The Cost of Knowing, page 5
I shut my eyes against the memory and cover my face with my hands. What else could I have done? I was scared. I didn’t know exactly when the crash would happen, except that it would be raining hard outside. All I knew was that I didn’t want to be anywhere near that car when it did. I ran all the way home without another word to Shaun that day, the whole two miles. Talia still lives in that house with her mom, on the south side of East Garfield Park, and I can’t even go over there without remembering what I did.
I hid. I ignored Shaun’s texts. I left him wondering what he’d done or said to lose his best friend in the last few days of his life, and a couple of days later, when I woke up from my nap to the sound of rain tapping against my window, I sobbed into my pillow, knowing it was happening.
I never saw Shaun again.
Never even saw his face.
His casket was closed at the funeral.
I can’t even go with Talia to take him flowers. I’m afraid looking at his headstone, knowing I could’ve stayed with him so he wouldn’t be alone, would break me completely.
I think of Aunt Mackie and how I’ll have to look her in the eyes across the dinner table every night until I graduate and go off to college, knowing I knew about Isaiah before it happened, whatever “it” ends up being. Whatever happens in the next few days, I’ll have to live with the decisions I make leading up to it. I’ll have to make it count. I may not be able to keep Isaiah with me for much longer, but I can make sure that in the last few days of his life, he knows he’s not alone.
I don’t have to make the same mistake twice.
I can’t.
I force my body to peel itself from my bed, even while it’s still dark outside. I can see the sky from my window, deep and dark and dotted with sparkling stars. The faint warm purple of sunrise is slowly creeping into view, and my phone clock reads 5:45 a.m. I should be tired, but right now my body is buzzing. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I have to get up.
I don’t even know where to begin with this. Isaiah is the only person I know who legitimately hates everything. He doesn’t watch movies. He doesn’t hang with friends. He doesn’t even leave the house unless he has to, like, for school, or a doctor’s appointment. He just sits in his room eating Lucky Charms and pizza bites, playing BeatBall and listening to music.
Occasionally, a box from Amazon will arrive at the door addressed to Isaiah, and either Aunt Mackie or I will knock, pass it to him through his bedroom door, and leave him to open it in the solitude of his hobbit hole. They’re usually just new clothes, with the occasional phone case or headphones thrown in. I know because sometimes I watch the visions of him unboxing things as I carry the boxes to his room.
Just because I’m cursed doesn’t mean I can’t get some fun out of it.
But… how do I make the next few days meaningful for him? What would that even look like, besides offering to sit with him in his room, eating Lucky Charms and pizza bites, and playing BeatBall and listening to music? If that’s all he likes, what can I give him to make it special?
How do you bring joy to someone who just wants to be left alone?
I swing my legs off the bed and my feet find the carpet. In the dark, I find my T-shirt draped over the back of my desk chair—the Gorillaz one that’s going to end up at Goodwill in a few years. I’ll take that as a gentle nudge from the universe that I’m headed in the right direction.
I slip the shirt on and step gingerly over the piles of clothes scattered all over my floor. Aunt Mackie claims there’s a smell of body spray and fried food in here, but maybe, like the smell of ice cream at Scoop’s, or the popcorn at her movie theater, it’s just begun to smell faintly of sandalwood incense and anxiety to me.
I ease my door open. It stopped creaking when Aunt Mackie had it replaced last week. I miss my old door. That’s where I kept my band sticker hall of fame. I’d been collecting them for years, a sticker for all my favorite artists—the Gorillaz, the Fray, the Weepies, Kendrick, Logic, Panic! at the Disco, Nicki Minaj, Lizzo, Lady Leshurr, and the king himself, Shiv Skeptic. So many people I respect, whose art has gotten me through so much. So many people who I’ve always wanted to see live, but imagine me, an already anxious, cursed kid, dealing with all those people. No way in hell am I about to walk into such a huge place with so many people, and so many surfaces to touch, and so many things out of my control. But with my door, I could dream. I had all the greats until Aunt Mackie decided the doors in the house needed an update, and I came home to a brand-new, boring white door that still smells like fresh paint. All my stickers, all my memories, gone.
But the house’s market value is now higher, so it’s fine.
I roll my eyes. Aunt Mackie’s job is important. I get it. I like food. I like having clothes. I like having a bed to sleep in. But she could’ve let me keep the old door under my bed or something.
Talia’s sticker hall of fame is on her ceiling above her bed. I should’ve put mine somewhere smart like that, somewhere that could withstand all my aunt’s “home updates.” That way, I could stare up at good memories while I try to fall asleep. My blank ceiling is an empty canvas that prompts my mind to wander.
I wonder if Isaiah has anything like that in his room.
I haven’t been in there in a million years.
I make my way down the hallway, hardly able to see anything except the light from the moon shining down through the skylight in the ceiling. I step through the shower of moonlight and disappear into the darkness on the other side with my arms outstretched, feeling for the door at the end of the hallway.
