Along for the Ride (24 page)

‘Come on,’ he said. As he got out, I sat there for a moment, watching as he began to climb a narrow flight of stairs beside the garage. He never looked back to see if I was following him. Which was probably why I did.

Now, he shut the door behind me, then walked over to the kitchen, dropping his keys on the counter en route to turning on the coffeemaker. Only when it began to brew, the smell wafting toward me, did I go to join him.

‘Have a seat,’ he said, his back to me as he bent into the fridge, rummaging around for something. ‘There’s a chair.’

‘And only
a
chair,’ I said. ‘What do you do when you have company?’

‘I don’t.’ He stood up, shutting the fridge. He had a stick of butter in one hand. ‘I mean, usually.’

I didn’t say anything, instead just watching as he pulled a saucepan out of a cabinet, sticking the butter in it before placing it on the stove. ‘Look,’ I said as he turned on the burner, ‘what happened back there –’

‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘We don’t have to talk about it.’

I was quiet for a minute, watching as he melted the butter in the pan, tipping it from side to side. It was just another courtesy that he’d given me this easy out, the chance to move on, and I thought it was a gift I’d take, and gratefully. Until I heard myself say, ‘Remember how you were asking me what I’d failed at, earlier?’

He nodded, jiggling the pan over the stove. ‘Yeah. The social thing, right?’

‘That,’ I said, ‘and keeping my parents together.’

It wasn’t until I said this that I realized it was true. That I hadn’t blanked out at this question earlier so much as thought of an answer I couldn’t say aloud. At least until I’d overheard my dad and Heidi fighting, and it all came rushing back to me: those awkward dinners, with the picky little arguments, the unsettled feel of the house as the hours went on and on, closer to my bedtime. The way I learned to stretch the night all around me, staying awake and alert to keep all the things that scared me most at bay. But it hadn’t worked. Not then. And not now either.

I blinked, feeling a tear roll down my cheek. Three years of total stoicism, blown in one night. Talk about humiliating.

‘Hey. Auden.’

I looked up to see Eli watching me. He’d taken out a box of Rice Krispies at some point, and instead of looking back at him I focused on the faces of Snap, Crackle, and Pop, all gathered happily around a big cereal bowl. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, because for some reason, even with these cartoon distractions I
still
seemed to be crying. ‘I just… I don’t even think about this anymore, but then when I went to throw that paper, they were fighting, and it was so…’

He put the box down, then came over to the opposite side of the island. He didn’t try to reach out for me, or touch me. He just stood there, near, as he said, ‘Who was fighting?’

I swallowed. ‘My dad and Heidi. Things have been pretty bumpy since Isby came, and tonight I guess things just blew up, or something.’

God, I was still blubbering. My voice was all choked, coming in little gaspy sobs. Eli said, ‘Just because people fight doesn’t mean they’re splitting up.’

‘I know that.’

‘I mean, my parents used to go at it sometimes. It just kind of cleared the air, you know? It was always better afterward.’

‘I know my dad, though,’ I said. ‘I’ve seen him do this before.’

‘People change.’

‘Or they don’t,’ I replied. Finally I made myself look at him. Those green eyes, long lashes. His haunted face, not as haunted anymore. ‘Sometimes, they don’t.’

He just stood there, looking at me, and I had this flash of us, here in this little garage apartment, in the middle of the night. From up above, in a plane passing over, you’d just see one little light in all this dark, with no idea of the lives that were being lived within it, and in the house beside, and beside that one. So much happening in the world, night and day, hour by hour. It was no wonder we were meant to sleep, if only to check out of it for a little while.

There was a sudden crackling
pop
from the stove, and Eli looked over his shoulder. ‘Whoops,’ he said, turning back to the saucepan and pulling it off the heat. ‘One sec, let me just finish these.’

I wiped my hand beneath my eyes, trying to collect myself. ‘What are you doing over there, anyway?’

‘Making Rice Krispie treats.’

This seemed so odd, and incongruous, it almost made sense. Along with everything else that night. Still, I felt compelled to ask ‘Why?’

‘Because it’s what my mom always did when my sisters were crying.’ He glanced back at me. ‘I don’t know. I told you, I never have company. You were upset, and it just seemed…’

He trailed off, and I looked around the room, taking in the plain bed, the one chair. The single light outside the door, glowing yellow and bright, all night long.

