Chapter 5
Swan’s phone dings at 7:10 AM:
Buenos dias, amore. How was your run? We’re off to Mass, but I’ll get away later so we can talk. Maybe meet? I miss you so much
I don’t text back. And I don’t call. Last night I turned off Location Services so no one can track Swanee’s cell using her GPS. I notice Swan’s battery is nearly drained, and I know the best thing to do would be to just let the cell die. Burn it and bury it with Swanee.
I page through her texts to find the last one I sent her.
Friday. The day before.
What time do you want me there in the morning?
For snowboarding at Keystone. Which we never did. Keystone. How would LT know about Keystone? I feel so confused and sad and empty, all at once. I plug in to my nano to let my music drown out the grief. Unfortunately, most of the songs on my playlist are the ones Swanee loaded, and that only intensifies the pain. Removing the earbuds, I cover my head with my pillow. I must fall asleep because the sound of my name jolts me back to consciousness.
The door opens wider.
“Alix? It’s almost noon,” Mom says.
So what? Time is irrelevant.
“Jewell’s on the phone. She wants to know what time you’re coming over to get your things.”
It takes me a moment to clear my head. I scramble out of bed and realize I’m wearing the same clothes I wore to Swanee’s service.
Mom’s disappeared.
Downstairs, Dad’s at the table reading the paper, while Ethan is making a gaggy mess of his breakfast. Mom motions me to the cordless, which she set on the breakfast bar.
I grab it and head into the living room. “Hi.” I clear my throat.
“Alix, we decided last night to go to Hawaii. We’ve been saving up for a vacation, and now is as good a time as any. We need to get out of here and, you know, regroup. We’re leaving in a few hours, so if you want your things, could you come over and get them?”
“Yeah, of course.” I want to ask if I can go with them. To… regroup. “I just need to get dressed.” Rather, changed. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
A duffel nearly clobbers me as it’s tossed down the hall, but Asher yanks me out of the way. “Watch it, Genjko.” Then he says to me, “Sorry about that.”
Genjko’s anger is palpable. He rarely leaves his room, so I’m sure he’s being coerced to go on this trip.
“Take whatever’s yours and I’ll donate the rest to Goodwill,” Jewell says to me.
“No!” Joss cries, dumping her backpack on the pile of luggage. “Everything she has belongs to me.”
Jewell says coolly to Joss, “What makes you think that?”
“She was my sister.” Joss’s voice trembles.
“We don’t need bad karma in this house,” Jewell replies. “Right, Genjko?”
He storms out the door. I wonder how he feels about Swanee’s death. Or about anything at all.
Joss pushes past me and slams out after him.
“There’s a set of keys under the ceramic frog on the front porch,” Jewell tells me. “Just lock up on your way out.”
I stand and watch until they drive away. The heater cranks off with a hiss, jarring me out of my stupor.
My footsteps creak as I walk down the hallway. Swanee’s door is closed, the same way I left it. I brought an empty backpack, and as I begin to slog through the flotsam and jetsam of Swanee’s life, I notice there’s more of me here than I thought. Swan borrowed a pair of sweats and jeans and two long-sleeved thermal shirts. A lot of the button jewelry I made her is strewn haphazardly across the floor, along with library books that will eventually be overdue.
My knees go weak and I have to sit. Then lie down. I bundle a blue sweatshirt under my head and curl into a ball. “Why did you have to die?” I whisper.
Silence presses against my body and a tear rolls out of the corner of my eye.
“I need you. I love you.”
My cell jingles in my bag. The ringtone for Mom. I let it go to voice mail and stay still until I begin to shiver from the cold of the floor, or the lack of human warmth. I retrieve my phone and listen to Mom’s message:
“Are you almost done? I need you to do some grocery shopping for me.”
Chores, chores, chores. Swanee never had any chores or responsibilities.
Mom adds at the end, “I’ll leave the list on the fridge.”
Lists, lists, lists. I’d been living under a fascist regime until I met Swanee and saw the light of liberation.
I want to memorize every square inch of this room. My cell is in my hand, so I snap pictures.
