You blurt, “My father isn’t the brilliant, wonderful man the world thinks he is. He’s someone else too.” You pause, shocked at yourself. Words rise up in you from seemingly nowhere—thoughts you never even realized you had. And then they come out.
“He’s this sick, sick fuck. But he hides that side of himself. I know you won’t believe it but—”
“He did chase us,” Kenyon points out. “On Fire Island. That was weird.”
“And my mother,” you burst out. “My mother . . .”
“Does he mistreat her?” That’s Saralinda.
Slowly, you nod. “I think so. I didn’t always see it, or understand what I was seeing, but yes . . . it’s not physical, you understand . . .” Now that you see it, you can’t understand how you missed it. “Yeah, he does.”
“And you?”
“Same. It’s psychological . . . warfare, I guess.”
Then you’re talking rapidly, to get it all out, all these new thoughts tumbling in your brain. Back at the cottage, Kenyon mentioned hearing an internal bell of truth. You’ve got a whole carillon concert: true, true, true.
“With my father, the brilliant, wonderful man is a cover for a bad guy. An intelligent cover. He knows what he’s doing. It’s deliberate. But I’m not an innocent party. I told Antoine—I told him in the car, before—you have to know this too. See, I’m like my father. I have a bad guy inside, just like him.”
You tell them about Mr. Hyde. About the first time, when you killed the squirrel. You tell them everything. Then—not looking at them, not looking at Saralinda—you say, “But I repress my bad guy. He’s in there but I can’t talk to him or control him. He’s . . . he’s in there. The difference between me and my father is that I wish he wasn’t. We’re alike. We’re both monsters. We manifest it differently, that’s all.”
You stuff your hands into your pockets.
“Caleb?” says Saralinda.
You can’t tell anything from her face, because she always looks kind.
She says, “About the squirrel? I don’t believe it.”
The squirrel. Its blood spattered the white and black squares of the chess board.
“Okay, fine,” you say tensely. “Don’t believe me.”
“Oh, I’m not saying I don’t believe you. I’m saying that I don’t believe the story.”
You did this wrong. You said it wrong. Why would the girls believe you? It’s useless to try. Your story about Mr. Hyde is ridiculous. You can’t even be sure Antoine believed either. Maybe he just said he did. Maybe he was being nice.
You repeat, “I killed the squirrel. I did it. I’ve done many horrible things. Many.”
You look at the other girls. You have no idea what they’re thinking. Saralinda shakes her head.
“I don’t think so. Now, ask me why.”
You shake your head. You need her to believe you and—
“Saralinda,” Evangeline says, “why don’t you believe Caleb?”
“Thank you,” says Saralinda. “Well, Caleb saved all our lives in the roof collapse. Then we spent the last thirty-six hours with him. So we know him. We’ve seen him in operation. I believe him about his father. Just not—let me ask you a question, Caleb.”
You clench your teeth. “What?”
“That fire at school. Did you set it?”
“I don’t know,” you say. “I don’t remember doing it, but then I wouldn’t, if it was Mr. Hyde. I don’t know.”
She nods. “Do you actually remember torturing and killing that squirrel?”
“My father showed it to me.”
“Do you remember doing it?”
“I already told you. I don’t ever remember what Mr. Hyde does. He’s another personality.”
“You don’t ever remember anything bad that you did.”
“Not the serious stuff. No,” you say impatiently. “That’s the whole point.”
“Okay, what if your father showed the squirrel to you and he said you did it but he was lying. You were a little kid. How hard would it have been to mess with you?”
Kenyon draws in a breath.
Evangeline nods in agreement.
They are naïve idiots all three, but you can be patient with them. They don’t want to believe you . . . but they must. For their own safety, they have to understand what you are.
You say, “Mr. Hyde is real.”
All three girls shake their heads.
“Look. It’s not about the squirrel. The squirrel was the tip of the iceberg. I explained this all wrong. Mr. Hyde has done more than I can ever tell you.”
“Maybe,” says Evangeline. “Maybe not. You don’t remember the fire either. Could your father have done that?”
“That’s beside the point. Listen. You guys don’t understand abnormal psychology.” You look at Kenyon. “Split personalities aren’t frequent, but they happen. I’m one.”
Kenyon says, “Yeah, there’s room for doubt.”
“I tortured and killed the squirrel.”
Saralinda says, “You were small. You were vulnerable. You were easy to deceive.”
You wish she were right. Oh, how much you wish it. You think of the confetti on your dorm room floor: evidence that you haven’t done anything lately. That you know of.
But you don’t dare believe you never have. It’s not safe.
You are your father’s son.
“I won’t lie to myself,” you say. “Or to you guys. I know what I am. You need to know too.”
“Fine,” says Evangeline. “We have other stuff to do. You have a disguise waiting, Caleb. But consider this while you get dressed: Your inner six-year-old is still thinking for you. He needs to grow up so he can review the situation as an adult. We’d love to give you a couple years to figure it out, but we don’t have that kind of time.”
“Right,” says Kenyon. “We have to fix Saralinda’s hair.”
