Page 19 of The Last to Let Go
But then she giggled. I’m not sure why, I guess it must’ve tickled her. The light flipped on and suddenly Cindy was standing over us, hands on her hips, this evil grin on her face. “What are youdoing? Oh my God,” she snorted, “are you guyslesbostogether?”
Monica B. looked at me, and for a moment I thought we were going to stick together, tell those little assholes off, and agree to form our own lunch table at school on Monday. But that’s not what happened. Monica jumped up and, taking on the same exact tone as Cindy, said, “Oh my God! Ew, no—gross.” And everyone started laughing before I could say anything, not that I would’ve known what to say had I been given the chance.
I called home. I told Mom that I didn’t feel good, I begged her to ask Dad to pick me up, risking any argument that conversation might cause between them. I had never wanted to go home so badly in my entire life. I stood outside on the front steps by myself and I ran my fingers through the braid, unraveling it strand by strand while I waited for Dad to pick me up.
When he arrived in the patrol car, having just gotten off duty, all he said was, “Hi.”
I said “Hi” back.
He said, “Buckle up,” and that was the end of it. I was grateful he didn’t make a big deal about it or demand to know what had happened. Maybe he knew somehow that it was too humiliating to discuss, that there was nothing to be done about it anyway.
By Monday I’d gone from invisible geek to the rumor mill, and Monica B. was suddenly one of Cindy’s minions. Needless to say, I was never invited to another slumber party.
I jerk awake, my body half falling out of Callie’s bed. It’s darker now, the moon having shifted its position in the sky. I make my way over to the other side of the room and lie down in my bed again, though I know it will never really bemybed. As I close my eyes, I vow never to think about braids, or Dad, or that night I missed home so bad I would’ve done anything to get back there, again.
CEASE-FIRE
IT’S BEEN NEARLY EIGHTweeks since I walked up these stairs. The third step creaks, as it always has. My hand slides easily along the well-worn molded wooden banister, like it has a million times before. I pass by the doors of the neighbors I’ve lived next to, side by side, for my entire life, trying to be as quiet as possible as I approach the door to our apartment. I put my key into the lock and turn, the familiar metal-on-metal rumble, the sound of the tumblers clicking into place—something inside of me clicking into place.
I push the door open a crack and a thin line of light spills out into the hall. I let the door swing all the way open, the old hinges squealing as it hits the wall with a dull thud and bounces back toward me. I quickly survey the room before stepping inside. After the cops had collected and documented everything, Jackie arranged for a special crime scene cleaning company to come and scrub the place down. As I take one step inside, I’m assaulted by the smells of strong, toxic chemicals unsuccessfully masked with potpourri-scented air fresheners, all being circulated and recirculated through the stuffy, overheated, oversaturated, used-up air. I walk across the living room and throw open the entire row of windows that line the front wall. The room seems to inhale deeply and exhale, the curtains sucked in, then blown back out.
I walk the perimeter of each room, examining its contents—was that ceramic vase always there on that end table? What about that stack of magazines sitting on the bottom level of the coffee table? Surely the pictures on the shelf above the couch have been rearranged. But no. Everything is as it always was. The same with my bedroom, formerly Aaron’s room. And Callie’s room—formerly my room too—everything looks the same. Our old bookcase in its old spot in the corner, our globe sitting on the top shelf like it used to. I walk over and give it a small spin, but it’s barely enough force for even one revolution.
I move on to my parents’ room. The door is closed as always, off-limits to us. Anytime I was in their bedroom for any reason I felt like I was in a museum—nothing was to be touched or moved or even looked at for too long.
The metal doorknob feels cool and slick in my hand. I hesitate but then turn it slowly. As I push their door open, the air that rushes out is of a different quality than the rest of the apartment, like it was somehow spared from chemical contamination, the air still fresh and many degrees cooler.
I step inside and am immediately engulfed by the scent of my mother—something like citrus and flowers, though not quite—rushing over me and around me and through me. It’s just as comforting as it is agonizing. As I go one step farther, though, it hits me like a wall. Dad. Sandalwood and eucalyptus and spice, the combination of mysterious products he used daily, aftershave and soap and shampoo, obsessive as he always was with the appearance of order and cleanliness in all things. Unmistakably here, dense yet invisible—a ghost stopping me in my tracks.
A breeze floats through the room, raising the hair on my arms and the back of my neck. I hear people talking down below, from the courtyard of our building. The light in my parents’ bathroom is on. The window was left open—the fan never did work properly, so they always kept that window cracked while they showered. I walk across the floor, the carpet changing to cold tiles against the soles of my feet as I enter the bathroom. All their things have been left out around the sink—Mom’s hairbrush and makeup, Dad’s electric razor still plugged in—like they knew for sure they’d be back, using everything again the next morning.
Just then a quick, sharp bolt of lightning cracks inside my head, splintering along the surface of my skull. It nearly knocks me off my feet. I stumble out of the bathroom and make it to their bed. Hunched over, I hold my head in my hands, pulling my stupidJACKIE’Shat off slowly, my hair snagging as it tugs my ponytail loose. I let myself lie down on my back, my legs dangling over the side. I close my eyes. Just a second, I tell myself. Only until the pounding stops.
Someone shouting “God—fuck—dammit, Brooke!” is what wakes me, sends me sitting straight up, my eyes wide open. Aaron stands in the doorway, brandishing an umbrella. “Don’t ever do that again!” he shouts, tossing the umbrella to the floor and dragging his hands over his face. “I thought someone broke in. I thought you said we’d meet outside?”
“What?” I manage, still foggy as I look down at the hat clenched in my fist and remember how I came to be lying in my parents’ bed.
“Do you know you left the door wide open?” he asks, still standing out in the hall, like he senses that same invisible barrier to this room, preventing him from entering.
“Shit, I did?” I ask, the ratio of profanity to regular words seeming to rise involuntarily whenever it’s just us. I quickly get up off the bed and smooth my hands over the wrinkles I’ve made in the bedspread.
He moves aside so I can pass, eyeing me suspiciously. Then he follows me back out to the living room. “So, what are we doing here?” he finally asks.
I shrug. “I just wanted to check on things, since we’re allowed back in now. I thought we could do it together. Plus, I wanted to see you.”
“I’ve been meaning to stop by Jackie’s place,” he says. “I’ve been working a lot.” Aaron always has an assortment of random part-time, sometimes under-the-table, seasonal, fill-in-for-the-regular-guy jobs. I can never keep track of where he’s working or when.
“Thanks for coming,” I tell him, turning around to face him. “Is this the first time you’ve been back?”
He crosses his arms and says, “Yeah.” He takes a quick look around the room, his eyes twitching when they scan the doorway to the kitchen.
“I haven’t gone in there yet,” I tell him, because I know that’s the question on his mind, the fear in his heart—I know because it’s mine, too.
Keeping his arms tightly folded across his chest and his eyes on the floor, like he’s concentrating on counting his steps, he walks slowly toward the dining room. He stands at the entrance to the kitchen for a second, the way he stood in the doorway at the funeral home, checking first to make sure it’s safe. Or safe enough, anyway. He unfolds his arms like he’s taking off some kind of protective armor, and steps inside the kitchen, so that I can’t see him anymore.
My feet begin to follow but stop short at the dining room. “Well?” I ask, growing more nervous, more impatient by the second, but also thankful he’s here, that he’s the one checking it out first.
“It’s okay,” he calls back.
