Truest Page 4

  My phone rang. “Hey!” I said, glad Elliot had called back.

  “Hey!” he said. “Sorry about before. I just put the tractor away.”

  “It’s okay. How was your day? When can I see you?”

  “Come over.”

  “What? Right now?”

  “Yeah!” he said. “Your show’s over, right?”

  “Yeah. But it’s pretty late.”

  “My parents won’t care.”

  “Mine will,” I complained. I didn’t mention that I was also a little worried about what might happen, um, physically if I went over there so late. I hated myself for asking, “How about tomorrow?”

  “I’m lifting with the team tomorrow night from six to eight. I can stop at your place on my way into the weight room.”

  “Okay,” I said, my voice small with loneliness and longing.

  “How was detailing with the asshole today?” Elliot asked.

  “He’s annoying.”

  “Good.”

  “Thanks a lot,” I said, laughing a little.

  Elliot’s grin was obvious—even over the phone. “You know what I mean.”

  I took a deep breath and let it out. “Yeah. I do.”

  When our family car finally crept down Cedar and parked in the driveway, I said good night to Elliot. Dad emerged, his whole body showing signs of deep fatigue. He smiled when he saw me on the porch. “Wanna chat?” I asked softly, patting the space beside me.

  “In the morning, okay, Wink? Spent the morning with Jim Roberts and tonight at the hospital with the Talcotts. My head’s about to explode.”

  “Yeah,” I said, disappointed. “Okay. Sleep well.”

  I stared through the screen door after my dad as he trudged off toward his dark bedroom.

  five

  My dad was long gone by the time I woke up the next morning. I’d mostly expected it.

  “Billy Collins, you say?” Gordon asked when I arrived at his door, East of Eden in hand. “I have a few of his collections, over there on the middle shelf of the barrister—just go ahead and lift the knob. The whole glass front panel swings out and tucks right back into the shelf. See anything there?”

  The whole bookcase was dedicated to poetry. Langston Hughes and John Keats. Robert Frost. Emily Dickinson, Walt Whitman, and John Donne. I saw a few books by Billy Collins and pulled one off the shelf.

  “Gordon, why do you keep so many books around if you can’t see the pages anymore?” The cover had a tiny dog howling on a shore. The sky was yellow and pink, and the sea a dark inky blue and teal and the green-gray of battle gear.

  “They’re just good company,” he said simply.

  “We could sell them online, you know? And sign you up for an audiobook account.”

  “Ahh,” he said, “but then you wouldn’t come visit me as often.”

  He grinned while he said it, but it occurred to me that maybe Gordon got lonely here in his little apartment. He had kids—and a small army of grandkids and great-grandkids. I stopped by only a few times each month. “Gordon—” I started.

  “Read something aloud, would you? I like when you read, Westie.”

  I opened up to a poem called “The First Dream,” about a man puzzling over such an experience. Then the poem took a turn, wondering if maybe the first dreamer was a woman. The young woman in the poem seemed so sad; even her posture told its own story. My voice curved like her shoulders and turned soft and slow, bowed with understanding as I read:

  “you might have gone down as the first person

  to ever fall in love with the sadness of another.”

  “Beautiful,” said Gordon, pipe now between his teeth, dark glasses on, looking like some jazz hepcat. “Mmm. Beautiful. Yes?”

  “Yes,” I agreed, glad I didn’t have to admit it to Silas. Which made little to no sense.

  “Have you ever fallen in love with another person’s sadness, Betsy?”

  Betsy. He’d done this once or twice before, and I’d thought I’d misheard him saying “Westie,” but this time it was really clear. I knew one of his great-granddaughters—the one who visited him most often but who’d been studying in Spain the prior year—was named Elizabeth.

  “West?” He repeated his question.

  I thought of the girl in the poem—but also of Laurel, pristine even in pajamas, and my mini obsession with her. “Would you think I’m awful if I said yes?”

  He said, “Not awful, merely human.”

  When I left, Gordon loaned me the book of poetry. Instead of going home, I bypassed my house, crossed the parking lot between it and the church, and slipped inside the building.

