Picture Me Gone (12 page)

How long did you live there?

My whole life till I was twelve, he says. Mum worked in New York City before I was born. That’s how she kept in touch with Matthew. When she found out she was pregnant, she decided to move closer to her sister, in Aberdeen. But she and her sister never got along all that well, how funny is that? Anyway, she got her teaching qualification and decided to move back. I think she likes it better here.

What about you?

We lived in a pretty rough neighborhood over there. It was OK. There was a decent skate park with thousands of kids. I liked it. The social life around here isn’t exactly riveting.

You’re sounding Scottish all of a sudden.

I’m not.

You
are.

He looks away but I can tell he’s pleased.

So far, nothing earth-shattering has happened between us, but just talking about anything can be big when you’re on the same wavelength. I’ve noticed that the magic of getting along with someone isn’t really magic. If you break it down, you can see how it happens. You say something a bit off-center and see if they react. If they get it, they push it a bit further. Then it’s your turn again. And theirs. And so on, until it’s banter. Once it’s banter, it’s friendship.

We open the door to the camp and across the room talking to Gil is a slim woman in her forties with short red hair and neat features, wearing an expensive-looking suit. She looks almost weirdly fashionable for someone in a snowstorm in the middle of nowhere.

This is my friend Joy, says Lynda. She offers no other explanation, filling the space where an explanation might have gone by bustling around with our wet things and more hot drinks.

The girlfriend, says Jake in a low voice.

Oh.

Lynda hands us cocoa and she and Joy go back to telling Gil about their school and how teachers have to spend so much time with paperwork, and that’s where I tune out.

Given how many people have now squashed into this little place, Jake’s sofa has become a kind of refuge. He must think so too cause he pulls up his knees to make room for me and after a minute hands me one of his earphones.

Good song, I say.

He nods. Not famous yet, but someday you’ll be able to tell everyone you heard it here first, on the somethingth day of something, two thousand and something, on my sofa right here. It’ll be just like the first time your parents ever heard the Beatles.

I find it hard to imagine that Gil remembers where he first heard the Beatles, or maybe even who the Beatles are. His radar for popular culture is, shall we say, imperfect.

Who’s the singer? I ask, and he looks hurt.

Oh my god! I say, realizing. That’s amazing! You’ve got a totally amazing voice.

I write songs with my friend Chris.

Oh, I think. Chris boy or Chris girl?

I have to squinch up if we’re going to share the same earphones and he makes room for me at his end and before long we’re sitting squashed up together like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Jake is friendly but a little reserved. I think Honey likes him for the same reasons I do.

Lynda’s nodding in our direction, like, isn’t it nice that they get on, but Gil thinks she’s pointing at the still-life painting on the shelf above us, which happens to be one of Joy’s, so the conversation veers off. I stifle a laugh.

What are you going to do now? Lynda asks Gil, and I tune in immediately, aware that I’ve missed a lot of conversation while we were out. I’ve only got one earphone, which is useful for eavesdropping.

Gil shrugs. Still no plan B. Back to Suzanne’s, I guess. Not much else we can do unless we hear from him.

Gil is slicing cucumber for the salad while Lynda lays the table and Joy opens a beer, which she offers to Gil.

You know, Gil says, I’ve been wondering since yesterday why Matthew disappeared after the car accident.

For possibly the first time in his long, eventful life, my father has asked the right question. But the question has caused a definite atmospheric shift, and it makes me think they haven’t brought up the subject of Matthew today at all. I’m watching Joy now, who hasn’t said a word but is clearly about to.

Lynda glances at her uneasily, then back at Gil.

The reason he disappeared, Joy says, with exaggerated calm, is that he’s a total shit who doesn’t know the first thing about responsibility or commitment.

Lynda looks away, but Joy is just warming up.

He’s a loner, that’s his problem. And he doesn’t give a damn about anyone but himself.

You know that’s not true. Lynda casts an anxious glance in her son’s direction, but Jake appears able to blank everything beyond the confines of his personal space.

Gil looks from Joy to Lynda.

I’ve known Matthew a long time, Gil begins, but Joy interrupts.

