Mom backs out of Maisey’s driveway. Even though I’d convinced her I wanted to get it over with, as soon as Mom knocked on the Morgans’ door, I wanted to run. I could literally feel pangs of their torment as I stood next to my own mother in their doorway. The way Maisey’s parents looked at me, stoic, searching, and still in shock.
A scene from Stand By Me flashed through my head. The part where the dad tells Gordy that he wished he would’ve died instead of his older brother. It shoulda been you, Bree. I tried to shake the thought out of my head as soon as it arrived, but it hung around for a few more minutes, taunting me. Maybe Maisey’s parents aren’t in that kind of place. But I am. I feel guilty. Guilty for not being some kind of savior. Like in the movies, the girl who takes the unpopular girl under her wing, gives her a makeover, the one where I’d convinced her to be on Prom Court, and she’d win. Not as a joke, but because everyone would be so amazed at her transformation. She’d stand tall and proud instead of gangly armed and slouchy, her tiny sunken eyes would pop with the right shade of eye shadow and a thick coat of mascara. Instead of laughing when she’d get her crown, everyone would cheer and pat themselves on the back for realizing the errors of their ways. And they all live happily ever after, smiling, shopping. Alive. The End.
Hindsight and regret suck the breath out of me, leaving me empty and motionless.
Mom grips the steering wheel and shakes her head. She mimics my thoughts, “I felt guilty for even standing there, with my daughter. My living daughter.”
I felt it too. Mrs. Morgan was in her own house, but she seemed so lost. It felt so intrusive to show up with nothing to give and asking for a letter I didn’t want. I couldn’t even say I was sorry, because that felt too small. I was squeezing mom’s hand so tight, lest I were to disappear down the same dark hole Maisey did.
My mom, taking her hand off the steering wheel to wipe a tear and pat my leg, asks, once more, if I’m okay.
Silence. I grip the envelope I wish wasn’t addressed to me, haunted by the sad smile her mom had when she said, “She didn’t reach out, but she still wanted to say good-bye. We had no idea she was still hurting.”
I’d sat in their foyer while Maisey’s mom and mine spoke in low hushes in the den. Her dad’s eyes were glossy and vacant, his tie loosened around his neck, his beard the same shade of burnt red as Maisey’s hair.
“Take it easy,” he said, disappearing upstairs with a can of beer.
I strained to hear the conversation I wasn’t asked to join. The details or backstory that Mrs. Morgan assumed I was too young for. Words jumped out of the hushed tones.
Devastated.
Abused.
Prison.
So long ago.
Happy.
Friends.
Released.
We didn’t realize.
My mom’s voice is a little clearer. Her “I’m so sorrys” ended with a trailing off of “If there’s anything I can do.”
Mom pulls me back into the present with a quick pat on my knee. “So, I texted your dad. He’s meeting us at the house.”
“What? Mom, really? Why?”
“This is a big deal, Bree. You were so upset at school that you could barely breathe. You need us. You just lost your friend.”
“Mom, she wasn’t my friend. Don’t you get it? If I was her friend, maybe … maybe …” I trail off. I don’t even know how to finish.
“She had a lot going on, things a kid shouldn’t have to deal with. Whether she was your best friend or your worst enemy, it’s not your fault. Suicide is tragic and hard to comprehend for most people. You’re pretty shaken up and you’ve been going through a lot lately too and I’m sorry. I think I forget sometimes that you’re still a kid too.”
“A kid? Oh God, Mom. Come on. And what’s Dad gonna do? Sit there and lecture me about not calling him? Sounds fun. Thanks.”
She shakes her head as if it’ll shake out whatever thoughts or images are plaguing her, keeping her eyes on the road. “I just don’t ever want anything to happen where … I need you to know no matter what, you can talk to me about anything.”
If only it were that easy. Mom hasn’t even stopped crying yet and is trying to pretend she’s not wiping snot and tears from her face with her sleeve. “I don’t know the plan, but let’s be glad that for once in his life your dad is trying.” She sighs.
I answer with only a sigh to softly mimic hers. The rest of the ride home I think of the places I’d rather be. I’d rather be on the hill, with the sun heating my back. Lying on a blanket at the park by my house, with earphones, listening to music louder than my thoughts. Or at home in bed, wrapped in the blue cornflowers of my comforter. Or kissing Sean again. Or maybe even in my bed kissing Sean again. Anywhere but on my way to talk to my dad about a dead girl from school.