The Tear Collector (7 page)

“Unlike you, from what I hear,” he says, almost in a whisper.

“I don’t know what you’ve heard,” I counter.

“I heard you’re a heartbreaker,” he says.

“Sounds like your heart is already broken,” I purr. “So …”

He manages a laugh, then says, “So maybe I got nothing to lose.”

“Maybe so, Scott.”

“Well, almost nothing,” he says as the dark cloud returns to his face. “I have to go.”

“I understand,” I say. I turn around toward the elevator. Just before I enter, I look back at Scott. He’s standing at the door of his grandmother’s room—probably her deathbed—like there’s something in his way. I sense, even from this distance, that he’s
taking deep breaths, which slowly turn into the familiar hospital soundtrack of sniffles, sobbing, and stifled screams.

The rest of my shift is uneventful. I check in with Scott a few times, and he seems happy to see me each time. I think about asking him for a ride home in his car (he calls his Chevy Cobalt the “no volt”) but it seems too much to ask too soon. Instead, Maggie picks me up at work. I don’t pick a fight, and she manages not to mention Alexei the entire ride. With the reunion coming up, everyone is trying to get along. Veronica wouldn’t have it any other way.

Since I arrive on time and without incident, Mom has nothing to say to me. Unless there’s conflict, we barely communicate. I pass by the living room. She sits listening to classical music and sipping a bottle of water. Maggie heads into the kitchen, while Veronica remains in her room. I’ll need to see her sometime tonight; she always wants to see me after I volunteer at the hospital. She usually lights up after I visit; it’s as if she’s the bulb and I’m her battery.

Once I get into my room, I think about calling Scott, but it seems too soon for even that. I need to deal with Cody; I need to comfort Robyn; I need to focus on my family.

I call Robyn, but she’s still not answering her phone. I don’t want to call her home phone, just in case one of her parents picks up again. I can’t be the one to tell them. It’s one thing to stir up the bubbling pot of high school drama, but this is beyond
that. I look for her online, but she’s not there either. I seek out Scott online, but he’s off the grid, it would seem. I pull up Samantha Dressen’s MySpace page. She’s online, but her profile remains set to private. I see that her profile name has changed to “I Hurt, Hurt, Hurt” and that her new profile picture is a work of art: a black-and-white photo of her with the colors inverted. Very artsy, very strange, very Samantha. From what I’ve observed, Samantha’s one of these girls with six hundred friends online and none in real life. I send another friend request in the virtual world, and vow to make one more real-world attempt. She’ll probably reject me; I’m sure rejection is one of her gifts.

Before I log off, I find another news story, then print and file it. One of the hardest things for Robyn in dealing with Craig breaking up with her is that it took her by surprise. What Robyn doesn’t realize is that out of the blue is the best way for awful events to occur. Better to have the lights turned out all at once than to slowly succumb to a looming darkness.

NEWS REPORT #3

Another child has disappeared in the mid-Michigan area. Twelve-year-old Jason Hamilton was last seen at Midland Middle School on Friday, March 13. According to his friends, Hamilton left the park after an altercation during a basketball game that left him both crying and bleeding. Police believe this disappearance might be connected to a similar incident that occurred about a week ago in the Bay City area. In that case, an eleven-year-old was reported missing but appeared days later back near the playground where he had been abducted. The police report that the Bay City boy was pulled into a black Ford van, blindfolded, and gagged. Police are not releasing any other details or officially discussing any possible motives. One anonymous police source described the entire incident as “odd” because the only thing the perpetrator achieved was terrifying the child. The source added, “It seemed like all the perp wanted to do was make the kid cry.”

CHAPTER 7
MONDAY, MARCH 16

I’m sorry, Cody. You know that, right?”

“I don’t believe you!” he shouts.

We’re in his basement, surrounded by his sports memorabilia, electronic toys, and sweaty memories. Cody—like Tyler and my other boyfriends before him—is not welcome at my house. And since I never allow breakups to occur in public or in parked cars, we’re sharing this private space one last time. Tonight, both of us are standing, although Cody looks ready to crumble.

