It sounds so weird now. All of this, in retrospect, seems tear-streaked and damp. How I could sit so silently in front of a TV for hour upon hour, fingers gripping my own fingers, until that moment early the next morning when the names of the victims were released. There were four before him, and, I knew by the math, two after. I didn’t hear those, though. When I saw his name on the screen, everything went black.
It would be days later that I’d finally piece together the whole story. Partly from a friend of the family who answered the phone at the Carusos’ when William finally got through and explained who he was. Some from the news stories that put together timelines, marking the exact spot in the gym where Ethan had come running after hearing the shots that killed two female volleyball players. He’d tried to talk the guy into putting down the gun, witnesses who looked to be in shock themselves told Patrick Williams, who went to Brownwood to report live on location. I’d sat with my mother watching Daybreak USA so many mornings, and now, suddenly, they were talking about someone I knew. Someone I loved. The picture of Ethan all the news outlets showed, provided by the family, was one I hadn’t seen, a candid from junior prom the year before. Every time it went up on-screen, I wanted to believe, somehow, it wasn’t him after all. Like if I didn’t know that Ethan, it couldn’t be mine who was gone.
I watched everything I could, even after the major networks moved on. Nothing about the shooter, though. His name and details were of no interest to me, not deserving of a single breath I was still struggling to take. But the special reports on the victims, details true or not (“Ethan Caruso loved soccer, lacrosse, and, his friends say, Lexi Navigator”) I soaked in like water. And when they weren’t on, and I was alone, I ran over our own story, that one night, again and again in my mind. Every bit, from the minute I stepped into the damp sand until he drove away, a flash of red through those whirling revolving doors. Like if I repeated it enough, I could conjure him up, bring him back, and this would all be the bad dream I wished it was.
I wanted to go to the service. When it was announced on the memorial page his friends had put up, I immediately made plans to make the trip, William and my mother offering to come with me. The night before we were to leave for the airport, though, I started throwing up, the sickest I had ever been. It was like my grief was toxic, turning my very body against me. After I passed out walking from the bathroom back to my bed, my mom put her foot down and told me I had to stay home. I didn’t speak to her for three days.
They had a group memorial that was televised, a “healing event” for the community. Students held candles, teachers linked arms, everyone cried. The lacrosse coach, between his own sobs, talked about how, on that morning, he’d asked Ethan to his gym office to tell him about some interest from a college recruiter. When Lexi Navigator, in a plain black dress and minimal glitter, was introduced to sing her song about loss, a favorite of one of the victims, I held my pillow to my mouth and screamed.
There were more details. Like how I missed a full week of school, staying in my bed and sobbing. The way Jilly came by every afternoon and crawled in beside me, her arms around my waist, holding me as I tried to sleep. The brightness of the sky outside, the filtered sunlight through the tree just past my window, the most beautiful fall, everyone agreed. It probably was. But even though I was there, and lived it, I couldn’t have said so. The dead aren’t the only ones who vanish: you, too, can disappear in plain sight if enough is taken from you. I was still missing, in many ways. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to be found.
CHAPTER
22
I KNOW YOU WANT NO PART OF THIS, BUT I NEED A PUNCHBOWL.
This was the third text I had gotten from Ambrose, and it was only nine a.m. So much for my bonus, unexpected non-working Saturday. I picked up my coffee, taking a sip, and reminded myself that Jilly and I had an entire day planned at the pool together. It wouldn’t be relaxing—nothing was with Crawford, KitKat, and Bean in tow, as they would be—but at least I’d be off the clock. If I turned off my phone.
NOBODY LIKES PUNCH, I texted back. DO PITCHERS OF SOMETHING INSTEAD. LESS MESSY/GERMY.
In response, he sent me a thumbs-up, the same response I’d gotten when called earlier to advise on one of those plastic aisles you roll out for everyone to proceed down (they never stay put and look awful) and the merits of mushroom appetizers versus meatballs (as one of our favorite caterers, Delia, always said: vegetarians aside, everyone loves meatballs). It was clear that in the last fourteen hours or so this impromptu, easy backyard wedding had morphed into something more complicated. And who needed that?
Not me, I thought as I found my bathing suit and pulled it on, then tied my hair up in a ponytail. I was searching the hall closet for some sunscreen when my phone rang. I sighed, not in the mood for more questions, but then I saw it was my mother.
“Hey,” I answered, “how’s life in the tropics?”
“Wonderful,” she replied. I blinked, surprised, then looked at the screen again, confirming it was in fact her I was talking to. “It’s just so relaxing and gorgeous. I should have done this years ago.”
This time, I looked at the clock. With the time difference, it was just after ten, which meant either she was still loopy from a late night before or she was already hitting the mimosas. When in Rome, I thought. “Wow,” I said. “I have to say I’m surprised, with how much you resisted.”
“Oh, that,” she said, batting away days of complaints and stress as easily as a circling gnat. “Classic workholeic behavior. I’m textbook, according to John.”
Okay, she was clearly drunk. “Do you mean workaholic? And who’s John?”
“Oh, sorry.” She laughed, the sound surprisingly . . . tinkly. Which was a word I had never associated with my mother, well, ever. “John Sheldon. He’s a former CEO and author we met on the plane. Wrote an entire book about the overworked business, corporate, obnoxious mentality all too prevalent these days. Workholes. Like assholes, but worse.”
“Right,” I said. “So you know this guy now?”
Another light laugh. “Well, we ended up chatting the entire flight, and then he invited us to dinner at his place. He keeps a second home here, to recharge and get away from the Nothing Olympics.”
“What?”
“It’s another one of his terms in his book. The competition we’re all in daily, so fiercely, to climb ahead of each other. And what’s the final prize? Nothing.”
Now I was getting concerned. “Is William around?”
“Sure. He’s right here. Hold on.”
Something rubbing the phone, followed by a muffled voice, sounded in my ear. Then William came on, sounding perfectly normal. Thank goodness. “Hey, Lou. Everything okay back home?”
“Yeah,” I said slowly. “How’s it going there?”
“Oh, great,” he replied. “I mean, everyone thinks I’m a concierge. But at least the tips are good.”
They both laughed at this. Normally, I would have, too. But I was distracted. “Mom sounds kind of crazy.”
He laughed. “I know, right? She’s a smitten kitten. You should see her when she’s actually with this guy. It’s like the cartoons, hearts in her eyes.”