Chapter 6
Six
Nothing but the Night
“DAD, I CAN’T ON SATURDAY! I have that paper for English class and I haven’t even started it yet —”
I could barely hear myself think over the hum of the kitchen radio, classic rock jangling against the chatter from the television blaring out of the living room, a cacophonous wall of sound.
Dad was standing at the stove, frying pork roll for dinner, and every snap and sizzle from the pan felt like a tiny explosion on my skin.
Usually I liked a pork roll sandwich as much as anyone did, but tonight the greasy, spicy smell of the meat was turning my stomach, a layer of film almost visible in the too-warm air of the kitchen.
There was no way I was going to be able to eat it.
“I don’t know what you’re so worried about, kiddo.” Dad stabbed one of the slices in the pan with a fork, flipping it over with a flick of his wrist. “Your college applications are already in. Can’t you afford to phone it in a little?”
“I can’t just —” The words were stuck in my mouth, logjamming against the back of my teeth in their rush to form sentences, everything I wanted to explain that Dad would never understand.
Instead, I flapped my hands ineffectually, then reached for the bag of kaiser rolls, pulling two out and aggressively slicing them in half.
Dad was still talking. “I know you want to be like your brother and go off on your own, and this life isn’t for you. But you know I’m swamped right now, and I could use an extra pair of hands if you ever decide to pull your head out of the clouds.”
That wasn’t fucking fair. It had been a month and a half since Sandy, and Dad was still working six days a week, putting in every hour he could to get the town back on its feet.
I knew he felt a little weird about it, the contracting business doing so well because our neighbors were suffering, but he took the work anyway.
He had his usual crew, but he’d been asking me to pitch in a lot more often than usual, and generally I went along with it.
Sometimes Cole joined us, which made the days go faster, although his handling of power tools was frankly a little alarming.
But Cole or not, I would be glad when this was all over.
I could feel my gorge rising, the tang of metal on my tongue, and I took a shaky breath, letting it out slowly.
Overhead light, flickering slightly, not quite reaching the corners of the room.
Black and white tiles — when Seth and I were kids, white was rock, and black was lava.
But now my feet were too big to fit. Refrigerator, covered all over with Mom’s magnets.
Wooden table in the corner, scuffed and worn, gouged by baby spoons, the burn mark from the time I put a pot of spaghetti down without a trivet.
Three panes of glass in the back door with the inky night beyond, reflecting the kitchen light and Dad and me and —
“Dad, what the hell are those?”
Beside the back door were two clear plastic bags filled to the brim with clothes, and as I knelt to inspect them, I felt a stab of ice down my spine.
Mom’s things.
“Dad —”
“Ezra, it’s been over a year since we lost her — you know your mom wouldn’t want us to keep every single shirt she ever wore, and there are people in this town who have lost everything —”
But I was already out the back door, grabbing my winter coat off the peg as I went, Dad’s last words fading behind me as the door slammed.
Out.
I strode up the street, shoving my arms into my coat and zipping it up as I went, grateful for my habit of keeping my knit hat and gloves in the pockets.
It was a frigid night, the sea breeze cutting deep into my bones, but I didn’t care.
I relished the bite across my face, the sharp scent of the ocean as I directed my steps up the hill.
I could have grabbed my bike, but somehow this was better, the slap of my sneakers against the pavement a rhythm to calm my racing thoughts.
Push it down push it down push it down because there was nothing I could do, no way to make it better, to make Dad see me.
No way to bring Mom back, no way to stop the way it could come out of nowhere, the sucker punch to the gut that could cleave me completely in two.
Nothing but my two feet, my hands clenching into fists inside my gloves.
Nothing but the night, the vastness carved up into tiny worlds by the streetlights, by the golden squares of bright windows cast onto each front lawn.
All these little worlds, and yet I was alone, just me and my body and my breath heating the air and the swish of my coat as I walked.
Up, up, up the hill.
The Navesink Twin Lights isn’t what you would usually picture when you imagine a lighthouse.
I can see exactly what’s in your mind — a tall pointy thing, painted red and white, on a lonely outcropping above a sandy beach.