I have dozens of pictures of Swanee on my cell. Goofy shots of her making faces, sticking out her tongue or crossing her eyes; candid shots of her in the moment. A close-up of us kissing.
I need to stop torturing myself, but I can’t let her cell die. Her charger is plugged into the wall, so I pull it out and drop it into my bag. On my way to the door, my foot crunches a CD. I bend over to pick it up. There’s no label. Only a line written in permanent marker:
LIANA
Before I even make it home, Swan’s cell pings. I swerve to the curb and read it while I’m idling.
Hi. You didn’t call me. I left you a vm. Did you get it? I can probably get away to meet you later today. If you want. Call me. Por favor!
Where do you want to meet and when?
She texts:
Our regular place? Like, 4:30?
Shit. What’s their regular place?
I text:
Let’s go to a new place. I have something to tell you
There’s a long pause before her next text arrives.
Is it good or bad?
When I don’t respond right away, she texts:
If it’s bad, I don’t want to come
She has to. She needs to know.
She texts again:
Good or bad, I don’t care. I miss you. Let’s meet at Twin Peaks
What’s Twin Peaks? Dad would never let me drive in the mountains by myself. Screw that. I need to meet her. I text:
OK
She texts:
In front of the theater. 4:30?
Fine, I text.
Te amo
I don’t even know what to say to that. I text:
See you
Suddenly, it hits me. Facebook. I’ll find her there. At least now I know her first name, assuming LT is Liana from the CD.
Dad practically assaults me as I’m coming through the garage door. “What took so long?” he asks.
Hello to you, too.
He shoves the grocery list at me, along with a fistful of cash, and then heads for the stairs. I can see why he’s in a hurry, and a mood. Ethan has icky diarrhea that’s running out the side of his diaper and down Dad’s arm. “Thanks for helping out,” he says.
If he’s being sarcastic, I can’t tell.
I think illegible handwriting must be a course in medical school, because Mom’s scrawl is impossible to decipher. I finally figure out that “park chips” is pork chops. Is “bd” bread or baby diapers? I’ll buy both.
By the time I get home from Safeway, the house is quiet. Dad’s in his office working and Ethan must be napping. Dad left me a note on the kitchen table:
If you could start the laundry, I’ll buy you a Mercedes.
His idea of a joke. I don’t know how many times I’ve asked for a car so we wouldn’t have to share. He always has the same excuses: more car payments, exorbitant insurance costs, we don’t need three cars, blah, blah.
Swanee told me she got her Smart car the day she turned sixteen. She even got to design it herself, online. Coolest car in the world.
Downstairs in the laundry room, there’s a mountain of clothes to be sorted and washed. If Mom and Dad expect me to do them all, I’ll be here for a week. I stuff as many clothes as possible in one load and pour in a cup of detergent.
Then I sprint upstairs and grab my laptop. Propped against the headboard, I log in and link to Facebook. I can’t get into Swan’s home page, but I can see that dozens and dozens of people have left messages on her profile wall:
You’ll be missed.
RIP. RIP. RIP.
My eyes pool with tears and I want to send her an iheart, the way I do—did—every day.
She only has fifty-two friends. She was picky about who she’d add. In the Search area under her friends list, I enter Liana T. Nobody comes up. Maybe I’m wrong about the first name. I enter L and three people pop up. Lyndi Tartakoff. Don’t know her. I link to her profile and see she’s from Michigan. I’m curious how Swanee knows her, but she can’t be the LT I’m looking for if she wants to meet Swanee in their regular place. Libby Tyndal-Weir. She was in my keyboarding class in eighth grade. Lili Thompson. I click on her profile and see she’s Swanee’s aunt. I think I saw her at the memorial service.
Dead end.
Next I Google Twin Peaks.
There are a bunch of businesses in Colorado beginning with Twin Peaks, and also a mall. If we’re meeting at a theater, she must mean the Twin Peaks Mall. It’s in Longmont, about forty minutes away. I print directions and check the time: 3:45. I’m going to have to book it.
