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“That’s good.”
“And I sleep with my door locked.”
“Good.”
Then she said, “Can I ask you something?”
I knew what was coming.
“Would you write on my arm?” She shoved up her sweatshirt sleeve and stuck out her bare forearm. There were raised white scars running horizontally just above her wrists.
I was wrong. I hadn’t expected that question nor had I expected the scars. It took me a moment to talk. “What do you mean? I asked.
“With a Sharpie. I think it will help me to be brave. If you write a message.”
I had no idea what to write but I took the Sharpie she handed me and opened it. It smelled like chemicals. It smelled like back-to-school and summer sport’s camp when I had to write Max’s name on his baseball hat and backpack and lunch box. A bunch of lunchboxes were recalled because of lead content. I wondered what other dangerous substances lurked in products for children.
There were carcinogens in things that seemed perfectly innocuous, like bubble bath and hot dogs.
“I don’t think Sharpie is good for your skin,” I told Coco. “It doesn’t say nontoxic. It’s permanent.”
“Exactly.”
She was still holding her arm out so I wrote, “Farewell my Zombie,” She smiled with satisfaction and pulled her sleeve down over it.
“Don’t let your father see,” I said.
She nodded.
“What happened? To your wrist.”
“When I was a baby I got really sick,” she said. “I’m better now. But I had to take all this medication and get all these treatments that really fucked me up. Sorry. Messed me up. I’d survived all that but my life at home sucked and I didn’t want to live anymore.”
I suddenly wished I’d insisted on using non-toxic marker on her arm. “I understand,” I said. “But you can’t give up now. I mean, really. You can’t.”
She looked at me blankly.
“Okay?”
“Okay,” she said. Then: “Can I ask you something else?”
Here it was.
“What really happened with your son?” she said, just as I thought she would.
I hadn’t talked about it in so long.
“Everyone thought he had a brain tumor,” I said. “But it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t like that at all. They wanted him and they got him. So that’s why I’m here. In case I can help anyone else.”
Coco reached out and gently touched my hand. “Sorry but…do you think, maybe, you just might not want to look at what really happened?”
I jumped as if she’d slapped me. “Get out please,” I said.
“Oh! Sorry! I’m so sorry, Miss Merritt. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
The thing is, maybe Coco’s right. Maybe Max really did have cancer. Maybe Coco had cancer and recovered and then wished she hadn’t. Maybe her father isn’t a zombie but maybe he did lay a hand on her. Maybe there’s no such thing as global warming and it’s okay to drive an Escalade but I don’t think so. Maybe people are just out there trying to scare us. Hmmm. Maybe the presidential candidate and his running mate are not trying to eat us up. Maybe I’m crazy; maybe I’m perfectly sane. Who knows?
Well, baby, I know this. Today I am going to shut the office and ride my bike (because who wants to take a chance on making that hole in the ozone bigger, just in case) down Washington to the beach. I am going to take off my shoes and walk on the wet sand. I am going to eat my cheese sandwich and watch the sun set like a beautiful apocalypse. Maybe I’ll even build a sandcastle. Those are the things you and I used to do. That is why I haven’t been to the beach in all these years. But today at sunset I am going to close my eyes and I am going to remember every little thing I can about you. From your eyelashes clumped with salt water, to the sand under your fingernails, to the little curled shells of your toes. I am going to remember all our days at the beach and the way you used to burrow into my arms when you were cold and the way, when you were a little older, you used to pick roses from the garden for me, in spite of the thorns.
