There was a reason he felt compelled to put on a show. He’d been traveling most of the week, but only bothered to call home once. I’m not high maintenance, but I expect an evening check-in.
I played along, anxious for him to earn my forgiveness. “Thank you, my lord.”
“Yuck. Get a room,” Eve snapped. Brady and I lost it in laughter, giving each other a kiss while she turned away in disgust.
The day got better. I needed to go to an antique store to pick up a lamp that finally arrived. Brady surprised me by wanting to tag along, and again when he asked for a tour of the Wellesley campus on our way home. I’d volunteered at the library for two years, but he and Eve rarely acknowledged my time there. He was surprised how many passing students and professors knew me by name.
“Whatever you do, you go all in,” he remarked. Brady wasn’t one to throw around compliments, so I relished them when he did.
We returned home to a note from Eve saying she was having pizza at the Andersons’. Normally I’d have been irked she didn’t get permission—especially since it was at Kara’s and Eve knows I’m not a fan of that family—but that night I let it slide. I made lemon-broiled salmon over risotto while Brady set the table and opened a bottle of pinot grigio. We laughed, flirted, and made love. Our last time, it turned out. Afterward we danced to our wedding song and he whispered the lyrics in my ear: You came along and everything started to hum. Still it’s a real good bet the best is yet to come.
Untrue, of course, but Brady didn’t know that at the time.
Now he lies in bed, replaying the day, unaware Eve sits a room away, worried. I should motivate him to head to the kitchen, but I’m as swept up by the memory as he is. I don’t want to be remembered by how I died, I want to be remembered by who I was that Sunday, when I wasn’t competing with Brady’s and Eve’s many distractions.
Our thoughts crisscross. Am I leading him or is he leading me? I can’t tell. He lets out a keening sob that startles me. Most of his time grieving is filled with anger, but this moment is pure loss. He looks like a toddler, tucked into the fetal position, grasping his knees for strength. His mind stays fixed on that wonderful day, remembering details I forgot.
“I don’t tell you often that I know how lucky I am,” he said during our walk.
“No, you don’t, but I don’t need to hear it that often.”
Why did I always acquiesce like that? Perhaps if I didn’t enable his inattention he would’ve learned how to nurture. I allowed him to be distant, to disappoint, and it worked because I was there to make up for it. Now Eve is stuck with those qualities in her only parent.
Brady struggles through his tears to remember how we picked our wedding song all those years ago. New York City, I whisper. It slips to his consciousness. The weekend after our engagement Brady took me there to celebrate. We stayed at the Park Plaza, even though we could barely afford to park the car. All our money still went to student loans. I asked over and over how we’d pay for the weekend. “I’ll take care of it,” Brady assured. “I’m going to take such good care of you.” It turned out I’d be the one taking care of everyone, but we didn’t know it at the time. That night we went to a bar called The Rat Pack and danced to “The Best Is Yet to Come.” I’d never felt more certain.
Before retiring to her room, Eve checks on Brady. His audible sobs stop her from knocking. Picturing him broken down, only yards away, hits her hard. Eve is not enough for Brady, which of course she knew, but resents confronting so plainly. She listens over a half hour, wondering whether to knock. Let him be, I pass down to her softly, and she does.
This can’t be undone.
Eve
Today is my grand finale at Wellesley High School. I didn’t think of it as a big deal until Paige stopped in on her run this morning to see how I was feeling. She seemed surprised to find me unfazed. I want to feel sentimental—I do—but my emotions peaced out with my mother. Now I’m just water and bones.
The hall is packed with kids emptying out lockers. Lindsey and I shared since mine was in a clutch spot by the stairs and vending machines, but she cleared her stuff out days ago, probably to avoid us doing it at the same time. This won’t take long. I rip down the pictures we hung like wallpaper on the back wall and shove the spare makeup bag in my backpack, embarrassed I used to refer to an unexpected pimple as a 911. Everything else goes from my locker to the trash.
The inside of the metal door is covered with penciled graffiti where Lindsey and I passed gossip between classes. I’m supposed to erase it so I don’t start next year with detention, but they can’t exactly track me down in New Hampshire. I heard Jake say you have a fine ass, I wrote, starting the exchange in September. OMG—he’s such a drooler, Lindsey replied. And on it goes, until the day before Good Friday. No hot gossip after that unless I was the butt of it. I notice a new message across the bottom of the door: I so hope you find a way to be okay. That’s it. A simple wish from my old best friend. It doesn’t bring a single tear. I’ve become a freaking zombie.
I consider how different this day would be if my mother were alive. Everyone’s headed to Noel’s because his parents totally don’t give a shit what happens there. I’d be passing twenty bucks to Katy whose big brother is hooking everyone up with beer for a small profit, and John would be working on cover stories so we could both spend the night. Instead, I’ll walk out alone and go home to an empty house. My father won’t realize today was the last day of school until I don’t go back tomorrow.
I turned in a poem for my creative-writing final. Picking it up stands between me and the end of junior year. The assignment was to write a short story, but Mrs. Ludwick gave me an A for these four lines.
SILENCE SAID
I have no idea where to start
How to repair a broken heart?
Where a laugh means more than the mere amused
It means a tear has been refused.
The grade was probably because she felt sorry for me, but still. At the top of the page, she included a handwritten note: You seem to have something to say. You should try writing without the constraint of rhyming. I hold the paper up, pretending the message is longer than it is to avoid eye contact with everyone. The cover-up is probably unnecessary; there isn’t exactly a line of people looking to chat it up. Everyone’s sympathy ran out when my mourning came at the cost of the soccer team’s starting lineup next fall: John’s DUI got him benched the first five games.