while she waited for him.

Since what had happened, they never let him get too far away.

Outside the store, a guy was playing on the street. Kind of a grungy, older dude. Max checked him out—one suffering from a severe wardrobe malfunction. An old green army jacket and a crumpled cowboy hat.

Ever since he’d started messing around on Ryan Frantz’s guitar at lacrosse camp, learning to play had become Max’s new passion in life. He played in his room at night, on his bed, teaching himself little riffs from his favorite artists, Daughtry and Coldplay. He wasn’t exactly musical—neither of his parents played anything or even pushed him in that direction. His sister used to take dance; that was about the extent of it.

But he liked how it made him feel, surprising himself with some new riffs. His teacher, Rick, claimed he had a knack for it. And besides, Samantha Schall thought it was kinda cool, and she was certainly texting him a lot more now.

The guy on the bench seemed like he was waiting for a lesson. But as Max listened, he was actually sounding pretty good.

He picked away at it—a vintage Martin—with nimble, worn-down fingers. It seemed to come naturally—he muttered some lyrics under his breath, not even looking at the instrument. It sounded a bit like country, Max thought. He recognized the tune.

The dude could play!

The guy finished, finally looking up from under his hat. His face was wrinkled, and he had a scar on his cheek. A couple of other people who had stopped uttered a few words of praise and moved on down the street. He didn’t have his hat out and didn’t seem to be looking for money, and truth was, on Greenwich Avenue, that wouldn’t go over big.

Max grinned at him, impressed. “Sweet!”

The guy nodded back in appreciation, with yellowed, ground teeth and a mustache on his weathered face. He noticed Max’s guitar. “You play?”

Max shrugged. “Learning. But I like what you were doing there. Neil Young?”

“Fogelberg . . .” The man shook his head. Then he smiled. “Maybe a bit before your time.” He strummed a few more chords. “I could show you, though.”

For a moment Max thought, Sure, awesome! He’d kill to learn how to pick like that. Then he remembered his mom, down the avenue.

“Sorry, wish I could,” he said. “I gotta go.”

“Responsibilities, eh?” The guitar player grinned. “I getcha.” He rested the guitar on his knee. “Listen, you seem a good soul. I could meet you here sometime. Maybe next Saturday. Show you a few things. Just you and me. How’s that sound?”

It sounded good, actually. But then Max hesitated. “I don’t know . . .” The guy seemed cool and all. Maybe a little old. Not much of a threat.

“I tell you what . . .” The guy dug into his pocket and came out with a scrap of paper. A matchbook, actually. And a worn-down pencil. “You can give me a call, when you’re around. I’ll meet you here. Nothing fancy. I’ll have you picking like a pro in no time . . .”

He slowly printed out his name and his number in a shaky hand. He handed it to Max. “How’s that?”

“Cool!” Max glanced at it, then looked around, suddenly a little wary. “Sorry, I gotta go.”

“No worries. I’m Vance, by the way,” the man said.

“I’m Max.” He folded up the matchbook, about to put it in his pocket.

“Nice to meet you, Max. You remember, next Saturday maybe? You let me know.”

“Okay.” Max put the matchbook in his pocket and had started down the hill when the guy called after him. “Hey, Max!”

He turned.

“Stays our little secret, right? No reason to involve anyone else.” He winked. “You know how parents are.”

Max grinned. “Yeah, I know.”

He headed down the hill, not sure if he would keep the guy’s number or toss it into a bin. It all seemed a little weird.

Still, he’d sure like to be able to play like that.

At the bottom of the block, Max took a look at the matchbook, at what he’d written. The shaky letters, Vance.

On the cover, there was a logo he was familiar with.

CBS, the television company. He’d seen it a million times. He stared, wondering where a guy like that would have come in contact with it.

That big wide eye. Staring at him.

He’d keep it, he decided. Max folded it up and put it in his pocket.

Samantha Schall’s smile was the kicker.

Man, he said to himself, I’d give anything to play like that.





Author’s Note


This much is true: On the morning of July 26, 2009, my twenty-five-year-old nephew Alex—bipolar and severely troubled for most of his brief life—was found on the jagged rocks at the bottom of the six-hundred-foot-high Morro Bay Rock. He’d either jumped or fallen some time during the night.

The day before, Alex had been released from a hospital mental health ward into the care of a small halfway facility, just like the character Evan in this book. Only three days earlier Alex had been taken into custody after a violent episode at his home, which, truth be told, was not the calmest of environments. Alex’s body was found with no identification on it; he was processed by the local police and the morgue as a John Doe for almost two days until his parents were notified of his death. And wrenchingly, as in the book, they did hear the story of the then-unidentified youth who jumped off the rock on the news, only to learn a day later that it was their own son. And like Evan, my nephew’s left Nike hightop sneaker was never found.

While questions still remain about what happened to Alex, such as issues related to his care, whether he jumped or fell, what was in his mind when he left the halfway house, instead of answers, all I have at my disposal is fiction. If you want to learn more of the background or information related to the real story of what happened to my nephew, including photos, family blogs, etc., I hope you will go to alexwemissyou.com.

This book is for Michael and Suzanne, but it is also for anyone who has suffered the loss of a child. As a father myself, I wince every time I relive this true family story during the writing—and still do every time it comes to mind. This book is my brief anthem of remembrance to a life that didn’t turn out as anyone had hoped. And having been present at Alex’s birth, having seen him that first day in all the beautiful promise that any new life holds, I am also reminded that, like a lot of us, I could have done more.

To the people who had a hand in its writing: Dr. Greg Zorman and Dr. Elizabeth Frost for medical advice; Roy Grossman, Brooke Martinez, and my wife, Lynn, early readers of the drafts; Henry Ferris and David Highfill, my editors at William Morrow, whose dual efforts made this tale come to life so much more compellingly; and to the rest of the team who took it from there; and to Simon Lipskar, for his usual insights and council, I give you my deepest thanks.

This book was a totally different kind of story for me to write, and all of you have made it easier and far better.