“Cody, it just isn’t working out,” I say, softly. “I adore you. I want you to be happy.”

“I
am
happy,” he says. “And you don’t know what I want. I want you, Cass.”

I try to reach out to him, but he turns away. He readjusts his backward-turned Detroit Tigers ball cap, then stomps to the other side of the room. He sits on the sofa—the place where I
gave him most of what he wanted—and pouts like some two-year-old.

“Cody, baby, I’m sorry.” I’m standing still, unsure which way the wind is blowing.

“I want my jacket!” he shouts. I unsnap it and throw it to him. It feels like a weight has lifted.

“Cody, it’s okay to be upset,” I reassure him in a tone I’ve used a lot in our six months together. Last fall, when the school’s football team lost in the playoffs, we left the end-of-season party early. After a few beers, Cody poured out his disappointment, crying on my shoulder rather than in his beer. Now he’s suffered another setback, and I need to help him.

He puts the jacket on, then says, “All my friends told me you played games.”

“I don’t want to play games. I just need to end this,” I say.

“More games,” he says. “Like all the other times.”

“No, this is it,” I say, trying to remember if our six other breakup scenes contained my announcement of the finality. “We’re through.”

“Is it Craig?” he says. “How could you do that to your best friend?”

“It’s not Craig,” I say. “I wouldn’t do anything to hurt Robyn.”

“I bet it’s that freak Scott Gerard. Kelsey said she saw the two of you in the library just laughing it up,” he says. Anyone who is not an athlete is a freak in Cody’s eyes.

“Who are you to talk!” I shout, ensuring the tension continues to build. “I know all about you and Burnt Knees! She’s doing both you and Craig. Teammates in everything.”

“That’s a lie,” he counters.

“That’s not what I heard,” I say, which is a lie.

“I’m not cheating on you,” he counters. “You are the one who is—”

“Why do you think there’s someone else?” I ask, then start my breakup speech. I’ve said it so many times it bores me. I start with, “It’s not you, Cody. You’re so sweet and sexy.”

He responds as expected; a thin smile wipes out his angry glare. I motion for him to sit with me on the sofa. As he sits next to me, I take his hands in mine.

“But I know it’s just not working. Prom is coming up,” I say. There’s always some marker coming up in high school. This is the fill-in-the-blank part of the speech. “And you should be with someone who can make you happy. That’s not me, babe, that’s not me.”

“I need you,” is his answer. He’s toughing it out, so I’ll take another tack to get his tears.

“Okay, Cody, baby, it’s not you and it’s not me,” I say as softly as I can. “It’s my family, my mom in particular.”

“I know she doesn’t like me,” he says.

“That’s not it,” I continue. “She doesn’t want me dating in high school and getting involved. She has plans for me, and whenever she sees I’m getting serious about someone...”

“Serious?” he says, his trademark smirk almost returning to his face.

“I love you, Cody,” I say, using a smile to camouflage my lie. “That’s why we can’t see each other anymore. You’ll just get hurt more. This is for the best. You understand?”

He’s silent, taking it all in. I move closer, then kiss him on the cheek. “It’s over, Cody, for good. I understand if you’re angry and upset. I know we can stay friends.”

He stares back at me in horror as if I were a monster. “What are you talking about?”

“You’ll see over time this was right, and you’ll want us to be friends,” I tell him, still gently stroking the side of his face. “You’ll need a shoulder to cry on, and I’ll be there for you.”

He stares deeper now, eyes like drills. “You bitch.”

“What?”

“You bitch,” he repeats, almost leaping off the sofa. “You want me hurt.”

“Cody, you’re talking crazy. You don’t—”

“Do you remember how we started going out?” he asks, but I don’t want to answer. “I was at Saint Dominic’s Church. You were an altar server at my uncle’s funeral. I was sitting in the front pew. I was crying because I knew my mom was upset. You winked at me.”

“That’s not true,” I half lie. I didn’t wink, but I did make contact with his damp eyes.

