We get back in the truck immediately, with the shared, unspoken need to get out of there as quickly as possible. Once we’ve driven away, I look out the window, scanning the cars around us. Josh’s windows are tinted, but I still won’t take any chances. When I feel safe enough that we’re not being watched, I ask the question I’ve been holding onto since we left his house.
“You watch General Hospital?” I don’t really need confirmation. I know for a fact that he watches it. He doesn’t look at me but I see his lips turn up in the half-smile he gets when he’s embarrassed about something, which is really just a real smile he’s trying to drown.
“Yes,” he says. OK, he did answer my question, but what I really wanted to know was why or how or something that will explain it to me because come on. But if there’s anything more surprising to me than the newfound knowledge that he’s a closet soap opera addict, it’s the fact that he actually keeps talking and offers me an explanation; one I didn’t have to ask for. “My mom used to watch it. Religiously. Never missed an episode. My dad and I made fun of her all the time. When she died, I kept thinking that maybe she’d come back, and when she did, I wanted to be able to tell her everything that had happened so she wouldn’t have missed anything. So I watched it. Every day. After a while I realized she wasn’t coming back but I was pot vested by that point. I just never stopped.” He shrugs like he’s accepted this fact; only I’m not sure if it’s the fact that his mother isn’t coming back or that he watches General Hospital that he’s accepting. Maybe he’s not sure either.
“How old were you?”
“I was eight which I guess is old enough to get it. I just didn’t really want to… I don’t know… My dad tried to make it make sense for me, but there really isn’t a way to explain how a person you’ve seen every day of your life just isn’t anymore. Someone just hit delete and she’s gone. I had a hard time grasping that I could come home one night and find that the person who was laughing and hugging me that morning just stopped existing. I didn’t believe it was possible. I didn’t want to believe it was possible… so, yeah, General Hospital.”
I didn’t look away from him once while he was telling that story. It’s the first real thing he’s ever told me. It makes me feel ashamed because I’ve never told him anything real. Not even my name.
He turns and looks at me for a second with what is almost a look of apology on his face. Resignation, maybe? Then he shifts his attention back to the road and we pull into the mall parking lot a minute later. I have one of Josh Bennett’s secrets now. He gave it to me. I wish I could give it back.
CHAPTER 23
Josh
Whenever someone knocks on my door, there’s a part of me that still kind of expects them to be carrying some sort of food. In the days and weeks after my mom and my sister died, I got a crash course in grieving. I learned the way it works; some of it was about how I was expected to react, but most of it was about how other people were expected to react. I don’t think there’s a written set of rules, but there might as well be, because everyone seems to do the same things. A lot of it has to do with food. My grandmother explained the psychology of this to me at one point but I didn’t really listen because I didn’t really care. People must know that just because you need to eat doesn’t mean you want them coming by your house non-stop, using casserole dishes and coffee cakes as an excuse to eavesdrop on your grief.
I was indoctrinated into all of the pointless condolence rituals at age eight and I came to realize that they never really change. I could always count on an onslaught of food and sympathy that I had no use for.
Sometimes people will try to tell you some funny thing they remember, which usually isn’t funny at all, just sad. Then you stare at each other uncomfortably until they finally get up to leave, and you thank them for coming, even though they just made you feel worse.
Then you get the people who just want an excuse to come by to see how ripped up your face looks from crying, see if you’ve cracked yet so they can talk about it with the neighbors. Did you see poor Mark Bennett and the boy? What a tragedy. It’s just so sad. Or something equally lame. But they brought you some food, so they’re entitled.
Ten minutes later the doorbell rings again and we start all over. It goes on like this for days. Too many apologies and a crapload of food. Mostly lasagna.
Maybe some people find comfort in obligatory words and reheatable food; my dad and I just weren’t those people. We thanked everybody anyway. Took their foil pans and condolences. Then we threw it all away and ordered pizza. I wonder if there is a person on Earth who is consoled by a casserole.
Then I think about Leigh, and I know that, sometimes, someone shows up at your door offering something better than words and food. Sometimes, somebody brings you something you really need, and it’s not a f**king coffee cake.
The first time I met Leigh, she was standing on my front porch, holding the tell-tale foil-covered dish. My grandmother had died two days earlier and at that point I had about six of them on my counter and a couple more in the refrigerator. I was fifteen, and I think I visibly exhaled with disgust at the sight of it. But not at the sight of her. She was wearing a really short green sundress and she was seriously hot. Those are the only real details I recall. I recognized her from school, but she was two grades ahead of me and we never spoke. I didn’t even know her name until that day.
I took the dish from her, which was actually from her mom who knew my grandmother. I invited her in because I had learned that that’s what you were supposed to do. My grandfather wasn’t home so I did the grieving host thing. We went through the required conversation, making sure to hit all the main points and platitudes. After a few minutes of standing in the kitchen, vying for the title of most uncomfortable, she asked if anyone was home and if I wanted to go into my bedroom. I think it was her way of saying she was sorry and my way of saying thanks for the casserole.
That was the first time Leigh came over. But it wasn’t the last. We never dated. Never hung out. She’d come over and sneak into my room at night or we’d end up in her car somewhere, but that was the extent of our involvement and it’s been the extent for close to three years now. Even now that she’s at college, we manage to keep up a regular schedule. Sometimes we talk but never about anything real.
Maybe it was wrong. Maybe it is wrong. Wrong or not, I don’t feel bad about it. I was up to four deaths by the time she showed up, with only one more to go. I needed one normal thing and Leigh gave me that and it didn’t cost me any emotions or feelings or commitment. I didn’t have to love her. I like her, though I’m not sure if that would have been a deal-breaker, either. I don’t even think it mattered to her if I cared. We still employ a policy of equal-opportunity using, no questions asked. She’s sweet and laidback and good-looking as hell. But if she walked away tomorrow, I wouldn’t miss her. People disappear all the time. I might not even notice.