The Last Time We Say Goodbye
Page 87
They took us into a back room, where Ty’s body was lying on a steel table with a sheet covering him up to his neck. We stood for a minute in a tight semicircle just looking at him—Dad in his suit and tie, then me, then Mom in her scrubs—the last time we were truly a family together.
Then Mom stepped forward and laid shaking hands on Ty’s chest, like maybe she could wake him, and when he didn’t stir, she tipped her head back and a sound came out of her that was sheer pain—a mix of howl and wail that didn’t even sound like her voice anymore, that didn’t sound exactly human. I’m sure you heard it, from where you were.
Dad put his hand over his mouth and closed his eyes and stumbled back to a chair against the wall.
The sound kept coming out of Mom, and it was unbearable in the way it filled my ears and my head and solidified everything.
My brother was dead.
Mom’s knees gave out. I caught her before she hit the floor and dragged her to the chair next to Dad’s, and she stopped howling and cried in breathless, ragged bursts.
There was nowhere for me to sit next to them. All I could do was stand and stare at Ty.
He looked like he was made of wax. One of his eyes was coming open. He had beautiful eyelashes—thick and dark and curved just right—and between the seam of lashes there was a sliver of pale gray, like dirty snow. His lips were almost black. This was before you saw him, before the makeup and the formal clothes and the stiff folded hands. There was a smear of blood on his neck, disappearing under the sheet. I was struck with the urge to pull back the sheet and see the wound that killed him, something that would explain this terrible mystery of him being this empty thing when I’d just seen him twelve hours earlier, at the breakfast table, and he was fine.
I would have looked, but Mom and Dad were there. I backed away and stood by Mom and held her hand and cried with her until we both ran dry.
I can’t cry anymore. I think that part of myself is broken.
When it came time to leave, Mom didn’t want to go. She would have stayed with Ty all night, all day, until we buried him. But they made her go back into Jane’s office to sign some papers and talk about the next steps in the process of losing her child.
You were still waiting in the hall. You stood up when I opened the door. Your eyes said you believed it now.
That’s when I remembered the text.
I took the phone out of my pocket and checked, and it was still there.
Hey sis can you talk?
Ice washed over me. Dread. Numbness. I shoved the phone back into my pocket. I looked up at you. I thought, This is your fault.
If you hadn’t kissed me.
If you hadn’t distracted me.
If I hadn’t been so tangled up in the emotions I felt for you, the impractical emotions, I would have answered the text.
I would have stopped this.
I didn’t stop this.
And I thought again, It’s your fault.
I thought, I wish time travel was a viable option. If I could make a time machine, I would go back to that moment, and I would answer that text.
I’d save him.
I understand now that nobody could have saved Ty but Ty. There’s no one else to blame. Not you. Not me. Ty was holding all the cards.
I understand this now, with my head.
My heart still wishes for the time machine. I will have to make my heart forgive us for that night.
I can forgive you so much more easily than I can forgive myself.
And there’s so much I would ask you to forgive me for:
For shutting you out.
For the way I stopped talking to you.
For the absolutely stupid reason I gave as to why I wanted to break up.
I didn’t break up with you because of your sperm. Or because it wasn’t working between us, because it was working. It worked.
You deserve the truth.
Whether you choose to forgive me or not, you deserve to know that I meant it. What I said that night.
I love you.
I tried really hard not to. You have no idea how hard I tried.
Or maybe you do have some idea.
But I love you.
If you don’t know what to do with this information, that’s okay.
I just want to tell you everything, if you want to hear it. If you want to know.
I’ll start with this.
36.
WHEN I COME OUT OF DAMIAN’S HOUSE, Seth is sitting on the porch steps smoking a cigarette.
“Is everything all right with the kid?” he asks.
“Yeah. He’s going to be okay.”
“Good,” he says with genuine relief. “I was about to come in and get you. I have to go. I’m late for work.”
“You should go,” I tell him.
“You going to need a ride anywhere?”
I clutch my backpack to my chest. “I can get a ride. Thank you, Seth. Really. Thank you.”
“No sweat.” He takes a long drag. “I’ll call you if I ever need to pick a lock. Damn.”
I laugh and take the cigarette out of his mouth and step on it.
“What the hell?”
“I’m trying to keep everyone from killing themselves today,” I explain.
He snorts and gives me a half-irritated smirk. Then he gets on the motorcycle, puts his helmet on, and starts up Georgia with a roar. I wave as he speeds away.
I can’t believe I rode that thing.
I get out my cell. Mom won’t be off work for another hour. I take a deep breath and dial another number.