‘… perfect,’ I finished for him. ‘It’s perfect.’

Of course, nothing is really perfect. But Eli’s Rice Krispie treats were pretty close. We ate half a pan while we split the pot of coffee, using the one chair as a table, each of us sitting on the floor on either side of it.

‘So let me guess,’ I said, putting my mug on the floor by my feet. ‘You’re a minimalist.’

He glanced around the room, then back at me. ‘You think?’

‘Eli,’ I said. ‘You have one chair.’

‘Yeah. But just because all the furniture at my old place was Abe’s.’

Hearing this, it was all I could do not to start, or jump, so jarring was it to hear him say his name, after all this time. Instead, I took another sip of my coffee. ‘Really.’

‘Yeah.’ He sat back, picking a bit of sticky crumb off the side of the Rice Krispie pan. ‘The minute he made some prize money riding, he was all about decorating our place. And he bought the stupidest stuff. Huge TV, singing fish…’

‘A singing fish?’

‘You know, those plastic ones that you hang on the wall, and when you walk by they start singing, like, some Motown song?’ I just looked at him. ‘Okay, so you don’t know. Consider yourself lucky. Ours was, like, the center of our apartment. He put it right by the door, so it went off constantly, and everyone had to listen to it.’

I smiled. ‘Sounds interesting.’

‘That’s not the word I’d choose.’ He shook his head. ‘Plus he insisted on buying these big papasan chairs, you know the ones that are circular, filled with squishy cushions? I wanted a plain, normal couch. But no. We had to have these stupid things that everyone was always getting sucked down into. No one could ever get up and out of them on their own. We were always having to pull people out, like a freaking rescue mission.’

‘Come on.’

‘I’m totally serious. It was ridiculous.’ He sighed. ‘And then there was the whole water bed thing. He said he’d always wanted one. Even when it leaked, and gave him a crazy backache, he would not admit it was a mistake. “I must have spilled something,” he’d say, or “I really pulled a muscle on that last ride.” He was hobbling around like an old man, complaining constantly. All night long, all I could hear was him thrashing around, trying to get comfortable. It was, like, an
endless
squishing.’

I laughed, picking up my mug again. ‘So what happened? Did he finally give it up?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘He died.’

I knew this, of course. But even so, hearing it this way was like a shock to the system, all over again. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I –’

‘See, but that’s the thing, though.’ He sat back, shaking his head. ‘Everyone always wants to tell these stories, all the stories. It’s all anyone wanted to do at the funeral, and after. Oh, remember this thing, and this, and what about this? But the ending to every story is the same. He dies. That’s never going to change. So why even bother?’

We were both quiet for a moment. ‘I guess,’ I said finally, ‘that for some people, it’s how they remember. You know, by telling the stories. It keeps the person close.’

‘But I don’t have that problem,’ he said quietly. ‘Not remembering.’

‘I know.’

‘You want to talk about failure?’ He looked up at me, meeting my eyes. ‘Try being the one who was driving. Who got to live.’

‘Eli,’ I said. I tried to keep my voice low, even, the way his had been when he’d been reassuring me. ‘It wasn’t your fault. It was an accident.’

He shook his head. ‘Maybe. But the bottom line is, I’m here and he’s not. And everyone who sees me – his parents, his girlfriend, his friends – they know that. In all the uncertainty, it’s the one thing they know for sure. And it
sucks
.’

‘I’m sure they don’t hold it against you,’ I said.

‘They don’t have to.’ He looked down at his mug, then up at me. ‘The whole do-over thing, that’s all I think about since it happened. What if we’d left that party earlier, or later. If I’d seen the car coming at us and not stopping, a moment sooner. If he’d been driving instead of me. There are a million variables, and if even one was different… maybe everything would be.’

We were both quiet for a moment. Finally I said, ‘You can’t think like that, though. You’ll make yourself crazy.’

He gave me a wry smile. ‘Tell me about it.’

I started to say something, but then he was getting to his feet, picking up the tray and taking it to the kitchen. Just as he did, I heard a thump from the wall by his bed, followed by another. I stood up, walking closer, and listened again.

‘That’s the McConners,’ Eli said from the kitchen.

‘The who?’

