The Memory of Us

by Lisa Sorbe

  But now they are. Now I can feel my entire body heat, pulse with indignation. I’m annoyed, though not surprised. West was always the one who could pull me from myself, out of my head and back down into my heart. It’s one of the reasons I did what I did. One of the reasons I left…and stayed gone.

  My smile is neutral; I refuse to let him see the way he’s managed to crawl under my skin only mere seconds after this…this…reunion between us. “My mother died, West. Why would you even wonder if I’d come back?” I say this in a huff, unable to keep the irritation from my voice despite my best effort to sound aloof.

  “Well,” he drawls. “You haven’t been back in twelve years. And I just figured if you couldn’t visit her when she was alive, well…” He pushes his brows together, letting his voice trail off, the silence following his little spiel saying more than words ever could.

  I scowl at him. “And you walked all the way across the street to…what? Tell me I’m a shitty daughter? Is that it? And what are you even doing here? I thought your parents moved.”

  “They did. I…” West leans his head back and sighs. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows—more scathing accusations, no doubt—before he drops his chin, leveling me with his gaze. “No,” he says, his tone softening. I see it as a white flag, a surrender of sorts. “I didn’t come over here to infer that you were a…a shitty daughter. I just…”

  I wait, trying not to appreciate the way his jacket strains over his broad shoulders. Nor do I give much more than a glance (or two or a million) to the way his jeans hang on his tall frame, the way his white V-neck pulls against his chest just a little with each breath. West is solid, like he’s always been, like he was even before his gangly body grew into the muscular version it is now. When I was younger, he seemed bigger than life, his energy palpable, swirling with mine to make me more carefree, more in tune with the Now than I would have ever been otherwise.

  “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry.” He shrugs, a peace falling over his features.

  A peace that I just have to needle at, poke away at.

  “But you didn’t.” I shift my luggage strap higher on my shoulder and stare down at him from my perch on the porch. I could have—should have—just said thank you and left it at that. But I don’t, because somewhere along our conversation I’ve reverted back to my ten-year old self and the only way to show a boy that I like him is to egg him on. Annoy him. At least, that’s how it worked with him before. He hated letting me have the last word. “You had to march over here and act all high and mighty. Holier-than-thou Weston Brooks, am I right?” I arch a brow. “You know, if I remember correctly, you’re hardly holy.”

  The cloud cover shifts, casting a muted ray of light between us, a soft white glow that needles the dingy spring day much in the same way I’m needling West. It flickers briefly, dancing over his features, and I swear I see a glimmer of amusement flit across his expression before the clouds rush to swallow it back up. “You would know,” he says, and I see the way the way his mouth wobbles, the corners tilting up briefly before he tugs them back down.

  “What?” I gasp, feigning shock. “Is that a smile I see?” I shake my head and tsk, tsk, tsk. “Becoming soft in your old age. Don’t feel bad. It happens.”

  West shakes his head and laughs. “And there she is.” He opens his mouth to say something else, but quickly shuts it, apparently deciding against it. Instead he clears his throat, waves toward my bags. “You, uh, need any help with those?”

  I glance down at my luggage and then back up. He’s still standing at the edge of the driveway, like he can’t decide whether or not he wants to come closer.

  “No,” I say briskly, reaching down to grip the handle of my suitcase for effect. “I can manage myself.”

  He shrugs. “You always could.” There’s a tug on his voice, like he’s suppressing what he wants to say, and he nods as he takes a step back. “Well… Guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

  He’s talking about the funeral, and the thought of it makes my throat tighten. So I don’t say anything, just watch his back as he jogs across the street and up the sloping yard of a white two-story house with black shutters that, aside from the color, is very similar to the one I grew up in. I haven’t seen West since I was seventeen, though, thanks to my mother, I do know a bit about what he’s been up to. And I have to admit I was surprised to see him today; I’d been told his parents moved away years ago, downsizing to a condo in sunny Florida. My mother mentioned they rent out the house here in town and that West checks in on it every now and then. And maybe that’s what he’s here doing today. The reason that he, of all people, is the very first person I run into during this godawful trip back to Wolf Lake.

  I don’t watch him go inside, just turn to face my own door, a shield against the onslaught of memories that will no doubt hit once I turn the knob and open it.

  I suddenly wish I had accepted his offer of help, invited him inside so I didn’t have to face this old, empty house alone. Because I’m anything but pulled together right now. My life has been riddled with death, so I should be used to this. I’ve sectioned my days by way of the amount of people I let in, keeping what relationships I do have at a comfortable arm’s length. I’m well aware that what I’m doing is a coping mechanism, a result of all the loss that went down here, in this house. But it’s an awareness that stems from some other level, one that only surfaces every now and then, and I’m incredibly effective at pushing it back down.