“At school the next week, you came on to me,” he says.
“None of us could figure it out. You’d never talked to me before. Then, bam, you’re giving it up before breaking up with Tyler.”

I just look at the floor as Cody stares into our past. He’s right so far about how wrong I treated him. Finally, I mutter, “At first, I thought you were just another jock like Tyler, but I learned you were better than him. I thought it would work out, but it can’t. I’m sorry.”

“So am I,” he says, adding, “I’m sorry I ever met you.”

“Cody, baby, please—”

He stomps past me toward the far side of the furnished basement. On the paneled wall hang some of his sports awards and certificates, mostly for participation. Cody’s not a star. He’s the second-string cog that keeps sports teams churning along. He’s in it for the letters and the ladies.

“I hate you,” he shouts.

“You hate me because you loved me,” I say as I follow him to the other side of the room.

“I don’t care what you say or think!” he shouts back, shaking a fist at me. “Maybe that’s why Scott likes you, because you’re just like Samantha Dracula.”

“What do you mean?” I ask about his sudden insight.

“You’re a monster!” he shouts.

“Cody, there are no such things as monsters,” I say, laughing it off, but he’s staring through me. He takes a step toward me, and I recoil. He quickly turns and slams his fist into the paneled wall.

“I hate you!” he shouts while slamming his fist repeatedly. Upstairs I hear chairs moving. Time is running out for me to get what I need from Cody one last time.

“Let it out,” I say, then slowly approach him. His fist slams against the wall again. The force knocks one of the glass-framed certificates to the floor. Blood spurts from his hand.

“Stay away from me,” he says, waving his bloody hand in my face.

He stares at me as he moves his bloody hand against his long white wannabe gangsta T-shirt. A crimson pool forms over his heart and I whisper, “I’m sorry, Cody.” He takes a deep breath, sighs, and the anger leaves him, washed away by tears forming at the corners of his eyes.

“It’s okay to cry, Cody,” I whisper, and he takes a step toward me. I try to avoid the blood pooling on his shirt, and instead let his head fall onto my shoulder. I take the tie-dyed bandanna from my head and wrap his hand to stop the bleeding. The door opens upstairs, and Cody’s parents come to his rescue. Before they arrive, I take the monogrammed handkerchief from my pocket and wipe away his tears. There are only a few, but like an expensive perfume or a narcotic drug, it takes just a tiny amount to make a big difference. I’m flush as I walk upstairs.

Cody’s mom drives me home. She’s just staring at the road while I’m listening to
Abbey Road
on my iPod. We’ve never had anything to talk about before; now we don’t even fake it.

It is the same world of silence when I return home. Everybody’s doors are closed. I sneak into Veronica’s room to deposit the monogrammed handkerchief sprinkled with Cody’s tears on the table next to the bed. She could thank me in the morning, but she never does. There’s no gratitude for duty; there’s never a celebration of my sacrifices.

I jump online, quickly checking news alerts to add to my folder, but there’s nothing, yet. I glance at Cody’s page, but he’s yet to change his Facebook status to show that he’s single. Robyn’s not online either; she hasn’t been for over a week. Just like she hasn’t returned to school. I call her cell, but she doesn’t pick up. I leave another message, invite myself over to dinner with her family tomorrow, and set my phone by the computer.

Robyn’s Facebook page remains intact from ten days ago. It’s as if she’s fallen into a coma. Maybe she’s being sentimental or maybe it’s wishful thinking, like the whole thing’s a bad dream and she’ll wake up with Craig back in her life. I click on Brittney’s busy page that contains over a thousand photos, mostly of herself. I wonder if she fears Alzheimer’s and that’s why she photographs seemingly every day of her life. It’s clear from the page that Robyn was never Brittney’s best friend; Brittney’s best friend is her camera. All the photos look the same: overexposed cleavage and emptied vodka bottles. There are gang signs, stoned group shots, and multiple attempts for weak white girls with wealthy parents to act ghetto. It’s all so
silly but also a little sad, and yet I totally understand wanting to be something you’re not.