He came over, standing behind me. ‘The McConners. They own this house. Their son’s room is right through that wall.’

‘Oh,’ I said.

‘He usually wakes up once or twice a night. Asks for water, you know, the whole thing.’ Eli sat down on his bed, the springs creaking beneath him. ‘If it’s really quiet, I can hear every word.’

I sat down beside him, listening hard. But all I could make out was two voices murmuring: one high, one lower. It was kind of like Heidi’s waves, distant white noise.

‘I used to do that,’ Eli said. We were both whispering. ‘The whole waking up, wanting water thing, when I was a kid. I remember it.’

‘Not me,’ I told him. ‘My parents needed their sleep.’

He shook his head, lying back on the bed, folding his arms over his chest. Through the wall, the negotiations continued, the higher voice rising, urgent, the lower one staying level. ‘You were always thinking of them, huh?’

‘Pretty much.’ I stifled a yawn, then looked at my watch. It was four thirty, about when I usually headed home. Through the wall, the voices kept going, and, still listening, I slid down next to Eli, resting my head on his chest. His T-shirt was soft beneath my head, and smelled like the detergent I knew he used at the Washroom.

‘It’s late,’ I said quietly. ‘He should go to sleep.’

‘Not always so easy.’ His voice was low, slow, too, and I felt his lips brush the top of my head, gently.

The light was still on in Eli’s kitchen, but it became muted as I closed my eyes, still hearing those murmurings behind me.
Shh, shh, everything’s all right
, I was sure I heard a voice say. Or maybe it was the one in my head, my mantra.
Shh, Shh
. ‘It’s not your fault,’ I said to Eli, my voice sounding thick to my own ears. ‘You’re not to blame.’

‘Neither are you,’ he answered.
Shh. Shh. It’s all right.

It was so late. Late for children, late for anyone. I knew I should get to my feet, go down those stairs, and find my way home, but already I could feel something happening. A feeling, thick and heavy, creeping over me. It had been so long since I’d done this that for a moment a part of me was scared, wanting to fight it off, stay vigilant. But instead, just before it took me, I rolled over, pressing myself closer against him. I felt his hand rise to my head and then, I was gone.

When I woke up the next morning, it was seven thirty and Eli was still sleeping. His arm was around my waist, his chest moving slowly up, down, up, down, beneath my cheek. I closed my eyes again, trying to drift back, but the sunlight was slanting in overhead, the day already begun.

I eased myself away from him, getting to my feet, but then stood watching his face, relaxed and dreaming, for a few moments. I knew I should tell him good-bye, but I didn’t want to wake him. Plus, I had no idea what I could say in a note that would possibly convey how grateful I was to him for everything he’d done for me the night before. In the end, I did the closest thing I could: I refilled the coffee-maker, put fresh grounds in a new filter, and flipped the switch. It was already brewing as I slipped outside and made my way down his steps to the street.

It was one of those gorgeous beach mornings, bright and sunny already, everything enhanced with the benefit of actual nighttime sleep. Walking the four blocks or so back home, I was more aware than ever of the salt in the air, the beauty of the rambling roses climbing along someone’s fence, even the friendliness I felt toward the bicyclist I passed, an older woman with a long braid, wearing a crazy orange jogging suit and whistling to herself. She returned my wide smile, lifting a hand to wave as I made my way up the front walk.

I was so immersed in all this – the night, the sleep, the morning – that I didn’t even see my dad until I was about to walk right into him. But there he was, in the foyer at this early hour, already showered and dressed.

‘Hey,’ I said. ‘You’re up early. Did inspiration strike or something? Ready to start another book already?’

He glanced up the stairs. ‘Um,’ he said. ‘Not exactly. Actually I was just… I’m headed out.’

‘Oh.’ I stopped. ‘Where are you going? Campus?’

A pause. Right then, in that too-long beat of silence, I got the first inkling that something was wrong. ‘No. I’m going to a hotel for a couple of nights.’ He swallowed, then looked down at his hands. His face was tired. ‘Heidi and I… we have some things to work out, and we decided this was the best thing. For now.’

‘You’re leaving?’ Even the word sounded wrong, said aloud.

‘It’s only temporary.’ He took in a breath, then let it out. ‘Trust me, this is better. For the baby, for everyone. I’ll just be at the Condor; we can still see each other every day.’