Aftersight

For Sara,

my love, my wife,

my friend

Jennifer Clarke, age seven, of Surrey, England, fashioned a crude lasso out of one end of her jump rope and slipped the loop around her neck. The other end she secured to the clothes rack overhead. Before she had time to do anything else, the flimsy shelf on which she'd been standing, the one that held her shoes, sandals, and slippers in a neat little row, collapsed. The rope sprang taut, and the noose around her neck constricted, cutting off her breath.

The first electric tremors of panic shot through her legs when her efforts to cry for help only produced a dry, raspy rattle. She tugged at the jump rope's pink, silver-flecked handle, trying to get loose, but her efforts only served to pull the noose tighter. The toes of her peach-colored ballet flats just grazed the floor, but did nothing to ease the strain off her neck.

Growing dizzy, she kicked the walls, hoping the noise might draw her mother upstairs. Her head felt as if it might burst, but she kept up her efforts until her foot connected with the closet door. It opened fast, bounced against the outer wall, and slammed closed again, leaving Jenny alone in the dark.

Her vision greyed out. She was unsure if this was because the closet door had closed or something else, for it wasn't just blackness she perceived but pure, unfiltered light. The last thing she remembered as the sense of falling tugged at her insides was the sweet, overpowering scent of cedar.

She came to just outside her closed closet door. The pain in her neck, her head, her back, had disappeared completely. She felt whole again. Light. And the sadness that had plagued her for so many days just seemed silly to her now. Mummy had been right all along.

She moved downstairs, eager to tell her mother that everything was all better. Mummy sat at the table, paying bills. Jenny could hear her mother talking, even though her lips weren't moving. She said something about how quiet it was upstairs. "She's cried herself out," her mother's voice went on, "poor lamb."

Jenny wasn't just hearing her mother, she was
feeling
what she felt, an overwhelming helplessness at Jenny's despair, how much she wanted to shield Jenny from the pain.

"It's all right, Mummy," Jenny assured her. "I'm feeling much better now, I promise. Much better."

Her mother did not respond to her, not when Jenny called out again and again. Not when Jenny used her Outside Voice. Not when Jenny tugged at her skirt. Why was Mummy ignoring her?

Finally, her mother seemed to notice something was wrong. "Jenny? Jenny? Are you there?"

"Mummy, I'm here. I'm right here," Jenny said, stamping her foot impatiently. Whatever this game was, Jenny didn't like it.

Her mother dashed upstairs. Jenny had never seen her move so fast. Jenny heard her pound across the carpeted floor in a half-dozen strides, recognized the whine of her closet door being wrenched open, a pause, and then her mother's terrible, plaintive wail.

Becky

Woodville, Connecticut

January 2

I jerked out of the kiss, suddenly oblivious of the boy in front of me and what we'd been doing. I groped for my watch in the dim light thrown from the hallway. The watch, a recent Christmas acquisition, was sterling silver with diamond chips outlining its pearl face. The perfect accessory for my new tawny handbag.

11:43 p.m.

"Oh no!" I cringed. "No, no, no."

"Wha?"

I reached for my purse, found a mirror, and examined my waves of long, straw-colored hair probing Medusa-like this way and that. My lipstick was faded and blotchy, a pastel watercolor "O".

"Do I look like I've been rolling in the hay?"

"Wah rum yo boring?" was all I made out of his reply over the dance music throbbing from downstairs. The boy — Dave? Don? — still dizzy with passion, didn't get up when I fumbled on my boots. Let's just say he wouldn't be standing tall and walking out into the party any time soon. I rifled through the piles on the bed. Where was my coat?

Staggering into the hall, I tried to find the stairs. The house, a 1950s rambler with two awkwardly tacked-on additions, had an odd flow to it. I moved into a passage that I thought led to the family room, but it only dead-ended onto a porch. I made out the faint silhouette of a couple in intimate embrace, muttered an apology, then retreated into the inner passage.

The music hit me like a wave as I turned the corner and descended to the main floor. The heat of too many bodies pressed together in too small a space made me want to pass out. The stale air tasted of sweat and cigarette smoke. Couples bobbed up and down, arms over their heads, bumping and twisting. At the room's periphery, where doors opened onto a formal dining area, I could make out boys — tall, football player types —
wrestling in front of a buffet full of picked-over cold cuts and veggies, chips and dip. One boy bashed against the table, causing an oversized crystal punch bowl to wobble precariously.

I scanned the room, hoping to catch some glimpse of Heather and the girls in the forest of unfamiliar faces. I tried to recall the name of our hostess, a friend of Heather's cousin's stepsister. Geri? Jamie?

Bulldozing my way to the front parlor, I managed to reach the open door and fresh air. Groups of kids stood outside in tight knots, talking and drinking, despite the profound cold. I kicked my way through the crusted-over slush of dirty snow, nearly spilling onto the driveway. Upon reflection, wedge heels were probably not the most practical choice for the evening's activities.

"Oh-please-oh-please-oh-please," I muttered again and again. This part of Litchfield County was rural, all barns and isolated houses, rolling hills outlined with white fences, interrupted occasionally by dense clusters of woods. There were plenty of places to park. Cars lined the long gravel lane leading to the main road. In spite of the dark, I should have seen Heather's car by now. The car, a brand new luxury model, had been a Christmas gift from Heather's parents, complete with personalized license plates — PRNCSS — and should have been easy to spot.

