The Last Good Day of the Year (21 page)

She swerves the car off the road and into the nearest parking lot. “What the hell has gotten into you? I'm sorry for looking out for your health and safety. Actually, no, I'm not sorry. I'm your
mother, Sam; it's my job. And if it makes you feel any better, Remy is going through the same thing today with Mike.”

We're parked next to a Dumpster behind a building. A swarm of flies hovers in a thick cloud above the trash, their tiny wings beating rapturously against the July heat. When I close my eyes, I think I can smell the garbage fumes rippling past.

“I know what you're doing with him, Samantha. I wasn't born yesterday.”

“Excuse me? What is it you think I'm doing, exactly?”

She rolls her eyes. “I don't expect you to tell me everything. I know you're old enough to make your own decisions. But if you're going to lie to me, then I don't—”

“I'm not lying!”

“Oh, no? What would you say if I told you that Susan found condoms in Remy's bedroom?”

“I'd say that Remy is being foolishly optimistic.”

“I've seen the two of you together. You're with him
all the time
. And I'm not even angry—I'm just concerned, that's all! Can't a mother be concerned for her teenager?”

“But you don't have any reason to be concerned! I'm not doing anything wrong!”

“Like how you weren't doing anything wrong when you went to the Holiday Inn with Noah last year? You're
Samantha
,” she says snidely, “not Gretchen. I expect more from you.”

I can feel my heart pumping blood to every pressure point in my body. I can hear it rushing behind my ears.

My mom can tell she's pushed me a hair too far. She softens her tone and tries to move past it. “I shouldn't have said that about
Gretchen. I'm sorry. And I'm not trying to hurt you, Sam. I'm trying to be a good parent. It's my last chance.”

“What about Hannah?”

“Don't drag Hannah into this. Hannah is still a baby. Don't you dare drag her into this mess.”

“You think
I'm
the one dragging her into a mess?” I laugh in her face. “That's hilarious. You had Hannah to replace Turtle, and she doesn't even know it yet. You won't be able to hide it from her forever.”

My mom's breath stutters in her throat as she starts to cry. She pushes her sunglasses onto the top of her head and dabs at the corners of her eyes, blinking rapidly, trying to divert the flow of tears away from her mascara. “I didn't think I had to worry about you. You've always been such a good girl. I don't know what I did wrong with Gretchen, I really don't. I did the best I could with what I had. That's all any parent can do, you know. We did our best, but she was wild, Sam, like an animal. Do you remember? Tell her she's grounded, and she would sneak out of the house. I'd have locked her in her room, but she would have climbed right out the window. We told her to stay away from that boy, and she only chased after him harder. She wasn't just a rebellious teenager, she was a destructive force. Nobody was safe. And then your little sister …”

“Mom, stop.” I can't listen to her narrate the worst moments of our lives, not in a hot car beside a Dumpster with the insides of my nostrils tingling from the smell of all that decaying meat a few feet away. Every time she sucks in a breath, I imagine a curl of black flies and death tunneling down her windpipe, seeping into every pore of her body. I can't stand to see her like this, not because of
something I've done. “If I do anything with Remy or anyone else, I'll be careful. I promise. Please, just calm down.”

“Thank you.” She is trying hard to compose herself, a skill that she's had plenty of practice sharpening over the years. She can go from smiling and happy to falling apart in a few seconds flat, and then back to cheerful just as quickly; she's like the Porsche of emotional meltdowns. It's sad to know that the ability has grown so refined, and it makes me suspect that she's never anywhere near as happy as she sometimes seems, as if it's just a face she's learned to maintain for as long as possible, until she loses her focus and it drops away, and she has to scramble to piece it back together again.

When she stood onstage at the Miss Pennsylvania pageant in the seventies, beaming at the crowd and waving like a pro, her smile stretching so wide that the gums showed on the sides of her mouth, I'm sure it never crossed her mind that her life would be anything other than enchanted. Back then, she never had to wrap her head around the fact that shitty things happen to good people all the time. Instead, she campaigned for her title on the platform that hard work and good deeds were sufficient tools to build a sweet life. I've seen the video clip: she stands in a purple sequined evening gown slit up to her thigh, her posture that of a lucky girl who moves confidently, almost giddily through her charmed life. “I believe that kindness can change the world. When you treat others with love, respect, and dignity, it multiplies and spreads.”

It's easy to watch the pageant now and consider her words a load of pandering bullshit; the judges might not have cared about her message if her dress hadn't been so sexy or her face so lovely. But I believe she meant it. When she hired Lenny the landscaper
without bothering to inquire about the moral quality of his employees, she assumed they would all reciprocate with the same kindness she'd extended toward them. Sometimes kindness doesn't beget anything but misery. My mother didn't have to learn that until she was in her thirties; I've known it nearly all my life. I'm not sure which of us is better off.

 

Summer 1996

A week has gone by since I showed Remy the picture of Mister Marbles in the woods behind my house during our birthday party. The photograph is tucked between the pages of my hardcover copy of
Wuthering Heights
.

