Pictures of You Read online

  “I just wanted to check up on my girl.” He gently pried apart my folded arms, took my hands into his and kissed each palm.

  Wow, even after nine months together, he could still be confusing as hell. I yanked my hands away. “I’m not your girl anymore, remember? You dumped me, John. You can’t dump your cake and eat it too.”

  “You’re right. I guess I’m not being fair.”

  “You guess? You have no idea how big of a jerk you’re being right now. Especially right after my friend’s…” I didn’t want to say it. The word “funeral” was like battery acid on my tongue.

  “You’re right, I’m sorry. I’m being a total jerk. I shouldn’t have kissed you. I shouldn’t have played with your heart like that.”

  Played with my heart? There he was being condescending again, like he was the only one with any power this relationship. Er, ex-relationship. I sighed, shook my head. “Forget about it.”

  Okay, despite the fact that John could sometimes be a selfish creep, a part of me still wanted to exploit his moment of weakness and beg him to come back to me. I was lonely, plus John and I had history. I’ve had a massive crush on the boy since seventh grade.

  I can still remember, quite vividly, the first time I saw him. It was after school in late November, the day before Thanksgiving break. The weather was perfect, it was an Indian summer. Abby and I rolled up the legs of our pants to feel the warmth of the sun on our skin. We sat on a patch of grass, attempting to memorize a world map for Geography homework. John kept distracting us. It was hard to concentrate on homework when there was a cute new kid only a few yards away, playing soccer with a bunch of other boys. I loved watching the way his gorgeous hair swung back and forth as he ran, the way he grinned this big old cocky grin whenever he scored a goal. His legs weren’t bad looking, either. It was love-at-first-sight.

  It only took him five years to notice me. He asked me out when we bumped into each other at the city library. I was a senior and he was a freshman in college. We went to a lame romantic comedy and then walked around Times Square. He bought me a pretzel and a strawberry ice cream cone and kissed me in front of Planet Hollywood.

  We had some good times together. And some bad. John was never exactly my dream guy, but he was close enough. And I missed him. I really missed him. But I knew if I let him back into my heart, he’d be careless with it all over again.

  “Thanks for checking up on me, I guess. But…” I opened the door.

  He got the hint. “Okay, but call me if you need anything.” He touched my hair again, flashed his flawless white teeth. I would miss that cocky smile of his.

  “Will do,” I said, wondering if this was the last time I’d see him. I nudged him out the door, feeling confused, hurt, angry—and sort of relieved.

  ***

  Eleven days after the accident I decided I needed more socks.

  I threw my head outside my apartment window, amazed by the mild spring-like weather. Happy white clouds decorated a bright blue sky. A gentle breeze tamed the usual smoldering New York heat. It was a perfect day for shopping.

  I called work, informing my boss Janice I was finally over the flu but now coming down with something else. A terrible, terrible cough. I plugged my nose and made a creative hacking noise to make it more convincing. I wasn’t going to tell Janice about my Scrabble addiction.

  I took a shower and got dressed for the first time in nearly two weeks.

  It took going to seven different stores before I found the right socks. I bought thirty-eight pairs. Short socks, tall socks, knee-length socks. Polka-dotted, striped, argyle. Socks with little gray kittens, socks with electric guitars.

  Some people max out a credit card or drink themselves into a stupor when they find themselves all alone. Apparently I buy socks.

  After the hardcore sock shopping, I ordered some fries and a milkshake at McDonalds. Sitting all alone in a sticky booth, I felt self-conscious. Well, more than usual. I’d never done this before: ate at a fine dining establishment on my own. So I distracted myself, pulling my thirty-eight pairs of socks out of their bags and displaying them neatly on the table. Already I was having some buyer’s remorse. I’d have to take at least half of them back, particularly the kitten ones. When people started giving me funny looks, I put them away. That was just what I needed: people to think I was some eccentric sock-collecting recluse. Crazy cat lady, move over.