Look at his track record, she says, nearly spitting the words. One dead son, one abandoned. He left his girlfriend, cheated on his wife, now he’s left her
and
the baby—

That’s enough, says Lynda in a quiet voice, and it’s clear that this is not the first time Joy’s opinion has been aired.

It’s not, actually, enough, Joy says in a clipped voice. Of course,
I’ve
never met the man, never been hypnotized into thinking he’s some kind of hero who just
happens
to ruin the lives of everyone he comes in contact with, so what would
I
know?

Gil glances at me but I pretend to be immersed in Jake’s music.

She likes this line of discourse, Jake whispers, close to my ear.

I nod. It’s pretty uncomfortable on that side of the house, what with Joy all pursed up and cross and Lynda’s desire for everyone to play nice. But over on our side it’s kind of cozy. What I like about Jake is how much he observes and how little any of it seems to ruffle his feathers. It’s like he’s taken the entire adult world on board and decided it’s mildly amusing and mildly irrelevant.

He taps my knee and I look at him sideways. Anyway, he whispers, back to the original question about why Matthew disappeared after the car crash? He makes an imaginary glass with one hand, tips it into his mouth, then closes his eyes and goes back to the music.

Matthew was
drinking
?

My mind races. He was
drinking
? Did he drink a
lot
? Did Lynda and Matthew’s relationship break up because Matthew drank? Or Matthew and Suzanne’s? But wait, if he’d been drinking on the day of the accident, then of course he disappeared right after. He needed to disappear till all the signs were gone or he’d go to jail for murdering his son. If he had been drinking that day, the guilt would eat away at him for the rest of his life. What more would a person need to go off the rails? Or run away? Or even kill himself? Or does Jake mean he started drinking after the accident? Went on a bender? I look at Jake, trying to ask my questions via psychic transfer, but his eyes are closed, his expression serene.

Joy is in the process of struggling into her coat.

Don’t go, Lynda says, but she doesn’t sound very convincing.

Nice meeting you, Joy says to Gil as she opens the door. Hope you find what you’re looking for.

She lets herself out and the door bangs shut behind her.

Lynda looks at Gil. Sorry about that, she says. Matt’s not her favorite person. She thinks she’s protecting me, I guess. Though I wish she wouldn’t.

Gil waves a dismissive hand. Yes, of course, of course.

But Joy’s outburst has shaken him. Perhaps he never looked at Matthew through any eyes but his own. Perhaps the Matthew he remembers is out of date. Or perhaps there’s something about Joy’s version that rings a tiny quiet little bell.

Lynda sighs. Maybe you should tell the police.

I am taken aback, until I realize that my brain has rushed on to a whole new story. Lynda’s talking about finding a missing person and I’ve jumped to an alcoholic child killer.

The police aren’t interested, says Gil. Adults don’t get to be missing persons in the eyes of the law unless they leave a suicide note or a trail of blood. Otherwise it’s assumed they just wanted to be somewhere else. Which in this case is probably true.

He’s walked out on another child, Lynda says quietly, as if the reality has just occurred to her.

That makes two, Gil says.

Three. Her voice is quiet.

It’s not a great track record.

No, Lynda says. It’s crap, actually. For the first time she doesn’t sound gentle and tolerant, and I’m wondering what happened to everyone’s best friend, the kindest man in the world.

Looking at Lynda, I can see that old relationships leave a flare behind them, an uneven tail of light that doesn’t go away when people split up.

I remove my one earphone to hear better and Jake leans in close.

Stop listening, he whispers. It’s. Not. Polite.

I poke him. He pokes me back, and then we’re struggling half-on half-off the sofa, and I’m laughing so hard I can hardly breathe. You win, I gasp, and replace the earphone.

Lunch, kids, says Lynda.

Jake and I get to our feet a little sheepishly and shuffle over to the table together, still plugged in.

Off, says Lynda, pointing, and I hand him back his earphone. The lunch Lynda serves is nice: beef stew with white beans and salad.

The last thing I expected was to find a person like Jake here in the middle of nowhere. But aside from him, this whole story is starting to make me angry. All these people flung around on the end of a rope because one man keeps making problems and running away. Or at least that’s what it looks like from where I’m sitting.

While Lynda’s clearing up, I wrap myself in Jake’s big down jacket and step outside for a bit of privacy, and to write one more text.

What happened on the day Owen died?

