We didn’t choose love; it chose us, right or wrong—and realizing this, for Brenda, was a kind of answered prayer.
Love was al that mattered.
As Josh got out of the water at Nobadeer Beach, shaking his hair like a dog, he wondered how he would ever write about what had happened to him this summer. He had been wounded so badly he deserved a Purple Heart, but the upside was that he had learned some things (hadn’t he?). He now understood the tragic hero.
You’ll sense the story like an approaching storm, Chas Gorda had said. The hair on your arms will stand up.
These words rang out distinctly—maybe because it looked like there was a storm approaching—dark, bil owy clouds were blowing in from offshore. It had been beautiful al day—clear, sunny, and windless—but this had only served to annoy Josh. He was hungover from his night out with Zach, and now that he was essential y unemployed, he felt aimless and without purpose. He’d spent al day trying to write his feelings down in his journal—but what this had turned into was a lot of sitting on his unmade bed, thinking of Number Eleven Shel Street, and then admonishing himself for thinking of it. His cel phone had rung incessantly— but three times it was Zach (cal ing to apologize?) and Josh let the cal s go to voice mail, and twice the display said Robert Patalka, and there was sure as hel no way Josh was going to take that cal .
He was relieved when five o’clock rol ed around. He was hot and discouraged—he hadn’t managed to get any worthwhile thoughts on paper ( Avoid being self-referential. Be wary of your own story). There was cleaning and packing and laundry to do before he left for school, but those tasks were too heinous to even consider undertaking in his fractious state of mind. The only thing he had to look forward to was his swim at Nobadeer; however, he made himself wait until he was sure most of the families and otherwise jol y beachgoers would be gone. He couldn’t stand to see other children at the beach, or other parents; he didn’t want to have to witness everyone else’s happy end-of-summer. He decided, bravely, on the way to the beach that he wouldn’t cook dinner for his father tonight. He would pick up a pizza on the way home, and if his father wanted an iceberg salad, he could make it himself.
Josh swam for the better part of an hour, and the swimming improved his mood. He was proud of himself for not cal ing Number Eleven Shel Street—if they didn’t need or want him, then so be it, the feeling was mutual—and he was glad he’d fought his urge to stop by the hospital to see if Vicki was al right. He couldn’t concern himself with their dramas anymore. He had to let go. He did feel pangs of regret when he thought about the boys, but he had their birthdays marked down on his calendar and he would send presents—big, loud monster trucks, he decided, the kind that had flashing lights and played rock music, the kind that would drive Vicki nuts. Just thinking of it, Josh smiled for the first time al day.
But then, as Josh climbed out of the waves, the sky grew cloudy and ominous, and Chas Gorda’s words came to him. Fat, warm raindrops started to fal . Josh grabbed his towel and raced up the stairs to the parking lot, cursing. Natural y, the top to his Jeep was down.
You’ll sense the story like an approaching storm.
The hair on your arms will stand up.
Josh held his towel over his head like a canopy when the real rain arrived. The hair on his arms was standing up. There was a flash of light and, a split second later, a crack of thunder.
“Shit!” he cried out. His Jeep was getting soaked.
“Josh! Joshua!”
His name.
“Joshua!”
He lifted his towel. There was his father’s green Ford Explorer, lights on, wipers whipping back and forth—and standing out in the rain without an umbrel a or hat, or anything, his father. They locked eyes for a moment, then Josh looked away; he looked at the ground, at his feet in flip-flops, at the dirt and sand and pebbles of the parking lot and the rushing rivulets of water and the puddles forming. No, Josh thought. No fucking way. He grew dizzy and he realized he was holding his breath. He was having an awful, horrible memory—not a picture memory so much as a feeling memory. What it had felt like when his father said—and Josh heard the exact words, though he would swear he hadn’t thought of them in more than ten years— Son, your mother is dead. Like a single blow to the gut. The rest, Josh assumed, came later; it may have been explained to him that she took her own life, that she hanged herself in the attic, or he may have been left to piece together facts from what was implied or what he overheard. Josh couldn’t remember. But he remembered the look on his father’s face. It was a look he never wanted to see again, and he hadn’t, until this very moment. Tom Flynn was standing out in the rain like he didn’t even notice it, he was here at Nobadeer Beach, instead of being in his rightful place behind his computer terminal five stories up in the airport control tower.
Vicki is in the hospital, Ted Stowe said. She had an episode.
Vicki.
Son, your mother is dead. Twelve-year-old Josh had vomited, right there on the spot, without thinking or even noticing. He had vomited al over his new sneakers and the living room rug. And now, thinking, Vicki, Josh leaned over and retched.
No, he thought. No fucking way.
“Joshua!”
Josh looked up. His father was motioning; he wanted Josh to get in the car. Josh would have given anything to turn away, but he was standing in the middle of a downpour—there was another crack of thunder—and Josh’s Jeep didn’t offer much in the way of refuge. Josh dashed to the Explorer and climbed inside.
His father got in next to him, and they both sat there as if stunned, staring at the rain pummeling the windshield. Tom Flynn wiped his face with a handkerchief. His dark hair was plastered to his head. He said, “I have some bad news.”
No, Josh thought. He put his hand up to let his father know he couldn’t stand to hear it. She had an episode.
