Page 75 of The Last to Let Go
“Or rather, peoplecanchange. I know I have. But people have to change themselves—you can’t make them change. That’s where I went wrong. I kept thinking I could change her father. That’s why I stayed so long. But I couldn’t, and eventually I became the one who was changing—changing into someone I didn’t much like, in fact. She hated me for staying, your mother. But then she went ahead and did the same exact thing, waiting around for Paul to magically become a different person. Followed right in my footsteps,” she says, shaking her head sadly.
“She thinks I’m following in hers,” I admit. “Or at least she did, anyway. Do you think that?”
“Well, I don’t know you well enough to say.” She pauses. “But I’d think if you’re even asking the question, then you’re most likely on the right track.”
I shrug. I hear myself say, “I told her that I hated her the last time I talked to her.”
“I can imagine you had your reasons. I can think of a couple myself,” she answers, not at all surprised. I’m beginning to think maybe she’s one of these people who have seen so much they’ve become unshockable. “Did you mean it?” she asks.
“I think I meant it when I said it. I don’t think I do anymore, though.”
She nods again, as if everything I’ve said is totally understandable, like maybe I’m not such a terrible person after all. “Like I said, people can change.”
We sit and drink our coffees together, allowing for the random exchanges and breaks of silence. It feels easy, simple. When we finish, Caroline pays the bill, and she offers to give me a ride home. But I tell her no; it’s stopped raining by then.
“Call again,” she tells me, giving me a one-armed hug as we part at the door. “It can be just coffee. Or any other reason.”
THE THAW
MARCH IS ALWAYS A BATTLEGROUND.Trying to fight off spring, get a stronghold overnight as the puddles turn back from water to ice. Winter is sneaky that way.
As I’m waiting at the bus stop, with the sun peeking over the tops of the buildings, new light filtering through the bare branches of the trees in the park, I hear thispop. This crack like an earthquake—something snapping, breaking. I jump and duck my head, covering it with my arms. Then silence. I look around, but there’s no sign of any disturbances. But it happens again, louder this time, echoing, sounding close yet faraway, like it’s everywhere and nowhere.
Another crack, another snap, another break. I smell it in the air—something like rain and dirt. The river ice is breaking. It happens every year, but I guess I’m never outside when it does. Behind closed doors it never sounded so violent.
I have at least five minutes before the bus. If I hurry, I can make it over to the park. I’m crossing the street, rounding the corner, before I’ve even made up my mind.
I keep slipping on the black ice that lines the pathway down to the riverbank, but manage to keep myself from falling. It’s louder and louder the closer I get, drawing me into its urgency.
When I reach the edge, the ice is giving way, huge pieces of mosaic churning and tumbling over themselves to get downstream. The water level along the bank rises right before my eyes, so quickly that I have to take a step back. I’m consumed by a vision of the river overflowing, swallowing me up, carrying me off, drowning me along the way. I step back again. And again, and again. Until I’m not taking steps anymore; I’m running. I exit the park and cross back over to my side of the street, looking behind me the whole way, just to be sure.
I look up in time to watch as the bus pulls away from the curb.
Shit. I’m going to be late. Again.
“Ms. Winters...” My head snaps up from the sign-in log. It’s Mrs. Murray, my guidance counselor. I’ve been dodging her for weeks. She wanted to sit down with me after I dropped those extra classes at the beginning of the semester. She told me to make an appointment with her whenever it was convenient for me. But there never seemed to be a good time.
“Hi, Mrs. Murray.”
“Do you have a moment?” she asks.
“Well, I’m—I’m late, so...”
“Yes, I see that. Please,” she says, leading the way to her office. She lets me in first, then follows me inside and shuts the door. “Have a seat,” she tells me, sitting down across from me, in her vomit-colored three-piece suit, her hair unraveling from the bun knotted at the back of her head, somehow already looking sick of me. She thumbs a file folder full of papers and sighs, shaking her head.
“Is that mine—my file, I mean?” I ask.
She nods. “I’ve been trying to reach your guardian. Aaron Winters—is this an uncle?”
“No, he’s my brother.”
“I see. Well, he hasn’t returned any of my phone calls,” she says.
“Oh, really?” I say, pretending to be confused about the situation. “Well, he’s been pretty busy.”
“I’m your guidance counselor and I’m pretty busy too. And part of my job is to make sure you’re doing okay.” She pauses, expecting a response. “You’ve been missing a lot of school recently. Have you been ill, or is it something else?” she asks.
I recognize these questions. They pulled this on me at my old school. Fishing. Trying to see if something’s “going on” at home. When I don’t answer, she raises her eyebrows and says, “Or maybe you’ve just been truant?”