  My dad was talking to someone in his office, so I tiptoed past and made my way to the unmarked door at the end of the hall, which I unlocked with the key I almost always kept in my pocket. When I heard voices in the nearby fellowship hall, my heart gave a panicked little start and I opened the door and closed it softly behind me, hearing the lock click.

  I exhaled deeply in relief. If anyone found out I had the key . . . well, it’s not that I would necessarily get in trouble, but I would lose my best secret. There was something almost magical about having a clandestine hideaway; I didn’t even tell Trudy, too worried or maybe selfish to break such a spell.

  Besides that, pastors’ kids have to share everything. I wanted just one thing, one place.

  It was four flights to the top of the bell tower. Four flights to my cozy but sparse little sanctuary. An air mattress, some blankets and books, and a camping lantern lay scattered in the space where the tower bells, long since removed, used to be. The space is small but open and has this incredible terra-cotta checkerboard floor, rough stone walls, and wooden beams.

  There are four arched belfry windows, one on each wall. They have no glass in them, but decorative bars keep birds out, and the window ledges are wide enough to sit in safely. I leaned out over the one that faced my house and saw my dad marching across the parking lot toward home.

  I huffed in disappointment. A part of me wanted to race down the staircase to talk with him, but I was still breathing hard from my trek up the stairs and the book of poems in my hands was making its own demands.

  It was a lovely morning, the breeze carrying the sweetness of the crab apples through the open windows and the cold stone walls keeping the tower cool enough to enjoy. I lay stomach-down on the air mattress and read through the poems. I liked them all, but kept returning to the one I’d read at Gordon’s about the sad dreamer-girl. All I could think of was Laurel Hart, looking so sad and so regal at the same time, sitting bolt upright in that wicker seat, the sunlight pouring in as if it were vapors filling the room.

  I lay staring at the stone ceiling, relishing my time alone before returning home. Then I made my way down the stairs, listened at the door for any sound in the hallway, and stepped out, feeling my pocket for my key before letting the door lock behind me.

  When I walked into the house, Shea called out, “Someone called for you. It’s a boooooy!”

  “Elliot?” I asked Mom, wondering why he’d called the landline instead of my cell.

  She shook her head. “Silas Hart. His number is on the counter.”

  Silas? Well, that was interesting.

  “Is Dad home?” I asked.

  “He just left for St. Cloud. There’s a book he needs for Sunday.”

  “Dang it.”

  “Don’t say ‘dang.’ Sandwich?” She nodded toward one on a plate on the counter.

  “Thanks,” I said, grabbing the plate and Silas’s number, taking both upstairs to my room. I kicked some dirty clothes out of the way and sat on the floor with my back against my bed, which was covered in Camp Rock sheets I’d outgrown years ago but kept anyway since boys aren’t allowed in my room. Besides, Trudy still used her High School Musical comforter.

  Trudy. I decided I’d call her first, and in doing so, I noticed on my cell that I had actually missed a call from Elliot. I left Tru a quick message, then listened to Elliot’s voi
ce mail, while munching on the Pinterest-inspired sandwich Mom had made—strawberry jam and cream cheese, cut into the shape of a heart. I grinned as I listened to him ramble on about his morning. “Still okay if I stop by tonight? Say yes.”

  I texted him: YES!

  His reply was immediate: Can’t wait. <3

  I replied: Whit will never let you live it down if he finds out you’re texting me hearts.

  Elliot texted back: <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

  My smile felt a mile wide—till I remembered I needed to call Silas.

  “Hi, it’s West—West Beck,” I said after he’d picked up. “What’s up?” I set Gordon’s Billy Collins book on top of a stack of books on my nightstand, hoping to revisit it again before bed that night. Irrationally, I had the thought that Silas would know I was touching the book, so I withdrew my hand.

  “I’m bored. Want to come over and watch WARegon Trail?”

  “Come again?”

  “WARegon Trail. It’s a TV show—I have the first three seasons.”

