THIRTY-NINE

“I’m getting out now, Jamie. And so are you.”

We’ve been sitting in front of the Barrett Street house for ten minutes and Jenny’s gone through practically the whole bag of Circus Peanuts. I sort of can’t believe her. I’m pretty sure I’d throw up if I tried to swallow one. I might throw up anyway, which is not only a testament to how awful I feel, but I think it says something about Circus Peanuts.

Ducking around Jenny’s arm, I stare at the house again. It’s bigger than I would’ve guessed. Two stories of leaning brown stucco with a flat asphalt roof and a front yard filled with white sparkly rocks. No plants. Just rocks. Like an alien landscape. “I don’t understand why I can’t remember it. I mean, not at all.”

“A lot of people can’t remember stuff from when they were a kid.”

I sit back. “Oh, yeah? What’s your first memory?”

Jenny squirms in her seat and takes another bite of foam candy peanut. “I was riding on my dad’s shoulders as he walked me to preschool. It was spring and there were blossoms on the apple trees and I grabbed for them. This was back when we lived in Monterey.”

“How old were you?” I ask.

“Four.”

I blow air through my cheeks. “I lived here until I was almost six.”

“Well, what’s your first memory, then?”

“I … I sort of remember my mother. But I only remember certain things. Impressions. Like the warmth of the bed we shared, me on one side of her, Cate snoring on the other. Like the sweet, sweet scent of her cigarettes on her clothes. Or the soft way her dark hair would tickle me when she wanted me to laugh. I remember other things, too. Bad things. Like the drugs and the men and—”

Jenny touches my shoulder. “Hey.”

I look at her. “Only those aren’t memories of events, are they? They’re just things. Feelings.”

“Yeah, but there’s something in the way you talk about her. It’s kind of—”

“Kind of what?”

“Intense.”

“Wanting to remember my mom is intense.”

She softens. “I’m sure it is. What’s the first event you remember?”

I close my eyes. Force myself back in time. “I was in a group home with Cate after our mom died. There were spiders on the floor and I was scared, so she snuck a Pop-Tart out of the kitchen and brought it to me.”

“That’s sweet.”

My eyes fly open. “But I was six then! Why can’t I remember things from earlier?”

“You think something bad happened to you? Something that made you forget?”

“Well, I know it did. My mom got shot. Right in front of me! I know it’s normal to forget traumatic stuff like that and maybe that explains why I can’t remember anything from before, but…”

“But?”

I drop my gaze. Inspect the cup holder between the seats. “Sometimes I still forget things.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like I don’t remember pulling out my eyebrows. And then there are other times that…” I shake my head. I can’t tell Jenny about passing out in the Peet’s parking lot. I just can’t. It’s too mortifying.

God.

“Other times I just don’t know,” I say.

“Get out of the car,” she tells me.

 

 

The barking starts before we even reach the cyclone fence, freight-train loud. I freeze, then take a step back as a monster dog comes charging down the driveway, right at us. It skids on all fours and crashes against the fence. White rocks and slobber go flying. There’s a gleam of teeth. The dog’s a pit bull, brindle and white, and it’s got this enormous head that barks and barks and barks. I want to clap my hands over my ears, but instead I do an about-face, twisting my shoulders so that I’m facing the street again.

I start walking away. Quickly.

“Hey!” Jenny calls after me. “Hey!”

She grabs my arm and turns me around.

“It’s okay,” she says. “You can do this.”

There’s acid stinging the back of my throat and I’m shivering inside the rain parka I have on, but I nod.

Jenny marches us back up the steps toward the house. The monster dog continues to bark. Like Cujo or Beethoven or whatever that man-eating movie dog is called.

“Shh, boy,” she says, tucking hair behind her ear and leaning forward.

My heart lurches. “Jenny, stop that!”

“Oh, he’s not mean. Just loud. Look.” She holds a hand out, puts it right against the fence, like a sacrificial offering. The dog sniffs it wildly.

I swear he wants blood. “Don’t!”

She glances over her shoulder. “You’re scared of dogs?”

“No! I just don’t like them.”

“You look scared,” she says.

I scowl.

The front door of the house opens. An old lady with gray-brown skin and gray-brown hair sticks her head out. She doesn’t say anything. She just stares.

“Maybe we should go,” I mutter. “I don’t want to get shot.”

“Jamie!”

“Or mauled by a rabid pit bull.”

“You’re being awful. Seriously. We came all this way—”

I raise my voice. “These are perfectly valid concerns. Seeing as my mother DIED. Right here!”

“Who died?”

I look up to see the old lady creeping down the steps to the cracked cement walkway that’s slick with rain. She’s wearing a black tracksuit and there’s a baseball cap with an elephant on it perched atop her head. The dog swirls around her legs. I hold my stomach and bend over. Yeah, I get it. I’m being awful. But I’m also pretty sure I’m going to vomit. Right here. On Jenny’s purple sparkle boots.

Jenny throws me an exasperated look. Then she turns back to the woman. “Do you know where apartment B is?”

Old lady hand goes to old lady ear. “Heh?”

“Apartment B! This address.”

“No apartment B, hon. Whole you looking for? Who died?”

“His mom. Her name was—”

“Amy Nevin,” I manage to say.

The woman gasps. Monster dog notices. It gives a low growl and drops its head.

“You’re Amy’s boy?” she says. “My God.”

“Yeah,” I say, still clutching my stomach. “I am. I’m Amy’s boy.”

“This your sister?”

“Oh. No. This is my friend, Jenny. I’m Jamie.”

The old woman nods. “You were called Jimmy back then, you know.”

Now my eyes sting. But I’m able to stand. “I think I did know that.”

“You come here to relive old times?”

Jenny speaks up. “He doesn’t remember his mom. He thought maybe coming here would help him remember.”

“You don’t remember her?”

“Not really. Just a few things.”

“I see.”

“So you were here then?” I ask.

“I sure was. In and out. But this house has been in my family for sixty-four years. We used to rent out the basement, for cheap, you know, to help good folks who needed it. Like Amy. Only no one’s lived there … since. That’s why I didn’t know what you were talking about with apartment B. There is no apartment B. There really never was.”

“Do you think we could see it?” Jenny asks. “The basement?”

The old woman’s lips purse. She looks right at me. “That something you want to do, Jimmy?”

“Jamie,” says Jenny.

“Still the same person, isn’t he? Doesn’t matter what he’s called.”

“It does matter,” Jenny insists.

“Yes,” I say quickly. “Yes, I’d like to see it. If that’s okay.”

The woman gives a deep sigh, then reaches up for the gate latch with one hand, while holding on to her dog’s collar with the other. “Sure it’s okay. I’m Darlene, by the way. Get down, now, Hippo. These are good kids. You don’t have to worry. They won’t bite.”