Things We Didn't Say

Chapter 3

Casey



I tap my pen on the kitchen counter as I wait for Marcy to answer her phone. Maybe Dylan is off making mischief as Michael believes, and maybe it’s with his best friend.

As she answers, I hear a din of loud conversation.

“It’s Casey, Dylan’s—” I stumble over the lack of a word for what I am to him. “Hi. Is this a bad time?”

“Not really. I’m in line at the coffee shop.”

Her words are rushed, her voice betraying impatience. It is in fact a bad time, but she’d rather get this over with than have to call me back. I don’t have time to be offended at the slight just now.

“Is everything okay with Jake?”

“Of course. Why?”

“Well, Dylan’s cutting class or something. He’s not at school, though his dad dropped him off.”

“Yes?”

I clench my fist until the nails burn crescents into my palm. “I was just wondering if you’d heard anything similar about Jacob. You know how those two are inseparable!” I laugh, making it light, not accusatory.

“Lately, not so much, actually. Grande nonfat latte please.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean—” She pauses, the noises changing as she shifts the phone, maybe pinning it between shoulder and ear. “I mean that they haven’t been talking much lately. I thought you knew.”

“No, I didn’t have any idea . . . Did they have an argument?”

“Boys don’t have arguments. They beat each other up or just quit talking. It was the latter.”

“What was wrong?”

“Jacob didn’t say. I was just making out the guest list for his birthday party, and he said he didn’t want to include Dylan.”

Jacob’s been his friend since the sandbox. Since Dylan left the public school they hadn’t seen each other daily, but with Facebook and cell phones, I figured they were still in touch.

“You didn’t ask why?”

“He said it was ‘nothing.’ You know how boys are. Well, maybe you don’t. Anyway, you can’t pry things out of them if they’re not ready to tell you. In any case, I wouldn’t have any idea where Dylan is.”

“Please call if you hear something.”

“I’m sure I won’t, but I’ll call if I do. Have to dash now, bye.”

I put my head in my hand and stare at the phone. My laptop, at my elbow, dings for new mail. I’m supposed to be working. I have deadlines for clients. Updates. Proposals. I had planned to be at the library today using the Wi-Fi until Tony got out of work, then I was going to crash on his couch until I found an apartment. That was the plan.

It still could be. I could take for granted Michael is right and Dylan is just misbehaving somewhere. The school has Michael’s cell phone number on file. I could still go.

Except I can’t. I imagine Jewel getting home from Scouts and finding only Angel here, the two of them wondering where their brother is, where I am.

Maybe Angel knows. I sit up straight at the counter.

She’s not supposed to use her phone in class, but she could check it at lunch. I send a text: Seen your brother? School sez not in class.

The silence of the house presses in on me.

I feel achy, uncomfortable, and jittery.

I push away from the counter and start to pace through the first floor, in U-shaped loops through the connected living room, dining room, kitchen, around the curved open staircase and back.

Most days it’s not that hard, not drinking. Michael doesn’t often drink, himself. I don’t go to parties, or restaurants. My old life feels like a dead skin I’ve shed along with the old boozy friends, and the small company where we all worked.

But there are times . . . when my palms start to itch and my heart feels tight and pinched. I can taste the velvety bite of it, and I can feel the uncoiling of my tension and hear my own carefree laughter, and I know that the liquor store is just blocks away and no one will be home for hours yet.

Tony’s always telling me, “One drink is too many and a hundred’s not enough.”

I don’t think it’s like that for me. I bet I could have one, maybe even two. But then I think of all the energy I’d expend wondering, Should I have this one? Is this one too many? But I’m feeling fine and not driving, but maybe I shouldn’t . . . Or the next day, Did I have too many last night? And then guilt would crash over me, I know it would. It was simpler, cleaner, simply to break off that piece of my life and set it adrift.

Then I met Michael, and he was so glad I didn’t drink that I treasured up his gladness and decided that was worth more than any drop of Jack ever could be.

These days, though, Michael hasn’t seemed glad about much of anything.

I try breathing from my gut. This attempt at breathing simply reminds me what I’m trying to avoid.

I seize my purse with its cigarettes and both the cordless house phone and my cell, and brave the snap of the November air on the back patio.

The first puff makes my head feel swimmy, and my heart slows down almost immediately.

Hurrah for self-medicating.

Michael’s disapproving stare rises up in my memory. If he only knew what I’ve already given up. But he can’t know, because he wouldn’t love a woman like that. Never again, he said. But that “never again” speech came late, after I already loved him. Otherwise I might have saved us both the eventual agony.

It’s like scratching at a scab to think of this now, our first meeting. But I’m too weary to keep pushing it out of my head. Here at the end, I can’t help but think of the beginning.

I was sick that day. Feverish, pale, shaky. My head throbbed, and my sinuses were so backed up I thought I might suffocate in my own skull.

