The Beginning of After

Chapter Twenty-eight



Two weeks went by. Fortunately, I had midterms to study for and my other college applications to start, and didn’t have time to be obsessed with much else. For instance, Joe sending me a text message every afternoon with a proposed superhero identity for one of the teachers.

margulis = algeBrawn!

(Mr. Margulis in the math department was huge and a former bodybuilder.)

It seemed like his way of keeping the status quo, of reserving his spot for something.

At Ashland, Eve set out a straw cornucopia filled with turkey-shaped chocolates on the front desk, and I strung up a HAPPY THANKS GIVING banner on the wall. I used the wrong kind of tape and the next day it fell down and got chewed up by a dog. Eve didn’t say a thing about it; she just went out and bought another. So it was, now that she knew about my family. She had become less bossy but less friendly, too; we never went to lunch or even talked about ourselves anymore.

“The first holiday season since the accident will be a tough one, Laurel,” said Suzie. We were down to once-weekly visits. “Let’s talk about strategies.”

So we talked, about trying yoga and me possibly going to some weekend camp for grieving teens. She asked me to start a list in my journal titled “Thanksgiving: Things I’m Thankful For,” and encouraged me to write anything that came to mind over the next few weeks.

I hadn’t told her about my visit to Mr. Kaufman or about smack-kissing Joe. The truth was, I was getting tired of talking about myself. Suzie knew it too. Our sessions were starting to end early, because we’d reach the point of me just shrugging and giving her one-word answers, and she’d say, “That’s enough for today.”


laurel





wilmington, nc now. 2 gigs but I think everyone’s going to stick around for a couple of weeks bcuz of the holiday. they have to bunk down at friends’ houses but fortunately i can swing the comfort inn for myself. swanky, i know. i found that if you open a minibar beer bottle the right way, without bending the cap, you can fill it back up with water and you won’t get charged for it.





david





The email caught me unexpectedly on a Saturday, when I was just doing a quick check before heading out to meet Joe at the library.

I started pulling together some phrases in my head to answer him with. Something witty and cute. A joke about minibars? Or beer bottles filled with cloudy hotel water?

But when I read it again, and then again, I realized the email was not asking for an answer. It was just there. A record of where he’d been, like dropped bread crumbs along a trail. So I just let it be, thinking that maybe there would come a time when I’d need to follow those bread crumbs to find him.

And I had Joe to think about today.

The library had scheduled our art show—I felt okay calling it ours now—for the second week in December. It was going to be eight pieces hanging downstairs in the community room, where they held story hour and Pilates for Seniors and the book club my mom used to go to.

Joe and I planned to meet there, during a one-hour gap when nothing was going on, to go over sketches once more before committing to ink and paint. “This way, we can see how they might work in the space,” he’d said. But really, it was just a square underground room with white walls and fluorescent lighting. I knew he’d suggested the location because it was neutral territory. Private enough so that nobody would be watching us, and public enough so that certain touching-type things were just not an option.

“Howdy,” Joe said as I came down the stairs to the community room with my sketch pad under one arm. I’d finally gotten a large one like his.

I flashed on how David always began his emails with simply “laurel,” without even a comma or proper capitalization. There was no “howdy” in David’s universe.

Joe was standing with Ms. Folsom, the head librarian, who’d invited Joe to show his artwork. Now, suddenly, I realized that she was his neighbor. It was one of those useless, small-town facts I’d always known but stored away until now, when it explained why Joe was doing all this.

“Hi, Laurel,” she said, smiling sweetly. “I was so happy to hear that you guys are collaborating on this project. We can’t wait to see the results!”

Her eyes danced a bit, and I wondered if my involvement was some kind of extra selling point for her. Maybe she thought people would be more interested in coming to see the art if they knew half of it was by Laurel Meisner.

“Thanks,” was all I said.

“I’ll leave you two to work . . . let me know if you need anything!” She patted Joe on the shoulder but not me, and moved past us back up the stairs.

“Good day so far?” said Joe, holding out his hand to take my sketch pad from me. I handed it to him but noticed him cringing a bit. “I’m sorry,” he added. “That sounded like a therapist or something. I was just, you know . . .”

I wondered if there would ever be a time when he’d be able to just talk to me, without worrying that it would come out strange, without his words getting snagged on the Tree of Unfinished Sentences.

“Don’t worry about it. You could never sound anything like my therapist.”

He raised his eyebrows involuntarily. Oops! I’d just told him I saw a therapist. As if he didn’t already think I was some fragile Christmas ornament you had to hang up high on the tree so it was less likely to get knocked off.

“Can we put our stuff over there?” I diverted, pointing to a table at the front of the room.

We went through our sketches for the eight pieces. His drawings made me laugh, especially TurboSenior, who looked not unlike Joe himself, and fortunately a couple of my backgrounds cracked him up right back. For the Incredible Sulk—a goth girl with a sour expression doing a karate kick—I’d drawn a frilly pink and green bedroom.

With Joe being so tall, I kept feeling his breath on my neck, smelling of spearmint gum. I was careful not to turn to look at him when I knew his face was close. I couldn’t take the uncertainty of another near-moment.

“I think it’s safe to take this to the next level,” said Joe when we were done.

Now I let myself look straight at him, surprised. This? Did he mean, us?

“Ink and paint,” he stammered, realizing.

“I’m ready if you are,” I said as lightly as I could.

I heard Joe swallow hard and looked up again. Don’t be afraid, I thought loudly, and wondered if I was saying it to myself, or to him.

“There isn’t going to be some chic gallery opening or anything like that,” he said. “But my parents want to bring in some sparkling cider and cheese and crackers on the first night. I thought it would be fun for us to be here, you know, together.”

Joe nervously bit his lower lip. We’d already made out and then I’d kiss-tackled him. Why did this have to be so hard? This was like baking cookies from a premade mix, not from scratch. All the hard work was already done.

“I mean, I’d pick you up, and take you home after,” he finally said.

I smiled at him, saying nothing.

“Like a date,” he added with a smile back at me, then we both took the deep breaths we needed.


When I got home, there was a stack of unassembled cardboard moving boxes sitting outside the front door.

“Nana?” I called, walking into the house.

“Can you grab some of those boxes?” she said, coming down the stairs to meet me. “I had them delivered, but I need your help carrying them in and putting them together.”

After I brought them inside, I watched Nana as she examined the boxes, waiting for her to provide more information. But it seemed like she wanted me to ask.

“What are they for?” I finally said.

“Coats,” she replied matter-of-factly. “You know I do that every year, up in Johnstown. We collect old coats during the holidays and distribute them at the Rescue Mission.”

“Oh, right.”

“So I thought we’d do the same here.” She paused, and swallowed. “With your father’s. And your mother’s. She had so many.” I didn’t say anything, so she also added, “I found a foster children’s group that will gladly take your brother’s.”

Nana went straight to the front closet, opened it, and started rummaging around. “You can keep anything of your mother’s that you want, of course. You should. Some of it was expensive, and it would look nice on you.” She pulled out a long brown cashmere coat that Mom often wore into the city and handed it to me. “Like this one.”

I took it silently, the fabric collapsing into my hands. I raised it to my face and inhaled.

Musty, but laced with flowers and some kind of sweet spice, like cinnamon.

“I don’t think I can do this, Nana,” I said.

She was holding one of Toby’s down parkas, petting it. “I don’t know if I can either, sweetie. That’s why we should do it together and do it fast, before I change my mind.”

“Just the coats?”

“Just the coats. For now.”

I nodded, biting my lip as the tears came burning through, and laid the cashmere coat on the dining room table.

I said, “This will be the Keep pile.”