The Mourning After (17 page)

George is as excited as she is to be outside.  His tail wags in the breeze and his pink tongue hangs out of his mouth.  Lucy smiles down at her buddy, refusing to look in the direction of the car. She is convinced the two of them are huddled together without any idea she is nearby.  Rebecca is probably applying Vitamin E to his stitches.

George’s pace quickens and Lucy’s slow, languid steps increase with his.  She pats him on the head, “Good boy,” when they make it safely past Levon.  The car’s engine is running; she is relieved to see they aren’t holed up in there with windows closed and no fresh air.  Lucy exhales.

Girl and dog walk around the block, and Lucy embraces her new surroundings.  It’s hard not to compare Atlanta with Miami Beach.  She vaguely remembers being told by one of her friends that the very best parts of Miami were better in Atlanta, and the very worst parts were worse in Miami.  She didn’t see the distinction.  Miami had beaches and palm trees; Atlanta was a five to six hour drive to any sand. Maybe it was Los Angeles her friend was talking about.  She couldn’t remember. 

The sound of her cell phone ringing shuffles away the past.  Fumbling in her back pocket, Lucy retrieves the phone and reads the words
Natalie McFadden
across the screen. Natalie’s persistence feels like a hailstorm.  The girl is relentless. She has called every day since their departure and during the weeks before the imminent move.  Once Lucy’s friend and confidante—that changed when trust was broken and alliances torn in two.  Lucy is not ready to answer the call.  It makes her feel sorry for the friend who is trying so hard.  She wishes someone would tell her to stop, to leave it alone.

The friendship is over.  It’s that simple. 

Natalie had been in love with Nathan Brady since they were five. In her mind it was always Nate and Nat, Nat and Nate, or some derivation of the two.  She wasn’t able to see his lack of interest.  “We’re going to get married,” she’d say, naive and dreamy.  What struck the group of friends was Natalie’s mélange of denial and overzealous hopefulness.  Her faith was what impressed Lucy the most, even after everything was destroyed in their once idyllic Atlanta community.  All the misguided fantasies fell by the wayside when their tight-knit group of friends, and their loyalties, were tested.

The call goes to voicemail, and Lucy knows that Natalie is leaving the same message that she left thirty-five times before.  “Lucy, please call me.  We need to talk.  I was wrong.  I’m sorry.  I miss you.  I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.  I’m so, so sorry.  Please forgive me.  Please, can we talk?”

Lucy can recite the message verbatim, including the singular sound of Natalie’s nasally voice.  And sometimes she did.  While drifting off to bed at night, when the darkness engulfed her, she echoed Natalie’s pleas.

It’s not that Lucy couldn’t forgive Natalie.  They had all been through such sadness; she had forgiven her long before her finger first pressed ignore on the string of phone calls.  The first was surprising; the second, sad; the third through the tenth came at a very hectic, complex time; the twenty or so after that boiled down to Lucy’s defiance.  She did not want to speak with her.  She knew she would eventually have no choice but to answer.  She would eventually have to tell Natalie the words she needed to convey. The friendship was over, and for no other reason than this: that part of her life was over.

George pulls hard on Lucy, as though he knows where her thoughts have gone. They have circled the neighborhood and are approaching the shiny, cherry chariot.  George lets out a yelp and starts chasing something on his tail.  The circular motion has Lucy tangled in his leash, her legs lifting up and stomping down in resistance.  She tries
heel
,
stay, stop,
and
sit
to no avail.  George is twirling her until she is dizzy with embarrassment. 

“Really, George? Now?  You pick
now
to mess with me?”

The extra pull on his lead doesn’t help.  The tight grip further entangles her and forbids her from escaping.  She knows her fair skin is tinged with red.  She can feel the humiliation creeping up her back, behind her neck, and splotching her face.
Great, just great,
she thinks. 
Levon and fancy face get to see me lasso myself with my own leash.

A question often asked of the residents of Florida and other tropical climates is “Which would you prefer, a hurricane or a tornado?”  For the residents of California, a variation on the theme is “…an earthquake or a hurricane?”  Having lived in Miami all of his young life and accustomed to unpredictable, inclement weather, Levon had thought about his response countless times.  Indeed, Hurricane Andrew did slam into southeastern Dade County packing a punch that transformed neighborhoods into piles of haphazardly strewn matchsticks.  But even the loss of electricity, flooding, and irreparable damage to his home does not dissuade Levon from his answer.

