What You Left Behind Page 8

  Joni grins. “Good, right?”

  “Fucking amazing.” I devour the rest of it in two more bites. I guess with all the running around after practice, I didn’t realize how hungry I was.

  “There’s more where that came from, friend.” She skips off just as some guy who looks like he came straight from the gym pulls an avocado from the middle of the display and about fifty avocados from the top of the pile, the ones that apparently weren’t good enough for him, fall to the floor. Joni stops to help him pick them up, and I watch from across the produce section as she checks him out as he bends over. I don’t mean checking him out in the “ringing up his groceries” kind of way. Her eyes are seriously glued to his ass.

  Well, that was unexpected.

  A couple of hours later, I take my break and open Meg’s journal. I stare at the checklist, waiting for some meaning to float up off the pages. But I got nothin’.

  I flip back toward the beginning of the book. That entry I read yesterday about the baby-naming conversation is still bothering me.

  I read it again.

  Yeah, still feels off. There’s something about it that gives me an uneasy feeling—like I’m on my way to the beach and am about to realize I forgot to pack a bathing suit. But I still can’t figure out why it feels that way. Maybe it’s because I’m reliving that conversation about Hope’s name with the power of hindsight behind me, and knowing how the whole situation pans out taints the moment with bitterness. That could be it.

  But then, wouldn’t all Meg’s journal entries make me feel this way? Why is this one in particular driving me nuts?

  I’m about to skip ahead to where I left off when Joni comes into the break room.

  “There you are,” she says. She pulls out the chair next to me and sits down. “I saw on the schedule that you’re off on Friday.”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “I’m off too. I thought we could do something.”

  “Do something?”

  “You know, hang out. Chill. Socialize in a nonprofessional capacity.”

  Hmm. Does she mean as friends? Or something else? Because I’m beginning to think she’s not quite as gay as I thought she was.

  “I have soccer practice during the day,” I say.

  “After that.”

  “Uh, okay.” Okay? Okay? What the hell are you doing, Ryden?

  Oh, who am I kidding? I know exactly what I’m doing. Joni’s the only person I know who doesn’t know about Meg or Hope or any of it. Being back at soccer today proved that I can be the old me again, the Ryden Brooks who everyone loved, who could do whatever he wanted with zero consequences. And it felt really, really good. I think if I play this right, I can have two lives—the shitty one and the good one. And they don’t have to mix.

  “Awesome,” Joni says. “What do you want to do?”

  I shrug. “Whatever.”

  “Do you want to go with me to get a tattoo?”

  I stare at her. She’s looking back at me, all “what?” like she just said the most boring thing in the world. “Uh…I don’t really want a tattoo,” I say.

  Joni rolls her eyes. “I wasn’t talking about you. I was talking about me. It hurts like a bitch, and I could use a handholding buddy.”

  I consciously ignore the hand-holding part of that statement. “How do you know it hurts so bad? Do you already have a tattoo?”

  She rocks back on her heels, her hands in her pockets. “Yup.”

  “Where?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know.” She grins mischievously and then says, “Okay, cool, so we’ll figure out the details later. See ya.” And then she’s gone, the break room door swinging behind her.

  • • •

  That night, I write my letter to UCLA. If Meg were here, she’d watch over my shoulder for a few minutes as I struggled to get the words out on the screen. I used to read a lot, before I stopped having time, but writing has always been hard for me. How am I supposed to know what to say? Eventually Meg would gently put her hands on my shoulders and lean down and whisper in my ear, “Want some help?” She wouldn’t say it condescendingly—she’d just want to know if I needed her help. I’d say yes, and she would sit on my lap and start typing, and in twenty seconds flat, she’d have the perfect letter written, no typos or misspelled words, and she wouldn’t even have to use spell check. She never told me what she wanted to do after college, but I bet she’d have been an author. Or maybe a journalist. She did tell me she’d always dreamed of going to Dartmouth but that her plans changed after she got her diagnosis. That was why she’d gotten all sad that day outside the cafeteria when I told her about UCLA for the first time.

