Lakewood - Megan Giddings Page 0,27

she saw six teenage boys fighting. The right word might be a brawl. They were punching and kicking and slapping at one another, but through her open car windows, Lena could hear no yelling. One boy was wearing a white shirt and there was a solid line of blood leading from his nose to his shirt bottom.

As Lena circled the block, she saw another car pull up and park. Three teenage girls got out and ran to the boys. One of them kicked off her flip-flops so she could run faster. A second girl was wearing a lemon-print dress. It was full skirted, and her red hair was in ringlets.

When the girl in the lemon dress reached the boys, she jumped onto the one closest to her and wrapped her arms around his neck, pushing him forward with her momentum. Her curls bounced around. She pulled his hair, kept yanking at it, and all the other boys paused. Still he thrashed. She slapped the top of his head as if she were playing a bongo drum. Still no one yelled. The boy stood straight, and the girl allowed herself to be dropped off his back. They started to make out while all the others—and an older man sitting on a bench—watched.

9

That night, a storm kept Lena awake. Hail rattled against her windows, the wind argued with itself, and she could hear a dog in the apartment next door whining after each thunder clap. The rain, a sound that usually made her sleep deeply, sounded as if it was clawing and scratching its way through the building’s bricks.

Around six a.m., Lena turned her alarm off, and realized she didn’t own a coffeemaker. She ate her breakfast, washed the dishes, changed. Every motion took effort. She yawned twice, three times. In the parking lot there were five lawn chairs—red and white gingham—where she almost tripped over a tree branch. Her windshield was shattered over the driver’s seat. Glass decorated the car’s insides. The offending branch’s leaves wet on the wheel and on the seat.

“Shit,” Lena said. “Triple shit.”

The air was silver. No one else was around; there weren’t any lights or televisions on in the apartments facing the driveway. Lena went back to her apartment, dug a jacket out of one of her boxes, and then called the number Dr. Lisa had given her. A person on the line said they would take care of her car for her, and then connected her with Charlie, who lived two blocks over.

He showed up with two cups of coffee and they drank it while looking over her smashed windshield.

“Well, welcome to Lakewood,” Charlie said.

On the way to work in his car, they stopped at a small brick house. “Be back in two.”

He removed fallen branches from the sidewalk and pushed the tipped-over garbage and recycling bins inside the garage. Next to the mailbox was a tipped-over tomato cage that Charlie righted, though nothing seemed to be growing yet. When he got back in the car there was dark soil underneath his fingernails. He didn’t seem to mind.

“Sorry about that.”

“Is that your house?” Lena leaned forward in her seat.

“It’s Mrs. Thompson’s. My second-grade teacher. My parents said I was in love with her when I was eight. So, they think it’s really funny to make jokes now that I help her out. When she’s away I take care of the garden. In winter I shovel the walks.” He put on his sunglasses and drove with his knees. “My mom’s favorite joke is ‘My daughter-in-law and I can share a room in the retirement home.’”

“Sounds annoying.”

“It can be a little funny sometimes.” Charlie yawned. “She was a good teacher. And her husband’s been sick a long time.”

Lena liked how kind his voice sounded while he talked about his mom and teacher.

“Can I ask you an awkward question?”

“You just did.”

Lena sipped her coffee. She didn’t know Charlie well enough to know if he was teasing her or if he thought she was being annoying. He was taking the back roads, passing old houses. Long, spindly plants that looked like asparagus were growing alongside the road.

“Sorry. Ask your question.”

“Why do you think they’re doing these experiments? What do you think they’re trying to learn?”

“I don’t think we’re supposed to ask that question.” He drummed a little on the steering wheel.

“That’s why I’m asking you.”

“I can’t figure it out. I think it’s something about memory.” Charlie made a noncommittal noise.

He pointed to a store on the right called Family