The edge of town, my ass, I think to myself. By the time my little scooter and I make it to Sarah's family home, my face stings from the wind, the sun has completely set, and I'm convinced that there's maybe one more mile's worth of gas left in the tank. But my exhaustion immediately turns to rage when I pull up to the bleached driveway of the quintessential middle-class home. Every shutter is painted the same color, the blinds are drawn against the yellowish light of the streetlamp, and the yard is perfectly manicured like something out of the Edward Scissorhands. The house is two stories, has a single-car garage, and reeks of the American dream.
I think of Sarah and want to burn it down.
Easy, I tell myself. You're here to help Sarah by appealing to her father's senses. Perhaps following his daughter's death, he'd completely changed his ways. There could be hope, yet.
I feel like a burglar or a spy as I quietly approach the unassuming front door, and before I lose my nerve I knock my fist against the painted wood. No answer, but I can hear the grainy white noise of a television set coming from one of the front rooms. I try the bell instead, my anxiety steadily climbing the longer I stand there, a stranger in what seems to be a perfect neighborhood.
"Coming!" A gruff voice calls out. The voice mutters something about goddamn night owls and way past curfew before throwing open the door.
Sarah's father is shorter than I imagined he'd be. And much scruffier. If the grayness in his beard is any indication, he's either in his late fifties or has crossed over into his sixties. I don't know why, but he gives me the impression of a disgraced late-night host that's been off the air for a decade. His old t-shirt is caked with either cheese or whipped cream. I don't miss his double-take.
"Eh? And who are you?"
"My name is Cara Rossi. I came from Neverton and I–"
"I don't want any girl scout cookies," he grumbles, closing the door in my face. I leap forward and hold it open, desperate and somewhat offended.
"I am...was...Sarah's friend."
He freezes. And I wish that I could detect even a hint of grief, but his face gives nothing away as he sighs and loosens his grip on the door. "Why are you here?" He asks, his voice too calm.
"I just needed some closure." True enough.
His brows pull together in confusion and for a moment he hesitates at the door, then he sighs and turns around, motioning for me to come in. I keep my mouth shut as I enter the house and immediately find one of the most disheveled rooms I've ever encountered. My first thought is that Sarah's dad has permanently moved into the living room. The couch is piled with blankets and pillows and the cushions have been strewn about the room, some of them serving as precarious side-tables. The television set spouts doom and gloom, and there are more crucifixes than clear spaces on the walls. I smell something distinctly rotten and possibly microwaved.
"Upstairs." Sarah's father grumbles. I turn to face him, attempting to hide the disgust on my face.
"What?"
"Her room was upstairs." It takes me a moment to realize that it's an invitation. He plops down on the couch with a groan and crosses his arms over his chest as if saying Do what you want, I don't care.
"Oh. Okay. Thank you. I'll only be a moment." I'm eager for the chance to leave the living room, so I cross over to the stairs and take them slowly. While the living room was like a hoarder's paradise, the rest of the home is eerily empty and seems as though no one has passed through it in years. The walls along the stairwell are bare except for the occasional religious painting; no family pictures, nothing. Even the upstairs hallway is empty, so it takes me a few tries to find what was Sarah's room.
It smells like dust and time, and it appears to have been left exactly as it was when she died. It sends goosebumps up my arms, and suddenly I feel as though I'm invading a sacred space. This isn't what I came for.
But it sucks me in, Sarah's room, because there's color everywhere. Life everywhere. The walls are covered with Pokémon posters and hand-drawn pride flags. Bottles of half-finished black nail polish litter the desk in the corner as well as sheets and sheets of lyrics. I remember Sarah's notebook at Death's home and cross over to the acoustic guitar sitting beside her bed. I run my fingers back and forth over the strings, softly so they don't make a sound.
This isn't the room of a lost soul, or a hopeless case, or any of the things that Sarah has come to believe about herself. This is the room of a dreamer, an artist, a person that deserved to live a full life and see just how far they could go in the world. All of that was taken from her.
"I'm not sure why you came, after all this time." I nearly jump out of my skin to find Sarah's father in the doorway. I stare at him wide-eyed, pulse racing, and wonder if I just tasted some of the fear that Sarah had to live with her entire life. "Cara, is it?"
"I didn't hear you come up," I say, trying to cover my jumpiness. My fingers still on the guitar strings, one of the clues about her life. "She loved music."
"Didn't work very hard at it." He clears his throat and remains in the threshold, as if he physically can't bear to cross into the bedroom. Perhaps he never has.
"You don't have to work hard at something that brings you joy."
He makes a sound in the back of his throat and purses his lips.
"You asked why I came?" I swallow. "Well, Sarah was a great friend to me. A great person. I miss her."
"A great person." He chokes out a cruel laugh that sets my blood on fire. "Sure, okay. There are a lot of things that you kids clearly don't understand."
"And what would that be?" My teeth are clenched so hard that they're about to chip. Stay calm, Cara. Sarah warned you about this.
"Those who don't follow the word of God, or subscribe to all of its principles, will never see the kingdom of heaven. And my daughter chose to live in sin, therefore she died in it as well." He speaks so calmly, so matter-of-fact as he damns his little girl to an eternity of misery. "I love my daughter, but she knew the error of her ways and kept on chugging down the track. Her mother was the first victim of her wickedness, and she quickly followed. I did everything I could to save her, and I hope that as her friend, you did the same."
I'm speechless, stranded in an ocean of red-hot rage. It can't be possible for someone to be so blind. It simply can't. I whisper, "You say you loved your daughter, but that's a lie. Love doesn't judge someone and tell them that they are going to hell because of who they love. Love doesn't blame a child for something they couldn't control."
"That's the problem with your generation! You've forsaken God, and therefore you know nothing about love! You've bought the lie that this world peddles you, just like my daughter did." His eyes are those of a madman. I'm afraid of what I'll do if I listen to this any longer.
"Just tell me one thing and I'll go, because clearly I'm not welcome here," I say coldly. "Do you mourn Sarah? Do you think about her at all?"
For the smallest moment in time, there is a glimmer of pain and regret in his eyes. And then it's gone so fast that I must have imagined it. "Not anymore. She chose her path, and it's not my pain to bear."
"Fuck you," I say.
I walk down the empty hallway, descend the stairs, push through the muck and mess that spills out of the living room, and slam the door behind me. The frigid night air stings my skin, and as I ride my scooter back towards Death, towards home, I cry.
But I wipe away the tears before I enter the front door.
The spirits are quiet, most likely all resting, but I still knock quietly on Sarah's bedroom door. When it opens, her face is lit with soul-crushing hope on the other side.
And I know what I have to do.
"He said he loves you, Sarah, and that he's sorry for how much he hurt you. He said he doesn't blame you for anything. He said he's getting therapy to become a better man and the father that you deserved. He said that he sits in your room every single day and talks to you. He said that he reads all of your lyrics and tries to come up with melodies." Sarah starts to cry, her shoulders trembling, and I want nothing more than to be able to hold her. "He said that he was wrong about everything, Sarah. He wanted you to know that."
I stand there, tears streaming down my own face, and keep Sarah company. Her pain is my own, and her healing is mine, too. I don't know how much time passes before she smiles at me and says, "Thank you."
"You don't have to thank me." I shake my head and offer a teary smile. "You know, I think if we met when you were alive, we would have been really good friends."
"We can be friends now, stupid," Sarah says, rolling her eyes and wiping away the remaining wetness on her cheeks.
"Of course." But it's with uneasiness that I part from her, because when we finally wish each other good night, I can't shake the feeling that I'll never see her again.