  I read over the letter about a hundred times to make sure all the commas are in the right place and I don’t sound like a complete dolt.

  Stats, athletic background, academic background, game film, YouTube link, Coach’s contact info, game schedule. Long-ass paragraph of desperate pleading.

  I go outside to put it in the mailbox. It’s a really quiet night. There are no cars going by, and the people across the street are on vacation, so for once, their dog isn’t barking his head off. Even my own house is quiet. Mom’s hanging out on the couch with Hope, the two of them watching The Bachelor.

  I sink down to the curb and sit next to the mailbox, leaning back on my hands, staring up at the stars. I still don’t quite get how each one of those stars is actually a sun, burning up its own part of the universe. It seems incomprehensible that something that big, that complex, that infinite, is out there, while we’re here on this stupid planet watching reality shows and waiting in line for the new iPhone and buying all the chia seeds in Whole Foods because some article told us it was trendy, thinking we’re tough shit, like any of it means anything. But we’re miniscule. We mean nothing. And even in our own world, we don’t stick around that long. Not long enough to matter. You’re born—more likely than not an unintended by-product of your parents wanting to get laid—you do some stuff, and then you die. You get sick, you get hit by a train, you get old and fall apart. It all ends the same way. And that’s it. Then your kids get horny, have a kid, and the cycle starts again.

  What the hell is the point of any of it?

  I brought Meg’s journal with me. The light from the streetlamp casts the book in a muted golden color. I read a few entries. Meg writes about her family dinners, how her father has been drinking a lot more wine lately, shopping online with Mabel since she’s not strong enough to go to the mall, watching the clock and counting the minutes until school gets out and I can visit her.

  Her words break my heart into as many fragments as there are stars in the sky. But none of the entries have the same stomach-twisting effect as that baby-naming one.

  I lie back on the narrow strip of grass between the street and the sidewalk and focus on one particularly bright star.

  My voice is a whisper in the darkness. “I miss you.”

  Chapter 9

  Over the next couple of days, I get a kind of routine going. Drop off Hope with Alan, spend all day at soccer, pick up Hope and drop her off with my mom, go to work, go home, get as much sleep between the crying fits as I can. I haven’t managed to repeat the mellow nighttime feeding of the other night, but I have remembered to call Alan at lunch to check up on Hope. Plus, I’ve successfully avoided being in the same room as my mother for longer than two minutes at a time, so she hasn’t been able to bring up the whole day care conversation again. I think she’s been cutting me some slack because of our intense as all hell discussion at the kitchen table on Monday, but I see that look in her eyes—the reprieve isn’t going to last forever.

  “Where do you live?” Joni asks me Thursday at work.

  “Why?”

  “So I can pick you up for our tattoo extravaganza tomorrow.”

  Nope. No way she’s coming to my house. “I thought you didn’t hav
e a car.”

  “I don’t. But I borrow my stepbrother’s car sometimes.”

  Well, that won’t do at all. “Where’s the tattoo place?”

  “Laconia.”

  Perfect. “And you live in Clinton, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It doesn’t make sense for you to come all the way out to Downey to pick me up. It’s way out of the way for you. I’ll pick you up.”

  She shrugs. “Have it your way, Brooks. I was trying to be a gentleman.”

  I laugh. “You don’t look much like a gentleman to me, lady.”

  We swap phones and enter our contact information. I feel a strange relief at knowing that I have a way to get in touch with Joni now. If I ever wanted to.

  “Who’s this?” she asks, holding up the home screen.

  It’s a photo of me and Meg at our spot at the lake, my arms around her as I give her a kiss on the cheek, her arm extended out in front of her as she takes the picture of us, her face all red and laughing. I look at that photo every time I use my phone. There’s no reason for me to act weird about it now. Except for the fact that I can’t tell Joni the truth.

  “Oh,” I say, taking the phone back and pushing the button that makes the screen go dark. “That’s my ex.” I keep my voice as nonchalant as I can.

  “An ex and yet you still have her picture as the background on your phone.” Joni looks at me all knowingly. “Methinks somebody’s not quite over it.”

