Things We Didn't Say

Chapter 19

Casey



Angel taps her fingers on her coffee mug, her eyes unfocused on the center of the table. Every time she sips, she grimaces. I’d offer her more cream and sugar, but I don’t want to draw attention to my presence.

Lately it’s like she’s sunburned. I can’t so much as brush up against her. And that was before she read my journal.

It was a year ago in May that I first met them. Angel turned fifteen that summer, and I took her and some girlfriends to the mall one summer Saturday. I lagged behind them most of the time, enjoying their chirpy laughter and their habit of bursting into song, heedless of—or maybe because of—the stares. They were sharing earbuds from their mp3 players, and I tried not to make faces thinking about the ear germs.

We sat at the food court eating greasy egg rolls and I was still mostly ignored, but then Angel said, “Oh, Casey! Listen to this!” and she launched into an incomprehensible story about some romantic triangle involving a girl named Tessa. I didn’t know any of the kids involved and could barely follow her disjointed tale, especially when the other girls kept throwing in more details about other people I didn’t know.

But I leaned in anyway, my elbows on the table, making faces and gasps of shock to match theirs, glowing with pleasure at my inclusion into the circle.

After I moved in, Angel had the same girls over for a study date, which was really a pretense for gossip. I popped them some popcorn, and as I brought it in, I heard one of them mention Tessa.

I said, “Oh, the one who was dating a football player and a marching band guy at the same time?”

In the cold silence that followed, one of them stage-whispered, “Awkward . . . ,” drawing the word out, marking the moment. The girls then all looked at Angel, who stared at me with an unguarded fury.

“Do you mind?” she hissed. “This is supposed to be a private conversation.”

I backpedaled. I’d only made it to the first step down from the landing when I felt the door slam reverberate through the floor.

At the table now, hunched over her coffee, Angel sighs and kneads her temples. Jewel comes down the stairs, her face wet, but composed, and doesn’t look at us as she heads for the living room to flip on the television.

“I should have gone to school. Now they’ll have to rehearse without me. That’s irresponsible of me, to affect everyone else because Dylan decided to be a jerk.”

I say nothing, listening for Michael to come down.

She continues, “I need the practice, too. I’m supposed to be off-book by Monday.”

I venture, not looking directly at her, “I could run lines with you.”

“Shut up and go call your boyfriend.” She stands up and adds, “Then go write about what a bitch I am.”

We hear Michael’s heavy step on the stairs at the same time the sound of the ringing phone jerks us to attention. Angel gets there first, seizing the phone hard, then immediately relaxing. “Oh, hi, Grandpa. No, nothing. Here, I’ll let you talk to Dad.”

She hands the phone to her father, saying she’s going to take a shower.

“Hi, Dad,” says Michael, closing his eyes and kneading the bridge of his nose. “Yes, I figured as much . . . Well, we shouldn’t get special treatment and I wouldn’t want it . . . We did hear that he really is meeting a girl . . . No, I don’t . . .”

Michael’s shoulders sag as he talks more to Dr. Turner, a man I’ve found as scary as any I’ve ever known, and I’ve known some characters. Oh, he’s benevolent enough, but he feels he has great power. I’ve seen it in the way his eyes dance when things are going his way, and it’s as if he thinks he made it happen through force of will or intellectual manipulation.

Only, his son hasn’t done what he wanted. For a doctor who has watched hearts beat inside open chests, who has held life in his hand and crafted a modest fortune and a foundation to do good works, it must be infuriating that his own son hasn’t fallen into line.

So Dr. Turner relishes the small victories of control. Like owning this house we live in.

I want to walk over and hang up. Just click the button down and free Michael of whatever lecture he’s hearing. It’s not that simple, though, as I’m well aware.

I approach Michael and circle his waist from behind, resting my cheek on his back, listening to his heart thrum beneath my ear. His voice sounds low and rumbly like this as he murmurs, “Mmm-hmm.”

Then his free hand untangles my fingers and he steps slightly away.

I slip into my parka and pick up my cigarettes, this time adding a hat because it looks like the wind is whipping up outside.

