What Happened to Lani Garver (23 page)

The answer might be that Lani Garver was some sweet, intelligent gay kid, and the forces behind the universe were as mundane as ever. I wanted to keep my hope for something more extravagant.

And considering I wasn't looking for answers, things happened over the weekend that were hard to reckon with. The first weird thing began right then. I lay in a weary trance, staring into the blackness of the aisle. I do not remember ever falling asleep.

The bus pulled into the station, and my eyes were wide open. I raised my head to tell Lani to wake up. The seat beside me was empty. I searched every seat, thinking he had climbed over his seat backward to stretch out. He was nowhere on the bus. His bag was nowhere, and his seat was cold. You might have thought he'd never been there.

I wandered zombielike over to my dad's window wall that looked out onto his balcony. In the morning light it was starting to sink in what a great job Suhar had done of sprucing up this old town house. When I was on chemo the balcony was just a concrete slab that went out about twenty feet, with a plain, stone wall around it. There was an actual garden out there now, with a bunch of fall flowers blooming and different levels of green things surrounding their hot tub.

"Wanna go sit in there?" Dad came up behind me and put his hands on my shoulders, kissing the back of my head. "I cannot believe how tall you are."

"I was already in your hot tub. Last night. A couple of times, actually—"

"Trouble sleeping?"

"Some."

"No nightmares, I hope," Suhar said. She stood across the dining room table, holding up a funny-looking little coffee pot, like, did I want some.
Espresso,
I remembered hearing her say before. I'd never tried it, but I nodded. I studied her long blond hair, trailing down to her butt, and her kind eyes as she poured, and I decided her nightmare thing had been an innocent question. I glanced down at her wedding ring, which had starred as a bloody mess in a few of my nightmares. The small diamond sparkled.

"No. No nightmares." It had been just a blank, spacey night, where I barely knocked off. "I just couldn't sleep. I can't believe how good this place looks," I added, to change the subject.

"Comes with marrying an artist," my dad whispered in my ear, then kissed it. He flung an arm over my shoulder as I giggled uncomfortably, and whispered more. "I'm surrounded by very cool women."

I flipped his arm off my shoulder, and he sighed a long one. "I see you're still affectionate, as usual."

"Part of my charm."

"I ... uhm..." He handed me my espresso and stared at the saucer as I swallowed a small mouthful. Tasted scorchy. "I should have ... shown you more affection when you were sick. I was afraid of hurting you if I touched you, something, I don't know ... But it always bothered me, so I thought I would tell you."

I shook my head at him sleepily. I hadn't given much thought to who had touched me and who hadn't during chemo. "Why do parents always feel they're responsible for the little quirks in their kids?"

"I don't know. But I'm on this kick right now of apologizing for all the stupid things I've done to people. Bear with me."

I stepped past him, grinning, and moved toward the dining room table. "What'd you do, join a twelve-step program?"

"No. But how did you know about the steps?"

I plopped down in a chair. "Mom was in AA for about three weeks when I was in eighth grade. She kept their little book in the bathroom before she decided that wasn't her problem."

"A shame."

"Yeah, but ... she's okay." I felt bad telling stories on my mom. She hadn't breathed Old Sweat Sock in my face after my chemo ended. "She only starts slobbering badly on Saturdays. And these days ... she's a happy drunk, usually."

"So, why do you think you couldn't sleep?" My dad brought the subject back around. "Dream about anything when you did sleep?"

My giggles had something to do with him and Suhar both asking about dreams. I leaned my head on the table for a second and popped back up again.

"Second guess, being that it's not the twelve steps. You've had your head shrunk. By a shrink. Isn't it true what Mom says? All city people walk their dogs on leashes, pick up dog crap in little plastic bags, and see shrinks to make up for that harrowing experience?"

"I don't have a dog." My dad shrugged innocently, but I guessed that answered my question. I had vague, eighth-grade memories of my dad saying that Suhar agreed to marry him only if he found a professional counselor and figured out why his first marriage went all wrong. I didn't want to discuss their head shrinkages.

"What would you say if I told you ... I actually punched somebody last night?"