I had no friends anymore, because they were all drinkers and I was clinging to the fragile threads of a different life. So I dragged myself to the urgent care clinic alone. I actually perked up a bit in the cold, it being January, then. Nearly two years ago.

At the clinic, I saw a little girl curled up on her daddy’s lap, her arm clutching a stuffed cat gone threadbare at its paws and belly. Her hair hung limp and tangled, and she wore Hannah Montana pajamas and bedroom slippers. She had round glasses with pink frames. She was asking, moaning, really: “Daddy? How long?”

Her father was rubbing circles on her back. “Soon, baby. As soon as they can see us.”

“I don’t want to blow up again,” she moaned into his shoulder.

A wincing expression flashed on his face, something with shades of both pain and amusement. “I hope you won’t throw up again, honey. But if it’s going to happen, you tell me and we’ll get you to the bathroom.”

Her dad noticed me looking at her. He met my eyes and tightened his jaw. It was all there, right on his face. I hate that I can’t fix it.

She was too old for peekaboo. I got out my phone, a fancy phone in those days before I completed my belt-tightening. I found a funny video of a monkey scratching his butt, sniffing his own finger, and falling off a tree branch.

I glanced at him, eyebrows up. Do you mind?

He shrugged.

I said to her, “Hey. Wanna see something funny?”

She raised her head a fraction of an inch off his shoulder. I leaned across the aisle separating us and showed her the short video. She smiled. I sat back, and she said, “Can I see it again?”

I sat on the chair next to them and found every G-rated silly video I could.

When they called “Jewel Turner,” her father stood up and scooped her gently onto his shoulder. I stood up as if I belonged with them, forgetting myself. I sat back down, pretending to dust something off my pants.

The father looked back at me over his daughter’s tangled hair, and mouthed, Thank you.

I was next. I didn’t think about them again until I came back to the lobby with a prescription in my fist. Jewel’s daddy was crouched, zipping up her coat. His coffee-dark hair was a mess, I noticed. I also saw a scar along his jawline.

“I hope you feel better soon, kiddo,” I told her, ready to pass out of their lives.

“You, too,” her father said, looking up at me, straightening her coat. “I’m Michael Turner.”

“Casey,” I replied, supplanting my last name instead of my given name, unthinking.

“I can call you and let you know how she’s doing.”

It was so transparent. I blushed, I think, or it might have been the fever.

Then he scooped her up and muttered, walking out the door. “Or not. She’ll be fine, it’s just a virus.”

“Maybe you could just e-mail me an update,” I said, walking with him through the door, and I rattled off my address, which was one of those that was easy to say and remember. I’d picked it brand-new, cutting off old ties in the process.

He disappeared into the night, and I dragged myself home, assuming the pleasant memory of his wide-open marble-blue eyes would be all I’d ever have of this really good dad I saw in a waiting room.

Maybe it should have stayed that way.

I grind out my cigarette, and the phone buzzes. Angel must have snuck me a text between classes.

Not there? Will call Mom.

Mallory. Oh, shit.


Dylan’s room is not the smelly den one would expect from a teenager.

It’s not what you’d call neat, but it’s not filthy, either. No crumbs, no half-empty cans of pop. His dirty laundry is in the hamper, not stinking up his room. I almost wish it were disgusting, because I’m afraid Dylan is becoming a mini-Michael, that is to say, old before his time.

I value how responsible Michael is, truly, especially given what I went through with my brother. But Dylan is still a kid, even with a smudge of mustache on his upper lip.

I pull open the closet, holding my breath, bracing myself to see empty hangers as if he’d packed his things.

But no, it looks just as crowded as ever with his black T-shirts and oversize sweaters. Anyway, it’s not like he could sneak a duffle bag into the car with his dad.

If Jewel had turned up missing, I’d be in a panic. She’s vulnerable, small.

But Dylan is a teenager. And he got dropped off at school. This much we know.

My cell rings. Michael.

“Hi.”

“Any sign of him?”

“Nothing. Angel hasn’t seen him at school, either. I think she’s going to call her mother.”

“Well, maybe she had something to do with it.”

“Like what?”

“Maybe she decided to take him to an amusement park, or the movies . . . you know how impulsive she is.”

“But she could have signed him out of school, claimed he was sick or going to the dentist or something. Dylan would have wanted her to, rather than get detention for skipping, don’t you think?”

“Maybe I should come home.”

Yes, please. I don’t know what to do. “I don’t know. What would you be able to accomplish? Sit around and wait.”

“I could call his friends.”

“I already checked with Jacob’s mom. She said they’re not even friends anymore.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah. His clothes are still here.”

“Of course they are. He didn’t just take off.” The scorn is palpable. I know why; it sounds like I’m comparing him to Mallory.

