The Beginning Of After Part 9

Chapter Eleven.

I woke up to the sound of thunder and heavy rain pinging against my window.

It wasn't really "waking up," exactly. It was more like opening my eyes away from the half sleep that had been pulling my mind along a string of strange thoughts and images.

At one point I was thinking about what my brother looked like when they buried him, whether they'd combed his hair back with gel or left a careful forelock to frame his face. Which made me think of the six months in middle school when I used styling mousse because I thought it made me look more like a character on my favorite TV show. That led me to my seventh-grade art teacher, Ms. Weber, who married our English teacher Mr. Weber and everyone thought it was so incredible that they already had the same name. Then this got me thinking about whether or not I would keep Meisner when I got married or become a Mrs. Somebody.

I jumped back to that first thought of Toby in his casket, feeling horrified and ashamed. How could this have landed me in the "fantasize about your future husband" place?

It had been three days since the prom. Three days since Manny drove Meg and me and Joe and Gavin to my house in total silence, me hugging Meg tight with my eyes closed, and Nana giving me a pill and putting me to bed for the night. In those three days I had not gotten out of bed, and since the moment that pill wore off I hadn't gotten any real sleep, either. I wouldn't let Nana dose me again. It felt like cheating.

Meg called the day after.

"I don't know what to say, Laurel. I really just don't have a clue." She sounded nervous, unsure of herself.

"It's okay," I said. "I'll be okay." I tried to sound like I believed it.

"Call me if you need anything," said Meg, more casually now, as if a quick trip to the drugstore for shampoo and Tylenol would solve all my problems.

Joe had called too. Twice. I'd had Nana tell him I was sleeping. It was nice to know he was concerned-Tell Laurel I hope she's feeling better was the message-but I couldn't bring myself to talk to him. Even though I could still feel his lips on my lips, his hand on my neck, when I tried to picture his face all I could see was how he'd looked at me when I started to sob. It was just too mortifying.

Then there was the thought of David, smirking and frowning and collapsing, and retreating. David cruel and bullying, then David quivery and scared like the little boy I still remembered despite my best efforts not to. All that morphing left me baffled and intrigued and ultimately filled with sorrow; then I reminded myself of what he'd taken from me-a lovely night, a sweet first kiss, a memory to hold on to-and that brought back a swell of fury. If the swell started to go down, I added in the image of Mr. Kaufman driving his SUV, squinting and slurring and swerving, and it grew again.

Sometimes I imagined what I'd do if I had a time machine and could go back to a single minute, any minute, of my life. In this time machine I'd travel to the minute of the accident night where, instead of asking permission to go home and work, I'd decide to go to Freezy's with everyone else. My parents and Toby and I would walk back to our house and get into our own car, planning to meet the Kaufmans there. Mr. Kaufman would even be kind of b.u.mmed that we won't get to check out his sweet new car, and my dad would be glad about it. We'd have dessert, and it would be totally boring, and then we'd come home to more boringness. But my parents would be downstairs now, arguing with Toby about leaving his socks on the couch.

The no-sleep thing made it all worse, of course, but I didn't seem to have any say in the matter. I'd gotten used to the headache and the pain behind my eyes, the sensation of pressure on my every muscle. This kind of exhaustion made me feel somehow more awake.

And my family's bodies kept me company.

I couldn't stop thinking about what they looked like. Nana had insisted on closed caskets. It was Jewish tradition, she said, but I knew it was also because of the burns and because of my mother. She'd been an organ donor, and somewhere out there, there were people alive with parts of her in them. I knew I'd be able to get that information someday. I might even want it, someday. But for now, all I could do was think of Mom as Sally from The Nightmare Before Christmas, with st.i.tchwork seams holding her together.

What did their skin look like? How bad were the burns? Did their faces look peaceful, or anguished?

I wished I'd had the presence of mind at the funeral to really look at those three caskets, one shorter than the other two. To tell myself that this was the last time my parents and Toby would physically be in the world together, and hold that moment close enough to feel like a good-bye.

Now the rain tapped harder against the gla.s.s, as if trying to shake those images loose. I had to get my family out of those caskets and talking, breathing. Doing stuff.

What a shame not to be outside today, Mom said in my head. My mother hated any day that didn't involve suns.h.i.+ne. She'd seek it out wherever she went, moving her plastic lounge chair around the backyard as the bright spot traveled. She sucked up sunlight like a plant in photosynthesis, and never saw the beauty in bad weather.

Dad did, though. His voice now: Whoa, look at how the wind blows the rain sideways. Watch the sky. We might just see some lightning. Hey Laurel, there's a word on your SAT list that fits here. Can you guess it?

Yes, Dad. Fulminate: "to cause to explode."