My dad took a turn dipping his head to the table and popping back up. "Somebody from Hackett?"

"Well, you picked me up at the bus, and I haven't punched anybody since."

"I'd say ... punching somebody from Hackett is ... understandable."

"I'm a
girl.
"

"I can suddenly see that." He sipped his espresso, looking me up and down. "But I don't think anger is gender specific. How bad was it?"

"He was, uhm, bleeding."

"
He?
I thought we were talking about a catfight among future fishwives. What did
he
do to you?"

I sighed really long, taking a big swallow of this disgusting espresso. "Nothing."

"Matter of principle?"

I felt better hearing it put that way. "Remember the Clementis?"

"Only the mister. Ferocious bastard. God, brings back fatal memories of high school. I was a band dweeb. Don't know how I caught your mother, especially with guys like him who wanted her, too." My dad shuddered. "You hit one of his offspring?"

"Yeah."

"Good girl. Wish I'd had the nerve to hit the mister, way back when. I understand it's too late now."

I shot a glance at Suhar, who was leaning against the buffet, listening to this story. "Are you all right, Claire?" she asked.

I nodded. "I just can't believe I did that."

I didn't know Suhar very well. She had steered pretty clear of the house when I was recovering with Dad. But the fact that she had decided not to lecture me about punching people gave me courage to go on.

"And how would you feel if I told you ... my friend Lani, who was supposed to come here, actually got on the bus with me? And when I got off, he was gone? And I still can't remember ever falling asleep? Or when he could have stepped over me?"

"You must have fallen asleep," they both chimed. I hadn't said much more when I met them at the bus than that he decided not to come. I was too freaked out.
Thanks, guys, for informing me that I actually went to sleep. I was starting to think he was an angel, and he just floated off.
That would go over well.

"Yeah, you're right. I just ... wish I knew where he went ... and why."

"He called this morning. He's at home," Dad said.

"He called?" I dropped the cup in the saucer loudly. "Why didn't you tell me? What did he say? What happened?"

"He apologized. Said he was having a bad-hair day and couldn't make it."

My jaw dangled, and I remembered the blood caked in his hair as he fell asleep on the bus. I guessed he'd gotten second thoughts about meeting strangers while looking like that. I cracked up, though I wasn't as amused as my dad looked.

"How did he get past me? Where did he get off? How did he get home?"

"He didn't say."

The silence that followed gave me wild willies.
He floated off.
I reached across the table for the cordless phone, though I wasn't sure I was going to ask Lani about it. Some part of my gut wanted to enjoy a mystery instead of hearing some mundane explanation.
You fell asleep, and I asked the driver to pull over...

"Why didn't you call me?" I started routing through caller ID for his number.

"I thought you were sleeping. And he didn't ask for you."

Somehow, this didn't sound good. I looked back and forth between two sets of overly innocent eyes. "He's got no phobia of adults ... anything like that."

"Sounds like a college kid or even older. How old is he?" Dad asked.

"I'm not sure, to be honest. So ... what did he want with you? If he's spewing my life all over the place, I'll rip his 'bad hair' out."

"No, no." Dad reached into his pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper. "He wanted me to take you somewhere. Or, at least, make sure you went there."

I looked at his chicken scratch upside down, and the only thing I could make out was a capital
E.
I laughed. "If
E
stands for Erdman, forget it. I'm not going."

I stood up to pour out the rest of this espresso. It tasted like dog doo.
All this city-people food really sucks.

Dad followed me into the kitchen. "Claire, I really think you should go."

I guessed
E
stood for Erdman. "Forget it, Dad. All of Hackett is flipping out, and yet
I'm
elected to go to a shrink?"

"Maybe you're the lucky one."

"Yeah?" I kept laughing, dwelling on the Claire Zone of Bad Luck. "Maybe Lani should mind his own ...
hair
and stay out of mine. Vince Clementi needs a shrink. Macy needs a shrink. I do not need a shrink."

He sighed. "I'm sure all the Clementis could use some therapy, but the chances of that ever happening are almost nil. Does that mean you have to fall into the stupid zone with them? Lee Erdman is a very nice guy."

