What They Always Tell Us (23 page)

He and Clare look at each other and exchange nervous smiles. Then he hears Mrs. Tidwell shouting the dog away—“Bitsy! Bitsy, hush up, now!”—before she cracks open the door, so that only her face is visible. James registers her initial look as one of mild confusion.

“Oh, hi there,” she says. “Hi, James.” Behind her, Bitsy is whining, wanting to get out and see who’s there. Alice’s mother looks the same as James remembers her—slight and thin, with short honey red hair tucked behind her ears, a tan face, a slight overbite that shows her even but large, slightly yellowed teeth.

“Hi, Mrs. Tidwell,” Clare says. “We came by to see Alice, and to give her this.” Clare glances down at the chocolate chip cookies, which are cellophaned to a sturdy paper plate, on top of which rests the card in its white envelope.

“Oh, well, how kind,” she says, not budging.

“I mean, if she feels up to seeing anyone,” Clare says. “Oh, I’m Clare Ashford.”

Mrs. Tidwell nods. “Hi, Clare.”

“Can we see Alice, do you think?”

“Well, she was napping earlier. And she’s on some pain medication, so she may be groggy. Can you wait here a sec? Bitsy, get back!” She gently shuts the door, leaving them there with their cookies and card.

“This was a mistake,” James says.

Clare says, “Shhhh.”

In a few minutes Mrs. Tidwell returns without Bitsy, and this time she pulls the door all the way open. “She’s in her room if you wanna go back. But she’s tired, so I can’t let you stay too long, okay?”

“Thanks,” Clare says, stepping into the living room, which has matted blue carpet. Against a wall there is a comfy-looking gray sofa, which is covered by a white blanket and a few magazines. An ashtray is on the chipped wooden coffee table, and the TV is tuned to one of those afternoon shows with a judge scolding people about their absurd lives.

“Her room is last one on the left,” Mrs. Tidwell says.

The door is shut, so James knocks gently.

“Come in.”

Clare goes first, since she is carrying the cookies and the card. Alice lies on her full-size bed, under the covers, with her right arm in a white sling. She doesn’t look as bad as James expected. She only has a few scrapes on her face, a bandage on her forehead, and on her nose a bruise that is the color of a prune. Her hair is tied back in a ponytail, exposing her roots, and her face looks dry and colorless where it isn’t scraped. Still, she doesn’t look like someone who just cheated death.

“Hi,” Clare says, sounding tentative and bashful all of a sudden. “We brought you these cookies. And this card.” Clare sets them on Alice’s dresser. “You can read the card later if you want,” Clare says, though she walks over and hands it to Alice, who takes it with her free hand.

Alice’s room looks the same as James remembers it: a few posters of actors with their shirts unbuttoned, white wallpaper with small pink stripes, a pink bedspread, fluffy pillows, and a few stuffed animals on the floor. Plus the perfumes and beauty aids that cover a lot of the dresser top. He is always amazed at how much stuff girls have—bottles and tubes and cases and jars of stuff meant to make them presentable to the world.

“How are you feeling?” Clare asks, standing near Alice’s side.

“I’m feeling okay. Mostly I feel out of it.”

“Your mom says you’re on some pain medications,” Clare says.

Alice nods.

And what is James supposed to say? He stands there, feeling like a bump on a log, as Clare makes more polite chitchat and Alice responds. She doesn’t seem angry or bitter or surprised, nor does she seem happy to see them. She only seems zoned out.

“It must have been scary,” Clare says, about the crash.

Again, Alice nods. But then she says, “Well, not really. I don’t remember much about it.”

That’s what Alex said, James thinks. That he didn’t remember much about the night he swallowed the Pine-Sol. And James believes him, just as he believes Alice right now. Because maybe—probably—they are choosing to forget. Like their minds won’t let them remember, because it’s too painful or embarrassing.

“They say you got lucky,” James says, finally speaking.

Alice looks over at him, offering a slight smile. “Mom says God was watching out for me.”

“She’s probably right,” Clare says.

James nods his head, but he hates when people say shit like that. Like God has all the time in the world to watch over and protect every single person on the planet. And what about the people who die in accidents or wars or whatever? Does God think less of them?

“I don’t know,” Alice says, as if reading his mind. “I think James may be right. Maybe I just got lucky.”

