The Last Time We Say Goodbye
Page 40
“So,” Steven says, just when it feels like I might survive this little joyride. “You still won’t call your dad, huh?”
My eyes open. He’s looking at the road, the light from the oncoming headlights moving in lines across his face, but it feels like he’s looking at me.
“No, I don’t call him. Nothing has changed on that front.”
“That’s too bad. I thought maybe, with Ty, it might bring you two together,” he says.
“I don’t want to be together with my dad,” I snap.
We stop at a red. Steven looks at me. The Bach is suddenly not enough to drown the silence.
“Why not?” he asks.
“If my dad hadn’t left us, Ty would still be alive.” It surprises me when I say it. I didn’t know I actually believed it—not in such simple terms, anyway—until the words left my mouth. But I do believe it.
“You don’t know that,” Steven says.
“I don’t need you to be my therapist, Steven,” I say, my sudden anger welcome against whatever else it is that I’m feeling. “I have a therapist.”
“Then what do you need me to be?” he asks, and pins me with those well-meaning brown eyes. “Tell me what you need, Lex, and I’ll do that. I’ll be that.”
I look away. “It’s green.”
“What?”
“The light’s green.”
“Oh.” He steps on the gas. Then he reaches up and turns off the music. Sighs.
“I wish you’d talk to me,” he says. “Tell me what’s going on with you. I know we’re not together anymore, and I respect your wishes about that, but that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped caring about you. I—”
“I’ll tell you what I don’t need,” I interrupt. “I don’t need sneaky love poems. I don’t need you calling my house to check up on me. I don’t need to feel like you’re always there breathing down my neck. That’s what I don’t need.”
He looks confused. “What?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say. “I need a ride home. Okay?”
His jaw tightens. “Okay.”
We go the rest of the way—ten long minutes—without saying another word.
I jump out before we’ve even fully stopped in my driveway. “Thanks for the ride.”
I’m gone before he can form a response. I duck through the first door that’s available: the side door to the garage. But I don’t close the door behind me all the way. I leave it open a crack and watch Steven as he sits for a while, his eyes closed, his hands gripping the wheel.
I’m hurting him. Still.
I was right to hesitate, when Steven asked me to go out with him. Of course I was right. We were destined to break up, the way all early romances are doomed. And now things are awkward with our friends. And we are hurting each other.
I was right.
He opens his eyes and backs the car out, then drives off fast, spraying snow and gravel.
I close the door.
That’s when I realize that I’m in the garage.
I gaze at the spot.
Where my brother died.
They cleaned it up after, some company that does that. There’s no blood here now, no dark stain to mark the place, but there is a chip in the cement. I can’t remember if it was there before, or if it was created by the bullet after it passed through. Which makes me immediately start considering angles and trajectory and velocity, and I don’t want to think about that.
I look around at the last things Ty would have seen: the rusty rakes and shovels lining the wall, the grass-encrusted lawn mower, our broken snowblower, the old wheelbarrow with a flat tire, the barrel of dog food that’s still here even though our dog died a year ago. It smells like dust and motor oil and plants decaying.
It’s a depressing place to die. Dark and cold and dingy.
I imagine the shot, how it must have filled this space with its noise, how it must have deafened him in those few seconds he could hear. I imagine the gunpowder, curling in the air. The smell of blood. The chill of the cement against his cheek as his vision faded.
He would have felt so alone here.
I go inside to the kitchen. I stand for a few minutes staring into the refrigerator, which is like a barren wasteland, it’s so empty, but that’s fine because I’m not hungry anymore. I take out a bottle of Mom’s mandatory Diet Coke—which I’ve been trying to get her to quit on account of the nasty chemicals—and I chug it. The bubbles burn my nose.
I’m almost finished with it when I think I see, out of the corner of my eye, a figure in the reflection of the kitchen window. A flash. Ty.
But when I lower the bottle, when I turn, he’s gone.
Of course.
I toss the bottle in the recycling bin and put my back to the window. From here I have a view of the top of the stairwell. The empty frame of Dad’s graduation photo gleams at me, like it’s trying to get my attention.
Oh, that’s right, I think. The mystery.
How would Sherlock Holmes go about solving this case?
Well, I reason, first it might be a good idea to check to see if there are any other photos missing from where they ought to be. Or if the hunting picture and Dad’s graduation picture are the only two. That’d be a start.
I do a quick mental rundown of where there are pictures. Then I check the mantel over the fireplace in the living room, but nothing’s out of order there. I try Dad’s office, where there’s still a silver framed photo of him and Mom on their fifteenth wedding anniversary. Dad didn’t take it when he left. Mom’s never taken it down. It’s still there, a dusty example of the kind of parental units I used to have. I try the guest bathroom, where years ago Mom framed several photos of Ty and me taking baths together as toddlers, all the private places covered with bubbles but humiliating nonetheless. All those pictures are still in place. Outside of the mother lode in the stairwell, I can’t think of anywhere there are framed photos.