"Gee. That changes everything."

"I've actually talked to him once."

"Small world, ha. You been playing musical couches while having your head shrunk?"

"Very funny. I've never been on his couch, but I've been in a pub where he lets loose with a hobby of his. He plays bass every Saturday night down at the Hollis Grill, with an amateur band. They're all shrinks. Not bad musicians, actually. The music world is pretty small in Philly—"

"And they call themselves the Shrunken Heads, right? Dad!" I gave the time-out sign in his face. "I'm not going. That's so unfair. Tell Macy to see a shrink! I'm not crazy!"

"Nobody has used that word." He stepped forward and touched my shoulder. I batted his hand off. He ignored me. "I wanted you to get some therapy when you were sick. Your life is enough to set anybody up for bad dreams and a food problem—"

He stopped, horrified at his own big mouth. I felt smoke barreling out both my ears. This was not the way I wanted to start off my first visit with Dad in a year—him seeing my "rage" side, which I just met last night. I felt scared I might throw something.

"All right, that's it." I marched into the dining room, past Suhar, who was sipping dog doo and pretending not to be listening. "I don't want to fight with you guys. I'm going to call Mr. Big Mouth and blast him. Is there privacy around here ...
somewhere?
"

Suhar flitted off to their bedroom as I tracked through numbers in the caller ID, but my dad just grunted. "This isn't exactly a huge place. Go in your room, and don't banish us. But first, you ought to call Lee Erdman's office and cancel that appointment I made for you."

"DaaAAaad!" I pulled open the sliding glass door, slid it shut again behind me, closing out a lecture on how "lucky" I was that some exceptional people worked six days a week.

"Only luck I have is bad luck," I informed the cordless, finding the one number with a Hackett exchange. I hit dial and crashed down on my butt, with my back against the window wall. I should have felt wonderful sitting out there in this summerlike weather in my tank pajama shirt and pants. But I was fuming. Any thoughts of Lani being an angel bit the dust.

"An angel would not humiliate you before your family," I told the ring-ring. "An angel would improve your life, not make you psycho. An angel would give you help from God, not a shrink!"
Maybe he was the devil—

"Claire?"

"Do you have to have such a big mouth!"

"Sorry. I was having a blunt moment." He sounded out of breath.

"When
don't
you have a blunt moment? Except when someone's honing in on
your
personal garbage, Mr. I-don't-like-to-talk-about-myself? Where do you get the nerve to tell that shit to somebody's parents? I am dreaming this!"

"Claire, can you do me a favor? Save it? We've got a problem down here that could get ... ugly."

Our lives were down the toilet anyway, so any new problem shouldn't matter. "No, I won't save it! How could you do that to me?"

"I called to speak to you ... spoke to your dad for about five minutes ... I can smell a person a mile away who's had therapy. I gathered it would be no big deal to anyone except
you.
Okay? Last-minute judgment call. I wanted to take you there myself—"

"You were not
taking
me anywhere."

"Whatever. Please. Can you keep calling Ellen's cell phone until you get her? Remember that angel costume she mentioned having Abby mail to me the other day? From when I was the floating angel in the school show last year? I need you to find out if she actually mailed it."

"Is this important somehow?" I demanded, memorizing a phone number he kept repeating.

"My mom said there was a big box on the porch for me this morning, left by the UPS man. She didn't bring it in. When I woke up and went down, nothing was outside."

My eyes darted around the flowers, trying to figure how this was more magnanimous than a big-time betrayal. "Someone stole a package off your porch?"

"Somebody stole an
angel costume
off my porch. In a box, with my name on it."

"Angel costume..." I shut my eyes, getting a bad vibe.

"I got back here way late and had to wash all that blood out of my hair ... got in bed around five o'clock. My mom woke me up around nine-thirty about the box. I went back to sleep. But I would swear about ten o'clock I heard a couple, like, high school kids coming up the street, laughing and fooling around."

"You think they got curious and stole it?"

"Maybe."

Poofy white dress in a box with his name on it.
"How poofy is it? Will the thieves think you're cross-dressing for your next trick?"