“She hates her parents,” I said. I was thinking: sex worker. Hearing it like that, flat, neutral, was like a hammer blow.
“People have been known to go back to parents they hate. But for now I need to do this by the book, and that means bringing you in for a formal witness statement, Julie.”
Julie closed her eyes. “Fine.”
But it wasn’t fine. Nothing was fine; not anymore.
Horowitz dropped me outside the house, but I didn’t go in. I couldn’t go in. Dad was at work anyway, so what was I going to do? Who was I going to talk to?
I waved to Julie as the car pulled away. She didn’t wave back.
I took out my cell, went to call you, but then I remembered that I didn’t have your number; I’d never asked for it.
Right then I wished I had.
“It’s your fault,” said the voice. I was standing on the sidewalk. Heat was rising from the ground in shimmers, in waves. I was blinking sweat and tears. A gull wheeled above me, crying its ugly cry, accusing me.
Cass, Cass, Cass. “You killed her,” said the voice. “You were listening to your white noise and she called. She needed you. But you didn’t answer.”
“She called Julie,” I said. “She called Julie too, and Julie was closer. But Paris told her not to call the cops. She couldn’t do anything.”
“She did more than you did. She went into the house.”
“What could I have done?”
“You could have answered your cell. Instead of being so selfish. Instead of fighting with me.”
“You said you were going to kill my dad! You told me to cut off my toe or you would murder him.”
Silence.
“It’s not my fault!” I shouted. “It’s you! With your threats, with your cursing, with your making me block you out, with your endless—”
“You could have just cut off your toe,” said the voice, sullenly.
“No, I couldn’t.”
Silence.
“If we had not been fighting, we would have heard the phone,” said the voice.
I stood there very still for a moment. I had never heard the voice sound sad before. I had never heard it use the word “we.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s us,” said the voice. “It’s our fault. Both of us. But …” And now the voice’s tone went sly again. “But we’re the same person, aren’t we? I am you. That’s what Dr. Lewis says, isn’t it? I’m just the angry part of you. So it comes down to the same thing.”
I felt sick. It was my fault. It was all my fault.
Like an automaton, I walked down the sidewalk, not watching where I was going. It was only when the hardness under my feet was replaced by soft sand that I realized I was at the beach.
I walked toward the ocean, drawn to it, an iron filing toward a magnet. It was high tide; the water was almost up to the piers. You wouldn’t have been able to drive your truck around them. I could smell that indescribable smell of seaweed and salt and the deep.
I thought of Venus, stepping out of the sea. My feet were in the foam now, the wet sand sucking at my Converses. I took another step forward. Cold water pulled at my calves, made my jeans heavy; icy fingers. No matter how hot it gets in New Jersey the ocean always feels freezing to me. The Atlantic. It’s too vast, too empty, to ever warm up.
I knew how it felt.
My feet moved forward of their own accord until I was waist deep. There were other people on the beach—I mean, it was daytime—but they were a long way away, closer to the piers.
Then, suddenly, I felt hands on my shoulders. I gasped and turned around, and there you were.
“What are you doing, Cass?” you asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Come in. Come in and talk to me.”
You took my hand and pretty much dragged me back up onto the sand. You sat me down, then went to your truck and got a towel, put it over my legs.
“How can you drive around the piers?” I said.
“Huh?”
“High tide.” I indicated the water.
“Oh. I don’t need to. Just delivering to Pier One.” You pointed to the truck. I couldn’t see any bags of toys in it. “Dippin’ Dots. I do plush and Dippin’ Dots ice cream. I have no idea why. The hot dogs and stuff, they come from somewhere else. My warehouse is just stuffed animals and Dippin’ Dots.”
“Weird,” I said.
“Yeah. So what were you doing walking into the ocean with all your clothes on?”
I looked at you. You were so there, so present. I can’t describe it. You were just with me, looking at me, looking at me like I was real, and mattered. Interested in me. You and Paris, you were the first people ever to be interested in me. Even my dad wasn’t, not really.
Especially since I killed his wife.
You were looking at me curiously, like you really genuinely wanted to know what was going on with me, like you cared. Did you care? Do you remember? I think you did. I think you care about everything. I think that’s what makes you be you. If you came across a sea anemone that was out of the water and unable to breathe, you would throw it back in; you would save it. I don’t know why I’m talking about sea anemones. It’s stupid.
“You know my friend Paris?” I said.