I turned to him. “Oh yeah? Where the fuck were you when she was in hospital, fighting for her life? Where were you then?” I screamed.
He shifted from one foot to the other. “Candela knows why I wasn’t there,” he retorted. “I don’t have to answer to you.”
“You’re going to screw up her life again.” Tears of anger welled up in my eyes.
“Oh shut up, Audrey,” said Candela. “Seriously, I am so sick of your shit. Why can’t you both just leave me alone?” She hurled the duffle bag on the ground at our feet. “I don’t need a single damn thing from either one of you, okay? Come on, Dirk. Let’s just get the hell out of here.”
Twenty-six
Days after Candela’s departure, I found myself sitting at Rad’s kitchen table staring at a black metal box—the one I’d come across on my first visit to his apartment. He was out, and I wanted to tidy up before I left for an interview with author Elsa Reed.
I came across the box tucked away in the back corner of his bedroom closet when I was putting away some laundry. It beckoned to me, like Pandora’s box. So now I was sitting here, staring at it with a mix of curiosity and dread. The sunlight streaming in between the slats of the window highlighted a paper clip, already complicit in my pending crime. Its silvery glint drew my gaze the same way a raven is mesmerized by a discarded bottle cap.
For some reason, my mind dragged up a memory of Candela from a long time ago. It was one of those warm summer days that shone like a beacon flickering somewhere in the dark chambers of my mind like a photograph taken with a pinhole camera. We must have been no more than thirteen. We were sitting on plastic seats suspended in the air by metal chains, kicking the tips of our matching white-and-blue Converse sneakers against the asphalt, in a local park where we used to play.
I still recall that day like a scene from a movie or a tattered picture book with edges blunted and pages marred by crayon scribbles. Candela’s long dark hair swung back and forth like a silken sheet; her beautiful green eyes were framed in thick, curly lashes. She was more like a boy than a girl, with perpetually scraped knees and a steely determination.
Her head was turned sideways, and her gaze was fixed on the seesaw in front of us where on one bright yellow seat someone had left behind a scrunchie made from a pearly white fabric with red polka dots. “Let’s play confession,” she said.
“What’s confession?”
She went into a detailed description of the process, right down to the lattice screen that hid the priest and the smell of stale varnish in the confessional. She asked me if I had anything to confess. I thought long and hard, but I couldn’t think of anything impressive. When it was Candela’s turn, she rattled off a long list of things. Money snuck from her mother’s purse, cigarettes in the girl’s shower block at summer camp, and going to third base with the boy who lived next door. “What does it feel like?” I asked about the boy, my voice dropping to a whisper. She shrugged, her eyes still pinned tightly to the red-and-white scrunchie.
“It doesn’t feel like anything.” Then she began to cry as I watched, feeling strangely removed.
“Candela, don’t cry.”
She turned to look at me, her tiny hands wiping furiously at her tears as if she was trying to punish them for betraying her. “Audrey,” she said, her glassy eyes staring straight into mine, “I’m going to hell.”
Shaking off the memory, I picked up the paper clip; with a little encouragement, the silver lock clicked open. I sat there for a few more minutes, drumming my fingers on the glass tabletop, my heart fluttering like a panic-stricken bird inside my chest. I was hoping to find a stack of Garbage Pail cards, like Rad had said, but the feeling of dread in my stomach told me otherwise. After drawing a deep breath, I flipped the lid open and carefully withdrew the contents, placing them on the table before me. I knew right away the box was a time capsule of his relationship with Ana. There were concert tickets, pressed flowers, and other keepsakes, each with their own mysterious significance. Photographs of Ana and letters to Rad written in her impossibly tiny handwriting. Pictures of the two of them, smiling, his palm flat against her back, their heads turned to greet the camera.
I wondered whether he still looked through this box. Did he sift through its contents on those whiskey-fueled nights he spent here alone? I wondered whether she came to life again for him in these photographs.
I picked up a piece of wrinkled paper—a receipt from a stationery store—and turned it over. On the back was a poem in Rad’s messy scrawl.
Her name was Aphrodite
she, my sage, my aversion
to the razor blade
She was life itself hung
on a hook and from me
took, the shock of day
where breath expelled
from earthly gaze
and heavenward
in hands she held
I will see her when
the harps command,
a tune, a dance,
a book, her arms.
I read it several times, finding meaning that wasn’t there or no longer was. Cutting this same wound open, over and over again.
I put it back down on the table and shook my head. What the hell was I doing? Tears blurring my vision, I began putting away the contents of the box. As I held the edge of a creamy envelope between the tip of my thumb and forefinger, a Polaroid photo dropped out and landed, flat on the table. It was Ana, topless and sitting cross-legged on a bare mattress, her eyes looking fixedly into the camera. I turned the Polaroid over, and once again, I was confronted by the rude shock of Rad’s scratchy writing.
I love you, I’m sorry
I went to put the photo back into the envelope when I noticed there was a piece of notepaper inside. It was folded up many times over, like a letter meant to be inserted into a bottle. With trembling hands, I withdrew it and pulled it open slowly, my heart thumping in my chest. I recognized Ana’s tiny writing at once, and as I read, I realized it must be a page torn from her diary.
I’m going to do it this time. My parents will be away this weekend, and I am going to seal up the garage with Dad’s beloved red Thunderbird running inside. Then I’m going to fall asleep to the sweet perfume of carbon monoxide and “Sugar Baby Love” blasting on the stereo. Seventeen seems like a good age to leave this shitball of a world . . .
I heard footsteps in the hall outside, and my heart leapt to my throat. I quickly folded up the diary entry and stuck it into the pocket of my Audrey jacket. Then I scooped the remaining items into the box and shut the lid. I got up, my chair scraping loudly against the kitchen floor, and raced over to Rad’s closet to put the box back where I found it. The key turned in the lock, and a few seconds later, he was through the door.
“Hey,” he said, dropping his keys on the kitchen table and looking around the apartment. “You tidied up.”
“Hey,” I said, a little out of breath.
“You okay?”
I nodded. “I’m fine.”