I stare at the phone and press send. It is not a question I would ever dare ask in person. But in the absence of anyone else getting to the bottom of this mystery I have started to feel a bit desperate.

The little ping of the message flying off calms me. When I go back inside, Jake gives me a look. My father is shaking out his coat in preparation for our departure. I feel suddenly sad.

Jake takes my UK and US mobile numbers and my e-mail and says he’ll have to keep in touch with me because otherwise I won’t know anything about cutting-edge bands back in sad little small town London.

You should come and visit, Gil says. London’s not so bad really.

Yeah, come, I say and Lynda says, Maybe this summer.

We all hug and kiss, even Jake, and everyone feels happy to have met and sad to be parting so soon.

Lynda and Jake walk out to the car with us and at the last minute Jake grabs my arm and pulls his Mets cap down onto my head. I try to take it off but he won’t let me, so I get into the car and wave out the back window until we go round a bend and they disappear.

W
e’ve put it off as long as possible, but it’s clear that Gil has to tell Suzanne that Matthew wasn’t where we thought he’d be.

Gil stares at my phone, bracing himself, and finally takes out his laptop and writes her an e-mail.

He looks up at me, a little guilty. Do you think I’m a coward?

Only a little, I say, thinking, I wouldn’t want to tell Suzanne in person either. I’m guessing that Gil doesn’t mention Lynda or Jake in his e-mail; Suzanne is not the sort of woman who would think it was fine to have Matthew’s old girlfriend and the son he’s never told her about living in his bachelor pad.

I keep wondering how Matthew is going to keep Jake a secret forever. Surely Suzanne will find out someday. If Matthew and Suzanne stay together, how on earth will he explain? There are so many unexploded bombs in Matthew’s life. Every day must bring the possibility of discovery. It seems to me like a living hell but maybe he’s used to it. Or maybe it’s why he left home.

For the first time I’m conscious that Jake is Gabriel’s half brother. Will they meet? Will they grow up to be like their father? Who will I grow up to be like?

I wonder at what point a child becomes a person. Does it happen all at once, or slowly, in stages? Is there an age, a week, a moment, at which all the secrets of the universe are revealed and adulthood descends on a cloud from heaven, altering the brain forever? Will the child-me slink off one day, never to return?

I can’t imagine living a real life, or how I’ll ever be an adult. It seems like such an unlikely transformation. Someday I may be someone’s partner or someone’s mother or someone’s forensic pathologist. Someday I may drink too much or have a child I never tell anyone about. Someday I might run away from everything, for reasons of my own.

That me is impossible for present-me to imagine.

I cannot picture me grown up. I cannot picture me any different from the me I am now. I cannot picture me old or married or dead.

Crouching down on the floor with Honey, I press my cheek against her face. She smells warm and woodsy, like dog. Her thoughts are in the moment, not the future or the past. She longs for something she can’t define, for a state of equilibrium. If Matthew were to walk through the door now, she would feel complete; her terrible yearning would go. It is impossible to tell her that we may see him soon, or next week, or never. She has only two ways of understanding her situation:
yearning
and
yearning gone.
On–off.

Simple.

I wonder if we should tell Suzanne that we’re just filling up time to make ourselves look useful. But that would be like saying
We’re really grasping at straws here trying to find some vague connection to the husband who ran out on you and Gabriel, leaving no trail at all, because I suppose he doesn’t really want to be found.
Found by you, anyway.
Which feels so close to the truth, barring unexpected murder/suicide/kidnapping, that I really can’t bring myself even to think it in the same room as Gil e-mailing Suzanne, in case she overhears.

I hear the whoosh of the e-mail flying off across New York State and for a moment we both sit perfectly still.

Well? I say. Now what?

Excellent question, Gil says. I guess we return to Suzanne’s if we can’t think of anything else.

I can’t imagine what else we might think of, but I don’t say that.

We are failing. Not only that, but we have come all the way from England to fail. When I turn to Gil, he has just closed his laptop and is staring at it, looking as lost as I feel.

Well, Perguntador, he says. We’re not terribly good detectives.

But the first rule of being a detective, I tell him, is Do No Harm, and we’re not doing any harm, are we?

That’s doctors, Mila, not detectives. The first rule of detection is Find Your Man. And we’re not doing that either.

