Chapter Twenty-Five

Sunday, January 9th

Carson’s birthday

“What time?” Tim asks. He’s still not used to talking on the phone, instead of IMing. For the most part I kept another New Year’s resolution, staying away from porn. Sadly, the only way to do that has been to stay off the computer. I’m such an all-or-nothing kind of guy.

“What time for what?” I ask.

“It’s your eighteenth birthday, dude. Don’t you remember?” he asks.

“Tim, maybe I’m having a senior—get it, senior?—moment,” I crack.

“You said on your eighteenth birthday that we’d go to a strip club on Dort Highway.”

“Tim, I’m sorry. I wasn’t serious.”

There’s a long pause. “Tim, you still there?”

“I thought we’d hang out, that’s all,” he says, backtracking. I’m relieved I don’t need to explain to Tim my lack of interest in strippers or being around people who watch strippers.

“Dude, I’d love to, but I’m low-keying it,” I say. “I’m having dinner with my parents, and then me and Dad are just going to watch some of the football play-offs. Nothing special.”

“No prob.” Other than the truth, the biggest casualty in Gabby’s and my relationship is Tim. All he knows is Gabby and I are spending time and keeping it a secret.

“Look, next week, we’ll cut school and hit that Indian buffet for lunch,” I say.

“Which one?” The Flint area is a buffet of buffets. As my dad always says, the food isn’t good, but there’s a lot of it.

“The trough Mahal,” I joke. We crack up, as if on cue.

“You had me at buffet,” Tim jokes back. We’re laughing stupidly, like we’re high.

“Or maybe you’d prefer to eat Vietnamese,” I say. “Any action in the Thien arena?”

“You are so immature.”

I don’t deny it, even on my eighteenth birthday.

“And you, Tiny Tim Wang, are still my best friend.”

“Well, if that’s the case, then maybe we could hang out more.”

“As I was saying,” I say, then clear my throat for effect. “Anything with Thien?”

“I’ve known her for so long. It’s hard for me to think of her in that way.”

“In that way! What? Are you in junior high?”

“Sexually, yes,” he replies. “But I suspect there’ll be one big problem.”

“What’s that?” I ask, but I know. He pauses. It’s a vocal pistol. The handle’s cocked.

“Carson, I can tell that she really hates you.”

“Sorry, dude.” He doesn’t ask why, so the bullet only grazes me, this time.

“So I don’t know what to do,” he says, then waits for me to answer. Ten, maybe twenty seconds go by without my responding, because I have no idea what to say or do.

“Why don’t you come over, pick up some food? Dinner is on me,” he finally says.

“The image of dinner on you makes me never want to eat again,” I joke. Later, I’ll place an order to go. For now, I couldn’t order a better friend than Tim. I hope the meal contains a fortune cookie with answers to this latest, but I’m sure not last, dilemma of my senior year.

* * * *

After finishing too many boxes of Chinese food, Dad and I go into the living room to watch football. It’s the only TV left. They’ve sold all the rest. If Caitlin were to come home, I don’t think she’d recognize the house. The plasma TVs and other electronic toys that once filled the Banks household are gone. The play-off game isn’t that good, but it’s fun because Dad and I provide better commentary than the guys on NBC. During half-time, I sneak out to call Gabby.

“Sorry we couldn’t get together,” I say.

“I wish you could come over,” she says.

I go mum as an image of Gabby in ecstasy overwhelms me.

“You still there?” she asks.

“Just thinking about you in your birthday suit.”

“Really? That again? Carson, you have a one-track mind,” she says, then sighs.

“On that one track is the Gabby train, and, baby, you’ve got a nice caboose.”

“Carson, you’re killing me. You know flattery will get you most everywhere.”

“It’s okay. I notice I have one of these birthdays every year on the exact same day.”

“I wish I could be there with you,” she almost purrs.

“Maybe I could pretend you are,” I say, which prompts another round of phone sex.

After cleaning up and catching my breath, I say, “Josh doesn’t know how lucky he is.”

“Carson, what are you talking about?” she replies to my odd remark.

“If you wrote like you just talked,” I say, “you’d blow his ass out of the water.”

“The very water he walks on,” she adds.

“Gabby, maybe next time we talk like this, you could be the one who—” I start.

But she cuts me off. “Carson, I have to go.”

“I hate to see you go,” I whisper. “But I’d love to see you come.”

* * * *

I’m no more than a few minutes watching the game, when the phone rings. It’s the landline—one in the kitchen, one in my room. Gabby only calls when she knows I’m home, so I expect the phone is her calling back. But before I can get to the phone, the ringing stops.

“Who was it?” Dad yells across the house. Mom’s in the kitchen doing something.

“They hung up,” she yells back.

I settle back to watch the game, when the phone rings again. This time, I give a loud “I got it” shout. I race into the kitchen and pick up the phone. I’m out of breath. “Hey.”

There’s silence. Maybe Gabby’s just enjoying my heavy breathing. Again.

“Hello?” I say into the silence.

“Happy birthday, Carson.”

I put my hand over the receiver, then whisper, “Caitlin?” Mom doesn’t react.

“You see, I remembered,” she says. “I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday.”

“Wait. Please, talk with me.”

She coughs, then asks, “So, did Carol call yet?”

“No, she sent a message on Facebook.”

“Remember which of your sisters called you.”

“What about calling Dad on his birthday? It’s March 15th. Or maybe call on Easter Sunday. Remember when we all used to get dressed up and get pictures taken with—”

“No, Carson, I’m calling you today. I’m talking to you,” she says. “You’re the only one there who gives a shit about me. I always knew that, but your trip out here proved that to me.”

I pause. Talking with Caitlin is like a game of chess, which I used to play with Tim, who beat me every time. I need to think of what to say three moves ahead to keep her connected.

“I got those three words for you,” she says when it seems I’ve forgotten how to talk.

“What’s that?” I ask, remembering her last three words to me and the last said in this house.

“I love you,” she says, then hangs up the phone. She may have hung up, but she’s reaching out, letting me know she’s still alive. That means there’s still a chance—maybe.

I excuse myself from Dad and head upstairs to my Mac. On the screen, my story stares at me. As I make small revisions, I wish I could erase the final moments of Caitlin’s life in this house from my memory, but instead I tell the truth through fiction in the next chapter of Autumn’s Fall.