Schizo by Nic Sheff Page A

it . . . You know what I mean?”
    â€œSo you don’t think he drowned?”
    Her hand reaches out and grabs mine suddenly. The feel of it is warm and sticky, so I want to pull away, but I don’t want to be impolite.
    â€œI
know
he didn’t,” she tells me, looking straight into my eyes. “And you’re right to do this on your own.”
    I laugh awkwardly. “Really? I thought maybe I was being crazy.”
    â€œNot at all, not at all. The police can only do so much in these kinds of situations. They have limited time . . . and limited resources, too. You see, both my parents were killed by a hit-and-run driver when my sisters and I were little girls.” She’s still holding my hand and staring straight at me, and I see her eyes start to redden with tears. “The police did what they could, of course. But they never found the driver.”
    â€œJesus,” I say.
    Her hand loosens its grip on mine, and she bows her head.
    â€œYes, well, we all have our crosses to bear. That’s why, when I heard about what happened at the beach that day, I made up my mind to come forward and tell the police what I’d seen. In fact . . .”
    She breaks off, glancing at me quickly, her whole face turning a deep purple color as she blushes all down her neck.
    â€œI . . . I’m sorry . . .” She falters. “I didn’t . . . I don’t know how to say this to you, but . . . it’s my fault. All of it. I knew it was going to happen.”
    Trembling, she takes up some tissues from a box on the end table and dabs at her eyes.
    â€œWhat do you mean? You couldn’t have known.”
    â€œOh!” she says. “Oh, God, forgive me. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
    She lurches across the empty space between us and, before I can react, I find myself with my head pressed firmly against her ample fucking bosom (covered, mercifully, by a gray sweatshirt with—of course—cats printed on it). She begins to cry then, holding me against her like that, and I wonder if maybe I’m not the only one who forgot to take their medication today.
    â€œBut you didn’t know,” I say, desperately trying to pull myself away. “You shouldn’t blame yourself. I mean, if anyone’s to blame, it’s me, not you.”
    â€œOh, that’s sweet of you,” she tells me, drying her eyes. “That’s very kind of you. If you only knew how I’ve been torturing myself, day in and day out.”
    Yeah, me too,
I think but don’t say out loud.
    â€œYou see,” she continues, “I hadn’t meant to go to the beach at all. Only it was so hot, and you know I work as a tollbooth operator at the bridge? I decided to stop off on my way home. Of course, I’m not one for swimming, or sunbathing. But I like watching the ocean. I sat at one of the picnic tables—”
    â€œPicnic tables?” My mind turns that around, trying to remember. “Where are there picnic tables?”
    She smiles. “Why, just at the parking lot. I was sitting at the picnic tables, looking out at the ocean. I noticed the waves were getting bigger and bigger, and then a group of kids went running past me. They went up to play in the sand dunes, so when I saw your brother, at first I thought he must’ve come from that group of children.”
    â€œAnd you’re sure?” I ask hurriedly. “You’re sure it was Teddy?”
    My words falter trying to pronounce his name. The backs of my eyes are burning now, imagining the beach, the waves, the sand dunes, the group of kids playing—and Teddy there with me, until I left him alone.
    â€œI know it was him,” she answers.
    Her hand takes mine up again, and this time, I don’t mind.
    â€œThe police showed me dozens of photos. I spoke with your mom and dad. I remember them perfectly. They were such lovely