decide that I will not wait for my father any longer. I need to get away from this—from this moment, this insane, imaginary, hysterical moment. I refold the architectural plan and slip it into my purse.
“Where are you going?” he asks.
“Home,” I answer, sharply. “You’re not here, Stern.” I look him square in the eye. “I invented you.”
As soon as I say it, he shivers violently, and then disappears.
Poof
. Like that. I shake my head, heartbeat quickening, skin hot, tingly. I’m losing it. I’m really losing it.
I throw my purse into my bag, sling it over my shoulders, and push through the lobby doors to my bike. The humidity’s so thick it practically chokes me. My hands shake as Itwist the key into the chain lock, and leap onto the broad, hot seat, weaving quickly down the long gravel drive and down Sparrow Street to the boardwalk.
The road blurs behind me as I ride. My tires bump against the up-and-down of the boardwalk slats, and images flash into my head, memories unbidden, unwanted.
When Mom’s paranoia got bad, she couldn’t leave the house anymore without a baseball bat; the doctor upped her meds so high she could barely move, let alone go anywhere. She said the pills dulled her brain, that even if she lived half the day in fear of death-by-rattlesnake, she’d rather that than the alternative: sitting at her piano and finding her brain blank of all inspiration, her fingers unable to remember the intricate symphonies they’d had down cold before.
One of her sonatas, one that always made me think of Dad—steady and comforting, cowboy boots clicking through a rainy street—plays through my head as I ride.
Back home, the air-conditioning is on full blast. I pull my shoes off and rest them in the cool-tiled foyer, peek my head quickly into the dark kitchen, and see a lizard scurrying across the far wall over the pantry. I lean my bike against the wall and pad quickly up to my room, locking the door as soon as I step inside, waiting for my heartbeat to slow.
This room still feels foreign to me. I miss the room I grew up in—wood floors, Turkish rugs, Mom’s old childhood furniture we repainted together when I was a kid.Only my bed is the same, and now I can’t wait to crawl under the covers. Sleep long, deep—maybe forever. Like him. I wonder if there’s singing where he is, in Nowhere. If there are lullabies. Maybe I’ll put him in my head as I fall to sleep. Maybe I’ll have him sing to me.
I had a dream the other night when everything was still I thought I saw Susannah a’comin down the hill. Don’t you cry, oh don’t you cry, Susannah, don’t you cry for me
.
I turn around, prepared to jump under my covers, and freeze: Stern. Sitting patiently at my desk, leaning forward on his knees, staring at me.
“You know,” he says, smiling in a way that still looks pained, “you’ve always biked like a girl.”
I have an impulse to scream, wrestle him to the ground, and claw his face off. Instead, I shut my eyes, place my hands over my ears, and start chanting, “I can’t hear you I can’t hear you I can’t hear you,” and: “I’m not crazy I’m not crazy I’m not crazy …”
Stern stands up and crosses to me. “You’re not crazy,” he says. And as he says it, I feel his hands over my own—like a shiver where he touches me.
My eyes shoot open; he’s so close, so cold. “Why is this happening?” I whisper.
“Look.” His voice is steady—so reassuring and familiar, it makes something break inside of me. That rational boy I grew up with my whole life, the boy who always knew how to bring me back down to earth when I was scared, nervous, upset, anything. The boy who anchored me. “Irealize this must
seem
crazy to you, but, in the simplest terms, I’m telling you: the person who killed me is still out there. Walking around. Free. And this light I keep seeing, from wherever I am—when I reach for it—it sends me back to you. And not just because you’re my
“Where are you going?” he asks.
“Home,” I answer, sharply. “You’re not here, Stern.” I look him square in the eye. “I invented you.”
As soon as I say it, he shivers violently, and then disappears.
Poof
. Like that. I shake my head, heartbeat quickening, skin hot, tingly. I’m losing it. I’m really losing it.
I throw my purse into my bag, sling it over my shoulders, and push through the lobby doors to my bike. The humidity’s so thick it practically chokes me. My hands shake as Itwist the key into the chain lock, and leap onto the broad, hot seat, weaving quickly down the long gravel drive and down Sparrow Street to the boardwalk.
The road blurs behind me as I ride. My tires bump against the up-and-down of the boardwalk slats, and images flash into my head, memories unbidden, unwanted.
When Mom’s paranoia got bad, she couldn’t leave the house anymore without a baseball bat; the doctor upped her meds so high she could barely move, let alone go anywhere. She said the pills dulled her brain, that even if she lived half the day in fear of death-by-rattlesnake, she’d rather that than the alternative: sitting at her piano and finding her brain blank of all inspiration, her fingers unable to remember the intricate symphonies they’d had down cold before.
One of her sonatas, one that always made me think of Dad—steady and comforting, cowboy boots clicking through a rainy street—plays through my head as I ride.
Back home, the air-conditioning is on full blast. I pull my shoes off and rest them in the cool-tiled foyer, peek my head quickly into the dark kitchen, and see a lizard scurrying across the far wall over the pantry. I lean my bike against the wall and pad quickly up to my room, locking the door as soon as I step inside, waiting for my heartbeat to slow.
This room still feels foreign to me. I miss the room I grew up in—wood floors, Turkish rugs, Mom’s old childhood furniture we repainted together when I was a kid.Only my bed is the same, and now I can’t wait to crawl under the covers. Sleep long, deep—maybe forever. Like him. I wonder if there’s singing where he is, in Nowhere. If there are lullabies. Maybe I’ll put him in my head as I fall to sleep. Maybe I’ll have him sing to me.
I had a dream the other night when everything was still I thought I saw Susannah a’comin down the hill. Don’t you cry, oh don’t you cry, Susannah, don’t you cry for me
.
I turn around, prepared to jump under my covers, and freeze: Stern. Sitting patiently at my desk, leaning forward on his knees, staring at me.
“You know,” he says, smiling in a way that still looks pained, “you’ve always biked like a girl.”
I have an impulse to scream, wrestle him to the ground, and claw his face off. Instead, I shut my eyes, place my hands over my ears, and start chanting, “I can’t hear you I can’t hear you I can’t hear you,” and: “I’m not crazy I’m not crazy I’m not crazy …”
Stern stands up and crosses to me. “You’re not crazy,” he says. And as he says it, I feel his hands over my own—like a shiver where he touches me.
My eyes shoot open; he’s so close, so cold. “Why is this happening?” I whisper.
“Look.” His voice is steady—so reassuring and familiar, it makes something break inside of me. That rational boy I grew up with my whole life, the boy who always knew how to bring me back down to earth when I was scared, nervous, upset, anything. The boy who anchored me. “Irealize this must
seem
crazy to you, but, in the simplest terms, I’m telling you: the person who killed me is still out there. Walking around. Free. And this light I keep seeing, from wherever I am—when I reach for it—it sends me back to you. And not just because you’re my
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