  “There are three seasons?” I asked skeptically.

  “There are five.”

  I hesitated. “It’s not really my thing.”

  “How do you know it’s not your thing? Have you even seen this show before?”

  “No, but—”

  “No, but you’d rather be bored and lie around your house all day? If you come over, I’ll let you insult my bad taste in television all you want without repercussion.”

  “Um, now you just admitted that the show is bad.”

  “My offer to insult me ends in five, four, three, two . . .”

  “Fine.” It seemed to be my motto these days.

  I biked out to Heaton Ridge for the first time ever. Crossing the bridge, I was shocked to see just how far down it was to the river. I hadn’t noticed in the car; on a bicycle, it was a different story.

  At the old Griggs house, the giant oak door was open, but the screen door was still closed, letting a breeze into the house. I rang the doorbell and listened. “Laurel!” I heard Silas yell. “Can you get the door?”

  From where I stood on the porch, I could see into the house, the long hallway toward the sunroom on the left, the set of stairs heading upstairs on the right. I expected to see Laurel emerge from the sunroom, but no one came into the hallway or down the stairs. I waited for what felt like forever, not sure if I should ring the doorbell again or try the handle.

  “Laurel?” I heard, shouted as if from upstairs. “Did you get it?”

  Nothing.

  “LAUREL! JUST GET THE DAMN DOOR!”

  My pulse skyrocketed. I swallowed uncomfortably, not sure what the right move was. The voice seemed so disconnected from the grinning boy on the swings yesterday. But then again, he was just yelling at his sister. Fighting with siblings was familiar territory to me.

  Get yourself together, I told myself, and then did what I figured was really my best option: I tried the handle and, finding the door unlocked, let myself in. “Silas?” I called up the stairs. “It’s West. Can I come up?”

  “Hey!” he said, appearing at the top of the stairs in a shirt that plainly declared, “YOU HAD ME AT BACON.” He tucked what looked like a tiny Moleskine notebook into the back pocket of his jeans. “Come on up. I was trying to make my room more presentable.”

  “And how did that go?” I joked, climbing the stairs.

  “Uhhh, let’s watch in the den instead,” he answered, grinning and directing me into the room across the hall from his. It was small and cozy, one wall full of a built-in entertainment center, the other three covered in family photos.

  Silas moved to the far wall to put a disc into the player, and I looked around the room: wood floor, couch lining the wall shared by the den and the hall, a papasan in the one available corner. The shelves surrounding the TV screen held movies and various knickknacks like a weird silver sphere on a stand, a replica antique telescope, and brass pagoda bookends pressed against a set of encyclopedias.

  I wasn’t quite sure where to sit. Sitting on the papasan would make it look like I was afraid of Silas. Also, I had tipped over Trudy’s papasan more than once—usually from laughing, but still. I supposed I could sit on the floor, but that seemed so awkward. I knew I was overthinking it when Silas turned around, grabbed the remote from the coffee table, crashed onto the couch, and patted the space beside him. “Stay awhile,” he joked.

  I sat beside him, picked up a navy decorative pillow, which had a constellation stitched onto it, and placed it firmly between us. Then, together we watched two episodes of WARegon Trail, which featured five pioneer families in covered wagons retracing the historic journey from Missouri to Oregon. There was dysentery, cholera, oxen—and zombies. Oh, and the pioneer men carried AK-47s.

  “It’s like Little House on the Prairie had a child with Quentin Tarantino’s nightmares,” I said, examining the DVD case, which was in grayscale except for the red bloodstains that were “splashed” across it. “The blood and guts of these episodes seems a little . . . what’s the word?”

  Silas to the rescue: “Exaggerated? Superfluous? Gratuitous?”

  I smiled. “Yeah, something like that. What are you, a human thesaurus?”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said. “Praise. Flattery.”

  “I get it.”

  “Commendation.”

  “Yup.”

  “Hey,” said Silas, suddenly looking a little sheepish, “sorry to make you wait on the porch earlier.” He rolled his eyes, put the pillow separating us on his lap, and picked at a light gray thread coming loose from the Big Dipper.

