After the party disaster, I wear my Central Soccer sweatshirt to school every day. I walk the halls with the hood up, staring down at the ground, not looking at anyone. In class, I talk as little as the teachers will allow me to. It’s not easy. It seems like everyone in the world is always trying to get at me—with their hellos and the questions, their casual asides, their jokes. All the stupid chitchat of daily life. I just want to be left alone.
During lunch, I hang out in the library and steal bites of a sandwich. I spend sixth period in there, too. I’ve told Coach Bailey my ankle still hurts, and I know she doesn’t believe me. But she can’t force me to practice. All she says is “Are you okay, Beth?” and I say I am and I walk away.
When the bell rings on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, I sit and wait till the halls clear. When I think it might be safe, I walk to my car, unbothered by anyone, wondering if I can get through the rest of high school this way. But then I see Ainsley and Darla waiting for me. They’re dressed in their warmer soccer clothes. Chita is nowhere in sight.
“Shouldn’t you be practicing still?” I say.
“Coach B. let us out early, since tomorrow’s Thanksgiving,” Darla says.
“So what is this then, an intervention?” I say.
“Kinda,” Darla says.
“We’re worried,” Ainsley says, tugging at the green strand of her otherwise blondish hair.
“I know you are. But don’t be.” I sit up on my trunk. Darla plops next to me, and Ainsley paces around in front of us.
“You got big Thanksgiving plans?” Darla asks.
“I’m going to work on my college application,” I say. They already know I’m only applying to the University of Alabama. “And, um, my dad’s visiting.” For weeks it felt like it was so far off. For weeks I could pretend it wasn’t going to happen. But now, saying it, I know it’s a reality, and my heart starts racing a little, the way it does when the teacher slaps down a quiz on your desk. “I have to sleep on an air mattress because my aunt Shelley is visiting, too, and she’s staying in my room. It’s a big family get-together.”
“That will be nice,” Ainsley says. “Besides the air mattress, I mean.”
I shrug. “It’s Sam’s first Thanksgiving with us since . . . since he got back. My mom’s . . . Well, it’s a big deal for her. For all of us, I guess.”
“How is Sam?” Ainsley asks.
“Yeah,” Darla says.
“Fine,” I say. I ask about their plans to change the subject. Darla’s headed to a big family gathering outside of Atlanta, and Ainsley’s staying in town, with just her mom and little brother. A small gathering. I envy that.
“Well, I better get going,” I say.
“Beth,” Darla says. “You’re not mad at us are you? Did we do something wrong?”
I shake my head. “No. I just . . . I just kind of want to be alone.”
“Well, when you feel like . . . you know we’re here for you,” Darla says.
“We miss you.”
I miss me, too, I want to say. I miss the days when we could just kick the soccer ball around or just goof off or talk about nonsense. I miss the times when my friends didn’t ask me how I was doing ten million times a day. But I don’t say anything. I just accept their hugs good-bye and then drive off.
I’m supposed to head home and help Mom get ready for tomorrow. But I drive downtown, along a street lined with old trees and old houses that have been converted to offices for lawyers, court reporters, doctors, and therapists.
I park in front of one and sit. There is where I came a few afternoons a week in the first year after Sam vanished. Dr. Rao’s office.
Oddly enough, we didn’t talk about Sam much at these sessions, although that’s what I was supposedly there for. Dr. Rao would just sit quietly, eyeing me with a professional smile, expecting me to do all the talking, and then I’d feel like I needed to talk, so I’d blather on about school or something, and she’d scribble notes down on a pad of paper. Sometimes I wanted to snatch that pad and see what she was writing. What? You have me all figured out?
One day I refused to talk. It was like a game of chicken. The silence lasted for many minutes. So she spoke. “I have a brother,” she said.
Great, I thought. Here we go.
“Nathen,” she says. “He lives in New York. I miss him.” There was a picture of them together on her desk, posing on top of a tall building in New York, the city view spread out behind them.
“But you visit him,” I said.
“Yes, I do, and he visits me. But when he’s not around, I think about him.” She paused, maybe waiting for me to say something. When I didn’t, she said, “Do you think about Sam?”
Of course I knew that was coming. “Yeah,” I said. “But I don’t want to.”
“Why not?” she’d asked.
I stopped again, wondering if I could speak the truth. But I knew that’s what she was there for, so I gave it to her: “Because he’s dead.”
I expected her to wince or something, but she just nodded. “And why do you think that?”
Because it’s easier to think that. It’s easier to let go. But I didn’t say any of that. I just shrugged, and she didn’t press.
That was the last day I went. Mom protested at first, but in a way I think she didn’t mind not having to spend the money.
I get out of my car and sit on the trunk. At four o’clock, a mother and a child walk out the office door and off down the street. Soon the door opens again and out walks Dr. Rao, stylish in a dark suit with a scarf tied at her neck, her silky dark hair pulled off to the side.
I watch her walk toward me. At first she doesn’t notice me, but just as she’s about to walk by she stops short.
“Beth?”
“Hi,” is all I can say.
“How are you? What are you doing here?”
“I was just driving by, I guess.”
She knows I’m full of it. “It’s good to see you. I talk with your mother now and then.”
“Yeah, she says you suggested the shrink Sam’s seeing.”
“Yes, Dr. Saylor.” I wait for it—for her to ask about Sam. That’s what everyone else does. The world revolves around Sam. But she doesn’t. She says, “Do you want to chat inside?”
“No. I need to get home and help Mom with Thanksgiving stuff.”
“I’m about to head to the grocery myself. It’s going to be a madhouse.”
“Yeah. Well, it’s good seeing you,” I say.
“You too, Beth.” She smiles at me. She pauses, but I know if I don’t say something she’ll walk away.
“It’s funny,” I say. “When Sam was gone, I hated going home. My stepdad and me always tiptoeing around Mom, never knowing how sad she’d be that day. So I joined soccer, and a few clubs. Hung out at my friends’ houses. It was like I had two lives. One good one. One not so good one. But now . . . I don’t know. Now everyone knows what happened, and they won’t let me forget it.”
She moves closer to me, sets down her satchel, and leans against the trunk. “Things have changed,” Dr. Rao says. “Do you like being at home now?”
“No,” I say, finding it a relief to speak honestly, even if what I’m saying makes me feel ashamed inside. “I mean, sometimes. But the thing is . . . It’s just that everything is about Sam. His tutor is always there. Our lawyer sometimes. Mom is home all the time, hovering. Neighbors are always stopping by. Complete strangers send him gifts—like piles of stuff. It’s all Sam, all the time. And no one gives a . . . no one cares about me. I know that makes me sound awful.”