I started college with a declared major: psychology. My penchant for eavesdropping and my curiosity about human behavior seemed like a clear path to becoming a therapist. And I thought the training would also lend some insight into my own past. I had heard that all psychiatrists and psychologists are “wounded healers,” they themselves fucked up beyond belief. I wasn’t sure if I was wounded exactly, but I knew there had to be some baggage in there somewhere. And I liked the notion of healing others.
College suited me because I thrived on the structure and clearly defined expectations. Each semester in each class I was given a syllabus. A list of all the lesson plans, books to read, papers to write, and tests to pass, with dates assigned to each. I hated having anything loom over me. Knowing I had to get something done was far worse than actually getting it done. So I was the opposite of a procrastinator. I would attempt to do it all immediately. This resulted in me finishing my workload about a month before the final paper was due or final test was to be given. I would then petition my professors, asking them to allow me to turn in papers early and take final exams immediately after their last lectures were given. Most professors were delighted to comply, excited to hear from a student who was asking for a reduction in time instead of the usual extension.
This way of doing things gave me weeks of extra vacation between semesters to go back to Miami Beach and frolic in the waves I so desperately missed. At first, Ameena thought I was crazy to rev up syllabus deadlines, but she quickly started to adopt my methods. We got along so well we continued to be roommates all the way until graduation.
Before winter break our freshman year, Ameena’s parents found out she was dating a Black guy. They didn’t care that he was kind and funny and smart. Premed at Yale. Bound to be successful. All they cared about was that his skin was even darker than Ameena’s, and they worried their grandbabies would “look like soot.” I could hear Ameena screaming at them on her phone while pacing our dorm hall: “Don’t you worry about that since I’m not having babies at all! If you care about grandchildren, especially pale ones, I suggest you put your energy into the twins marrying light-skinned women!”
She threw her phone down, knowing this rant would whip her parents into an even bigger tizzy. And she didn’t care. She was fed up and decided she would not be going back to Chicago for the winter holidays. So she followed her syllabi, pushed herself, and finished her schoolwork a solid three weeks before the official end of term. She came home with me and basked in the tropical sun day after day without wearing a hat. Letting her beautiful Indian skin get darker, just to piss her parents off even more.
By now my core group of high school friends who’d sworn to never break apart had, of course, gone in different directions. Time and distance and interests all inch people away from childhood bonds. But Hannah was in town. She was always in town, going to the University of Miami. She still lived at home and commuted to classes. She kept changing her major; schedule and syllabi were meaningless to her. She felt no rush to get anywhere.
Our first day in Miami Beach, Ameena and I grabbed an afternoon drink on Ocean Drive with Hannah, and we caught up. I was still sober, having an iced coffee. It was strange to see Ameena and Hannah chatting, two friends from two different parts of my life. But it felt nice, the space-time continuum coalescing. Hannah’s aggressive goth style had softened a little, become more refined. She was now goth chic, or, as she liked to say, “postapocalyptic elegant.” And she was passionate about creating a line of clothes for sun-sensitive people that actually looked cool, instead of the usual hideous salmon-colored windbreakers with hoods and special ear flaps.
Hannah and I regaled Ameena with stories from our youth. Boys we had dated. Clubs we had sneaked into. Little did I know then that we were still so young. Only eighteen. Still too young to legally get into clubs. We were having so much fun chatting, we decided to make more plans for the week, and Ameena asked what Hannah was up to the following day. Then the tone shifted. Hannah told us it was her father’s birthday tomorrow. So she would be going to his grave to visit. She said this grave-visiting part like I should have already expected such a plan.
But it came as a surprise. Because for all my following of my own deadlines and dates, my own life’s syllabus, it had never crossed my mind that Richard Vale still had a birthday anyone would care about. But of course Hannah cared. Just because in my mind he was long dead, and rightly so, didn’t mean his own daughter didn’t think of him, perhaps every single day. Probably other people thought about him too. From time to time. His own parents, if they were still alive. His siblings or cousins. His widow. A first girlfriend who still owns his high school basketball team tank top. A neighbor who once borrowed his lawn mower. As this hit me, I saw a larger, more complete picture. Each life and death seeps out to other people, maybe dozens, if not even hundreds. And the seeping never stops.
Hannah told Ameena about that horrible Halloween. How we all started happily dressed up as flamingos and we ended up awoken by screams. Hannah’s mom found Richard’s body early that morning. Lying dead in the kitchen, his face mottled and swollen, a gash on his head, plenty of blood on the floor. Ameena was truly sorry to hear about this tragedy, and she kept all her questions at bay in front of Hannah, because she was tactful. But the moment after we hugged Hannah goodbye, Ameena completely freaked. And turned to me.
“You were literally there the night he died?”
“Yes.”
“That’s horrific! Did you actually see his dead body?”
“Yes.”
“Oh my God. Are you okay?”
“Yeah. It was over two years ago.”
“But still. That’s the kind of thing that can stay with you forever. I mean, I’ve never seen a dead body. And especially to see someone you know.”
I realized I was being too stoic. Too laissez-faire. So I softened. “Yeah. It was a bad time, for sure. Really upsetting. So I guess I sort of blocked it out.”
This response put Ameena at ease. But she still had more to say. “I just can’t believe you never told me about any of this. I mean, I thought I knew everything about you. ’Cause you know everything about me. About every traumatic experience I’ve ever had. Even the stupid dead-squirrel-in-the-garage story.”
I nodded, accepting her disbelief. And she kept talking. “Do you feel you should go with Hannah to the grave site tomorrow? I can hang back. Chill on the beach. I totally understand if you want to go with her. Or I could go with you, if you need support? While supporting her?”
As Ameena kept going on and on about how sad it must be on your father’s birthday after he’s dead and maybe she should call her own parents and try and be civil, try to forgive them, make amends while there was still time, even though they were both such jerks, my mind wandered a little. I understood what she was saying, but I personally didn’t feel triggered by Richard Vale’s death and moot birthday. But maybe that was because I was the only one in the world who knew all the actual details of that night.
CHAPTER 9
VICTIM
The interrogation room was beginning to feel warm. But I was a native Floridian. I liked warm. And not a dry, thin warm like they always brag about in Arizona. But a humid, thick warm. Maybe Detective Jackson was from Chicago or something. Although I didn’t detect any kind of accent. I noticed a tiny bit of sweat starting to form on his shaved head. He pulled a linen handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed his skull. I could see a small yellow butterfly embroidered on the corner. A woman must have given it to him, I thought. It was not an item a man like him would ever purchase.
“That’s lovely.”
“What?”
“Your handkerchief. Very dapper and old-timey.”
He gave a little grunt. “My sister crochets.”
“I think you mean embroiders.”