38. Rickie
Rickie
That night I lie awake for the first time in a long while. I can’t sleep.
Daphne is curled up in my bed, breathing deeply. Her presence is not the reason for my troubles. It’s just the opposite.
The truth is that I'd forgotten about Daphne's big plan. I’d been too busy enjoying my new life with her to think about it. I’d been too busy cooking meals with her in the kitchen and snuggling in front of the TV. Too busy making love to her every chance I got.
It's not like me to be dismissive. And I know Daphne pretty well. The moment she'd shown me that invitation, I should have known she'd go through with it.
But I’d let my guard down. I'd stopped beating my head against every available surface.
She hasn’t, though. This isn't over for her. I’m busy falling in love. But she wants revenge. She wants her career, and grad school at a top-five program somewhere far away from here.
It stings a little. But I already knew that. My new problem is how to keep her safe. I wanted her to be done with Reardon Halsey.
But she isn’t done. So I guess I’m not, either.
* * *
I spend the next couple of days feeling broody about our upcoming jaunt to Connecticut. And Daphne is pretty quiet, too. On Friday morning, I catch her looking at the floorplan of a building on her laptop—just like James Bond.
But she closes the computer quickly as my footsteps approach.
“It’s just me,” I whisper. “Was that the place? Want to share?”
She shakes her head. “I really don’t want to involve you if I don’t have to. Technically I’m planning to commit a crime. Even though I’m not stealing anything.”
“I’m going to be standing next to you.” I lean over and kiss the top of her head. “I’m an accessory, right? That’s what the TV cop shows would call it.”
“That’s just it.” She swivels to look up at me. “I don’t think you should go. I’m well aware that this plan is crazy. It might fail. And I will take full responsibility.” She swallows hard.
“Hey now.” I sit down beside her on the couch and pull her close to me. She’s wearing the daphnia necklace. She never takes it off. “Look—I can’t sit at home here next Wednesday night and wonder if you’re okay. I just can’t. So I’m going with you.”
“But Rickie…” She buries her face in my flannel shirt. “I don’t know what I’m doing. This will either work great, or it will make things worse. But I have to try.”
Do you really? I want to ask. But I don’t say it. Daphne has to figure this out for herself. I don’t want to be the kind of guy who tells her what to think and do.
But I worry.
Daphne goes home with her brother for the weekend, and I keep worrying. The house is too quiet with just me and Keith at home. I read Aristotle and brood.
Then, on Saturday night, I have another damn dream. It’s just like the ones I had this summer—where I open my eyes and Reardon Halsey is lying on my bed, smirking at me.
Then I open my eyes for real and wake up sweaty. And not in a fun way. Shit . It’s three in the morning. And I can see his face so clearly in my mind’s eye.
Why is that?
I turn on the lamp, which chases the shadows out of the room. I pull my laptop onto the bed and open it up. I google Reardon Halsey again, and find all the same photos as last time. It’s not a great use of the wee hours. But I recognize his face, and it’s driving me insane.
So I open up my email and try something I’ve tried a million times before. I write another email to paulywhite123.
Paul,
Hi, it’s me again. I’ve written before, but I don't know if you got my earlier messages. I'm still out here looking for answers. I still don't remember how I ended up in the hospital.
There is a lot that I need to know. Can you help?
Hell, I don't know if you've ever read one of these messages. I don't even know if we're friends. But if you know what happened to me on the Saturday night of Open Weekend, I need to know.
Or even if you don’t know, please reply so I know you actually still exist.
Yeah, that's dark. But my mind has been to some very dark places recently.
Sincerely,
Rick Ralls
* * *
I spend Sunday writing a paper about Freud. Plus I check my email about a thousand times.
Later that afternoon, on the 1001st try, there’s a bolded, unread message at the top of the stack. From paulywhite123.
I actually close my eyes for a moment in surprise. But when I open them again, it’s still there. The time stamp is only a few minutes ago.
When I open the message, it’s only one line long. He writes: Are you getting help for those dark places? You should .
Holy heck. Now we’re having a conversation. So I reply.
Yes, I did get help. My therapist's name is Lenore. She's terrific. She even laughs at my jokes. 10/10 would recommend .
It’s nonthreatening, and it asks nothing. So I hit send. And then I pray, and watch my inbox like a hunter in a deer blind.
But night falls, and I still have no response. Daphne comes home with her brother and Chastity, and I smile and try not to look like the jumpy fucker that I am.
“Can we order pizza?” she asks. “And I brought home lettuce for a salad.”
“Sure, baby. I’ll make the salad. I need something to do with my hands.”
“Another innuendo?” Dylan mutters.
“Believe it or not, no,” I say, taking a bag of groceries out of his hands. “I’m just a little stir crazy.”
“Is Freud kicking your ass?” Daphne asks. She gives me a kiss on the jaw.