“He went somewhere, didn’t he? Did he walk right into the school?”

“I told you, I dropped him off.”

“Don’t snap at me, I’m trying to help.”

A heavy, aggrieved sigh. “And I’m at work and my son is missing.”

“I thought you weren’t worried.”

In the silence of his nonresponse, I can hear newsroom noise: a din of intense conversation, like a loud and disgruntled crowd.

“Michael?”

“I’m here. Just keep trying his cell, and call any other friends you can think of. Get the band parent list out of the junk drawer and try them. If a bunch of his friends are skipping school, then we know it’s probably nothing. It’ll be fine.”

“I guess.”

“What?”

“What if Mallory comes over here?”

“Well, we can’t very well tell her not to. Dylan’s her son, and if she wants to be at the house while we track him down—”

“By myself, though?”

“She’s not going to eat your spleen.”

I try to chuckle, and it comes out more like a cough. “Good to know she stops short of cannibalism.”

“We’ll find him, and I’ll kick his ass, and everything will be fine. If Mallory turns up, just . . . play it cool. Stay breezy, relaxed. Don’t hyper her up.”

Relaxed. Right.

I hang up the phone and go out to the patio for another smoke. I’m going to need it. I check my watch after I light up. It’s afternoon already, and all that I’ve consumed since one bowl of cereal at breakfast is nicotine and tar.

That means it’s almost time for my mother to call. I call her instead to get it over with so I can go back inside and call Dylan’s band friends.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Edna! Hi, honey. How’s your day going?”

I lie to her for the sake of simplicity. “Okay. Yours?”

“I ran into Petey at the store. You know he’s still asking about you.”

I know this, because he called me not long ago. “I’m engaged, Mom. And why did you give him my cell number?”

“I’m just saying. If you decide that raising someone else’s kids is not your idea of fun . . .”

“I didn’t sign up for fun. I love him.” I prop my cigarette in my phone hand and cover my eyes with my free hand.

“Fun and love used to go together, you know.”

“It wasn’t always fun with Pete. We had plenty of not-fun times. Remember Billy’s funeral?”

She gasps like she’s been sliced. “Edna Leigh.”

“I’m just saying, you only think he’s a saint because we broke up. It’s nostalgia.”

“He just fit in so well.”

“Did he ever.”

“Don’t you start with me. I know you’re too good to even visit us anymore, but you don’t have to criticize every move we make.”

“I’m not criticizing. I was agreeing.”

“How great can this Michael be if he doesn’t even want to meet your family?”

“It’s complicated,” I say again, because it is.

“It doesn’t have to be. Anyway, are you coming to Wanda’s baby’s party this weekend?”

My cousin’s baby’s first birthday. They’ll even break out the beer for a toddler’s party. By the end of the night, they’ll be shooting cans off the back fence and having wrestling matches in the yard. They won’t talk to me, either, instead whispering behind my back about how I blew town right after my brother’s funeral, not even staying to support my grieving parents. Some of them outright blame me, I know.

My mother insists they don’t, but I can feel their heavy stares, see it in the way they turn quickly away if they happen to meet my eyes.

“I can’t. I’m swamped with work.”

“I just bet.”

“Can we not fight? I don’t have it in me today.”

“Me neither, honey. I ran across Billy’s old hunting jacket today.”

“Oh, Mom. I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

“Of course I’m not. But I’m standing up, so there ya go.”

“I’ll try to come to the party, okay?”

“Don’t do me any favors.”

“I’m trying to do the right thing, here.”

“I know, baby. I’m sorry. It’s not the best of days.”

“I know the feeling.”

“I’ll call you later. I promised Wanda I’d babysit, and she’ll be over soon. You know, I can’t wait to be holding your own baby, darlin’.”

“One step at a time. I guess I’m old-fashioned enough to get married first.”

“Now don’t you start in on Wanda.”

“I’m not, I just don’t need the pressure. I’m only twenty-six.”

“I’m just saying. I love those baby cuddles, and when I get to be a grandma, I’ll climb up on the roof and scream for joy! Oops, there’s Wanda’s car. Love ya bunches.”

“Love you, too.”

I’ve seen pictures of Wanda’s baby. She’s so deliciously chubby I want to stick my nose in her neck and blow raspberries. Her wispy hair looks like golden feathers, and with her pursed mouth she’s like a pudgy little bird.

I used to fantasize about what my baby would look like, my baby with Michael. She’d have loads of thick black hair, just like her father, and hazel eyes, like me. Like my brother’s.

At a furious, rapid pounding I nearly drop my phone. The doorbell broke a few months ago, and the front door is so thick you have to jackhammer it to be heard. I hurry inside and through the front room curtains I can see a tall stack of white-blond hair.

I yank open the door.

“Where’s my son?” Mallory cries, gripping my arm like she’s drowning.