Toby. What was Toby saying?

I'm going outside anyway! I pictured him by the door, putting on his rubber boots, grabbing an empty jelly jar in case he found something worth keeping. He liked to bring back slugs and pour salt on them to watch them shrivel up, and I'd yell at him for being so cruel.

My body shook down into sobs again, and I grabbed the towel Nana had left folded on my nightstand. We'd given up on Kleenex that first post-prom day.

Now Nana must have heard I was officially awake and knocked on the door once before coming in. She didn't creep into the room slowly anymore but rather stepped briskly all the way inside.

"Will you get out of bed today, sweetie?"

"Probably not."

Nana's mouth fell into a flat line, and I turned to gaze at the ceiling.

"I think you should. I talked to Suzie Sirico. She can make time to see you today."

"Please stop with the Suzie stuff. It's not going to happen."

Nana sighed and left with the same forced-fast movement she'd arrived with. I got the feeling that to her, my bedridden, grief-soaked, deep-black funk had a forty-eight-hour time limit and had just expired.

But time didn't seem to matter anymore. It was something that could be stretched or twisted or thrown down to the floor as I saw fit. In the back of my fuzzy, buzzing mind, I knew it was now Tuesday. I imagined the rhythm of the school week, the air still electric with tales of Laurel's Freak-Out. The people who'd actually witnessed it suddenly in demand and more important. And Joe, who'd actually been kissing me at the time. I couldn't even think about it.

I rolled toward the wall and covered my head with a pillow, then heard Masher come in, the slight jingle of his collar. Nana must have left the bedroom door ajar. Sniff, sniff, sniff, very businesslike at my shoulders and back. Thud as he planted his b.u.t.t on the floor, thump, thump went his tail. Usually it took Masher just a few seconds of my not responding to leave, the jingling slower and fainter on the way out. But now the thump, thump kept thumping. I took the pillow off my face and turned to face him.

"Sorry, buddy, not today. Ask Nana to let you out in the yard."

Masher was doing the big-eyed head tilt that dogs do when they're trying to work you, but to me, right now, he belonged to the person who had caused the most embarra.s.sing moment of my life. I rolled back and waited for the sound of him leaving, which took a few seconds. Then the sound down the hall of Masher whining, and Nana muttering something, and the back door opening and closing.

It was the last thing I heard before drifting into a real, complete, dreamless sleep.

"Laurel? You sound weird."

"I just woke up from a nap."

I'd been sleeping for eight hours when Meg called, and Nana brought the phone in and made me sit up. The light had traveled to the late-afternoon spot in my room, and although my body was still only half-awake, it felt full, like it had been starving and just stolen a huge meal.

"How are you feeling today?" Meg asked, her voice insecure again. I hated to hear her like that, with me.

"I slept. That's good, I guess." I wanted to ask her about school, about Gavin. I had a vague memory of Meg holding me the other night, her hair fallen out of its updo, the straps of her dress crooked on her shoulders from the interrupted make-out session in the limo. But the words didn't come.

"That's definitely good," she said, then drew in a quick breath and added, "I know it's probably the last thing you want to think about right now, but I have to ask you a question."

"Okay."

"About PAP."

Ugh.

PAP meant Performing Arts Program. It was a nearby day camp run by the county. A few months ago, Meg and I had both landed sought-after summer jobs as a.s.sistant counselors.

"You forgot about it," she teased gently.

"No," I lied, my throat suddenly dry.

"Well, our paperwork is due this week."

"You said you had a question."

"Are you still going to do it? With me?"

When I'd interviewed for the job, the director asked me why I wanted it, and I'd answered, "Because I love theater, especially everything that goes on behind the scenes, and I want to share that love with young kids. I think I have a lot to give your campers."

But now it seemed like years ago that I'd had anything to give anyone, especially a bunch of overdramatic middle schoolers.

"I don't think I can," I said to Meg, struggling to keep my voice from collapsing.

"That's what I figured, but . . . I had to ask." She paused. "Is it okay with you if I still do it?"

We'd gone to interview together, and when we heard we'd been hired, our texts to each other contained a thousand exclamation points. A summer together! Working at this fun camp! With cute older college guys as counselors!

"You should do it," I said, then, brighter: "I want you to do it."

"Okay." Meg paused. "I miss you."

"Talk later," was all I could say back, before I hung up and crawled back under the covers to cry.

The stairs in our house usually creaked, but I knew where to step on each one to avoid that. On some steps the creak was on the left, on others it was the right, and with one it was exactly in the middle.

I put my foot on this step and gently moved my weight over it, remembering how long it had taken me to find the sweet spot. Years, really.