My eyes open. He’s looking at the road, the light from the oncoming headlights moving in lines across his face, but it feels like he’s looking at me.
“No, I don’t call him. Nothing has changed on that front.”
“That’s too bad. I thought maybe, with Ty, it might bring you two together,” he says.
“I don’t want to be together with my dad,” I snap.
We stop at a red. Steven looks at me. The Bach is suddenly not enough to drown the silence.
“Why not?” he asks.
“If my dad hadn’t left us, Ty would still be alive.” It surprises me when I say it. I didn’t know I actually believed it—not in such simple terms, anyway—until the words left my mouth. But I do believe it.
“You don’t know that,” Steven says.
“I don’t need you to be my therapist, Steven,” I say, my sudden anger welcome against whatever else it is that I’m feeling. “I have a therapist.”
“Then what do you need me to be?” he asks, and pins me with those well-meaning brown eyes. “Tell me what you need, Lex, and I’ll do that. I’ll be that.”
I look away. “It’s green.”
“What?”
“The light’s green.”
“Oh.” He steps on the gas. Then he reaches up and turns off the music. Sighs.
“I wish you’d talk to me,” he says. “Tell me what’s going on with you. I know we’re not together anymore, and I respect your wishes about that, but that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped caring about you. I—”
“I’ll tell you what I don’t need,” I interrupt. “I don’t need sneaky love poems. I don’t need you calling my house to check up on me. I don’t need to feel like you’re always there breathing down my neck. That’s what I don’t need.”
He looks confused. “What?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say. “I need a ride home. Okay?”
His jaw tightens. “Okay.”
We go the rest of the way—ten long minutes—without saying another word.
I jump out before we’ve even fully stopped in my driveway. “Thanks for the ride.”
I’m gone before he can form a response. I duck through the first door that’s available: the side door to the garage. But I don’t close the door behind me all the way. I leave it open a crack and watch Steven as he sits for a while, his eyes closed, his hands gripping the wheel.
I’m hurting him. Still.
I was right to hesitate, when Steven asked me to go out with him. Of course I was right. We were destined to break up, the way all early romances are doomed. And now things are awkward with our friends. And we are hurting each other.
I was right.
He opens his eyes and backs the car out, then drives off fast, spraying snow and gravel.
I close the door.
That’s when I realize that I’m in the garage.
I gaze at the spot.
Where my brother died.
They cleaned it up after, some company that does that. There’s no blood here now, no dark stain to mark the place, but there is a chip in the cement. I can’t remember if it was there before, or if it was created by the bullet after it passed through. Which makes me immediately start considering angles and trajectory and velocity, and I don’t want to think about that.
I look around at the last things Ty would have seen: the rusty rakes and shovels lining the wall, the grass-encrusted lawn mower, our broken snowblower, the old wheelbarrow with a flat tire, the barrel of dog food that’s still here even though our dog died a year ago. It smells like dust and motor oil and plants decaying.
It’s a depressing place to die. Dark and cold and dingy.
I imagine the shot, how it must have filled this space with its noise, how it must have deafened him in those few seconds he could hear. I imagine the gunpowder, curling in the air. The smell of blood. The chill of the cement against his cheek as his vision faded.
He would have felt so alone here.
I go inside to the kitchen. I stand for a few minutes staring into the refrigerator, which is like a barren wasteland, it’s so empty, but that’s fine because I’m not hungry anymore. I take out a bottle of Mom’s mandatory Diet Coke—which I’ve been trying to get her to quit on account of the nasty chemicals—and I chug it. The bubbles burn my nose.
I’m almost finished with it when I think I see, out of the corner of my eye, a figure in the reflection of the kitchen window. A flash. Ty.
But when I lower the bottle, when I turn, he’s gone.
Of course.
I toss the bottle in the recycling bin and put my back to the window. From here I have a view of the top of the stairwell. The empty frame of Dad’s graduation photo gleams at me, like it’s trying to get my attention.
Oh, that’s right, I think. The mystery.
How would Sherlock Holmes go about solving this case?
Well, I reason, first it might be a good idea to check to see if there are any other photos missing from where they ought to be. Or if the hunting picture and Dad’s graduation picture are the only two. That’d be a start.
I do a quick mental rundown of where there are pictures. Then I check the mantel over the fireplace in the living room, but nothing’s out of order there. I try Dad’s office, where there’s still a silver framed photo of him and Mom on their fifteenth wedding anniversary. Dad didn’t take it when he left. Mom’s never taken it down. It’s still there, a dusty example of the kind of parental units I used to have. I try the guest bathroom, where years ago Mom framed several photos of Ty and me taking baths together as toddlers, all the private places covered with bubbles but humiliating nonetheless. All those pictures are still in place. Outside of the mother lode in the stairwell, I can’t think of anywhere there are framed photos.
