Hold Still Part 23

"See you soon?" she asks.

"Yeah," I say. "I'll see you soon."

20.

In the car, I open my notebook to the second page of directions-from Copy Cat to Davey and Amanda's apartment in Hayes Valley. By now, lots of people are on the road, and I creep through city traffic for about twenty minutes before I get to their street. This time, finding parking is harder, and when I finally spot someone leaving, I have to block the lane while I wait with my turn signal on. "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry," I say to all the cars that swerve around me. It takes me at least ten tries before I'm parallel-parked, and by the time I've climbed out of the car, the traffic has quieted down a little. I walk a couple blocks, past a cafe with stylish people inside, past a skinny man smoking a cigarette, past a million Victorian apartments rising on either side of me. A homeless guy in a worn gray sweater asks me for a quarter, and I reach into my bag and fish out a dollar.

"G.o.d bless you," he says, walking away. A few steps later he adds, "You're a sweetheart." When he's reached the end of the block, he shouts, "Be good! Listen to your parents! Stay in school!"

I find their apartment-a light blue Victorian with gold trim. I look up at the top floor, but I can't see anything through the windows. I don't ring the doorbell yet. Instead, I imagine what would happen if everyone turned their regrets into wishes, went around shouting them. Signal lights would change at intersections, and as the people on opposite sides of the street stepped off the curbs, they would call to one another-Finish college! Exercise at least three times a week! Never start smoking! Tell your mother you love her! Wear a condom! Make peace with your brother! Don't sign anything before you've met with a lawyer! Take your dog to the park! Keep in touch with your friends!

I ring Davey's doorbell and wait for footsteps down the stairs, for the lock to turn.

Nothing.

I ring again, just in case.

After another minute, I sit on their front steps and find the pages I want to give them-her first entry, the one to the hall monitor, because I know it will remind them of how much energy Ingrid used to have; a couple pages of mushy Jayson dreaming, because I'm pretty sure that they never got to know that side of her; and one of the last entries, even though I feel a little mean, like I'm dropping a bomb on all the good memories. But, at the same time, I'm doing this to share her, and that means all of her-the energetic, hopeful Ingrid, the sad Ingrid, the violent Ingrid, the Ingrid who hated me sometimes.

After I get their pages together, I tear out a sheet from my notebook and I write them a note. Then, I paper-clip everything together, and leave their package in the mailbox.

Dear Davey and Amanda, I know I said I'd stop by a while ago. I'm sorry it's taken me this long. Here is something I wanted you to have. If you're sad, make sure to talk about it!

Love, Caitlin It's already noon and I'm hungry, so I go back to that cafe I pa.s.sed earlier, and order a sandwich and a latte and sit at a table, surrounded by older people wearing black and talking about important things.

A girl in a vintage c.o.c.ktail dress calls me from behind the counter, so I weave between the other tables to get my food. I look through the copies as I eat, deciding which ones I'll give to my parents. I take a sip of the latte, and decide I'll give them one of everything. I take another sip. Then another. Even after the foam is gone, the drink still tastes good, kind of milky, not too strong. And maybe I'm overreacting, but it makes me so happy-I've been searching this whole year to find a coffee drink that's right for me, and now I've found it.

20.

It is 2 P.M. I'm back in Los Cerros.

A man answers the door at Jayson's house, wearing sweats and an Oakland A's T-s.h.i.+rt. He's tall like Jayson, but not as athletic-looking. Behind him is a small living room with a worn-in couch and a recliner. A television is playing commercials.

"Mr. Michaels?" I ask.

"That's me," he says.

"I'm Caitlin. I'm a friend of Jayson's . . ."

He opens the door wider. "Come in," he says. "Jayson and I are watching the game."

"Jay-son!" Mr. Michaels calls as I walk in.

Jayson emerges from what I imagine is the kitchen, carrying a huge bowl of popcorn and wearing a backward A's hat. I crack up.

"Big fans?" I ask them, and they laugh, nod their heads as if to say I've found them out.

I share their popcorn and Mr. Michaels has me sit in his recliner, an honor, he tells me, which is reserved for only very special guests. Jayson rolls his eyes.