  I shake my head. “No, it’s very over. Trust me on that.”

  “Then why the photo?”

  A woman with long, gray hair stops her cart next to us and saves me from having to explain. “Excuse me,” she murmurs and steps between us to study the various brands of sprouted quinoa. She has a bag of kale chips in her cart. Funny how when I first met Meg, I had no idea what a kale chip was, and now I work in a store where they fly off the shelves. One more thing to remind me of her.

  We step back to give the woman some space, and I shove the phone in my back pocket. While we wait for her to go away, I straighten a few sacks of whole wheat flour.

  “Can I help you find anything?” Joni asks her.

  “No, no, just looking,” she says. Finally she plucks a bag of quinoa off the shelf and leaves.

  “So,” I say to Joni right away, “what time should I pick you up tomorrow?”

  “My appointment’s at five thirty. Maybe, like, five? Does that work?”

  That actually works out perfectly. Just enough time to leave Hope with my mom and get the hell out of there again.

  • • •

  “I’m going out, Mom.” I stop at her office door on my way to get Joni. “Hope’s in her swing.”

  Mom’s office is covered in pink feathers. She’s even got a couple sticking out of her hair. “Hold on.” She looks up, glue gun in hand.

  “What is this, a flamingo-themed wedding?” I ask, joking.

  She smiles. “Actually, yeah.”

  “Really?” I haven’t guessed one of these right in a while.

  “Hey, as long as it pays the bills, I don’t ask questions,” Mom says.

  “You do realize that exact sentence has been uttered by every person who was ever involved in anything illegal?”

  Mom laughs. “So where are you going?”

  “Out.”

  “Out where? You don’t have work today.”

  “I’m aware of that. I’m going out with a friend.”

  “What friend?”

  “You don’t know her.”

  Mom’s eyes pop a bit. “Her?”

  I shake my head. “Don’t do that. It’s just someone from work.”

  “Listen, I’m glad you’re making new friends, Ryden, but you’ve barely seen Hope all week.”

  “I’ll see her tomorrow. Your hot glue is dripping.” I point. “Gotta go. Love you.”

  She sighs, like she knows it’s not worth a fight. “All right then. Have fun.”

  Joni’s house is exactly the kind of place I would have pictured her living. It’s big but not too fancy, there are a few kids’ toys scattered in the driveway, and brightly colored flowers are planted along the front pathway. It’s welcoming, like Joni herself.

  There’s a dude in the garage working on some sort of project. I give him a quick wave on my way to the front door, but he stops me. “Hey, can I get your opinion?”

  I look around. “Me?”

  “Yeah. Come here a sec.”

  I go over. The guy is, like, twenty, and has dark skin but bright blond dreadlocks. He looks like he hasn’t shaved in a few days. His hands are gray.

  He gestures to the thing in front of him. It’s some sort of sculpture done with clay and metal. It’s almost as tall as I am and kind of like a tree—the trunk is all organic-looking, with intricately carved bark, but the branches and leaves are harder, more geometric, made from welded pieces of pipe and scrap metal. It’s actually really cool.

  “What do you think?” the dude asks. “I need another set of eyes on this.”

  “It looks like a tree.”

  “Yeah, but what do you think about it?”

  “I don’t really know anything about art.”

  “You don’t have to know anything to feel something. Just tell me your first impression.”

  “Well…” I look at it some more. “I think it’s…sad.”

  “Sad how?”

  “I don’t know, it’s like it was natural and something happened, something came along right around here”—I point to the junction between the clay and the metal—“and corrupted it, changed it into something else. Something less.”

  He stares at it a minute. “Yes. That’s exactly right. It’s sad.” I don’t know if that’s good or bad, but he holds out his hand to me and says, “Thank you. That’s exactly what I needed.”

  I shake his hand, getting gray clay all over mine. “So…is Joni here?”

  “Yeah, she’s inside. You can go right in.”

  I feel weird walking into someone’s house—especially someone I barely know—but after two rings of the bell, there’s still no answer, so I open the screen door and go inside. “Hello?” I call out.