Getting up in the middle of the night for a drink of milk was a thing I'd done forever. When I was a toddler, I took a sippy cup to bed. My parents let me, probably because it helped keep me asleep all night, but my first cavity at age five put an end to all that. They offered me a cup of water as a compromise, but I refused. Then I'd wake up and reach for something that wasn't there anymore, and start to thrash when I realized I couldn't suck milk through my teeth and wash away the bad dreams. I started sneaking into the kitchen to take a swig from the gallon jug in the fridge, swish it around my mouth, and then go upstairs and back to sleep.

Even during these days after the prom, it was the one time besides going to the bathroom that I ventured out of my room. I didn't want Nana to know. I was aware of her keeping track of my bathroom visits, could feel her listening to my movement across the hall and back. She and Masher were alike that way; if Nana's ears could have p.r.i.c.ked up like a dog's whenever the door of my room opened, I'm sure they would have.

But Masher was the only one who knew about my milk trips. I'd just make it into the kitchen and reach for the refrigerator door when I'd hear the click, click, jingle, jingle of his toenails and collar on the hardwood floor behind me. Before the prom, I welcomed the company, taking a few moments to pet him before heading back upstairs.

Now he stared at me as I opened the milk carton and raised it to my lips, a needy intrusion. I ignored him.

When I was done, I looked at the carton. In the past, it was always a gallon jug; we needed that much milk in the house, between Toby and me drinking it and Dad's coffee and Mom's tea, and cereal and scrambled eggs and the occasional cookbook recipe.

I hadn't seen this difference until now; Nana was buying less milk. I looked around the half darkness of the kitchen, illuminated only by the stove light. What else had changed?

In the pantry, the shelves were full but familiar things were missing. Like the Flamin' Hot Cheetos that Toby loved so much. My mom would buy them for him and then yell about the neon orange dust on everything he touched.

The counters were clean. That was unusual. My mom and dad played a game of Wiping Chicken when it came to the counters. Each one thought it was the other's job and would only give in with sighing resentment. Which didn't happen all that often; crumbs and spill stains were things I'd stopped noticing a long time ago.

Then I noticed the knife block. n.o.body in our house could agree on which knife went in which slot. We each had our own way of doing it. Dad always put them in so the blades were facing left because he was left-handed; Mom and I did it randomly. Toby always put the small knives in the big slots out of sheer laziness. But now they were organized perfectly; each one in its place, each blade facing to the right. I pulled one out and it looked s.h.i.+nier, sharper than ever.

Holding the knife with the blade against my palm, it became so clear how my life would only contain shadows now. Shadows of things gone; not just the people themselves but everything connected to them. Was this my future? Every moment, every tiny thing I saw and did and touched, weighted by loss. Every s.p.a.ce in this house and my town and the world in general, empty in a way that could never be filled.

I can't do this.

The thought doubled me over and I sank to the floor, the knife still in my hand.

And besides, why should I?

Seeing the silver of the knife in contrast to the textured skin on my wrist, I couldn't push the dangerous question out of my head.

What do I have to live for that's worth this much pain?

I'd seen the movies in health cla.s.s and gone to the school a.s.semblies. I had considered myself depressed a few times, in middle school and for a good solid month in ninth grade. I'd wondered about the different ways you could off yourself, and which one I might choose if it came to that. Didn't everyone think about that stuff?

But the word suicide had always seemed rather cliche.

Yeah, yeah. Don't make that "final decision." We get it!

But now I got it in a totally different way.

"You know how Hemingway killed himself?" my dad once asked me when he saw I was reading A Farewell to Arms for English cla.s.s. "He put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. I have a lot of respect for that. Messy, but quick. Who wants to bleed to death in a bathtub or free-fall for several seconds off a building?"

"I like the car-running-in-the-garage approach," I'd said. My father and I had a way of turning these types of conversations-horrifying, really-into an easy joke.

"Too wimpy," he said. "So you go to sleep and it's not messy or painful. I mean, if you're going to do it, do it!"

If you're going to do it, do it.

There was nothing at this moment to stop me. I looked at the knife again for what could have been two seconds or two minutes. Everything around me and inside of me froze.

"Laurel?"

Nana's voice like a phone ringing, that high, clear startle. The kitchen flooded with light.

I looked up at her, as she looked down at me and then at the oversized utensil in my hand.

Her expression made me drop it to the floor with a clang.

Chapter Twelve.

Suzie Sirico's office was really just a small converted den in her very large house. It was on the first floor and had its own entrance around the back, and I felt a little like hired help as I made my way along the stepping-stones across the gra.s.s to a white wooden door.

Inside were a couch and two chairs, with a coffee table between them. Everything was overstuffed and brightly patterned, like one of those rooms you see in a home catalogue that you can't imagine real people ever actually using.