By the middle of the third inning, I'm starting to get nervous. I have so much more to do today, but I can't figure out how to give Jayson his entries without making a big scene in front of his dad. I try to catch his eye, and when I finally do, I point my head toward the door. I do it subtly, too too subtly I guess, 'cause Jayson just looks confused and asks, "You want more popcorn?" subtly I guess, 'cause Jayson just looks confused and asks, "You want more popcorn?"

"Okay," I say helplessly and he hands me the bowl.

Another inning pa.s.ses and I'm getting desperate, so I just hope that Jayson was taught to walk his guests to the door, and tell them I have to get going.

"I'll walk you," Jayson says, and I want to hug him.

Once we're out the door, Jayson tells me, "My dad's totally gonna grill me when I get back inside, you know."

"Sorry," I say, knowing how weird it seems that I just showed up out of nowhere and watched half a game with them.

"No, it's cool," Jayson a.s.sures me. "We're friends, you can come by anytime. But my dad's gonna think you want to date me. He'll be b.u.mmed when I tell him it's not like that. Plenty of girls have come over before, but he's never offered one of them his recliner."

"Yeah, right."

"No, I'm serious. He totally likes you."

"Oh no!" I laugh. "I'm sorry to disappoint your dad. He's so nice."

Jayson waits while I unlock my car door and set my heavy bag down on the seat.

"What do you have in there?" he asks.

"Too much," I say. "But some of it's for you."

"Oh yeah?"

I pull out his pages and place them in his hands.

"They're copies I made from one of Ingrid's journals."

Jayson slides into my car and turns the light on inside. I sit up on my trunk, and give him time to look.

I've been trying to be honest about what I give people, but after thinking a lot about it, I decided to give Jayson only the good parts. I don't think that the rest is something he would want to know, and I'm pretty sure Ingrid wouldn't have wanted him to know, either.

I wait for what feels like an hour, and then I go back to where he's sitting.

He's hunched over the steering wheel with his head in his hands.

"Jayson," I say.

He doesn't move.

I feel a sudden burst of regret, like this was the worst thing I could have done.

"Jayson?"

I put my hand on his shoulder, searching for some way to make this right. I thought it would be good. I keep thinking about what he said on her birthday-I felt like telling everyone that it was different for me, but I knew that was stupid. I didn't deserve it, I wasn't even close. I really thought it would be good, but I realize I was wrong. This was too much for him to take. It's true-he didn't even know her that well. So they sat next to each other in bio, and once he said he liked her hat, but really, that was it. And now I've bombarded him with this. I really thought it would be good, but I realize I was wrong. This was too much for him to take. It's true-he didn't even know her that well. So they sat next to each other in bio, and once he said he liked her hat, but really, that was it. And now I've bombarded him with this.

"Jayson."

I squeeze his shoulder.

"Jayson," I plead. I plead.

And he snaps out of it, lifts his head, climbs out of the car.

His face is wet. He says, "You have no idea how this makes me feel."

And I open my mouth to tell him that I'm so sorry, but he opens his first.

"Thank you."

21.

The next place I drive to I know so well, almost as well as my own house. I pull onto the shady, tree-lined street, stop the car, and just sit.

It was hard to ring Davey's doorbell this morning, but this feels worse than hard-it feels impossible. I wipe my hands on my skirt and glance over at the driveway. Her mom's car is there. Her dad's is, too. I feel like I'm standing at a high alt.i.tude, where the air is thin and icy and painful to breathe.

I take my bag from the pa.s.senger's seat.

As I approach the walkway that spans their front lawn to their door, I realize that I should have given them some warning. I should have at least called an hour earlier or something to see if now was an okay time. But if I leave, I have no idea how long it will take me to get the courage to come back. I hesitate on their front stoop, force Ingrid's drawing of the girl into my head, think, Brave Brave.

I knock-three quick taps followed by two slower ones-the way I used to when I'd come over all the time, and I didn't wait for anyone to open the door, just announced my presence and let myself in. Ingrid's dog starts barking at the door, and I hear Susan calming him. I brace myself for her to look completely different, promise myself I won't let her see my shock when I see that she's become a different person, a skeleton, a sh.e.l.l.

The door eases open.

Her hair is grayer, longer. She looks a little heavier, but mostly she looks the same.

I open my mouth, but can't think of what to say. Last time I was here, I'm sure I breezed past her, hardly noticed her, went straight to hang out with Ingrid in her room.

"Oh my." She covers her mouth with her hand, but I can see from her eyes that she's smiling.

