Linger (11 page)

I thought I knew what she meant, but I said, “Because you called me.”

“Is it because you just want to sleep with me? Because I'm not sleeping with you. Nothing personal. But I'm just not. I'm saving myself and all that. So if that's why you want to talk to me, you can hang up now.”

I didn't hang up. I wasn't sure if that answered her question.

“Are you still there?”

“I'm here.”

“Well, are you going to actually answer my question?”

I pushed my empty milk glass back and forth.

“I just want someone to talk to,” I said. “I like talking to you. I don't have a better answer than that.”

“Talking isn't really what we were doing either time we saw each other,” she said.

“We talked,” I insisted. “I told you about my Mustang. That was a very deep, personal conversation about something very close to my heart.”

“Your car.” Isabel sounded unconvinced. She paused, then finally said, “You want to talk? Fine. Talk. Tell me something you've never told anybody else.”

I thought for a moment. “Turtles have the second-largest brains of any animal on the planet.”

It took Isabel only a second to process this. “No, they don't.”

“I know. That's why I've never told anybody that before.”

There was a sound on the other side like she was either trying not to laugh or having an asthma attack. “Tell me something about you that you've never told anybody else.”

“If I do, will you do the same?”

She sounded skeptical. “Yeah.”

I traced the outline of the Sharpie schoolgirl on the mouse pad, thinking. Talking on a telephone was like talking with your eyes closed. It made you braver and more honest, because it was like talking to yourself. It was why I'd always sung my new songs with my eyes closed. I didn't want to see what the audience thought of them until I was done. Finally, I said, “I've been trying not to be my father my entire life. Not because he's
so horrible, but because he's so impressive. Anything —
anything
I do can't possibly compare.”

Isabel was silent. Maybe waiting to see if I was going to say more. “What does your father do?”

“I want to hear what you've never told anyone.”

“No, you have to talk first. You wanted to talk. It means you say something, and I respond, and you talk back again. It's one of the human race's most shining achievements. It's called a
conversation
.”

I was beginning to regret this particular one. “He's a scientist.”

“A rocket scientist?”

“A mad scientist,” I said. “A very good one. But really, I don't want to have any more of this conversation until a much later date. Like possibly after my death. Now can I hear yours?”

Isabel took a breath, loud enough for me to hear it over the phone. “My brother died.”

The words had a ring of familiarity to them. Like I'd heard them before, in her voice, though I couldn't imagine when. After I finished thinking that, I said, “You've told someone that before.”

“I never told anyone before that it was my fault, because everybody already thought he was dead by the time he actually died,” Isabel said.

“That doesn't make any sense.”

“Nothing makes any sense anymore. Like, why am I talking to you? Why am I telling you this when you don't care?”

This question, at least, I knew the answer to. “But that's
why
you're telling me.” I knew it was true. If we'd had the
opportunity to deliver our confessions to anyone who actually cared about their contents, there was no way either of us would've opened our mouths. Sharing revelations is easier when it doesn't matter.

She was quiet. I heard other girls' voices in the background, high, wordless streams of conversation, followed by the hiss of running water, and then silence again. “Okay,” she said.

“Okay, what?” I asked.

“Okay, maybe you can call me. Sometime. Now you have my number.”

I didn't even have time to say bye before she hung up.

• SAM •

I didn't know where my girlfriend was, my phone battery had died, I was living in a house with a possibly insane new werewolf who I sort of suspected was suicidal or homicidal, and I was miles away from all of it, counting the spines of books. Somewhere out there, my world was slowly spinning out of orbit, and here I was in a beautifully ordinary splash of sunlight, writing
The Secret Life of Bees (3/PB)
on a yellow legal pad labeled
INVENTORY
.

“We should be getting goodies in today.” Karyn, the shop owner, came in from the back room, her voice preceding her. “When the UPS man comes. Here.”

I turned and found that she was holding a styrofoam cup at me.

“What's this for?” I asked.

“Good behavior. It's green tea. Is that right?”

I nodded appreciatively. I had always liked Karyn, from the moment I met her. She was in her fifties, with short, choppy hair that had gone entirely white, but her face — her eyes, especially — was youthful underneath still-dark eyebrows. She hid an iron
core behind a pleasant, efficient smile, and I could see how the best parts of what was inside her were written on her outside. I liked to think that she'd hired me because I was the same way.

“Thanks,” I said, taking a sip. The way I could feel the hot liquid's journey all the way down my throat and into my stomach reminded me that I hadn't eaten yet. I'd gotten too used to my morning cereal with Grace. I tilted the legal pad toward Karyn so she could see what progress I'd made.

“Nice. Find anything good?”

I pointed to the stack of misplaced books that sat on the floor behind me.

“That's wonderful.” Peeling the lid off her own coffee cup, she made a face and then blew steam across the top of the liquid. She regarded me. “Are you excited about Sunday?”

I was clueless, and I was sure my face reflected it. I waited for my brain to present an answer, but when it didn't, I echoed, “Sunday?”

“Studio?” she said. “With Grace?”

