“Well, I’m not saying it’s how I would have chosen, if I’d had my druthers.” She pats her hair again. “Your dad and I moved up here because we wanted our kids to have it easier, but we fouled that up pretty quick.”
“But I do have it easier.” We’re poor, but Mom grew up in a rusted-out trailer in Dumas, down in the southeast part of the state. We’ve visited a few times, and it’s totally different from here—swamps instead of mountains, cypress and pine instead of oak and hickory, and the blues instead of bluegrass. The former plantations still grow cotton and rice, while farms here are mostly small homesteads wedged into valleys. They even have a different accent. But their economy is terrible, and the jobs available in Big Springs were the answer to my parents’ prayers. “I know I complain a lot, but I don’t want you to think that I … you know. I do appreciate it.”
She smiles. “And see, that’s what I mean. I didn’t do it right, but look how you turned out anyway.”
“A hot mess?”
She huffs. “That’s my hot mess you’re talking about,” she says, and I laugh. “Besides, I’m not ready to be a grandma yet.”
“Oh god, I didn’t even think about that.” But once the idea is out, I can’t put it away—Mom and Eddie as Meemaw and Pawpaw or something similarly awful. Dr. and Mrs. R. would be ridiculous in a different way—she’d probably refuse any kind of nickname and he’d demand to be Grandpa Deadhead or something. They’d be amazing grandparents.
Will be amazing grandparents. To Matt’s kids. Not mine.
Somehow I’d always pictured them in that role, even when I wasn’t interested in either son. It just seemed like they’d always be there.
It’s weird to miss a family you never really had, but I guess I always will.
MATT
Monday after school, I call the number I took off my Favorites weeks ago. Raychel answers, sounding hesitant. “You want to go for a walk?” I ask.
She comes to the house but doesn’t come in. “Tell her … thanks,” she says, handing me a stack of Mom’s books.
I nod, though I’ll probably just slip them back on the shelf.
We wander the neighborhood toward the back of the subdivision, where new homes stand in various stages of construction. Mud surrounds most but one has a sidewalk already poured, and Raychel follows me up the path into the frame of the house. She moves from room to room, stepping into each space. “Is this a closet?” She holds her arms out. “It’s bigger than my bedroom.”
I don’t answer. Large window holes look out over the sloped backyard, and the recent rain has cut a gully at the base of the hill. Leaves and sticks float down the ditch and away into a stand of trees left by the subdivision planners, who are required by law to preserve a certain percentage of the trees. I wonder how they decide which ones get to survive.
“Ow.” Behind me, Raychel inspects her hand.
“What’d you do?” I cross the house, stepping through the framed walls instead of going around them to the doors.
“Scraped my hand on a nail.” She puts it to her mouth. “No biggie.”
“Are you bleeding?”
The blood on her lip answers my question. “Not really.”
The lie pisses me off more than it should and I turn my back, only to hear thumping. “What are you doing?”
“Going upstairs.”
“It’s not finished.” I tilt my head back. The second story’s floors are just rows of boards, not yet covered with plywood. She walks out on a beam and I gauge the distance to the concrete floor. She’ll crack her skull like a … like … I climb the steps too, trying to hurry without appearing to.
She glances at me. “It’s fine. See?” One hand pretends to shake the wall brace beside her. “There’s plenty to hold on to.” I start across the beam toward her. “Just don’t look down,” she adds. Of course I do, but it doesn’t scare me. What scares me is that I can’t hang on to her, and I shouldn’t. But I still want to.
RAYCHEL
I pick my way through the house’s skeleton, balancing on its bones to stand in its open eyes at the back. Thunder grumbles. “It’s going to rain.”
Matt makes a sound that could be agreement. Or not.
I can’t believe he actually called. I almost didn’t answer, but if I’m giving up the Richardsons, I might as well do it completely—including closure with Matt. Still, I’m not going to lead this conversation.
So I wait, letting my eyes wander the property. Everything has turned from brown to gray now. Dead leaves float, then swirl as the wind picks them up, teasing them past empty tree branches.
Matt sniffs, not looking at me. “Do you miss him?”
I swallow hard. “Of course.”
He stays silent for a few minutes. “It’s just…” He trails off, and though I want to follow, I can’t pick it up because I don’t know where it goes. So I wait, and wait, but he doesn’t speak.
The rain begins, a light drizzle the roof mostly keeps off. It combines with wet sawdust to make a new smell, something like moss or decaying firewood. It brings back afternoons in Dr. R.’s workshop, the summer we “helped” him build a fort and Andrew broke his arm on his first trip down the slide. I bite my lip, chapped and stinging from the cold. If Matt’s not going to talk, there’s no reason to stand here. I turn to leave.
He clears his throat. “Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“No, my dad said…” He coughs. “I heard him say you asked for a letter of recommendation, for your applications.”
I lean against the window frame. The only thing more uncomfortable than asking for the letter is the mental image of the Richardsons still discussing me around the kitchen table. “Yeah, I, um … I’m applying to a few other schools besides here, for next fall. Just in case.” With Eddie in the house, my mom has help with the bills, which means I might even be able to refill my savings some.
“That’s good,” Matt says. “Where at?”
“One in Missouri,” I start, stalling. “One in Texas, one in Oklahoma, one in Colorado … and one in Tennessee.” He doesn’t react, but I rush on anyway. “Don’t worry, it’s really far from Memphis. Tennessee is super long, like—”
“I’m not worried.” He shifts his weight, reaching with both hands for the board above our heads. “I’m happy for you. I hope you get in somewhere good.”
And then it’s quiet again, because we both know what the opposite of good is—the place I’m most likely to be. But it’s not worth arguing about. I’m not sure anything is. “Matt,” I say, forcing him to look up. “I don’t know what you want.” I wish we’d had this conversation a long time ago.
He picks at the wood. “I don’t either.” The rain falls heavier, blowing through the windows, and he wipes his face. “I want … to forgive you,” he says, staring out. “But I don’t know how.”
“Then don’t.” I straighten my spine in the space between the wall braces. “What good would it do?”
“You’re my best friend, Raych—”
“Am I?” I snort. “Because last time I checked, you were ignoring me and I was banned from your house.”