  Yet I’ve never felt more alone than I do right now.

  But this is it. The last person I have to bury. And if I can just keep my goddamned head on straight while I’m here, this will be the end of it.

  The door opens with a sigh, not unlike a crypt that’s been locked up for thousands of years. I’m being dramatic, of course. My mother only passed four days ago—blissfully in her sleep, thank goodness—and the place hasn’t had a chance to seal itself against time.

  Still, the dark entryway seems blacker than it should, more unwelcoming than a tomb.

  But that’s just my imagination, right? Because houses don’t hold grudges.

  Only the people who live in them do.

  “Oh, grow up, Laney,” I mutter, and step inside.

  Weston Brooks is two days younger than me. Our mothers didn’t know each other before they got pregnant, but once they started to see the way that both of their stomachs seemed to be growing at the same rate, their casual waves from across the dashboards of their cars or over the tops of their grocery bags turned into friendly hellos, idle chit chat and, eventually, bloomed into a real friendship.

  My parents were older than West’s by a decade and had already lived in the neighborhood a good five years before his parents moved in just catty corner across the street. And then it was another year or so before the two women introduced themselves and bonded over their pregnancies: complaining about morning sickness, swollen ankles, back pain. The two even shared the same strange food cravings, like peanut butter and pickle sandwiches dipped in ranch dressing. This camaraderie also drew our fathers together, and somewhere between the time West and I were conceived and when we made our debut into the world, our parents had grown from neighbors who merely nodded hello from their porch steps to…family.

  So it’s no wonder West and I grew up like siblings. We shared and fought over toys, played pranks on one another (when we were eight, he put a fake rubber snake in my bed and I retaliated by putting an egg his shoe so that, when he stuck his foot inside, the shell cracked and leaked yoke all over his toes)—all the sorts of things real brothers and sisters do. We argued, made up, argued, and made up again, usually all within the span of a week. We practically lived in the pool in my parents’ backyard during the summers, playing Marco Polo and arguing over radio stations (West always wanted rock while I fought for pop and, for a very short time during the summer after fifth grade, country). In the winter we would hole up in one or the other’s bedrooms, alternating between my Nintendo and h
is Sega, battling it out over games like Mario Cart and Mortal Kombat.

  It was West’s idea to try and trick strangers into believing that we were actually related. That we were real, honest to goodness siblings. And though we looked nothing alike, we succeeded in fooling people more often than not. West was all tan skin and golden hair, bright blue eyes and sunshine. He was messy, constantly sporting scuffed knees and rumpled hair and throwing his shirt off in the summers. My locks were dark, nearly black, and my green eyes were almost too big for my pale, freckled face. I wore pressed jeans and blouses that buttoned to the neck and, in the summer, I always threw a t-shirt over my swimming suit.

  West was heart, content in the moment.

  I was logic, and my mind was always racing toward the future.

  Still, despite the differences, despite the tricks and the arguments and the rough-housing, we were the best of friends. And as corny as this sounds, there were times when I didn’t know where he ended and I began. I could feel his presence in a room before he even entered; he could sense my mood before I even rang his doorbell. That was how we were. Like, somehow, one aspect of us was always right next to the other, even when our bodies were miles apart.

  Always just…one breath away.

  Man, do people ever come out of the woodwork when someone dies.

  I guess some could say the same about me, considering last night was the first one I’d spent in this house in over a decade. But I was hardly absent from my mother’s life. Once I passed the bar and started working at Mason & Glaser, I flew her out to Phoenix for every holiday. And after she retired from the bank where she’d spent her last thirty years, I made up the spare bedroom in my condo and enticed her to stay with me for weeks at a time. Hell, I probably had a better relationship with my mother than those who actually live close to their parents. The miles between us helped to avoid the bickering and meddling and obligation that so often get in the way and sour family ties.

  Most importantly, the miles allowed us to forget.

  Although right now, I’m staring into the accusing eyes of our next-door neighbor, Corrine Moody, and I can tell that’s certainly not the way she sees it. Her eyes narrow as she takes me in. “Your mother enjoyed this dish.” She hands me a glass baking pan full of green bean casserole, the lines of her forehead cutting deeper as she frowns.