Outside on the sidewalk, I dial up Tony, having already received a voice mail I didn’t listen to, and two texts asking if I’m okay.

“Can you meet me?” I ask, as soon as he’s picked up.

“What’s wrong?”

“I can’t say it all on the phone, it’s too much.”

“Just say where.”

We agree to meet at “the Castle,” a chateau-esque granite building once a home, later a restaurant, now a dentist’s office. Fifteen minutes later, I’m leaning on a tree in front of it, staring at the garish magenta sculpture on the front lawn, when Tony pulls up in his ancient Monte Carlo.

I hop into the car, warming my hands at the heater vents. Inside I’m overheated from my walk and my anxiety; my exposed skin is almost numb.

Tony scratches his chin through his red beard, now threaded with more gray than I remember from our days as neighbors.

“What’s going on, Edna Leigh?”

I ignore his use of my given name and explain about Dylan, the presence of Mallory. As I finish up my story, I notice I’ve been twisting my engagement ring, which would now slide off easily, should I choose to remove it.

“I used to run away all the time,” he says, and because I know what kind of life he’s lived, I laugh.

“Oh, that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“I’ve turned out okay.”

“Yeah, finally at age, what, fifty-five? I’d like Dylan to be spared some of your more colorful adventures. Besides, he’s not—”

“Not what?”

“He’s not worldly. He’s quiet, a little awkward around new people. He has this stammer that comes out sometimes—”

“Yeah. I get it.” Tony taps his steering wheel. “So what are you going to do? Anything I can do to help?”

I tip my head back on the seat. “I don’t know. I’m not sure why I wanted you to come, even. I just had to get out of there for a bit.”

“Yeah. Oh, hey, why don’t you send me a picture? I can send it to some of my trucker friends. They can keep an eye out. Rest stops and whatever. Hell, maybe he’ll stick out a thumb and one of my friends’ll pick him up. You never know.”

I smile at him, and just then my head feels swimmy with cigarettes and lack of sleep and food. I pull out my phone. “I’m sending you a cell phone pic I’ve got. It’s not the best, but it will help.” I send it to Tony’s phone, and he looks to make sure he got it.

“Great. Need a lift back?”

I shake my head, hard. Tony doesn’t know that Angel read my journal, that a sighting of him now would be almost the worst possible thing.

“Stay warm, kiddo,” he tells me as I get out of the car, before I shut the door. “They say there’s a blizzard coming.” He squeezes my hand before I step back into the cold.

I wonder if the blizzard will hit Ohio. I don’t think Dylan has his warm coat.

I hurry back to the house, because I’ve been gone too long for a walk around the block. No one seems to have noticed my absence.

Michael is at the computer, the Web site of the National Center for the Missing open in front of him.

Three small pictures on the screen have the mottled blue backgrounds and strained smiles of school photos. They have “missing” dates and cities attached.

One day these kids were posing for a photographer, having greasy school lunch pizza, getting scraped knees on the playground. Now they’re gone.

How would we know where to find a girl from Greeley, Colorado?

And how would anyone else know how to find Dylan?

“Time to call the hotline,” Michael murmurs, and picks up his phone.

From my end of the conversation, it’s clear the person on the other end is well trained in reassurance and warmth. Michael repeats, “Yes, exactly,” and “We’re very worried,” and keeps pinching the bridge of his nose.

He lets go of his nose long enough to grab a narrow spiral notebook out of his desk drawer and starts writing in pencil. But he shoots me a look, shaking his head slowly. I walk around him to look at what he’s writing. There are things that we’ve already done, like break into his computer, search his room, call his friends. There are things the police already said they cannot do for us. We can’t use GPS to track down his cell, because he didn’t take it.

Michael has written, Missing poster—(like for lost cat?!).

Now Michael is nodding as if the other person can see him. He seems to be holding his breath.

He drops the pencil and crumples down to the desk, putting his head on his arms. He lets the phone receiver roll out of his hand.

I wrap my arms around him, feeling his body heave with the effort of holding everything in. This close I can hear the woman on the phone saying, “Hello? Mr. Turner? Are you there? Hello?”