The ledge is now empty. But no one’s racing down the cliff path, the quickest way to the beach. No one’s even looking over the edge to see if Noah survived. The crowd’s in a mass exodus toward the street.
And I need to stop hallucinating.
I must’ve suffered some kind of brain trauma, because no matter how many times I blink or shake my head, they’re still there.
Belly-flopped on my brother not two feet from me is Oscar.
Oscar, who came out of absolutely nowhere to tackle Noah before he reached the edge.
“Hey, it’s you,” Noah says in wonderment as Oscar rolls off him and onto his back. Oscar’s panting like he just raced up Everest, and in motorcycle boots, I note. His arms are outspread, his hair wet with sweat. Thanks to the moon and the bonfire, my hallucination’s practically in high def. Noah’s sitting up now, gazing down at him.
“Picasso?” I hear Oscar say, still trying to catch his breath. It’s been ages since I’ve heard anyone call Noah that. “All grown up I see, and with a buzz cut.”
Now they’re fist-bumping. Yes, Noah and Oscar. The two I vote least likely to fist-bump. I have to be imagining this. Oscar’s sitting up now and has put a hand on Noah’s shoulder. “What the hell, mate?” He’s reprimanding Noah? “And what’s with the drinking? Following in my footsteps? This isn’t you, Picasso.”
How does Oscar know who Noah is to know who Noah isn’t?
“It isn’t me,” Noah slurs. “I’m not me anymore.”
“Know the feeling,” Oscar replies. Still seated, he holds out a hand to me.
I ask, “How are you here—”
But Noah interrupts, garbles at me, “You kept texting me, so I kept drinking ’cause I thought you knew . . .”
“Knew what?” I ask him. “This is all because of my texts?” I try to recall what I wrote, just that I had to speak with him and it was urgent. What did he think I wanted to talk about? What did he think I knew? There is definitely something he’s been keeping from me. “Knew what?” I ask him again.
He smiles stupidly at me, swiping the air with his hand. “Knew what,” he repeats like an imbecile. Okay, he’s drunk out of his gourd. I don’t think he ever has more than a beer or two. “My sister,” he says to Oscar. “She used to have hair that followed us around like a river of light, remember?” At least that’s what I believe he said. He’s speaking Swahili.
“Your sister!” Oscar cries. He falls onto his back again. Noah flops happily down next to him, a loony smile on his face. “That’s brilliant,” Oscar says. “Who’s Dad? Archangel Gabriel? And hair like a river of light, huh?” He lifts his head so he can see me. “You sure you’re okay? You seem a bit stunned. And you look great without your hat and that giant vegetable-stuffed sweatshirt. Great, but like you might be cold. You know what? I’d offer you my leather jacket, but someone stole it.” He’s back in fighting form, I see, recovered from this morning. Except I sort of feel like I’ve read his diary.
Still. “Don’t flirt with me,” I say. “I’m immune to your charms. I’ve been inoculated by one not-girlfriend too many.” For the record, that girl rocks.
I’m expecting a snappy retort but instead he looks at me in a completely unguarded way and says, “I’m so sorry about yesterday. I can’t tell you how sorry.”
I’m taken aback, have no idea how to respond. I’m not sure what he’s apologizing for either. For me seeing what I saw or for him doing what he did?
“Thank you for saving my brother’s life,” I say, ignoring the apology for now, and really, I’m just brimming with gratitude because: What in the world? “No clue how you appeared like this, like some superhero. Or how you two know each other . . .”
Oscar gets up on his elbows. “Proud to say, I’ve taken off my clothes for the both of you.”
This is strange. When would Oscar have modeled for Noah? Noah gets up on his elbows too because it appears he’s playing Follow the Leader with Oscar. His face is flushing. “I remember your eyes,” he says to Oscar. “But not those scars. They’re new.”
“Yeah, well, you should see the other guy, as they say. Or in this case the pavement along Highway 5.”
They’re chattering to each other, both flat on their backs again, batting words back and forth, English and Swahili, gazing up at the glowing night sky. It makes me smile; I can’t help it. It’s like when Oscar and I were on the floor of the jail cell room. I remember that sticky note: She said you would feel like family. Why does he? And what about that apology? What was that? He sounded earnest, real. So not full of it.
I smell weed and turn around. Zephyr and the noodly kid named Jared and a handful of others are smoking up as they leave, all walking in the direction of the street, probably on their way back to The Spot. Some help he was. If Oscar hadn’t dropped out of the sky, Noah would be dead. A loud bomb of a wave crashes into the shore below as if to confirm this. It’s some kind of miracle, I think, it has to be. Maybe Grandma’s right: You have to see the miracles for there to be miracles. Maybe I’ve been looking at the world, living in the world, in too much of a stingy cowardly way to see much at all.
“Do you realize Oscar saved your life?” I say to Noah. “Do you have any idea how high this cliff is?”