“Hey, Dad,” I say when he answers. “Can you come get me? Everything’s okay—I’m fine, but I need a ride.”
Then Mom stepped forward and laid shaking hands on Ty’s chest, like maybe she could wake him, and when he didn’t stir, she tipped her head back and a sound came out of her that was sheer pain—a mix of howl and wail that didn’t even sound like her voice anymore, that didn’t sound exactly human. I’m sure you heard it, from where you were.
Dad put his hand over his mouth and closed his eyes and stumbled back to a chair against the wall.
The sound kept coming out of Mom, and it was unbearable in the way it filled my ears and my head and solidified everything.
My brother was dead.
Mom’s knees gave out. I caught her before she hit the floor and dragged her to the chair next to Dad’s, and she stopped howling and cried in breathless, ragged bursts.
There was nowhere for me to sit next to them. All I could do was stand and stare at Ty.
He looked like he was made of wax. One of his eyes was coming open. He had beautiful eyelashes—thick and dark and curved just right—and between the seam of lashes there was a sliver of pale gray, like dirty snow. His lips were almost black. This was before you saw him, before the makeup and the formal clothes and the stiff folded hands. There was a smear of blood on his neck, disappearing under the sheet. I was struck with the urge to pull back the sheet and see the wound that killed him, something that would explain this terrible mystery of him being this empty thing when I’d just seen him twelve hours earlier, at the breakfast table, and he was fine.
I would have looked, but Mom and Dad were there. I backed away and stood by Mom and held her hand and cried with her until we both ran dry.
I can’t cry anymore. I think that part of myself is broken.
When it came time to leave, Mom didn’t want to go. She would have stayed with Ty all night, all day, until we buried him. But they made her go back into Jane’s office to sign some papers and talk about the next steps in the process of losing her child.
You were still waiting in the hall. You stood up when I opened the door. Your eyes said you believed it now.
That’s when I remembered the text.
I took the phone out of my pocket and checked, and it was still there.
Hey sis can you talk?
Ice washed over me. Dread. Numbness. I shoved the phone back into my pocket. I looked up at you. I thought, This is your fault.
If you hadn’t kissed me.
If you hadn’t distracted me.
If I hadn’t been so tangled up in the emotions I felt for you, the impractical emotions, I would have answered the text.
I would have stopped this.
I didn’t stop this.
And I thought again, It’s your fault.
I thought, I wish time travel was a viable option. If I could make a time machine, I would go back to that moment, and I would answer that text.
I’d save him.
I understand now that nobody could have saved Ty but Ty. There’s no one else to blame. Not you. Not me. Ty was holding all the cards.
I understand this now, with my head.
My heart still wishes for the time machine. I will have to make my heart forgive us for that night.
I can forgive you so much more easily than I can forgive myself.
And there’s so much I would ask you to forgive me for:
For shutting you out.
For the way I stopped talking to you.
For the absolutely stupid reason I gave as to why I wanted to break up.
I didn’t break up with you because of your sperm. Or because it wasn’t working between us, because it was working. It worked.
You deserve the truth.
Whether you choose to forgive me or not, you deserve to know that I meant it. What I said that night.
I love you.
I tried really hard not to. You have no idea how hard I tried.
Or maybe you do have some idea.
But I love you.
If you don’t know what to do with this information, that’s okay.
I just want to tell you everything, if you want to hear it. If you want to know.
I’ll start with this.
36.
WHEN I COME OUT OF DAMIAN’S HOUSE, Seth is sitting on the porch steps smoking a cigarette.
“Is everything all right with the kid?” he asks.
“Yeah. He’s going to be okay.”
“Good,” he says with genuine relief. “I was about to come in and get you. I have to go. I’m late for work.”
“You should go,” I tell him.
“You going to need a ride anywhere?”
I clutch my backpack to my chest. “I can get a ride. Thank you, Seth. Really. Thank you.”
“No sweat.” He takes a long drag. “I’ll call you if I ever need to pick a lock. Damn.”
I laugh and take the cigarette out of his mouth and step on it.
“What the hell?”
“I’m trying to keep everyone from killing themselves today,” I explain.
He snorts and gives me a half-irritated smirk. Then he gets on the motorcycle, puts his helmet on, and starts up Georgia with a roar. I wave as he speeds away.
I can’t believe I rode that thing.
I get out my cell. Mom won’t be off work for another hour. I take a deep breath and dial another number.
“Hey, Dad,” I say when he answers. “Can you come get me? Everything’s okay—I’m fine, but I need a ride.”