Chapter 40. Saralinda
I stand in Johanna’s bathroom in front of its tiny old mirror as Kenyon and Evangeline work on my hair until I say, “Enough. I’m going to put on a baseball cap. Evan still needs a costume—I mean, a disguise. You guys go do that.”
I can mourn my hair later on, if I am in mourning because I might be glad to be rid of it, I can’t decide. Also if they leave me alone I can think about the expression on Caleb’s face when he insisted he was a monster which I refuse to believe although a small part of me is afraid I’m wrong. Another part of me doesn’t want him to know that there is that small scared doubting part, and then yet another part inside me believes precisely what I said to him about his absolute bastard of a father—who (in case it is not clear) I hate with a black hatred that bubbles away in my soul like lava in the hottest pit of hell. Also before he told us about his father, Caleb looked at me in the exact way that I’ve been hoping for and in short I want to be alone (which is a phrase my mother says with a fake accent that she claims is Swedish, baffling, but about which I have never asked because I don’t care and also I don’t want to think about my mother, not now).
I do vant to be alone though.
Kenyon glances at Evangeline. “I have an idea for your disguise. I saw a baby stroller in the storeroom. I was thinking you could be, uh, my friend. Like, another mother.”
Evangeline frowns. “A folding stroller? That won’t work. Pushing a stroller with no kid in it is a bad idea.”
“Oh, really? Then why do you think people will be fooled by my stroller?”
“It’s a ginormous baby carriage, not a stroller. We’ll cover it. People won’t see inside.”
“Why don’t you at least look at it?”
“If you insist. Even though I’m right.”
They leave at last and I breathe in and out a few times. Finally I put my cap back on (I wish it were a Mets cap like Troy’s) and wonder if I do pass as a
little boy. I can’t tell and this is the kind of thing I have never bothered to think about before—while I could use some improvements such as a working pancreas I feel right about the gender I was born with.
Speaking of my pancreas it is entirely possible that my blood sugar needs attention and while I can do nothing right now I can think ahead. The facts are these: I can get a test kit at any pharmacy. But I cannot get insulin for which I need a prescription. I do have a prescription and it is on file at Duane Reade. Any Duane Reade can fill it. Except there is an AMBER Alert out with my name on it. So I cannot get insulin without risk, possibly grave risk (pun unintentional if witty although I am not laughing so maybe not witty).
I probably don’t need insulin though, it’s the middle of the night and I never get up and take it in the middle of the night. If I don’t eat I will be okay a while, maybe a day or longer and also maybe I can get insulin somehow. I need a creative idea for how. Think, Saralinda.
Think.
I leave the bathroom and look at Caleb, who doesn’t see me because he is standing up near the front of the store with his back toward me and he doesn’t know I am watching him. I want to believe in Caleb. Just because his father is psychotic evil personified (why do I have no trouble believing that? Instantly I know, it has to do with his expression when he came down out of the helicopter and looked at the four of us) doesn’t mean that Caleb is or could be. He is not.
But the part of me that doubts him directs my feet away and I go instead to the storeroom to find Evangeline and Kenyon. The door is half-closed and inside Kenyon and Evangeline stand across from each other with a small umbrella stroller and a beat-up kid’s scooter and a rattan basket near their feet.
My mouth opens to say something to them but I change my mind and shut it, I can’t say why exactly.
They are paying no attention to the stroller they’re supposedly in there to look at and they are unaware of me, Evangeline looks only at Kenyon and Kenyon looks only at Evangeline. Evangeline has her hands on her hips. Kenyon’s arms hang at her sides.
I hear their breathing which is louder than normal and quick.
I should turn away but instead my hand covers my mouth so that I won’t make a single noise and I step to the side so I am hidden by the door and I watch.
I watch as Kenyon takes a step closer to Evangeline.
As she pulls off her wig and drops it to the floor.
As Evangeline tilts her head back and her eyes lock with Kenyon’s.
As the pale pink of a flush appears and spreads on Kenyon’s neck, filling in the skin around her tattoo.
As they sway closer together and their noses touch.
As Kenyon loses her nerve and takes a step back, nearly tripping over her own feet.
As Evangeline’s arm catches Kenyon around her waist and pulls her in again.
As they talk in the same way they always talk, like conversation is a battle, but now they whisper and Evangeline’s fingers lightly touch Kenyon’s tattoo. “What does this say?” She pulls the fabric away and silently reads what’s there.
“It’s from a book.”
“What does it mean?”
“It means—oh—to be yourself. Only it’s ironic.”
“You’re all red. Why?”
“How dare you tease me? Don’t you know how much I don’t like you?”
“Oh, yes. I know. It’s a problem. Because I like you.”
“What?”
“You heard me. I like you. I like you.”
“No. It’s not true. It can’t be true. You hate me. You hated me at first sight.”
“I felt something at first sight.”
“I—you—but I was being such an incredible asshole that day—”
“Yes, you were. It got me all hot and bothered and angry, and for the longest time, I didn’t know why. Then I did, because I’m smart.”
“What? I got you hot?”