  So I people watched, hoping to find someone with a more pathetic life than my own. I spotted a frazzled pregnant woman who looked like she hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in five years. She made several failed attempts to quiet down her three little kids, who fought viciously over Happy Meal toys. I saw two awkward teenagers, both lamppost skinny and wearing braces, sharing a large order of fries and playing footsie under the table. And then I noticed an elderly man struggling to remove the paper wrap from his burger with hands that shook like a washing machine on spin cycle. It must’ve been two minutes before he got to take his first bite.

  Okay, he won.

  After lunch I realized I needed new bath towels and a clock for the kitchen. So I spent the rest of the afternoon in various local department stores, looking for the perfect cherry red towel set.

  At home I flung Abby’s door open, anxious to show her my new finds, but her room was empty.

  ***

  “This one’s perfect,” John said, peering into the driver’s window of a Volkswagen Beetle. “Low mileage, like-new interior.”

  He looked annoyingly handsome in his muscle-hugging white shirt and new jeans. I had a strange urge to reach out and touch his chest, but, wisely, I resisted. It would take some time for reality to seep in—John was no longer mine. Randomly touching his chest would be totally appropriate.

  “But this one’s silver. I don’t want a silver one. I had a yellow one. I want exactly what I had before,” I said, fingering the paint. “Plus, look at that. It has a nasty stain in the back seat.”

  When I’d called John earlier and asked him to help me replace my old car (my insurance check finally came in the mail), my goal was to get the same car. Same year, same color, same everything. I even planned to accessorize it the same way: zebra print steering wheel cover, colorful beads to hang from the rearview mirror and the same band stickers to slap on the back bumper. Maybe if it looked exactly the same as my old one, it would be easier to forget what happened. Plus some of my best memories were made in that car. My parents surprising me with it as a high school graduation present. The first time Abby and I heard her band’s song on the radio. John’s and my second kiss. The road trip with Abby.

  “September, come on. You can’t be too picky,” he said, looking at the time on his phone. We were on our fifth used car lot and were both getting tired and hungry. The places before offered free popcorn, but there was only so much popcorn a person could take.

  “I know I’m being impossible, but I feel cheated. That car was my baby.”

  “I’m sorry.” John squeezed my shoulder. “Did they catch the man who hit you?”

  “No and they never will. The day after the accident a police detective came over to ask me a few questions. I wasn’t any help. When he asked for a detailed description, all I could give him was: male, Caucasian, driving an old brown van. That was it. Really narrows it down, doesn’t it? I hate myself when I think of how I forgot to look for the make and model or even the license plate number. I should’ve studied the guy’s face. He could be sixteen or sixty. Brown eyes, green, hazel, or purple for all I know. Abby’s dead and this bastard and his stupid van are still out there.”

  “You can’t be too hard on yourself. No one thinks to look at the license plate when their life flashes before their eyes.”

  Maybe he was right. I was being too hard on myself. “I’ll never forgive him, John. What kind of a scumbag leaves two girls for dead, in a mangled car on the side of the road? And the worst part is he will never have to pay for what he did.”

  “Well maybe it’s a good thin
g they’ll never find him, because if I ever meet the guy, I’m going to kill him with my bare hands.” He gave me a quick side hug. “I’m so sorry you’re going through this.”

  “Thanks,” I said, willing myself to cry. No luck.

  John opened the driver’s door and slid in. “It’s got lower mileage, Tember. Ten thousand less than your old one. You can’t get a nicer car with that money.”

  “Wait, how did you know what my mileage was?”

  He laughed. “I’m a guy. We notice these things.”

  “Okay, I’ll think about it, at least,” I said, to shut him up.

  “Are you interested in the Beetle?” a middle-aged woman with an Australian accent asked as she approached us. “Would you like to take it for a spin?”

  “Yes, we would,” John said, fiddling around with the buttons.

  “Okay, let me know if you have any questions,” she said, handing me the key.

  “Will you drive?” I asked John, suddenly feeling woozy. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.

  “Why? We’re car shopping for you.”