"Hi, Susan."

She touches my shoulder.

"Come in," she says, collecting herself. "What a surprise. What a nice surprise."

I follow her to the living room, but freeze when I step inside.

In the center of the main wall, above the fireplace, hangs Ingrid's winning portrait.

Susan glances toward the photo, glances toward me. She smiles, gently. "Is it strange to see yourself above my mantel?"

"A little," I manage.

"Veena gave it to us."

I nod.

"She brought it to us the evening after she showed you."

It feels strange to hear her mention Ms. Delani, to know that Susan knows little things about me, like what day it was that I saw that photograph. All this time, I've been trying so hard to not think about Ingrid's parents, so hard that for a while it was like they didn't exist.

"You look beautiful," Susan says.

In the photo, I'm in a plain tank top and grungy jeans. My hair's messy and I look tired-whatever night Ingrid took it, I wasn't exactly looking my best.

"I mean now," Susan says. Then, "You look older."

And I know she doesn't mean it this way, but I can't help but think, Older than Ingrid will ever look Older than Ingrid will ever look. I feel my eyes welling up. I thought I'd given myself enough time to prepare for this. Almost a year should have been enough time.

"Mitch is taking a nap," Susan says. "He had a tough week at work. Why don't you sit down and I'll go get him. He'll be so happy to see you."

I sit on their leather couch, slip my shoes off, and curl my legs under me. I have the entries I'm giving them all picked out, but as I look through them I feel like they aren't enough. I wish I framed them or bound them in a little book.

Footsteps come from down the hall, and then Ingrid's dad is in front of me, his arms around me, lifting me up. I don't know how to react-Mitch was never like this before. He was always nice, but was never the hugging type. He doesn't say anything, just holds me tightly, desperately, and from over his shoulder, I can see Susan's mascara pool around her eyes and streak her face, and this is worse than I thought it would be, and I hate myself so much right now because I know it's awful, but I want nothing more than for him to let me go. His arms get tighter and I bite the inside of my mouth to keep myself from shouting, I'm not her, I'm not your daughter, stop pretending I'm your daughter I'm not her, I'm not your daughter, stop pretending I'm your daughter. But he holds on. It hurts to breathe. I'm here, I'm in this house, and I'm seeing it the way Susan and Mitch saw it: waking in the morning to the sound of water running from the bathroom down the hall, thinking it must be Ingrid taking her shower a little early, fading back to sleep, waking up again to the sound of the alarm, Mitch asking, Suzy, do you hear that? Suzy, do you hear that? Susan answering, Susan answering, Yes Yes. Down the hall, the pat of two sets of slippers. Mitch, wait here, I'll see if she's showering. Mitch, wait here, I'll see if she's showering. A tap on the bathroom door. A tap on the bathroom door. Ingrid? Ingrid? Another tap, louder. Another tap, louder. Ingrid! Ingrid! The groan of hinges, the water, the smell-like urine, like heartbreak, like metal. The groan of hinges, the water, the smell-like urine, like heartbreak, like metal. Oh my G.o.d. Oh my G.o.d. Red everywhere. Red everywhere. Suzy, what? Suzy, I'm coming in. Suzy, what? Suzy, I'm coming in. Their daughter, naked-b.r.e.a.s.t.s and pubic hair, hips, and wounds, and blood, and skin, and half-closed, still eyes. And my legs are trembling, and Mitch's arms are like a straitjacket, and Susan cries in the doorway, and I swallow the blood in my mouth, force my voice to come out steady when I whisper, "Hey, Mitch," to remind him that it's only me. Their daughter, naked-b.r.e.a.s.t.s and pubic hair, hips, and wounds, and blood, and skin, and half-closed, still eyes. And my legs are trembling, and Mitch's arms are like a straitjacket, and Susan cries in the doorway, and I swallow the blood in my mouth, force my voice to come out steady when I whisper, "Hey, Mitch," to remind him that it's only me.

22.

I'm back on the couch, sitting kind of awkwardly with my legs tucked under me because I'm not used to wearing skirts anymore, especially short ones.

Mitch sits on the opposite couch, looking a little sh.e.l.l-shocked. Every now and then he glances at me and shoots a nervous smile in my direction. Susan comes back from the kitchen, carrying a pitcher of lemonade and three gla.s.ses.