“You know about that?”

Without putting her coffee down first, Karyn awkwardly picked up half the stack of misplaced books and said, “Grace called me to make sure it wasn't a day you were working.”

Of course she had. Grace wouldn't have scheduled an appointment for me without making sure that everything was sorted out beforehand. I felt a pang somewhere in my stomach, the miserable twist of missing her. “I don't know if we're still on for that.” I hesitated as Karyn's eyebrow raised, waiting for me to say more. And then I told her the details I hadn't told Isabel the night before — because Karyn would care, and Isabel wouldn't
have. “Her parents found me in her room after curfew.” I felt my cheeks warm. “She was sick and cried out, which was why they came in to check on her, and they made me leave. I don't know how she is. I don't even know if they'll let me see her again.”

Karyn didn't answer straightaway, which was one of the things I liked about her. She didn't automatically spit out
It'll be okay
until she was sure that was the right answer. “Sam, why didn't you tell me you couldn't come in to work today? I would've given you the day off.”

I said, helplessly, “Inventory.”

“Inventory could have waited. We're doing inventory because it's March and it's freezing and no one is coming in,” Karyn said. She considered for a few more minutes, sipping her coffee and wrinkling her nose as she did. “First of all, they're not going to keep you from seeing her again. You're practically adults, and, anyway, they have to know that Grace couldn't do better than you. Second of all, she probably just has the flu. What was wrong with her?”

“Fever,” I said, and I was surprised at how quiet my voice came out.

Karyn watched me closely. “I know you're worried, but lots of people get fevers, Sam.”

I said softly, “I had meningitis. Bacterial meningitis.”

I hadn't said it out loud before now, and now that I had, it was almost cathartic, as if acknowledging my fears that Grace's fever might be something more dangerous than a common cold made them more manageable.

“How long ago?”

I rounded to the nearest holiday. “Christmastime.”

“Oh, it wouldn't be contagious from then,” she said. “I don't think meningitis is one of those diseases that you can catch months later. How is she feeling today?”

“Her phone went to voicemail this morning,” I said, trying not to sound too sorry for myself. “They were really angry last night. I think they've probably taken her phone.”

Karyn made a face. “They'll get over it. Try to see it from their point of view.”

She was still shifting back and forth with the books to keep them from falling, so I set down my green tea and took them from her. “I can see it from their point of view. That's the problem.” I walked over to the biography section to shelve a misplaced biography of Princess Diana. “If I were them, I'd be furious. They think I'm some bastard boy who has successfully worked his way into their daughter's pants and will shortly be on his way out of her life.”

She laughed. “I'm sorry. I know it's not funny to you.”

I said, sounding rather grimmer than I meant to, “It will be hilarious to me one day, when we're married and only have to see them at Christmas.”

“You do know that most boys don't talk like that,” Karyn said. Taking the inventory list, she headed behind the counter, setting her coffee next to the cash register. “You know how I got Drew to propose to me? A stun gun, some alcohol, and the Home Shopping Network.” She looked at me until I smiled at her line. “What does Geoffrey think of all this?”

It took me too long to realize that she was talking about Beck; I couldn't remember the last time I'd heard his first name said out loud. And the realization that I was going to have to lie
hit me right afterward. “He doesn't know yet. He's out of town.” My words tumbled out too fast, with me too much in a hurry to get the lie over with. I turned toward the shelf so that she wouldn't see the way my face looked.

“Oh, that's right. I forgot about his Florida clients,” Karyn said, and I blinked at the shelf in front of me, surprised at Beck's guile. “Sam, I'm going to open a Florida bookstore for the winter. I think Geoffrey has the right idea. Minnesota in March is just not a good idea.”

I had no idea what story Beck had ever told Karyn to convince her that he was in Florida for the winter, but I was fairly impressed, as Karyn didn't strike me as gullible. But of course he must've told her something — he had spent enough time in here as both a customer and, later, when I got my first job here and before I got my license, as my chauffeur. Karyn had to have noticed his absence in the winter. I was even more impressed by the easy way that she said his first name. She'd known him well enough for
Geoffrey
to fall naturally from her lips, but not well enough to know that everyone who loved him called him by his last name.

I realized that there had been a long pause, and that Karyn was still watching me.

“Did he come here a lot?” I asked. “Without me?”

Behind the counter, she nodded. “Often enough. He bought a lot of biographies.” She paused, contemplating this. She'd told me once that you could completely psychoanalyze someone based on the sort of books they read. I wondered what Beck's love of biographies — I had seen the shelves and shelves of them at home — told her about him. Karyn went on, “I do remember
the last thing he bought, because it wasn't a biography, and I was surprised. It was a day planner.”

I frowned. I didn't remember seeing it.

“One of those with spaces to write comments and journal entries on each day.” Karyn stopped. “He said it was to write down his thoughts for when he couldn't remember to think them.”

I had to turn to the bookshelves then because of the sudden tears burning in my eyes. I tried to focus on the titles in front of me to pull my emotions back from the edge. I touched a spine with one of my fingers, while the words blurred and cleared, blurred and cleared.