“Yeah,” I say immediately. “I had, uh, a long day of paper-writing.” God, it feels trashy to lie. Daphne is the last person I want to deceive. But I know nothing more than I did when she left on Friday afternoon.
I need to know more. So I spend the evening pretending to write a paper while watching my inbox. Nothing happens, until Daphne crawls into bed with me at midnight, and I force myself to shut off the light and pull her into my arms.
“Did you miss me?” I ask, kissing her neck.
“You know I did,” she murmurs.
“Why don’t you show me how much?” I ask, trying to find my normal self.
“I think I will,” she says.
* * *
Monday night I’m alone in my room, checking my phone one more time before I go to sleep. And Daphne is upstairs, pulling a late night for homework.
Checking for a new message is just a habit by now. But suddenly there it is.
Rick,
“10/10 would recommend.” I heard that in your voice. And the joke means that you’re going to be okay. Not sure what to say about your memory. You probably won’t believe me, but not remembering could be a blessing.
P.
Now I have goose bumps all over my body. He still isn’t giving me what I need. So I write back.
You're right. I am going to be okay. It took me a while, but my life is back on track. I spent the summer on a farm. Now I'm working on my degree full time, at Burlington U in Vermont.
Contacting you was a selfish act. I want to know what happened. I want to know if I was to blame for blowing up my life.
I don’t need to know. But I want to.
Please tell me you’re going to be okay, too. You have me imagining the worst.
—Rick
I try to wait up for his reply. But it never comes, and I fall asleep clutching my phone like a talisman.
On Tuesday his message arrives while I’m in class.
Rick,
I know you want a full accounting. I can hear how hard you’re trying not to demand some answers. But I can’t help you.
At first I couldn’t answer you because I couldn't stand to think about you, or anyone else at the Academy. Pretending it didn’t happen was the only way I could go on.
Then I broke down, and couldn’t read your messages because I was institutionalized for more than six months.
And now I can’t give you what you want because I signed an NDA.
I know that’s a shitty thing for me to say. That my tidy little settlement is more important than your sanity. But my tidy little settlement is paying for my continued sanity. And I bet your thick philosophy books say something about how going forward is more important than examining the past.
If they don’t, they should.
—P
After reading this, I gather up my stuff and walk right out of the seminar. It’s rude, but I have to keep him talking to me. I’m taking Daphne to Connecticut tomorrow. And Paul knows what happened.
Paul—I know it sounds crazy, but I don’t remember anything from that Saturday night. And I can live with that. I don’t want you to put yourself in harm's way.
But my girlfriend is up against a creep who left the Academy the same year I did. My gut says it’s not a coincidence. I'm trying to decide how worried I should be about him.
Anything you can tell me without hanging your ass in the air would be sincerely appreciated.
—Rick
P.S. I signed an NDA too, by the way. It just means a little less when you can't actually remember.
Daphne calls me while I’m sitting at the Green Bean, the campus coffee shop, eating a croissant and staring at my phone.
“Hey, baby girl,” I answer, sounding more chipper than I feel.
“Hi, McFly. I called to ask you what time you’ll be ready to hop into the DeLorean and leave tomorrow. I was hoping we could go at 2:30. I took the day off from work.”
“Okay,” I agree immediately. “What do I wear on this adventure?”
“Khaki pants, button-down shirt,” she says.
“Noted. What do you want for dinner tonight? Your mom sent home some chicken. I thought I’d make tortilla soup.”
Ding . My phone alerts me to a new email. And now I can’t even concentrate on the conversation.
“That sounds great,” Daphne is saying. “What can I make on the side?”
I fail to answer her, because I’m already holding the phone away from my ear, already reading Paul’s words.
“Rickie?” she prompts.
“Uh, sorry gorgeous. I’d better go.”
“Is everything okay?” she asks, her voice worried.
And that’s when I make a terrible error. I don’t tell her about this crazy conversation I’ve been having. And I don’t tell her why.
“Yeah. See you at home,” is all I say. Then I end the call and read Paul’s message three times in quick succession.
Rick—
I really can’t talk about this. But maybe if you have access to a university library, you should know that Court Martial summaries are sort of public.
They’re printed in a legal journal called Military Justice Review.
When shit goes really bad at a military academy, sometimes personnel are CMed.
You can read bare bones summaries of these motions in the logs.
But look—if you find this thing—there’s two guys mentioned, right? You might wonder which one you are. Please know that I was the target. It was me. And you got hurt trying to stop it.
By the way: we were friends. Absolutely. It makes me sad to hear you’re not sure about that. I was lucky to call you my friend.
That’s all I have for you. Maybe someday I’ll be able to call you and say all the words out loud. Maybe I will be fearless, and say what needs saying.
But today is not that day. Not yet.
—P
I get up from the coffee shop and hightail it toward the library.