A long silence sits in the air and in it we feel separate dejections. Way in the back of my head something nags and nags but I still can’t grasp it.

How much do you like Lynda?

Gil frowns. Why on earth do you ask that?

I look at him.

Just the normal amount. It was a long time ago that we were close, he says. What are you thinking? He peers at me closely.

I don’t answer.

Then he says, You don’t think I’m in love with her? He removes his glasses, rubs his eyes with one hand and replaces them. I’m not. Of course I’m not. He sighs. Perguntador, he says softly. The past is littered with people we’ve loved, or might have loved. You’ll find out in time.

I say nothing for a while. And then, Let’s go.

Yes, OK, Gil says, a bit wearily.

I’ll bring my charts and maybe we can read something between the lines.

Or allow ideas to connect where they may.

Willy-nilly. At random. I give him a look.

One must have faith.

One does, I say, and take his hand, thinking of all the people he might have loved.

We pack up. I finish before Gil and press my nose to the window. The snow is still falling.

Where does it all come from?

Too many questions, Gil says. Something to do with ice crystals attaching to each other in groups of six. It’s pretty odd, when you think about it.

And no two alike.

That’s right. Almost makes you believe in God.

Does it make you believe in God?

He shakes his head. No, I said almost. What about you?

No. But no two alike is strange. I wonder how they can be sure.

And who
they
are. Gil is smiling now. The snowflake scientists. Legions of them, catching and examining billions of snowflakes every year, just on the off chance . . .

And what if they see one they think they recognize but the twin has already melted?

They’d take pictures, wouldn’t they? Give them some credit, Mila. They’re scientists. They’d be wonderfully scientific.

Does thinking about snowflakes make your head hurt?

Yes, he says.

It make me feel small.

Ah, Gil says. That all depends where you’re standing. If you’re right in the foreground, you’re huge. In my head, you’re bigger than Big Ben or the Andromeda Galaxy. Much bigger.

The Andromeda Galaxy? Really?

Much bigger. Now let’s check out and buy some snow gear. This doesn’t look like it’s going to end any time soon.

Gil pays at reception and they don’t charge us extra for not checking out at noon.

Doubt we’ll be getting much of an influx tonight, the receptionist says. Not many people driving in this weather.

Gil and I glance at each other. Not many tourists dumb enough to drive in this weather? Except us, of course.

We head back into town. Gil drops me across from the local minimart and drives further up the road to find waterproof jackets and boots for us both, and mittens and matching hats. My job is to stock up on provisions: bananas, apples, bread, jam, sliced ham, cheese. When I’ve paid for all of that, plus a large bottle of water, there’s enough left over to buy a special offer of chocolate marshmallow Wagon Wheels, Rock Bottom Price, Limited Time Only! They’re piled high in boxes by the register and looking at them I imagine the limited time to be something like forever.

I lug the groceries in the direction Gil headed, and see the car just ahead. Gil is waiting for me, looking at a map.

I should phone Lynda to say good-bye, he says, and I hand him our phone.

They chat for a few minutes about Matthew, and Gil promises he’ll let her know how it all turns out. Good-bye, Lynda, he says at last. Let’s not leave it another twenty years. And then he presses end. He looks at what I’ve bought. Perfect, he says, now let’s get going. Apparently there’s even more snow coming from the east. If we’re lucky we’ll stay ahead of it.

He hands me back the phone and a few seconds later it bleeps.

Oh god. What if it’s Matthew?

But it’s not Matthew. It says:
Ta ta old chap. See you in London.

And it’s signed:
Jake

I wrap my hand over the screen and place it carefully in my pocket.

On the way out of town we stop one last time and I run into the camping supply place where they’re advertising cheap blankets on special offer. They’re printed like old-fashioned woolen Navajo blankets but made of recycled plastic bottles. The same guy is working and he recognizes me.

Some storm, eh? he says.

We don’t have storms like this in London.

London? Is that where you’re from?

Yup. London, England.

What’re you doing here? he asks, waiting for the receipt to come out of the register.

We’re looking for someone who’s lost.

His expression tells me that this is a strange and unexpected answer to a polite and ordinary question.

Lost in the snow? His eyes widen.