  I shoved my hands in my pockets. “I just. I’m…”

  He shook his head and climbed over to the passenger seat. He popped open the glove box and inspected the contents.

  I felt sicker by the second as I stood and gazed at the empty the driver’s seat. “Think happy thoughts,” I whispered. “Happy thoughts.”

  John growled. “Just get in and drive the damn car.”

  Reluctantly, I slid behind the wheel and started the engine. The car exuded a strange smell I wasn’t used to: cigarettes plus that gross cleaner stuff car dealerships use to mask somebody else’s stench.

  “Ready?” he said, smiling apologetically for snapping at me. I loved that about him—he could never stay angry for long. Abby thought of John’s mood swings as a manic, but I’d argued it was more of a talent to snap back.

  “I don’t know.” As soon as I pulled the car into reverse, my lungs seemed to shrink into the size of an apple and my heart began pulverizing my rib cage.

  “Are you okay, Tember?” John studied my face. His revealed a mix of concern and impatience.

  “I-I don’t know.”

  “Deep breaths. Take deep breaths.” He rested a reassuring hand on my knee.

  As we pulled out onto the road, the cars around us disappeared and were replaced by images of the brown van flying across the freeway. And then I felt the impact, heard the sound of twisting metal.

  “This can’t be real. This can’t be—”

  “September? What’s going on? You’re going to get us killed.”

  There was screaming. Lots of screaming. Was that me?

  Abby was there beside me as I saw the car flipping through the air. Her green scarf escaped through the window. I saw the blood and Abby’s clawed hand. I smelled that metallic, salty smell, her jasmine perfume. I saw her serene face again.

  “Abby. Abby. Abby.”

  “September!”

  I moaned. “Abby. Abby. Abby.”

  “Pull over!”

  Strong, warm hands pried mine from the wheel.

  And then I snapped back and saw John sitting next to me, panic written all over his face. “John, I can’t-I can’t!” I crossed my arms over my face. “I can’t-I can’t-I can’t.”

  “Come on, September. You can do this.” John helped me steer as we dodged several honking cars and a man mouthing a string of profanities. “Let up on the gas. Shhhh. Calm down, Tember. Let up on the gas. I’ll help you pull over.”

  I was ready to throw up by the time he managed to direct me to the side of the road. I pushed the door open and my breakfast poured right out, onto the newly paved road.

  “What was that? Are you okay?” John looked almost as freaked out as I was.

  “I don’t know. I’m so sorry. I just—I saw it all over again. I saw that hideous van. I saw her killed all over again. Oh, John, I can’t do this.”

  He held me as I trembled. I buried my face in his chest. “We’ll take the car back. You’re not ready.”

  “I’m not ready,” I said, the words echoing over and over in my mind.

  3

  “It’s been two weeks and I haven’t shed a single tear,” I said, ringing the bottom of my t-shirt, growling in frustration.

  “Everyone deals with grief in different ways, September. I think you’re still in shock. That’s perfectly normal,” my shrink Dr. Griffin said, who insisted I call her by her first name, Rose. Although with her giant poof of frizzy graying hair she looked more like a poodle than an elegant flower. Her jacket and makeup were as outdated as her office furniture. The pastel overstuffed chair I sat on reminded me of one my parents bought when they were newlyweds. And speaking of my parents, they were the ones who insisted I go to therapy, the ones who coughed up the dough for these costly visits. I protested at first, telling them I was fine, but they insisted. Anything to get me back to “normal”, whatever that was.

  Mom had dropped by twice over the past couple of weeks with a casserole or a basket of fancy cookies and breads. Each time she’d stay for only a few minutes. We weren’t very close and Mom didn’t do messy emotional stuff well.

  “She was only eighteen. Barely eighteen. People shouldn’t die that young,” I said, toeing the ugly carpet.

  “This is good. Let it out,” Rose said, nodding in encouragement.

  “Every day—sometimes two or three times a day even—I go into her room to complain about something or to show her my latest photos, or to borrow a CD. But I have to face it all over again: she’s not there.”