“Yeah. Take your time to assimilate it. I can wait.” Evangeline smooths her hand gently around the curve of Kenyon’s neck. Her every move is confident, but there is a vulnerable undertone in her voice and then she blurts, “What do you feel for me?”
“Oh, God. God. Evangeline—why do you think I turn into such an idiot whenever you’re around? But I thought—I thought you were straight.”
“I like who I please. I want who I please.”
“You want . . . ?”
“I want.”
Evangeline doesn’t move, she waits and waits (and behind the door, Peeping Thomasina waits with hammering pulse) until Kenyon tilts Evangeline’s chin up with one hand, until Evangeline’s hands twine together behind Kenyon’s head, until finally their mouths mesh like puzzle pieces.
My body is in flames.
I make myself back away so that they can be alone the way they deserve and also so I won’t be caught, I am desperately ashamed of myself for watching but I couldn’t not.
Back in Johanna’s bathroom I sit on the edge of the tub and press my palms together.
I want to kiss like that and I want to be kissed like that and I want to hold and be held like that and if not, if I can’t have that, then I will die I will dissolve in wanting I will drown in a lake of longing I will disappear in need.
Chapter 41. Caleb
You sense movement and swivel in time to see a rat scurry from one trash bin to another. It is between six and seven o’clock as sunrise lightens the horizon on Coney Island. Mermaid Avenue, which is supposedly a main commercial street, has completely failed you. You curl your lip at the posted hours on the third closed drug-and-convenience store.
How can you and Saralinda buy an insulin test kit if all the drug stores are closed until nine a.m.? Let alone a phone.
“Isn’t this still New York?” you demand of Saralinda in disgust. “The city that never sleeps?” But it is clear that Coney Island not only sleeps, it snores. At least, going by the bum huddled in the next doorway.
“Maybe there’ll be something open nearer the subway.” Saralinda hesitates by the sleeping guy’s doorway. He isn’t Marcial or Troy. The size is wrong, the coat is wrong. But it could be one of them. Or someone like them. Or someone like you or Saralinda. The point is, that guy is definitely someone. Everybody is.
He snores again, louder, and Saralinda sighs, her fingers tightening on the handles of her scooter. She pushes off with one foot—her good foot.
She’s fast with the scooter. You lengthen your stride to catch up, which makes your Kate Spade handbag (“Fake,” Evangeline pronounced authoritatively) swing awkwardly from the crook of your elbow.
Silently, you continue to fret. Evangeline and Kenyon won’t be able to linger much longer at Johanna’s, waiting for you and Saralinda to reestablish contact with a new phone, the one you haven’t been able to buy yet. The plan calls for them to then head to the city on a different train, an hour behind you, with a phone of their own.
You hope they won’t get distracted. Love is grand, but they still need to stay focused.
You need a phone to call them on. Maybe the phone is more urgent than the insulin test kit, though you feel more desperate about the kit.
You pass a bodega, which taunts you with a sign advertising prepaid T-Mobile. It is closed. Of course it is.
One good thing: As the sun rises, Mermaid Avenue is marginally less terrifying.
You try wearing your bag over your shoulder and also try to remember that you are a woman who is taking her child to school by subway.
Evangeline said that a woman like you would carry her money in her purse. “You can’t go into a store and fumble in your pocket,” she insisted, and then Kenyon chimed in. “Yeah, it lacks authenticity.” A Wellesley word, that, you assume.
Those two. You saw it coming. Did Saralinda? Did she notice what just happened with them?
You’re not jealou
s. You’re glad for them. You wish—but no.
You glance at Saralinda. You feel self-conscious in your red long coat, floral polyester headscarf, enormous black tie-up shoes, and handbag, and it would have been worse if you hadn’t been able to shave at Johanna’s. At least Evangeline let you wear a regular T-shirt and pants on underneath the woman’s coat. Still, you know you are a freak show.
On the other hand, Saralinda’s little boy disguise mysteriously became perfect with the scooter.
Plus, look at her go. You wish she could have a scooter in the hallways of Rockland Academy. You wonder if she misses her cane, which is now hidden inside Kenyon’s baby carriage. It’s strange to see her without it.
Saralinda pauses to consult the tourist map from Johanna’s.
“The subway isn’t far now.”
“Yeah.” In the new light, you can also see the roller coaster rearing up over the amusement park. You add, “Once we get out of here, I am never ever coming back.”
Saralinda makes an attempt to fold the map. “You’re not curious to see it in the daytime?”
“No.”
“Ride the Ferris wheel?” She hands you the map.
“No.”
“Eat saltwater taffy?” She pushes off again.
“Dental disaster,” you say to her back, which is you getting way too much into the mom role. You refold the map properly and put it in your bag. You catch up to Saralinda, who points.
“There’s the train station.”
It’s a massive beamed structure, aloft against the sky, open to the air. Most importantly, it’s active. Proof is the elevated train coming to life on one of the platforms. It moves slowly, tracks rattling beneath it, and speeds up as it heads toward the city.
“Also, there’s the bodega of my dreams,” you say. It’s across the street; a narrow store with a neon pink OPEN sign.