His answer was always unequivocal: a hurricane is much easier to deal with than an earthquake or tornado.

The key is preparation.

Levon did not like surprises of any kind.  As often as he had watched  renowned meteorologist Max Mayfield at the hurricane center assert his projected storm paths, Levon had defended his stance to anyone who would listen to his stories ripped from the news: “See that, those people in Oklahoma had no time to prepare for a tornado.  And look at that cone,” he continued, referring to the colorful projected path splashed across television screens indicating a looming storm in the Caribbean. “We’ve got
time
to prepare.” 

With mathematical precision, meteorologists and hurricane specialists (seasoned, yet dimwitted veterans who fly jets into ferocious storms) tracked the daily coordinates and barometric changes that resulted in the shift over several days from a “watch” to a “warning.” During such periods of hurricane activity, everyone in the community became mesmerized by the periodic updates of the National Hurricane Center and its cone projections.

David would take a swipe at Levon’s logic.  “I’m definitely not coming back to Miami after I finish college.  Remember that storm,” he said, referencing Hurricane Wilma on her pilgrimage toward Miami a few years back.  “And look at us, we’re the schmucks sitting here watching this thing come at us.  The rest of the country must think we’re morons living here, a peninsula waiting to be swallowed.”

Levon would argue, vehemently defending his view.  “But we can go to the store.  We can stock up on supplies, hunker down.  Prepare.”  These were the words he stole from Jeff Weinsier on Channel 10 as he reported live from an area that was expecting a direct hit.  “The people in the Midwest get sideswiped unexpectedly by a raging wind funnel.”  The threat of earthquakes caused Levon paralyzing fear—that you could be shaken from sleep while your home slips down a cliff into the ocean.

Levon liked to be prepared.  Even if a hurricane hit and flooded communities, uprooted homes, and devastated land for miles,
they were geared up!
He clung to the notion that they had done the best they could, and the rest was up to fate.  The alternative, to be caught off guard, was just too scary.  And like a tornado, when Rebecca Blake parked her shiny red Volkswagen bug in Levon’s driveway that afternoon and confessed to Levon that she was pregnant with his dead brother’s child, Levon was anything but prepared. 

“It’s impossible,” Levon professes.  He is having trouble breathing.  Her words hit him hard in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him.

“I was there, Levon.  It’s possible.”

She shifts uncomfortably in her seat.

“Why are you telling me this now?” he asks.  “Why didn’t you tell me the other day?”

Levon can’t understand how he had lived in a house with his brother, shared meals with him, a bathroom, and had not known he was about to become a father?

“I don’t believe it,” Levon repeats, unable to accept the preposterous probability.  Wilma had trekked through Miami; La Gorce was flooded and school was closed, but at least, they had been ready.  How could he have not seen the change in David?

Rebecca is wearing jeans and a long-sleeved black Lacoste sweater.  The smitten alligator is eyeballing him, resting on her breast in pure preppy bliss.

“He really didn’t tell you?  After the funeral, at your house, you looked at me like you knew, like you understood…”

Levon remembered the look, but she had it all backward.  It was she who looked at him that afternoon; it was she who hinted to Levon that there was more to the story.  Tragedy blurs details.  Recovering from the accident was a means of survival.  The details were a convergence of collateral damage.

“Where were you that night?” he asks Rebecca.  “Why didn’t you drive him home?” 

She is picking at her cuticle with persistent might.  “We’d had a fight.  We were trying to figure out our options.  He was upset, so upset.” 

The picking persists, and Levon sees blood form around her nail and Rebecca’s tongue come down on the crimson liquid.

“I wanted an abortion,” she whispers. “Quick and quiet. David did, too, but he struggled with it.  I told him I wasn’t ready to be a mom.  I told him I was going to go through with it.”

“How do you know for sure?” he asks, in need of facts, cones, barometric pressure.

Rebecca leans across the seat and finds her purse on the floor by Levon’s sneakered feet.  Reaching into the oversized leather bag, she pulls out a black-and-white photo with a fuzzy mess in the center. 