Something in my chest sank forebodingly down into my stomach at the sight of the empty parking space. Nope. Gone.

"Crap. I'm screwed."

I pawed through my purse. My phone read,
13 missed calls.
Glancing at the log, I could see that each of my friends — Heather, Ashley, Zoey — had made multiple attempts to call me.
Ugh!
That stupid dance music!

I jabbed the
Call Back
button and put the receiver to my ear. My breath puffed out in front of me in long streamers. I was starting to feel the cold now despite layers of clothes and the extra holiday weight, what my dad affectionately called my "winter coat."

The phone rang once, twice, three times before Ashley picked up. "Becky," she screamed, "where were you?"

"I was upstairs!"

"We
looked
upstairs. That house is a flippin' maze. You went off somewhere with that boy, didn't you?"

"Maybe."

"You tramp. Well, you're on your own now. We said meet at the door at eleven, come what may. Guess you're stuck calling a cab."

"A cab? I don't have that kind of money on me!"

"Well, I guess you'll have to go in and wake Daddy then, won't you? You know about Heather's curfew. You think she's getting the new car taken away because you can't read a watch? You're on your own, sweetie. Think of it as tramp karma. See ya."

"Ashley? Ashley!"

I squeezed my phone angrily and jammed it back in my purse, cursing all three of them. Our parents knew we were going to a party, but none were aware that the party was an hour's drive away. Nor did they know that no adults would be at said party. My friends and I all had strict curfews, except for Zoey. Zoey's parents, old hippies, would let her stay out as late as she wanted, as long she called and told them where she was and when she'd be home. They were the most liberal parents I knew, the type to parcel out condoms to their daughters and put them through utterly humiliating demonstrations about how to use them that included the fat end of a carrot. I could happily do without all that, but I wouldn't have minded having the leeway to stay out past midnight once in a while.

I marched back into the house. It was full of kids like me, high school seniors blowing off steam before the holiday break ended and school resumed on Monday. I was far from home in unfamiliar territory. Even if I did call a cab, I didn't know exactly where I was. I was now at the mercy of strangers to help me get back.

Only one thing worked in my favor. Mom and Dad were at their own holiday party and likely wouldn't get home until the wee hours of the morning. If I could find someone to give me a ride within the next half-hour, I might be able to slip into bed before they returned. It was worth a try.

I had last seen the party's hostess — what was her name? — in the kitchen, and so I headed there now, skirting the dance floor and working my way through a side room dominated by a walnut grand piano. This room, unlike the others, was dimly lit. I could see couples groping each other in the dark.

I was heading toward the rectangle of light that framed the kitchen entrance when I saw him: Johnny Ladane, the boy who'd taken me to junior prom last year, the creep I'd dated last spring and into the summer until he abruptly cut off all contact. No calls, no texts, no email.

At first I'd tried to get a hold of him, casual messages left here and there. When he still didn't call me I did my best to ignore him but finally deployed spies, who informed me he was dating the bulimic little she-devil he worked with at his summer job. It had taken all my will, but I'd resisted the urge to confront him and so far had managed to get this far without speaking a word to him.

Johnny presently occupied slot number one on what Heather and Ashley referred to as Becky's List. And once you landed on Becky's List, you were pretty much a permanent fixture, unable to escape without a little contrition and a whole lot of penance.

A flood of mixed emotions filled me when I recognized him. Why Johnny, of all people? Why not somebody else?
Anybody
else?

"Tramp karma," I muttered derisively.

Johnny had been leaning against the threshold of the kitchen door with a drink in his hand, apparently studying the couples fumbling about in the dark. Now that I caught his eye, I detected recognition in his expression, the faintest hint of panic. Finally, he managed a smile and nodded coolly. Maybe it wasn't a smile so much as the corners of his lips spasming upward.

"Kill me," I mumbled. "Kill me now."

I sidled up beside him. "Johnny Ladane, what are you doing here?"

He shrugged. "Just hangin'." He took a sip of his drink and continued to study the shadows. Despite his status on The List, I felt tremendously relieved to hear his familiar voice. Any urge I had to jab him in the stomach and demand to know why he'd dumped me for the she-devil instantly vanished.

"Johnny, we might not have left things on a positive note last year. What do you say we leave that all behind and be friends again, like we were in Trigonometry?"

His eyebrows rose. He met my gaze for the first time since spotting me across the room. "Sure. That'd be good."

"Hmm, okay then." I considered then dismissed any meaningless transitional small talk. "So, how'd you get here?"

"Jeff. Bill. Cousins."

"Ah. Don't suppose you're headed back to Danbury anytime soon?"

He looked away and took another sip of his drink, seeming to catch on. "Yeah, maybe."

Johnny was tall, blond, dreamy. He had blue eyes like sapphires. Even in my heels, he still towered over me. Despite everything, I found myself wanting to put my arms around him, beg him to be civil and give me a lift home.

"You need a ride then?" he asked finally, smiling. "Let me see what I can do."