Almost Gone

Jerusalem

jerusalem Scott · 2010 Hailey sips her coffee and squints at the horizon through the window. We pass boarded-up clam shacks and beach cabins as we speed down Old Succotash Road. Even the salt pond, skirted by patches of cracking ice, looks gray and deserted. “Scott?” I pretend to be lost in the lifeless November sky, the limp power lines, the boats that are stranded in brown backyards and covered up for the coming winter. She sighs happily and taps her hands on the wheel. “Well, Dr. Rich did say that this trip might inspire some deep thought.” I close my eyes tightly and watch the colors. Someone told me in college that the red splotches that you see are actually your own blood, flowing beneath your eyelids. It was one of those stoned conversations that I don’t remember much of. Is that true? It doesn’t matter. None of it does. I can feel Hailey’s eyes on me. She’s smiling. Deep thought? All I can think about lately is getting out of here. A few days ago, half drunk, rummaging through the closet for more of Emily’s stuff to give away—what her idiot shrink calls the “cleansing process”—I found my dad’s pictures of Brazil. Green water, thatched roofs on the beach, stretches of golden sand dotted with brown bodies. He’d never really said anything about it when I was younger, just that he’d traveled around “like a damn bum” and was glad that he was done with it. But I don’t believe that for a second. I know he went to South America, to Europe. I bet he had the time of his life over there. For a while there, AlmoSt goNe· 124 · I think my dad and I both thought that I’d go abroad too, to play soccer. But that’s over with now, too. Way over. But Brazil? No one would know me there. There’d be none of those really deliberate handshakes at the supermarket, from people I never knew that well. There’d be no whispers echoing behind my back when I walk into the Mews Tavern, or the Mist, for a beer. I’m not saying I’d want to forget anything—I never could. But I do know that Hailey and I can’t fight the fact anymore that whatever we had is gone. All that is left is the same heavy silence that is filling the car right now. And I need to get out. In the empty parking lot, dirt and sand crunches under the tires. A few pebbles kick up and rattle against the bottom of the car. “Jesus, slow down!” Hailey looks hurt, and I feel a pang of regret. But we’re gonna talk—and probably fight—eventually, right? Isn’t that what this is all about, this whole idea of her bringing me here? Some kind of confrontation—with the past, or with each other? My dad told me when I was nine or ten that when I got in a fight, I should square off and throw the first punch, a jab, while protecting my face with my right. Throwing the first punch, he said, was key. Hailey carefully puts the car in park and her hand finds my arm, her fingers warm. She’s trying harder today. That’s pretty obvious. “Sorry. I was just scared.” I try to laugh. It feels forced. The lines on her forehead crease; she purses her lips and nods to herself . I know she believes in this shit. I know she has faith in the mighty mind of Dr. Elizabeth Rich. I can’t even believe that’s her real name. She’s absolutely getting rich off the cash we’re paying her to sit and talk to my wife every week. This week, I guess the objective was to get me to come with her to the beach, to this beach. And I had to hand it to her, Hailey had been persistent. I guess she always was. Our arguments before this happened—God, what did we argue about in those days? Sex? Money?—usually ended with me giving in to her. But I find myself not letting her have the last word anymore. I come at her hard. Sometimes I’m such an asshole that I scare myself. We slam the doors and the ocean breeze is cold on my face. I’ve forgot- [18.116...