“Is there something wrong with him, Sam?” Karyn asked.

I looked down at the floor, at the way the old wooden floorboards buckled a bit where they met the base of the shelves. I felt dangerously out of control, like my words were welling, ready to spill. So I didn't say anything at all. I didn't think about the empty, echoing rooms of Beck's house. I didn't think about how it was now me who bought the milk and the canned food to restock the shed. I didn't think about Beck, trapped in a wolf's body, watching me from the trees, no longer remembering, no longer thinking human thoughts. I didn't think about how this summer, there was nothing — no one — to wait for.

I stared at a tiny, black knot in the floorboards at my feet. It was a lonely, dark shape in the middle of the golden wood.

I wanted Grace.

“I'm sorry,” Karyn said. “I didn't mean to — I don't mean to pry.”

I felt bad for making her feel awkward. “I know you don't. And you're not. It's just —” I pressed my fingers to my forehead,
on the epicenter of the ghostly headache. “He's sick. It's — terminal.” The words came out slowly, a painful combination of truth and lie.

“Oh, Sam, I'm sorry. Is he at the house?”

Not turning around, I shook my head.

“This is why Grace's fever bothers you so much,” Karyn guessed.

I closed my eyes; in the darkness, I felt dizzy, like I didn't know where the ground was. I was torn between wanting to speak and wanting to guard my fears, keeping control of them by keeping them private. The words came out before I could think them through. “I can't lose both of them. I know … I know how strong I am, and I'm … not that strong.”

Karyn sighed. “Turn around, Sam.”

Reluctantly, I turned, and saw her holding up the legal pad with the inventory on it. She pointed with a pen to the letters
SR
, written in her handwriting at the bottom of my additions. “Do you see your initials on here? This is because I'm telling you to go home. Or somewhere. Go clear your head.”

My voice came out small. “Thank you.”

She ruffled my hair when I came over to collect my guitar and my book from the counter. “Sam,” she said, just as I was heading past her, “I think you're made of stronger stuff than you think.”

I made my face into a smile that didn't last to the back door.

Opening the door, I stepped right into Rachel. Through a tremendous stroke of luck or personal dexterity, I kept from dumping my green tea all over her striped scarf. She snatched it
out of my way well after the danger of hot liquids had passed, and gave me a warning look.

“The Boy should watch where he's going,” she said.

“Rachel should not manifest in doorways,” I replied.

“Grace told me to come in this way!” Rachel protested. At my puzzled look, she explained, “My natural talents don't extend to parallel parking, so Grace said if I parked behind the store, I could just pull in and that nobody would mind if I walked in the back door. Apparently she was wrong because you tried to repel me with vats of burning oil and —”

“Rachel,” I interrupted. “When did you talk to Grace?”

“Like, last? Two seconds ago.” Rachel stepped backward to allow me enough room to step outside and close the door behind me.

Relief fell through me so fast that I almost laughed. Suddenly, I could breathe the cold air tinged with exhaust and see the tired green paint of the trash bins and feel the icy wind reaching an experimental finger into my shirt collar.

I hadn't expected to see her again.

It sounded melodramatic now that I knew Grace was well enough to talk to Rachel, and I didn't know why I would've jumped to that conclusion, but it didn't make it any less true.

“It is freezing cold out here,” I said, and gestured to the Volkswagen. “Do you mind?”

“Oh, let's,” Rachel said, and waited until I unlocked the doors to get in. I started the engine and put the heat up and pressed my hands over the air vents until I felt less anxious about the cold that couldn't harm me. Rachel was managing to
fill the entire car with some very sweet, highly artificial scent that was probably meant to be strawberry. She had to fold her stocking-covered legs on the seat in order to make room for her overflowing bag.

“Okay. Now talk,” I said. “Tell me about Grace. Is she okay?”

“Yeah. She went to the hospital last night, but she's back again. She didn't even stay overnight. She was fevered, so they doped her up with Tylenol out the wazoo and she got unfevered. She said she feels fine.” Rachel shrugged. “I'm supposed to get her homework. Which is why” — she kicked her stuffed backpack — “I'm also supposed to give you this.” She held out a pink phone with a cyclops smiley-face sticker on the back.

“Is this your phone?” I asked.

“It is. She said yours goes straight to voicemail.”

This time I did laugh, a relieved, soundless one. “What about
hers
?”

“Her dad took it from her. I can't believe you two got caught. What were you guys thinking! You could've died from humiliation!”

I just gave her a look that was invested with as much dolor as physically possible. Now that I'd heard that Grace was alive and well, I could afford some melancholy humor at my own expense.

“Poor Boy,” Rachel said, patting my shoulder. “Don't worry. They won't stay mad at you forever. Give them a few days and they'll be back to forgetting they have a daughter. Here. The phone. She's allowed to take calls again now.”

I gratefully accepted it, punched in her number — “Number
two on speed dial,” Rachel said — and a moment later I heard, “Hey, Rach.”