My fingertips meet brushed nickel, and I end the vision of me turning the knob. I glance over my shoulder to make sure I’m alone. What am I doing? Isaiah’s probably asleep at this hour. Even he has to crash at some point. But better to check just in case. Hours are precious now, and if he’s awake, we’re wasting them. I take a long breath in and obey my vision, turning the knob, easing the door open. I’m immediately hit with the odor of must, and the ineffective scent of body spray. It smells like my PE bag in here. God, I forgot. He has to be reminded to shower these days.
I’m surprised to see the blue glow of his computer lighting up the otherwise pitch-black room. He’s sitting, hunched over at his desk, staring intently at the screen. His big white headphones, the size of grapefruit halves, peek out from under his oversize sweatshirt hood. He’s swimming in it, but it was Dad’s favorite. The black one with the Bulls logo on the chest.
A pang of guilt hits me. I didn’t even know he still had that, let alone wore it.
His eyes are wide, only inches away from the screen. I whisper into the room.
“Isaiah.”
But his headphones are too loud. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even notice me until I step into the room and ease the door closed behind me. The glow of the screen dances on his face.
“Isaiah?”
Still no response.
I step gingerly closer. I know what it’s like to be staring at a screen too closely and then someone steps out of the darkness behind it and scares the living shit out of you. I don’t want that to happen to Isaiah, but it does.
His eyes dart to me and grow huge, and he reels back in his chair.
“Dude!” he exclaims, one hand over his chest and one hand scrambling to find the mouse and shut down whatever was playing. He stands up and flicks on the desk lamp next to him, filling the room with a brilliant yellow glow. My eyes haven’t adjusted, and I quickly squeeze them shut.
“What are you doing in here?” he demands, stepping out from behind the desk.
I squint my eyes open and realize he’s not wearing pants—only checkered boxers and white socks. His leg hair is almost as thick as mine now, and even in this poor light, I can see that his knees are ashy as hell. He’s standing with his feet wide and fists balled, like he’s prepared to literally fight me out of here. I raise my hands humbly.
“I’m sorry,” I begin. Always a good place to start. It’s hard to be mad at someone who’s apologizing to you. Hard for me anyway.
“Get out,” he says, his eyes narrowing. He takes a step toward me, and I move backward.
“Bruh, calm down. I just came to talk.”
“How about ‘bruh, no’? Get out.”
I weigh my options. I could insist he calm down, or I could leave and try talking to him later, if there is a “later.” Or I can bargain with him.
“Let me finish what I have to say, and I’ll buy you all the Lucky Charms you want.”
“Aunt Mackie already buys all the Lucky Charms I want.”
Fair enough.
“Get out,” he hisses. “Now. Or I’ll tell Aunt Mackie you woke me up.”
I don’t like fighting. It makes me all clammy and shaky and uncomfortable. But I’ll bring out the big guns if he makes this difficult.
“Sit down and listen, or I’ll tell Aunt Mackie what you’re watching in here.”
Panic spreads across his face. He sinks down into his desk chair and folds his arms. His jaw is clenched and he’s staring at the wall, refusing to look at me. He and I both know that Aunt Mackie will start cutting some cords if she thinks he’s abusing his internet privileges, and I don’t want that for him. I’m sure the internet is all he has, being in here all day.
“Look,” I say, kicking a few clothes out of the way to clear a space on the floor. I sit down cross-legged and stare at him, hoping he’ll look at me. “I didn’t want to have to threaten you into talking to me. I just came in here to ask what’s up.”
He looks at me now, eyes flashing.
“What’s up?” he asks. “You want to know… what’s up?”
I nod.
I don’t think all the Lucky Charms in the world could make this conversation less awkward.
“Yeah,” I say with a shrug. “We haven’t talked much since… well, really since we moved here. I feel like I don’t really know you anymore.”
He rolls his eyes and shrugs.
“You don’t.”
I nod, a lump forming in my throat. He has every right to be angry. After the accident, I shut down, and then when we lost Shaun, I shut everything and everyone out. Including him. Now I have to recover before it’s too late.
“I know,” I sigh, scrambling for the right words to say. “Do you, uh… do you remember when we used to play basketball with Shaun in the driveway?”
His frown deepens and his crossed arms tighten around himself. I continue.
“We used to be… I don’t know… we used to hang out. It’s just that, after we moved here, and after Shaun… you know… we didn’t have much in common, so—”
“We don’t.”
“Well,” I say with open hands, “now I’m trying to fix that.”
“You couldn’t text me that? Like, way later today? You had to bust down my door at six in the morning to ask ‘what’s up?’ ”
It does sound ridiculous when he says it like that.
“Okay, fine. You want me to cut to the point?” I ask. “I came in here to ask what you want to do today. Anything you want. Literally anything, and I’ll make it happen. I know I haven’t been there for you. I haven’t been a big brother to you. Like, at all—”
I realize, now that I say it aloud, that I really haven’t been a big brother. I haven’t taught him anything. I haven’t even talked to him, not for real. Not like this. My cheeks are burning and I take a deep breath. I really don’t want to cry right now.
Man up, Alex. Man up.
“I want to make things right,” I say. “Just tell me what you want to do.”
Isaiah glances over his shoulder at his computer. Then he leans forward with his elbows on his knees and opens his hands.