“Well, we’re just glad you’re okay,” Clare says.

“Yeah,” James says.

Alice gives Clare an odd look, like she can’t figure out why this person is here being nice to her. Then, as if noticing it for the first time, Alice fondles the card.

“Want me to open it for you?” Clare asks.

“No. I’ll read it later.” She closes her eyes. “I’m getting sleepy.”

“Okay. Well, then we better get going,” Clare says.

James can tell Clare wants to say more, can almost hear some sweet speech waiting to pour out of her. But she doesn’t say anything, she just looks over at him and bares a smile.

“Okay,” Alice says, eyes still closed.

Clare leaves before him, and James hesitates at the door. He feels relief. Not only that he can leave. But relief that he can see Alice, lying there in front of him. He doesn’t want to know what really happened that night she wrecked. Nor does he want to know why Shane dumped her, or why she met with him in the park, or if she is still depressed, or any of that. The less he knows, the better, as far as he is concerned. It’s over and done with. Still, she is here, hurt perhaps, maybe still sad, but here. It is then that she opens her eyes again and sees him standing there. She smiles. A real smile. “Thanks,” she says.

James nods and pulls the door closed.

Mrs. Tidwell is waiting to show them out. “Well, I can’t say I expected anyone to come by like this.”

“We wanted to,” Clare says.

“Well, I’m sure it meant a lot to her. She may not show it, but…well, like I said.”

“Is she gonna come back to school soon?” James asks.

“I sure hope so. She doesn’t feel up to it right now. I went and picked up some of her homework, but she hasn’t touched it. We’ll see.”

Outside, they both make their way to their cars.

“See, that wasn’t so bad,” Clare says.

James nods. “Yeah.”

“Thanks for coming with me.”

“No problem,” he says.

“You okay? You seem, I don’t know—”

“I’m just tired. It’s been a long day. But, yeah, I’m glad we came.”

After they make their good-byes, James drives off. He
is
tired—that was not a lie. This day has worn him out. But he’s also thinking about Alex. About how no one came to see
him
when he was recovering, when he was lying in his bed at home, away from school for a few weeks. No one brought a card, no one brought cookies. The only people who called were family friends, and Clare and Nathen. But none of James’s other friends or classmates called—and none of Alex’s supposed friends called, either. Like Tyler, who’s been nothing but puppyish and nice to James. Why is he treating Alex like such shit?

All of a sudden James feels angry. Angry at everyone. And angry at himself for now, finally, being angry. What kind of a brother is he? He wasn’t there for Alex before, and he hasn’t been there since. He pulls into the neighborhood and picks up speed. Mom always says to drive slowly down these streets, to be careful for kids playing or for the walkers, but James’s anger makes his foot heavy. He enters the driveway with such force that the Jeep gives a large bounce before he steps on the brakes.

Alex is at home in his room, and Mom is home, too, cooking dinner. James sets his stuff in his room and takes off his shoes and calms himself down. His flash of anger has tempered, but he still feels a sort of restlessness, an excited sort of energy.

A few minutes later he crosses the hall and knocks on Alex’s door.

“Come in.”

James walks in and shuts the door behind him. Alex is lying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. The lamp on his desk is burning, and his schoolbooks are stacked on top, ready to be used. But Alex isn’t studying.

As a force of habit James walks over to the window and looks out at the darkening sky. He sees no activity at Henry’s house, nothing to distract him.

“Something’s the matter, isn’t it?” James says.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Alex says.

James sits at the foot of Alex’s bed. “I know something’s wrong. Ever since Monday.”

“It’s no big deal.”

“Then tell me.”

“I said it’s not a big deal,” Alex says. But James can hear the hesitancy in his voice, like he wants to tell James but is barely holding himself back.

“Is it something with Nathen?”

Alex shakes his head. “Let it go, please?”

But James can’t let it go. Not this time: “I’m not leaving until you tell me.”

Alex laughs at this, sounding both amused and exasperated. James laughs, too, and he feels the wall between them inching down. “I’m serious,” he says.

And then Alex, too, gets serious. He sits up and gets off the bed and walks to his backpack. James watches as he rummages in one of the compartments. He finds a folded yellow sheet of paper, then another one. Alex comes back to the bed, lies down again, and then hands over the pieces of paper. “Someone has been leaving these in my locker.”