No. Lost before the snow started. He might not even be lost, for all I know. I guess he knows exactly where he is.

I am aware that he is staring at me.

I sigh. It’s complicated, actually.

Yeah, he says, and hands me the bag with the two blankets and the change. I hope you find him.

Thanks.

That is, if you want to find him.

As I get to the door, I turn round and look at him. Yes, I do want to find him. I want to know why he left.

And then I go out.

Well done, Gil says, appraising the blankets. I hope we won’t need them, but it’s better to be safe.

To tell the truth, I don’t mind the thought of needing them, imagining Honey and Gil and me curled up like hibernating bears in our car, eating chocolate-covered Wagon Wheels and waiting for the snow to melt.

We set off. It’s getting dark. Kids in town are throwing snowballs at one another while their mothers shout at them to stop. The world has turned a deep and dreamy white and I don’t ever want to stop looking at it. I think of Jake with a secret thrill that cancels out the sick feeling I get thinking of Matthew.

My eyes shut and the whirling snow takes me into a dream of the camp and the fire and the music.

We drive for a while, the windscreen wipers skwooshing snow back and forth, the traffic report muttering out of the radio, Gil hunched up over the wheel of the car with his face nearly up against the windscreen, his usual position now. Our headlights light up more snow.

Whenever I open one eye there’s nothing but snowflakes. The traffic is moving slowly, and despite worrying that road conditions might make this my last ever journey on earth, I like the feeling of being here in this strange, warm, murmuring place while nature blows billions of nonidentical crystals at us.

I glance over at Gil. He hates driving in London, much less in a blizzard in upper New York State with no known destination.

I send another text to Matthew.
If we die in the snow it’s your fault.

And then I text Jake.
See you in London. Xxx Mila

It’s a little risky adding the x’s when he didn’t put any on his, but it might be the last message I ever send, so what the hell. Pressing send gives me the feeling that something between us has been sealed.

Gil finds the highway and it’s crowded, everyone moving slowly as the snow whirls harder. Occasionally a gust of wind hits the side of the car like a slap and tries to push us out of our lane. Ahead and to the side I see cars skidding. I suppose I should be nervous but I’m feeling strangely flat. There’s nothing I can do except not distract Gil. I climb over into the backseat, put my seat belt on and curl up with my head against Honey’s back. It’s bonier than it looks but she’s warm and her breathing is deep and slow. The snowflakes spin and reel and Gil switches over to a classical music station that comes in full of static; I think about Jake, and a cello lulls me to sleep.

• • •

When I wake up it’s still snowing but we’re moving reasonably well. The traffic station is on again—a young woman’s voice—and we pass a big snowplow with flashing lights, growling along in the other direction like a great yellow beast.

I lean forward through the gap in the front seats. How far do we have to go?

We’ll come off the highway where we can and stay the night, Perguntador. We’re not far away. With no weather this would be a breeze.

I wonder what no weather would feel like. White sky, invisible temperature. Comfortable, weightless. I’m not all that anxious to get back to Suzanne’s.

The red taillights ahead all flash on at once and Gil steps on the brake. We slide a little and slow. What’s this? he murmurs as we crawl along, until about a mile later the traffic comes to a complete stop. Oh Christ, he says, must be an accident.

And sure enough, after ten minutes sat perfectly still in the snow with the wipers still going and the traffic station blathering about wind and snow like we can’t see for ourselves, and the heat blowing out of all the vents, a police car flies past in the breakdown lane followed by another, followed by an ambulance.

There, says Gil. Glad it’s not us.

We sit for ages and finally Gil turns off the engine. It’s nearly eight, he says, time for supper. So I make us ham and cheese sandwiches with apples and Wagon Wheels for dessert. Instead of dog food, I make Honey a sandwich too. Emergency rations, I tell Gil. Honey takes her sandwich politely and doesn’t grab, but then scarfs it down in three bites. She seems restless all of a sudden and I venture out into the snow to walk her. Gil says, Be careful, but nothing’s moving. The only danger is losing the car; they all look the same in the snow. But there’s a big blue van behind us so we won’t get lost. Honey’s got an upset stomach and I guess it’s the food I’ve been giving her. She’s probably a bit old to change to a whole new diet, even if she likes it better.