Things We Didn't Say

Chapter 15

Casey



My eyes fail to focus on the glowing computer screen in front of me. I have not turned on the rest of the lights, preferring the shroud of darkness for the illusion of walls and privacy. I doubt Dylan put anything on Facebook. I just needed to get away from them.

Past my computer screen I can see the porch and the street outside. Under the streetlight, a couple stands close together. I think they’re arguing, based on their posture. The man gestures broadly, limbs flying fast in the air. The woman stands straight, her arms wrapped so tightly around her you almost can’t tell she has any. Her head is bent toward the ground like a shriveled flower in the frost.

It makes me want to rush out and defend her, though perhaps she’s the guilty party.

It’s not so easy to tell, looking from the outside in. I mean, one would think that my fiancé would rush to my side when he came in to find me bleeding on the floor and his ex-wife carrying on.

I shake my head a little, refocusing on the screen. I’m not important now. It’s Dylan, and that’s why Michael went to her, because she was crying about Dylan.

How much time will the police invest in a teenage kid who willingly left home? I heard on the radio on the way home from the store that there was a shooting last night. And I’m sure Cleveland has its own share of crime and urgency.

My brother ran away once, though he didn’t run away so much as go on a bender with friends and forget to come home. Billy was sixteen then, thinking of himself as a man. I thought of him that way, too, though now I know Dylan and Angel, and those years seem fragile. In a way, teenagers are more vulnerable than Jewel, because Jewel at least knows her limits.

My mom had been panicking the whole time Billy was gone, my dad raging about the house about how he’d “beat his ass” when Billy showed up. When Billy finally did, my dad yelled at him, and Billy just turned right around and got back in his car. By then Billy was a head taller than Dad, taking after my grandfather in the height department, and nothing our parents said seemed to do more than annoy him.

It was me, in the end, who got him to apologize to our mother. I explained to him, once his hangover had receded, how Mom was sobbing through the house and couldn’t even cook dinner, she was so upset, and so we were eating TV dinners and pizza rolls. That got his attention; nothing stops my mother from cooking.

He never did promise to keep to a curfew, but he did call home if he wasn’t coming back for the night.

He also quit going to school. It was like he felt he deserved a trade-off for that one concession.

I told him that he was a dumbf*ck.

We’d been sitting in a clearing in a patch of woods behind our property. It belonged to someone else, but no one ever seemed to care that we used it. I think it’s a subdivision now.

There were a few stumps, arranged almost as if they were chairs around a table. Sometimes if it wasn’t too windy we’d play cards out there, the ants coming out of the dead stump to walk across our clubs and diamonds. Didn’t bother me. We were country kids, and a few ants were nothing to fuss about.

This particular day Billy was having a beer. I wasn’t. I hadn’t joined in yet, being only fourteen and in some ways timid. I hadn’t yet understood that parents are powerless against a willful teenager.

“Why should I go back? Do you know they put me in freakin’ algebra? Like I’m going to college.” He pointed at me with the beer bottle. “They’re the dumbf*cks.”

“You got a B on your last test. And you didn’t even try.”

He shrugged and took a deep gulp.

“Don’t you want to get out of here?” I gestured to the woods, but I meant our small town outside of Lansing. Michigan State University was close by, and although it had a fair share of hicks—Moo U was its nickname, after all—to me it was like a beacon. I’d swallowed the college education party line as a ticket to a different, broader life. Plus, maybe I could live in a house that wasn’t falling down around me. One of the shutters had fallen off just that morning.

“I like it here,” Billy said, shrugging. “I’ll earn some money. I can work in a shop or something. Down at the Olds plant or whatever. I’m a simple man with simple needs.”

Billy laughed hard at this, tipping back his head and roaring at the sky. Then he finished off his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “But you know, Sprite. You go to school. Take algebra, take honors English, and you go make us a fortune. And like you said, get out of here. Cuz you’re smart and you’ll do fine.”

He leaned forward to ruffle my hair, then for a moment he cupped my chin in his hand, which smelled of beer and smoke. “Yeah. You’ll do fine.”

I curl over in the desk chair and press the heels of my hands into my eyeballs. It’s been a long time since I’ve let myself think of Billy this long, and thoughts like this would come followed by a long swig of Jack.

I bet a normal girl would confide in her fiancé about such a huge loss. I was all set to try and be normal and tell him, a year ago when it was opening day of hunting season. I kept thinking of Billy every time I saw hunter orange and camo. But the words jammed up in my throat like a logjam on a river, and one of the kids distracted us, and then it was on to the next thing. And Michael always looked so worried, as it was, about everyone else.

Michael’s touch on my shoulder jars me nearly out of my chair.

“Hey. Did you find . . . Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

I sniff hard. “I’m okay.”

“You don’t look okay.”

“I’m just tired.”

Michael leaves it alone, as I knew he would. He used to chase down my evasions, but lately he gives up the chase quickly. I used to think that’s what I wanted.

I answer his aborted question. “No, I didn’t find anything, sorry.”

He leans against my desk, staring at his feet. “You know Mallory’s spending the night, right?”