It's nothing; I know it's nothing. It's the song that bothers me more than anything else. If I heard it only that one time, how do I remember all the words? And why would he sing it to us in the first place? He must have known it would scare us. As much as I try not to think about the photograph, just knowing it exists makes me feel uneasy. At least twice a day, I take it out for another look, hoping every time that it will be different somehow—maybe I'll realize the man isn't there at all, and it's just a double exposure or a trick of the light that looks at first glance like a person. It's silly, and I feel stupid even getting my hopes up; it's the same thing I
do every time I read
Bridge to Terabithia
and hope for a different ending, even though I know what's going to happen.

I'm sitting on my bed, staring at the photo in my lap and willing it to change, when Gretchen strolls into my bedroom wearing only a bra and underwear.

“Oh—oh, hey, Sam. You're in here.” Her hair is soaking wet, dripping water onto my floor. “I thought I heard you,” she says, trying to play off the obvious fact that she was hoping to snoop around my empty room.

“What do you want?”

“Can I borrow some of your jewelry?”

“I guess so.” I barely own any jewelry, and none of it seems like it would suit Gretchen's style. But it's not like I have any good reason to refuse her. “It's all in my jewelry box. There's not much, but you can take whatever you want.”

Gretchen winces as she carefully creaks open the lid with her clean, delicate fingers. She leans over to peek at the plastic ballerina curled up inside, her pointed toes wedged into a metal spring, waiting to resume her endless pirouette to the metallic rendition of “Für Elise.”

My sister starts poking at the contents, frowning. “Is this all you have?”

“I told you it wasn't much.”

“This is all crap.”

“Thanks, Gretchen.”

“I know you have better stuff somewhere. Where's your hiding place?”

“My hiding place?”

“Where do you keep your weed and condoms?”

I bat my eyelashes at her. “With my hypodermic needles and pharmaceuticals, naturally.”

“Naturally,” she laughs. “How about the locket you found in Remy's basement?”

I reach into my shirt for the chain hanging around my neck. “This one?”

“Aha! Yes! Can I borrow it?”

I hold still while she leans over me to unclasp the necklace before I've even given her permission to take it. My palm trembles over the photograph resting faceup in my lap. I don't know why I care whether Gretchen sees the picture.

“Whatcha got there?” She swipes my hand away to get a closer look. “Ooh, is that me? Oh, my God. Look at my
hair
.”

“It's from one of my birthday parties with Remy.” I try to act nonchalant. “I found it in his basement.”

“Lemme see.” She snatches it away before I have a chance to stop her, holding it up to the light for a better look. I can't be sure, but I think I notice her gaze deliberately avoid Turtle's face.

“I
remember
this party. Wow.”

“Gretchen?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you see the man in the woods?”

She takes a closer look at the photo. “Oh,” she says, and I think I detect a hint of trepidation in her voice. “That's Frank Yarrow.”

“Frank Yarrow?” My ears ring at the sound of his name. Frank Yarrow. I've heard it before.

“He worked for Abby's dad sometimes. I think he might have been homeless.”

“Did you know him?”

She shakes her head. “No,” she says flatly, “but I saw him around sometimes.”

“Was he—was he nice?”

Gretchen won't look at me. “I don't know. It doesn't matter, Sam. He's dead now.” Now that she has what she wanted—the locket, clutched in her fist—she's done with pleasantries.

“He's dead? When did he die?”

“A long time ago,” she says, annoyed. “You were still a little girl.” She pauses, one hand poised above my doorknob. “I think he was Amish. There was something wrong with him; he had some kind of mental disability.”

“Remy and I saw him at the railroad tracks once. He was terrifying.”

Gretchen turns to frown at me. Her short hair is beginning to dry into small, silky blond waves, delicate as fluff. Her pretty face has a sharp expression. “You couldn't remember him, Sam. He died when you were too young.”

“We saw him,” I insist. “He gave us marbles.”

“You're wrong.” There's something about the way she says it that keeps me from arguing any further. She isn't going to believe me. “Forget about him, Sam,” she says, before she pulls my door closed. “He was nobody.”

*  *  *

Later that night, Remy and I are on the seesaw at the playground across the street when a blue car pulls up outside Abby's house. We're hidden by darkness as we observe the scene, our bodies gliding slowly up and down through the cool night air. The driver, a man, walks around to the passenger side and opens the door for Gretchen. The two of them go into Abby's house, their arms around each other's waists the whole time, their heads close together. The car is still there in the morning. I don't see Gretchen for the rest of the weekend.

Summer 1996

Over a few weeks last spring, I called Davis Gordon a number of times. I always did it from Noah's house so my parents wouldn't see it on our phone bill. Noah didn't know about it at first; nobody did. If his mom wasn't home, I would tell him I needed to use the bathroom, and then I'd sneak upstairs to use the fancy white phone on her nightstand.

I never knew exactly what I wanted to say to Davis. It didn't matter, because I always hung up shortly after he answered. I called him maybe seven or eight times in less than a month.

I made the phone calls around the same time I started spending most weekends at Noah's house. I was drunk on the thrill of being so close to him. I used to have to remind myself to breathe every time he touched me. I couldn't believe the energy I felt in
his presence. I remember thinking it was no wonder love made people go crazy sometimes.

Noah figured things out easily enough: Davis's number was a long-distance call, and his name showed up with the charges on the phone bill. He didn't press me much to explain myself, which was good, because I couldn't have explained anyway. Even
I
didn't understand why I called.