How often did they meet at their “regular spot”? What did they do there? My imagination is running wild, and I wish Swanee were here so I could ask about LT. I’m sure there’s a rational explanation for a girl calling Swan a hundred times a day and telling her, “I love you. Sleep with the angels.” It’s almost as if she knew that’s where Swanee was headed.
“I’m going out for a while,” I tell Dad.
He says automatically, “Out where?”
Why do I have to justify everything I do? Swanee hated that my parents treat me like a child. She thought it was “belittling.”
“Just out,” I reply.
He swivels in his desk chair and meets my eyes.
“I got the shopping done and the laundry started. I promise to finish it when I get back.”
For a minute I think he’s going to say no and I’ll have to sneak off with the car. Which I’ve never done.
But his face softens and he goes, “Be careful.”
Shock. My brain continues his thought: Because if you total the car, we’re both out wheels. Then I feel guilty for even going there.
Traffic is heavy for a Sunday, as if everyone got out of church at the same time. I’m the one praying while cars zip in and out of lanes, honking or shooting the gaps. I know I drive too slowly on the highway, but going seventy-five makes me feel like the Prius is swerving out of control. Or I am.
Even with the directions, I get lost between Boulder and Longmont and it takes me more than an hour to get to Twin Peaks. I race to the theater entrance. When I check my watch it’s 5:10. Shit. I’m never late.
Swanee is. Was. She was always late, so maybe LT won’t have left yet.
A movie must have just ended because people are swarming out of the lobby. There’s a line at the ticket window, and people are waiting to buy refreshments. How will I ever find her?
I scan the crowd, searching for a clue. She’s a girl. Duh. Is she around my age? She sends texts in Spanish, so is she Hispanic? That eliminates maybe a quarter of the people here. This is impossible. I should’ve made a sign to hold up: LT, ARE YOU LOOKING FOR SWANEE DURBIN?
Hold on. How dumb. Maybe there’s a picture of her on Swanee’s cell. I dig it out of my bag and scroll through her pages and pages of pics. One in particular catches my eye. It’s Joss exposing her breasts. Yikes! I should probably delete it, but Swanee must’ve had a reason for keeping it on there.
The only other pictures left on her phone are of herself and Joss, acting silly, in crazy outfits. There isn’t even one of me. That isn’t right. I know she took dozens of pictures of us together. Why would she have deleted them all?
Swanee said I was the most beautiful person she knew, but maybe she meant on the inside.
I stand across from the theater against the mirrored wall until the crowd thins. Until there’s only a handful of people. Two girls are sitting on a bench acting as if they’re waiting for someone. They look like they might be in high school. I approach, clearing my throat.
“Um, Liana?” I say to the closest one. “LT?”
They halt their conversation midsentence and gawk at me. No, they’re too young. More like middle schoolers, just wearing dark, heavy makeup. LT could be younger, I think.
The two get up and head off down the mall, talking and giggling.
I check out every passerby. She wouldn’t be passing by. She’d be waiting.
A dark-haired girl in a short skirt and layered tops is standing just inside the lobby, by the video games. The hairs on the back of my neck tingle. That’s her. I know it.
I take two steps toward her, and then stop. A sudden bout of shyness paralyzes me. I can’t do this.
The girl, LT, texts on her cell and Swan’s phone pings in my bag.
There’s a Piercing Pagoda a few yards down the mall, so I duck around the cart to read her message.
Where are you? I’ve been waiting over an hour
How long will she wait for Swanee? I wonder. Until she knows the truth, she’ll be waiting the rest of her life.
Why didn’t I have Joss call and convey the news to Liana before she left for Hawaii to “regroup”? She obviously knows her. Or is she just jerking me around? I can’t do it. I hurry down the mall, through the food court, and out the exit. All the way home, I hear Swan’s cell pinging. At a McDonald’s, I stop to use the restroom. While I’m in the stall, I read her messages.
Where were you? I waited an hour and a half. Why are you doing this to me?
I stare at the message for a long time, and then text:
Sorry. Ran out of gas
She texts back:
You might’ve called and told me that!
Good. She’s mad. Maybe now she’ll stop calling and this nightmare will be over.