Maybe there are rocks surrounding your lighthouse, jagged teeth poking out of the water to snag unsuspecting ships, and your sentinel is a hero, saving them from certain harm.
But that wasn’t what I saw in front of me when I reached the top of the hill that night.
The building that stretched before me was more castle than sentinel, a stately expanse of stone, wider than it was tall, a beacon tower situated on each end.
It was constructed in the mid-nineteenth century, making use of the height of the hill to light the harbor and help sailors to find their way.
Fuck, I wished it could help me find mine.
I walked around to the front of the building, the whole of Highlands and the Atlantic Ocean spread out below me.
The wind was brutal up here, making my eyes water.
But I settled down in the cold grass anyway, hugging my knees and turning my face toward the view.
It would be better during the day, of course, all that water under a bright blue sky.
But at night I could still make out the twinkling lights of town, the limitless void of the ocean, the New York City skyline beyond.
The sky was pressing down on me, heavy cloud cover preventing the moon from shining through, a dampness in the air that felt like snow.
But somehow it felt right, being crushed under the weight of it, frozen in place as my toes turned numb in my sneakers, as my nose began to run in the bitter air.
I wasn’t sure how long I had been sitting there when I heard light footfalls behind me. A lone figure making its way across the grass, tall and lean and headed right for me.
Cole.
“How did you know where to find me?” I rested my chin on my knee, my face turned toward the lights below.
Cole sat down beside me, not too close, but not so far away as to seem impersonal. “I went over to your place to see if you wanted to watch a movie and your dad said you guys got into some kind of fight? And you come up here after school almost every day, so —” He shrugged.
That was true. Since the storm, Sandy Hook had been completely closed off, and even the beaches that were open were a mess, so I’d been heading up the hill rather than down when I needed time to myself.
It hadn’t been quite as bad at school since Sandy — I think we all felt a little softer about each other than we had before.
And because Cole was making a point to include me, everyone else was, too. It was — nice? But confusing.
“Yeah, I guess I’m kind of predictable,” I sighed.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Cole asked carefully. “Your dad, I mean. Or — anything else, really.”
“I —” The words were tied in knots, a hopeless tangle, even out here under the sky with no one but Cole to hear them.
“I’m not — right. It’s just — everything.
I dunno, it’s too loud, it’s all — jumbled.
And I try to make it quiet, but I can’t —” It barely registered that I was rocking in place, hugging myself tightly.
“Mom used to know what to do. She was never too loud and I could breathe around her and she always knew — But Dad and I just don’t mix. He tries but — he can’t —”
I broke off, covering my head with both hands and curling into a ball. The motion felt right somehow, the only thing that made sense.
Beside me, Cole shifted a little closer in the grass. “Hey, um — Would it be better or worse if I touched you?”
I considered this, shutting my eyes and counting the ripples of discomfort across my skin. “Better.”
An arm flung across my shoulders, the warmth of another body against my side. Breathe in, breathe out.
“When you say it’s too loud —” Cole began tentatively. “I think I know what you mean, but I want to understand better. Do you want to tell me more about it? Only if you want, though.”
I took a deep breath, trying to figure out how to explain.
“Everything — makes sounds. Electricity — like you turn a light on and it hums. Clocks ticking. Even the ones that don’t tick grind or something.
The washing machine. The microwave. And speakers, there are — I dunno, overtones —” I broke off, waving my hands.
“It’s like — most people just tune that shit out.
But I’m like — I hear all of it, all the time.
And sometimes I can tune it out and I’m fine but if I’m hacked off about something — Fuck it, this is stupid. I sound crazy.”
“It’s not stupid.”
“It is! I know I’m a freak,” I snapped. “And I don’t know why I’m telling you about it, because you’re basically perfect —”
Cole scoffed. “I am not perfect —”
“You are! Everything comes so easily to you. From the first day you showed up here, you’ve had everybody eating out of your hand and meanwhile I’m —”
“Ezra —”
“— don’t know why you even bother with me —”
“Ezra!”
I froze, breathing hard, and Cole glanced away, his eyes raking over the ocean below as he hugged himself. His next words were barely audible.
“Mom and Dad — they’re not in Paris.”