James unfolds the first note, which reads “I know you’re a FAG!” The second one says, “You and your boyfriend better watch out!” He looks at Alex, who now has his hands over his eyes, like he’s a kid who thinks he can hide from the world that way. “Who the hell left these?” he says.

Alex doesn’t say a word.

“And why would…why would someone leave these?”

“It’s Tyler.”

“What?”

Alex opens his eyes and stares up at the ceiling. “Tyler is the one leaving the notes.”

“How do you know?” he asks, though he isn’t surprised.

“Because I saw him the first day. Well, I saw him watching me open my locker. And then he smiled at me, but in a mean way. Plus, I remember his handwriting. He tried to disguise it, but I can tell it’s his.”

James is quiet for a second, taking it all in. “Why would he do this?”

“I don’t know!” Alex says, raising his voice for the first time.

James studies the notes again, like he is looking for clues. But really, he knows he is just stalling for time. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what to do. “I mean, why would he write this stuff?” James asks again. He feels like he is scraping away at something, getting closer and closer to a discovery.

Alex finally looks at him. “You want to know if it’s true, don’t you? You want to know if I’m a fag?”

James almost flinches when the word is thrown at him. “Fag.” The reality of it seems to be pounding on a shut door. Pounding and pounding, like an insistent salesman. His head feels light.

“And what if it
is
true?” Alex asks, his voice cracking.

Just then they hear their mother shouting at them: “Boys! Your dad’s home! Dinner’s almost ready!” This is their cue to go down and set the table.

James looks at Alex, who is barely containing himself, breathing heavily, like he has an ache in his chest. Alex’s face is flushed, more so than usual—hell, maybe James’s is, too. James’s mouth is dry and he can’t speak, so he stands and leaves and walks downstairs, gripping the banister tightly as he goes.

He walks into the kitchen and grabs some paper napkins and opens the cutlery drawer, all without being told.

“Thanks, sweetie,” his mother says.

As he’s setting the table, Alex walks in. James had almost expected him to stay in his room, unable to face James and their parents. But here he is, sullen and still flushed. He sits at the table, his usual spot.

Dinner is risotto with chicken and asparagus, something daring for their mother. “I hope it’s okay,” she says.

“It’s delicious,” his dad says. He likes everything.

It
is
tasty, and James devours it, rarely lifting his eyes from his plate.

“Alex, honey, you’ve been so quiet all week,” Mom says.

“You okay, big guy?” Dad says.

“I’m fine,” he says. He smiles.

“He’s just nervous about the meet,” James says.

“Yeah,” Alex says.

After dinner James helps his mother load the dishwasher. When that job is done, he has only one option left: to go upstairs and talk with Alex. To continue where they left off.

When he knocks, Alex lets him in right away, as if he expected him. They both stand there for a few seconds, and then Alex sits on the bed.

“Before you say anything, I just want to say…I want to say that I’m happy. For the first time in a long time,” Alex says.

“You are?”

“Yes.” He nods and stares off to the wall. “I mean, I’m confused, too. But happy. As happy as I’ve ever been.” Then he looks James in the eye, quickly. They have the same eyes, big and brown, the color of tea, or weak coffee. It’s funny, but standing there, James can see so clearly that Alex is just a younger version of himself. Not identical, but close. And yet in many ways, they are strangers to each other.

Still, he knows it’s true that Alex has been happier these past few months. And he knows—he can’t deny it anymore—that it probably has something to do with Nathen. That maybe Greer was right all along. And Tyler is threatening that happiness. He knows that Nathen is his friend, no matter what, and Alex is his brother. And he can’t live in a world where Alex is unhappy again. He couldn’t stand this world if Alex were to leave it, as he almost did. And so whatever it is between Alex and Nathen, whatever it is—he doesn’t care.

He sits down next to Alex. He puts his arm around him. “I know you’re happy. And I’m glad. I mean it.” He pats Alex on the shoulder.

“But I’m scared, James. I’m…” And with this, Alex starts crying.

Normally, James would pull back from such a display. Tears and crying usually make him cringe. But not now. He knows it’s all Alex can do right now. James lets him go on, but not for long. “Hey, hey,” he whispers. “Don’t be scared.”