At home I find the CD from Swanee’s room sitting on my player and slide it in. The first song makes my head spin.
“Livin’ la Vida Loca.”
“Alix?” Mom opens my door. “Dinner’s ready. And by the way, thanks for doing the laundry.”
She leaves. That was definitely sarcasm.
I slide into my seat at the table and say, “I’m sorry. I started the laundry, and then forgot.”
“Where did you go for three hours?” Dad asks.
“It wasn’t that long.” Was it? I think fast. “To church. I thought praying might help.”
That shuts Mom and Dad up. Wow. If lying is an SAT category, I’m going to ace it. We eat in silence, except for Ethan smacking his lips and slapping his high-chair tray.
I hear every tick of the clock and wish I had the magical power to turn back time. I might’ve persuaded Swanee to forget her run just this once so we could leave earlier; asked if Jewell and Asher would stop in Idaho Springs for breakfast on our way up to Keystone to hit the slopes; somehow convinced her that snowboarding would be plenty of exercise for one day.
Mom interrupts my thoughts. “You haven’t eaten anything.”
I look down at my plate and feel nauseated. “I’m not hungry. If you’ll excuse me—”
“You’re not leaving the table until you eat something.” Mom spoons another glop of rice cereal into Ethan’s mouth.
I don’t even remember putting food on my plate. Mom must’ve doled it out when I wasn’t looking. Except the peas and mashed potatoes are mixed together, and only I do that.
I do as she says because I’m always the obedient daughter. Swanee never understood why I didn’t just tell them to cram it. I could never explain.
Ethan whimpers, spits out his food, and then lets out a screech that hurts my ears so badly that I plug them. Mom presses the backs of her fingers against his forehead and says, “He feels warm. With that diarrhea, I wonder if he has an intestinal bug, or the flu. Maybe he never really got over his pertussis. I need to take his temperature.” She lifts him out of his high chair to take him into the living room. I get up with her, but her hand pushes down on my shoulder. “Eat,” she says.
I shovel a forkful of potato into my mouth at the same time Ethan projectile vomits his curdled dinner all over the table and down my front.
Forcing down a dry heave, I push back my chair and say, “I’m out of here.”
Dad gets up to wet a washcloth for Mom.
Upstairs in my bathroom, I strip and take a long shower. Nothing like the odor and texture of baby puke to stimulate the senses. Shuddering, I log on and link to Facebook, and then click on Swanee’s profile. Her picture is a rainbow equality symbol. It’s comforting to see that she says she’s in a relationship with me. I read through the profile I know so well. Activities: running track, snowboarding, being with friends, partying. Interests: texting, chatting, not shaving my legs ha ha, indie music, hard rock, medium rock, rock candy, candy apples, candy corn. She supports all the same animal rights and human rights organizations I do: HRC, GSA, Rainbow Alley, the Trevor Project. Everything about her screams GAY.
Mom opens the door. “Your brother has a pretty high temp, so your dad and I are going to run him over to the hospital.”
“Okay.”
She sets a new plate of food on my desk. “Eat,” she says.
Like I ever will again now.
“It’s probably just a virus. But I want him checked out. Would you mind terribly cleaning up the kitchen?”
Yes, I would mind terribly.
When I don’t answer, she goes, “Or I’ll do it when we get home.”
She knows the room will be spotless when she returns.
“I’ll call you if it’s serious or we’re going to be late getting back. Eat.”
“I will,” I snap.
She gives me a steely look before closing the door. I feel sort of bad for raising my voice.
But why? It should be my choice whether I eat or not.
Swan’s cell is silent, and so is mine. Tears well in my eyes, but I don’t want to cry. It won’t bring Swanee back. I clomp downstairs and load the dishwasher, glad for something to do, even if it only takes five minutes. Thankfully, someone swabbed up Ethan’s mess. Swan and I used to talk about finding a small studio apartment in Arizona, rather than living in the dorm. A place we could paint, furnish, decorate. Call our own.
Now I’m afraid I’ll always be alone.
I need to go, get out of here. Take a drive. Get as far away as possible from silence and death and the thought of what might have been.