“My appointment is tomorrow.” 

“Becks…,” Levon begins, and his fingers reach for her hand, forcing the picture to fall through the crack between the seats.  She wriggles away from him, cowering in her seat like his little sister.  David’s baby is growing in her stomach that very second.  He has to stop himself from reaching across the seat and touching her belly.

“My parents dropped me off late to the party.  At first, I thought David wasn’t there yet, so I hung out with the girls, and after about an hour, I walked outside to the pool area and saw him sitting on a lounge chair next to Shelly Kaligeris.  They were pretty close to each other.  It looked all wrong, and I knew something was going on.”  Here, she stops and takes a deep, wistful breath.

“David loved you.  Everybody knew that.”

“Have you seen Shelly Kaligeris?” she declares.  “She has humongous boobs…”

“And a face to protect them.  David would never…”

“I’m not finished,” she says.  “There’s more.”

Levon sees Lucy Bell sauntering down the sidewalk toward her house and feels the immediate pull in her direction.  Never in his life had he been more torn; he feels like racing out of the car, away from Rebecca’s confessions, and bolting toward Lucy and her jocular steps.

“She’s pretty,” Rebecca says, following the path of Levon’s eyes.  Levon knows that shortly Lucy will be walking George, and she will find them there. “I’m glad you found a friend, someone you can talk to.” 

It’s not lost on him that Rebecca doesn’t consider him a possible suitor for the hot girl who lives next door.

“We’re friends, too, aren’t we?” he asks.  It is a question that comes out pathetic and stupid.  She is fiddling with her hair, taking turns holding it up behind her head and patting it down flat with her fingers.

“I guess I never saw it that way, though you’re right.  I suppose we’re friends.”

The significance of this admission has Levon calculating his popularity. He lost his big brother, his only friend, and he’s gained two new ones instead.  A heavy price to pay for a couple of companions.

“You don’t have to admit it to anyone,” Levon jokes.

“I won’t,” she says. “And you can’t tell anyone about the baby.”

Levon must have appeared deflated and bruised, because Rebecca leaned toward him and shined her famous smile.  “I was kidding, Levon.  Don’t take everything so literally—except the part about keeping your mouth shut about this.  That you can’t repeat.”

Levon gave her his word, and Rebecca continued to tell more of the story: A fight ensued by the pool.  Shelly mocked David for casting her aside when Rebecca showed up, something about “little boys being henpecked,” and she walked away in a huff. Rebecca wasn’t going to let Shelly off that easy and grabbed her arm, accused her of being a slut.  Shelly Kaligeris was unfazed by Rebecca Blake.  She was hell-bent on enjoying high school, and if it meant dabbling in drugs and other girls’ boyfriends, she didn’t really care, and laughing at Rebecca she said, “The reason you didn’t see David when you got to the party was because he was with me, and let’s just say, I was taking care of him in ways you never could.”

“He was confused,” Levon interrupts, allowing her no time to summon the images that must have bombarded her brain and turned a four-year relationship into nothing more than a bad episode of
The Hills
. There’s no way he touched Shelly Kaligeris.”

“I keep telling myself that, Levon, but I can’t shake it.  The thought of him with her makes me want to throw up, and it’s not morning sickness.”

Outside the car and down the street, George is chasing his tail, which has Lucy tangled in the green leash.  He wants to help her, but Rebecca needs him more.  He focuses on Lucy’s hair blowing in the breeze and the way she raises her legs, one at a time, to try to untangle the cord from her ankles.  Her mouth is opening and closing and Levon can’t hear any sounds, though he’s sure she’s having fun twirling in circles while she’s telling George off at the same time.

Beside him sits a girl who is speaking to him from the heart, though Levon can’t imagine what’s going on inside her.  He knows what it’s like to endure the quiet suffering of keeping a secret that large.  He hears her, he empathizes with her, and still he does not trust what she is saying.  It is almost as if she is talking about somebody else, a stranger, not David. 

“We were so careful,” she says.  “We were always open and honest with each other.  When I told him the test came back positive, he freaked.  He wasn’t the same after that.  Didn’t you see him change?”