  “Ryden?” Joni calls from somewhere upstairs.

  “Yeah.” I start up the steps as she comes bouncing down the hallway. She’s wearing these baggy linen pants that sit low on her hips and a red tube top. She’s actually got a hell of a body. I clear my throat.

  She grins down at me from the top of the steps. “So you just waltz into people’s houses willy-nilly?”

  “I rang the bell. Twice.”

  “Mhmm, sure you did.” She crosses her arms.

  “The guy outside said I should let myself in. I’m sorry, I—”

  She drops her arms and rolls her eyes. “I’m messing with you. Lighten up.”

  The door off the kitchen opens, and two little kids—a boy and a girl, both with a skin tone about halfway between Joni’s and the dude outside’s—come running in, shrieking at the top of their lungs and firing at each other with Super Soakers. A girl who looks like she’s not that much younger than Joni and me follows them inside, towel-drying her hair and shouting at the kids that the house is a water-gun-free zone. They share a glance and turn fire on her.

  “Stevie!” Joni says to the girl. “¡Es tu trabajo para mantener a los niños lejos de los problemas de hoy!”

  “I know,” Stevie says. “But it’s hard, okay? There’s two of them.”

  Joni sighs and motions for me to follow her.

  “Willy-nilly?” I repeat as we walk down a hall with framed paintings covering the walls. The house smells like fresh-baked bread. “Who talks like that?”

  She laughs. “I do, apparently.” She pushes open the door at the end of the hall. “Welcome to Chez Joni.”

&
nbsp; Holy. Shit.

  Joni’s room is insane. The rest of the house was pretty normal. Colors everywhere and lots of art, but nothing crazy. This is hands down the trippiest room I’ve ever been in. You step inside and it’s like you’re stepping outside. Or through a magical wardrobe or some shit. The ceiling is one large, angled skylight, with a few strategically placed crossbeams supporting the glass. Above us, the sun is still fairly high in the sky, and the leaves of an old elm tree rustle together like they’re trying to keep warm.

  The walls, closet door, and light switches are covered in the most intricate mural I’ve ever seen. It’s a 360-degree panoramic view of a city park. The details, the depths, the lighting…it’s like a photograph. I don’t feel as if I’m looking at a wall; I feel as if I’m looking out a window.

  All the furniture is white—the bed, the lamp, the desk, the dresser.

  There’s some sort of soundtrack being pumped out of hidden speakers somewhere. Street traffic, the constant slosh of water from a fountain, and someone playing the violin far off in the distance.

  And the floor…

  “Is this AstroTurf?”

  “Yeah, my parents wouldn’t let me plant real grass in here, so this was the best I could do.”

  “Where are we?”

  “Washington Square Park,” she says. “It’s in New York. It’s my favorite place in the world.”

  “I’ve never been there. What’s so great about it?”

  “I have this picture of me there with my mom when I was a baby. It’s one of the only photos I have of just the two of us.” She opens her computer and pulls up a picture of a young woman who looks a little like Joni, wearing a winter coat and hat and holding a fat baby about Hope’s age. They’re in front of a big arch. “I don’t really have any memories of her, but this picture feels like a memory, if that makes sense.”

  I nod. It’s like the journals. A poor substitute for the real thing, but better than nothing.

  “So when my stepmom and my sister Stevie and my best friend Karen and I went on a trip to New York a few years ago, we all went there.” She shows me another picture of the four of them under that same arch. A tall, darker-skinned woman who I guess is Joni’s stepmother; the girl from the hallway, only younger; and a white girl with a huge smile. Joni’s hair was longer then—and pink. “It’s this perfect little square of music and art and history and intellect and nature and harmony, right in the middle of a bunch of screaming streets.” She looks me in the eye and smiles. “It was incredible. Because those are all things we have inside us too. You know, the things that make us human? Even though pressure, rules, drama push in on us from the outside and try to take over. I like being reminded that if this little, unassuming park in the middle of Manhattan can fight back against the bullshit, so can I.”