“Oscar,” Noah repeats, then wobbles to a sitting position and points at me, saying, “He didn’t save my life and it doesn’t matter how high it is.” He’s getting drunker by the minute, talking with two tongues now. “It’s Mom who keeps me up. It’s like I have a parachute on. Like I can practically fly.” He makes a slow swoosh with his hand through the air. “I sail all the way down so incredibly slowly. Every time.”
My mouth falls open. Yes, he does. I’ve seen it.
This is why he keeps jumping then, so Mom will break his fall? Isn’t that what I always think when I get The Poor Motherless Girl Look? Like I’ve been shoved out of the airplane without a parachute because mothers are the parachutes. I’m remembering the last time I watched him jump Devil’s. How he seemed to stay up forever. He could’ve had his nails done.
Oscar sits up. “That’s completely daft,” he says to Noah, his voice distressed. “Are you mad? You jump off that cliff in your present condition, you die. I don’t care who you have in your pocket on the other side.” He combs a hand through his hair. “You know, Picasso, I bet your mother would prefer it if you lived your life rather than risked it.” I’m surprised to hear these words out of Oscar’s mouth, wonder if they might’ve come out of Guillermo’s this morning.
Noah looks down at the ground, says quietly, “But it’s the only time she forgives me.”
Forgives him? “For what?” I ask.
He’s grown grave. “It’s all a big lie,” he says.
“What is?” I ask. Is he talking about liking girls? Or not doing art? Or wearing flame retardant? Or something else? Something that would make him jump off a cliff at night while drunk because he thought from my texts I might know what it is?
He looks up stunned like he realized he’s been talking, not thinking. I wish I could tell him the truth about CSA right now, but I can’t. He needs to be sober for that conversation. “You’re going to be okay,” I tell him. “I promise. Everything’s about to get better.”
He shakes his head. “No, it’s about to get worse. You just don’t know it yet.” A chill runs through me. What does he mean? I’m about to press him further when he rises to his feet and immediately falls over.
“Let’s get you home,” Oscar says, securing an arm around him. “So where’s home? I’d offer to ride him, but I’m on foot. G. stole my motorcycle in case I ended up like this tonight. We got in a big row this morning.” So that’s why the motorcycle was in the yard. I feel like maybe I should tell him I heard some of that row, but now’s not the time.
“G.?” Noah asks and then seems to forget he said anything.
“It’s close,” I tell Oscar. “Thank you,” I say. “Really, thank you.”
He smiles. “I’m the one you call, remember? Dead body, bloody knife.”
“She said you would feel like family,” I say to him, only realizing too late I probably should’ve kept this to myself. How corny.
But again he doesn’t react like I think. He breaks out the most genuine smile I’ve ever seen on him, one that starts in his eyes and doesn’t seem to end anywhere on his face. “She did and you do.”
While Oscar and Noah fumble along like they’re in a three-legged race, I try to calm the electrical storm in my head. She did and you do. And now I’m remembering how he had that picture of me in his jacket. And Brooke in his arms, Jude, please. Yeah, well, he just saved Noah’s life. And what about the way he said: I can’t tell you how sorry. And how he was this morning with Guillermo. And it’s not like he and I were really together. Oh boy. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
When we get to the road, Noah shakes free of Oscar’s hold and pushes ahead of us. I keep an eye on him as he hobbles along on his own.
Oscar and I walk side by side. A few times, our hands brush. I wonder if he’s doing it on purpose, if I am.
When we’re about halfway to the house, he says, “So this is how I’m here. I was at The Spot. I was very upset—G. said some things that really got to me. He has a way of holding up a mirror and what I saw in it was pretty horrifying. All I wanted was to get pissed, really smashed. I was contemplating taking my first drink in 234 days 10 hours—my last slip-up. I was calculating the minutes actually, had my eyes on my wristwatch, when this whirling dervish, who had a striking resemblance to you, came speeding out of nowhere and knocked the pint of gin out of my hand. It was incredible. A sign, right? My mum? A miracle? I didn’t know. Only, I didn’t get to contemplate the sublime or even divine nature of the occurrence, because I became immediately, frantically, and wrongly convinced you were being chased into the forest by some Nordic giant. So, I ask, who saved whose life tonight?”
I look up at the shining silvery coin of a moon rolling around in the sky and think I might be seeing the miracles.
Oscar takes something out of his pocket and holds it up. There’s enough light for me to make out that he’s mounted his mother’s seashell and strung it on a red ribbon that looks like the very same one I wrapped around Guillermo’s note to Dearest. The next thing I know, every part of him is so close to every part of me because he’s tying it around my neck.
“But you’ll die within minutes without it,” I whisper.
“I want you to have it.”
I’m too moved to say another word.
We continue walking. The next time our hands touch, I catch and hold his in mine.