  “And how does that make you feel?” Rose leaned back in her chair, pen on notepad, scribbling down notes.

  I didn’t know how I felt. I guess I felt a lot of things. And nothing at all.

  Numb.

  I looked around the office, studied a photo of a group of people in matching white tops and dark denim, framed on the desk. Rose’s family, I presumed. I counted the heads. Fourteen people. Three with Rose’s frizzy hair. Eight grandchildren?

  I saw books, probably hundreds of books. Why Men Hate Women. (Nice.) I’m OK, You’re OK. (Oh good, everyone’s okay!) Ten Days to Self-Esteem. (More like ten years.)

  Behind Rose, I saw two or three dozen troll dolls neatly lined atop her filing cabinet. The creepy bug-eyed dolls with unruly hair (not much unlike Rose’s mop, actually) seemed to be staring down at me. Judging me. Taunting me. Your best friend’s dead and you can’t cry. You’re dead inside. Dead inside…Abby had collected troll dolls herself when she was about eleven. She’d find them at yard sales and on eBay. She had at least a hundred. Sometimes she’d use her entire month’s allowance on the ugly little beasts. I wondered if she still had them around and the idea of starting my own collection was strangely tempting all of a sudden.

  The tapping of Rose’s press-on nails against her Formica desk brought me back to her question: How does that make you feel? How did I feel?

  “I just don’t believe she’s dead.”

  ***

  On eBay they had 1,466 troll dolls listed. I found myself bidding on seven of them, including two with bright tangerine hair which reminded me of Abby. Because I was already on the computer, I spent two hours on another online shopping site, I’m embarrassed to admit. I ordered three books I’d been meaning to read, four CDs, two boxes of gourmet Belgian white chocolate peanut butter cups and an at-home microdermabrasion kit, which promised to clear up my acne and shrink my pores. The damage? $189. But I didn’t feel too guilty, I simply “borrowed” from my backpacking Europe fund. Although Abby and I had finally scraped together enough money to take our coast-to-coast road trip, I had been secretly setting aside money for three years for part two: Europe. I was going to surprise her with tickets on her birthday.

  After the online shopping spree, I took a long, hot shower and used Abby’s expensive almond honey shampoo. I was sure she wouldn’t mind. By the time I got out, the bathroom was so humid I had to wipe the mi
rror with a tissue to see myself. I studied my face, my tired mud-brown eyes. I hardly recognized the girl staring back. Not necessarily because I looked awful—the junk food and sleepless nights were taking a toll—but because of the strange, haunted look in my eyes.

  And because now that Abby was gone, I didn’t know who I was anymore.

  We’d been besties for so long and we were so much alike, I sometimes didn’t know where I ended and she began. I guess you could say we were like conjoined twins, only we were always together by choice. She was the only one who really knew me. The real me. She knew all my crap, my darkest secrets, all my hopes and dreams, my fears, my quirks. I hadn’t been close to anyone in my family for years (April and I were good friends when we were little) and not even John understood me the way Abby did.

  In the mirror I watched a single drop of shower water begin to slide down my dewy face, mimicking a tear. I yanked my chin upward in an attempt to immobilize the drop and rushed into my bedroom to grab my Nikon DSLR. I turned it on, put it on the black and white setting, increased the ISO rating and took a few shots of my face. The white curtain in the bathroom window softened the late morning sun, resulting in perfect ambient lighting.

  For a small moment I got lost in the magic of creativity. I felt the familiar rush, the rush I got whenever I was in the process of making something beautiful, something unique. One of a kind. My very own. Beauty could be found anywhere, sometimes where and when you least expect it.

  I put my camera back into the bag and watched the droplet leap from my jaw onto my bathroom robe. I took a shaky breath.

  Was this the closest to crying I was going to get?

  After the impromptu photo shoot, I finished dressing myself. I towel dried my hair with one hand and rummaged through drawers looking for the hair dryer with the other.

  My phone rang, making me jump.

  “Er, hello?”