“You know what I wanna do today?” he asks. “I wanna finish what I was watching, then go to bed, wake up this afternoon, eat some pizza bites, and then rewatch what I was watching. And I want to do all of that… alone.”
It’s taking all my self-control not to say something I’ll regret right now. I shut my eyes and focus on my breathing. I picture Shaun’s face, smiling at me as we stand face-to-face in his back yard. He would’ve known what to do, what to say. He used to stand between Isaiah and me when we’d get into it, especially on the court. Isaiah didn’t like that I kept dunking on him, and I didn’t like that he kept whining about it instead of pushing himself to jump higher or learn to bob and weave around me. I wasn’t that much taller than him, after all. Shaun would’ve offered to swap teams with me so Isaiah and I could play alongside each other instead. He would’ve suggested we switch it up and do a free throw contest or something. Anything to ease conflict.
Anything to keep us all happy.
I guess Shaun really was the glue holding us together after our parents died. We only hung out when it was the three of us. With Isaiah and me at home, we lived in separate worlds.
Ay, man, Shaun would say if he were standing in this room right now. Why don’t we go for a walk or something to cool off? Or ice cream. That’ll cool us off too. Oh, actually, it’s too early. How about we go look up a recipe and learn to make some?
He was always so much more adventurous than I was. So unafraid.
I play a sound that’s been burned into my memory, the sound of his voice, his laughter. I think of what I’d give to be able to go back to that day I left him standing in his backyard. I think of what I’d say to him if he were here. If he could hear me.
“Can I drive you anywhere?” I press.
“If you could stop driving me up the wall, that’d be sick. Are we done here? Can you go away now?”
“I’m not leaving until we have this day planned out.”
“I’d give Aunt Mackie my entire browser history before I’d spend a whole day with you.”
“You don’t mean that.”
There’s no way he can mean that.
“I don’t say things I don’t mean,” he spits, “like ‘I wanna make things right.’ ”
“You don’t think I want to make things right?”
“I don’t even think you know what that means.”
He’s right. I don’t.
“Mind telling me what that means?” I ask. Then I realize I’m getting defensive, and I revert to my original plan. “There has to be somewhere you want to go. If you could drive anywhere in the world right now, where would it be?”
He’s silent for what seems like forever, staring at the floor with his hands clasped. So much time passes that I think he’ll let the question go unanswered. Then he breaks the silence.
“You don’t care.”
That stings. I hear him saying this to me, but it just sounds like Shaun.
“You never care about anything,” he says, pushing himself up out of the chair and walking to the window with folded arms. He leans against the wall and stares at the sill, since the blinds are closed. “Just Talia and your job, and panicking about everything.”
My cheeks are on fire. I know he’s right, but it still hurts to hear it. I do care, but… I guess he would never know that. I never talk to him. I never reach out to him. I never hang out with him or help him with homework or even play ball with him. Not even in the summer, when I have plenty of free time. I watch him closely, shoulders hunched up around his ears, so much rage boiling up inside such a small person. How does he live like that? I mean, I’m pissed too. These are insults he’s throwing at me. But something soft and cool is seeping into the cracks between the blocks of rage stacked into a wall between us.
Pity?
He continues, “Whatever nightmare you had last night to make you realize you should start caring, leave me out of it.”
“I didn’t have a dream,” I say quickly, spotting the escape route.
I would promise never to listen to another Gorillaz song again in my entire life, if I could make that vision a bad dream.
“Whatever,” he grumbles. “I’m done talking.”
I stick to my guns.
“You were thinking about somewhere to go for a long time there,” I press. “You have to have thought of somewhere. The pier? Millennium Park? Scoop’s? Want to start with ice cream and talk?”
“About what?”
I shrug. “Whatever’s bothering you.”
“You’re bothering me,” he snaps, “and ice cream won’t fix my problems.”
What problems? Missing Mom and Dad? I’m not trying to “fix” that. His anger issues? I wouldn’t touch those with a thirty-foot pole.
“What will?” I ask, giving him the benefit of the doubt.
He’s quiet for a long moment before shaking his head.
“You’d never take me there,” he says.
“Try me. I promise. I’ll drive you wherever you want.”
It can’t be anything too wild, right? He’s twelve. Chuck E. Cheese’s? The aquarium? The zoo?
“Twenty-fifth and Jefferson,” he says.
“What’s there?”
He looks up at me and says, “Elginwood Park Cemetery.”
Why in the name of Biggie Smalls would he want to go to the cemetery where Mom and Dad are buried? My chest pounds as I remember my vision. Just six events will happen before I lose him forever:
The morning in the graveyard.
The evening I’m going to spend sitting in my chair looking at the photo.
Darkness.
The lights flickering through my jacket pocket.
More darkness. And then… I’m back in the graveyard alone, looking down at his casket, never to hear his voice again.
“I knew you wouldn’t take me,” I hear him mumble. “You’re probably too scared.” Apparently I’ve taken too long to answer.
“No, no,” I say, frustrated at my voice cracking while I take a deep breath and say determinedly, “Let’s go. Mind telling me why we’re going there, though? You really don’t want to get ice cream or something instead? You really want to talk in a graveyard?”