“I figured as much.”

“You okay with that?”

“How can I not be? I mean, what am I going to say?”

He says, looking down as if addressing the floorboards, “You could have just handed her the phone.”

I stand up out of my chair so quickly it rolls across the wood floor and catches on a rug.

“I’m going for a walk.”

“Casey . . .”

I’m shrugging into my coat and pulling on my boots. “What?”

“Can you leave the phone? In case . . .”

I take the phone out of my pocket with a trembling hand and rest it with care on the top of the desk, using up all my willpower not to smash it into Michael’s chest or slam it to the ground.

Outside, I notice the arguing couple is gone. I wonder if they split up, or are somewhere having makeup sex.

I have to smoke the cigarette out of the uninjured side of my mouth, like a gangster. Even so, the puffing is painful. I don’t stop, though. It’s not as simple as stopping something that hurts just because it does.


I’m not going around the block this time. I’m walking toward downtown, where there are stores, lights, people. Something other than old houses and naked trees. As I get closer, I see couples and groups walking together, laughing and talking.

I pass by the Meyer May House, a long, flat Frank Lloyd Wright design in muted brick that sprawls along the block in sharp, deliberate contrast to the vertical, flamboyant Victorian homes all around. I toured that house once, with Mrs. Turner as the docent guiding us.

When I finally go, I need to move far enough away that there won’t be landmines everywhere, explosions of memory.

This thought swells my chest with fresh agony. I don’t want to go. This morning I thought I wanted to, thought I’d be free despite the sadness, but now I know that was bravado talking. Like that old song goes: freedom only means you’ve got nothing left to lose.

Now that we’re losing Dylan I don’t want to lose any of them, even Angel, who hates me. Even Dr. and Mrs. Turner, who just think I’m a nice young girl; even the Meyer May House and Heritage Hill; the family I was supposed to have here with Michael, pushing the baby in a stroller along the leafy, narrow streets, the bigger kids all around us.

An icy wind kicks up and pricks my ears. I should have brought my hat. It’s cold even for November, now, and I’m noticing white flakes in the air. Is there snow coming? Usually Michael watches the local news with fanatic attention, making sure he’s not getting scooped. Today we didn’t even turn it on.

I duck into a store to get warm.

It’s a liquor store.

I smirk, looking down at my own shoes. I can’t even pretend to myself this is an accident. I know this neighborhood well enough, having lived here for almost a year now and taken numerous solitary walks.

I hang back from the counter, staring up at the selection. Jack is my favorite, of course, but I won’t say no to vodka, and Seagram’s 7 in a pinch will do. I used to pretend I was fancy and even have wine, with a cork and everything, though I could put away a whole bottle and only feel buzzed so it wasn’t cost-effective.

I turn to the back of the store, where the coolers are. Maybe just a beer. Not much alcohol in that, really. More alcohol in NyQuil. Even Michael opened a beer today. It’s been a stressful day. People use alcohol to relax and why not? If it’s okay to take a Valium for nerves, why not a drink?

I could handle this all better if only I could calm down.

Ah. Killian’s Red. My college drink of choice. Cheap, but it has flavor. It will do just fine.

I can already feel my heart lift at the prospect of that foam touching my lips, the cool tang of the beer, the unwinding of my shoulders that will begin. I’ll give one to Michael, hell, even to Mallory, and we can sit together and feel less crazy while we await word. It’ll be like a peace offering.

I’m smiling to myself at the register, and when the guy asks me for ID I start rooting through my pockets.

My wallet is not in my coat pocket.

The man stares at me, tapping the counter with his fingers, drumming out his impatience. Someone behind me readjusts his purchases in his arms. I start rooting around in my pants pockets, even the back pockets, which I never use. My fingers touch a bill, and I hope it’s a twenty or at least a ten, but now I have to convince him I’m twenty-one because . . .

As I look up to think of an excuse for not having ID, I catch sight of myself in a huge distorted mirror above the counter, the kind meant to spot thieves in every corner of the store. My head is huge in the center, the store disproportionately wide around me. I’m hemmed in by bottles.

“Sorry,” I tell the guy, and I run out the door.

I sprint down the block, away from the store, all stores, all bars, back to the neighborhood, panting with the unfamiliar exertion. I round a corner and slip; my feet fly away from the ground, and I come down hard on my side.

That’s when I notice the sleet has started. The sidewalks are collecting shiny pools of ice, nearly invisible in the dark. I pick myself up, and for a moment I lean against a tree, until I stop shaking.

I resume my walk back to the house carefully now, so it takes a good deal longer to return. I can’t feel my lips now that the wind has kicked up. My hair is damp with snow and sleet.

When I get to the porch I’m trembling again, though exactly why I can no longer say. I fish through my pockets, only to find I left not only without my wallet but without my keys. And my phone is inside.

I press the doorbell before I remember it’s broken. I knock as loudly as I dare, but there’s no answer. I peer in the front window, over my desk. The lights are off in the whole downstairs.

I knock once more, then curl up, shivering, in the chair on the porch, waiting for someone to wonder where I am.