  “It’s fine,” I said. “No big deal.” But I was still curious.

  He sighed, then announced in this very slightly contemptuous and disembodied voice, “Laurel is having an asshole day.” WARegon Trail played on in the background; Silas clicked the mute button on the remote control, leaving us in silence.

  “Oh,” I said, a little shocked at this blunt revelation. “Does that . . . does that happen often?”

  Silas let his head fall back against the couch. Staring up at the den ceiling, he said, “No. I guess not.”

  I hesitated, remembering the way he’d reacted when I’d first asked about Laurel. Did I dare press him? He was the one who had brought it up this time—so maybe it was okay. I chose my words carefully, mostly just repeating his: “What does it mean for Laurel to have an asshole day?”

  He shook his head in frustration. “She’s just moody,” he said.

  Like hell she is, I thought. “Does she—” I started to ask.

  “One more episode?” Silas interrupted, effectively ending our conversation about his sister.

  I frowned, a little frustrated myself. “Sure.” I didn’t want to see his temper flare again.

  “Would you rather die from dysentery or a zombie attack?” he asked, aiming the remote at the DVD player.

  “Do I have to pick one?”

  “You do on the WARegon Trail!” he said, his voice gleeful again. He looked at me, losing a mighty struggle to hold back his grin; it was like sunshine wrestling through forest foliage. “Death is the only rescue coming for these people.”

  six

  When I got up to leave around dinnertime, Silas insisted on driving me home.

  “It’s not even dark out!” I said, but he followed me out of the den and down the hall, where Laurel was coming out of her bedroom. Another day, another pair of pajamas. Her eyes had a wild and lost look to them, as if she’d just woken up from a nightmare and hadn’t gotten her bearings yet.

  I lifted my hand in a feeble greeting, even though she was creeping me out again. She stared at me for a second, then looked at her brother when he said softly, “You feeling better?” Laurel didn’t respond—not in any way. Not a nod or a word or anything. She just walked down the hall toward the bathroom. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he called after her as we headed down the stairs.

  Out in the driveway, I said, “I’m really fin
e riding home by myself. You can, you know, go and . . . check on your sister.”

  But he was lifting my bike into the bed of the pickup truck parked outside. I recognized it as Arty Mayhew’s old beater that usually sat in a shed beside their house, south of town. “It’s fine,” he said.

  I didn’t know if he meant taking me home or Laurel’s condition.

  Before I could ask, Silas turned up an oldies station and bellowed “Eleanor Rigby” along with the Beatles for the few minutes it took to drive from his house to mine. The windows were down, so everyone we passed could hear, and Silas moved his head in a strange, staccato bob that matched the music. I realized I’d gotten into the vehicle with a lunatic.

  When he pulled into my driveway and parked, Silas finally glanced over at me. “What?” he asked, probably because of the look on my face.

  “You’re insane,” I said.

  “Maybe.” He grinned, then his voice dropped into a more serious register, and with a poker face, he whispered, “All the lonely people, West. Where the hell do they all come from?”

  I didn’t want to smile—tried not to smile—but I couldn’t stop myself.

  Silas pointed at my mouth. “Aha!” he shouted. “Caught you.”

  I grabbed his finger, not sure exactly what I was going to do with it, when a voice behind me said my name through the passenger’s-side window. It startled me, and I gasped, dropped Silas’s finger, and put my hand over my heart.

  “Just me,” said Elliot from beside the pickup. I noticed the Thomas family minivan for the first time. “Didn’t mean to scare you. Did you forget I was coming over?”

  I had, actually, but didn’t say so. Instead, I threw off my seat belt and hurried out of the pickup, throwing my arms around Elliot as if I hadn’t seen him for a year, squeezing him tight around the waist. He laughed. “Nice to see you too,” he said. His dark hair was buzzed short for the summer, and his face and neck were already tan. He’d come straight from the farm—sweaty, smelling like hay and dust. I kind of liked it.