  I smile a tight-lipped smile and feel the weight of the casserole in my hands, give it a little tug. Corrine has a good grip on it, though, and it seems she’s made the short walk across our yards to not only bring me food, but to also give me a piece of her mind. “Thank you, Corrine. I appreciate your thought.”

  I’ve known Corrine Moody since I was born. Strict and severe, she used to babysit me and West when we were younger. From kindergarten to fourth grade, we had to spend every weekday afternoon between three and five at her house—which smelled horribly of lavender and burnt toast—before one of our parents would pick us up after work. We abhorred her. Or, well, at least I did, anyway. She adored West and tolerated me, which of course led to bitter feelings and soft retaliation on my part. (Every once in a while, I would move her things around—like put her favorite big spoon in another drawer or swipe her hair curlers from her bathroom cupboard and toss them into a snow boot in the mud room. Once, I snagged her new pair of sandals, squirreled them away under her couch, and watched her search for them for an entire week before quietly slipping them right back into her closet where I’d originally found them.)

  I think it’s pretty safe to say that our relationship has always been hate-hate.

  Corrine lifts her chin, eyeing me from the lower half of her bifocals. She takes in my bun, which is slicked back in coconut oil, and my ratty ASU t-shirt which just hits the thighs of my black leggings. My feet are clad in a pair of fluffy pink socks that I dug out of a drawer in my old bedroom, and my face is naked, save for the green tea clay mask I’d just finished applying when the doorbell rang.

  Once a month, I go through this beauty regimen. And just because I buried my mother today is no reason to break routine. If it’s on the list, I do it. Simple as that.

  “And how are you doing, missy?”

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes at the nickname. Believe me, it’s not a term of endearment. Not coming from Corrine. “I’m doing just fine, Corrine.” With one final tug, I pull the dish from her hands and take a step back, away from the threshold and into the house. “Thanks for the casserole. It was really thoughtful—”

  Footsteps sound from behind Corrine, stealing her attention away from me, and when she turns, her tone turns from one of judgment to appreciation. “Weston!” she says, interrupting me and clasping her hands over her heart.

  “Mrs. Moody.”

  I hear him before I see him, the dim lighting on the front steps worse due to the burnt-out bulb above the porch. But the sound of his voice is enough to make my heart rate kick up a notch, heating my cheeks which are, unfortunately, slathered in green paste.

  “Well, aren’t you just the most considerate thing!” Corrine gushes, drinking him in like she’s forty years younger and considering just how best to get him into her bed.

  West hops up on the porch and into the soft light spilling from the doorway. His grin is modest, and I see…yep…a glass baking dish clutched in his hand. A brown paper bag stained with grease is perched on top of it and a plastic grocery bag is swinging heavily from the crook of his arm.

  West just shrugs and smiles down at her. “It’s nothing, really. I’m,” he pauses, chuckling, “I’m not much in the kitchen, to be honest.” His eyes finally flicker my way, widening as he takes in my appearance. He presses his lips together and manages to maintain a straight face, although I can read the expression in his eyes well enough to know what he’s thinking.

  When we were kids, just one look between us could hold an entire conversation. We had a sort of telepathic way of communicating, like we shared the very same mind. It sounds ridiculous now, of course. As an adult who’s spent the last decade fully immersed in the legal system, where tangible proof and logic hold power above all else, there’s no room for nonsensical thinking like that. But now, staring into his laughing eyes, I feel more like a gullible little girl than the full-grown woman I am—the one who graduated at the top of her class and is on the fast track to becoming a partner in one of the most prestigious law firms in the entire southwest.

  “Ooh,” Corrine coos, “I’m sure you did just fine.”

  Now I do roll my eyes.

  “And who was that lovely girl I saw you with earlier today?”

  The light dims in West’s eyes, and I’m happy to see that he looks a bit flustered.

  My mother’s funeral took place this morning, with a short wake in the basement of the church following the burial. It was overwhelming, to say the least, what with all the conflicting emotions I had squeezing my chest and all the people who I hadn’t seen since I left for college converging on me, trying to offer condolences and regaling me with stories from the past that were about not just my mother, but my entire family.

  Like I wanted to hear those.

  I smiled and nodded so much I felt like a bobblehead, the crowd sucking my energy to the point that I didn’t even have the strength to mourn. I gave the eulogy with a dry eye, sounding more like an attorney stating the facts of a case than a daughter commemorating her mother’s eternal memory.

  But perhaps the worst thing of all was seeing West show up with a woman on his arm. An attractive blonde with curves in all the right places and legs that went on for days. Jealousy is an emotion I haven’t felt in years, so I was shocked when it prickled the back of my neck this morning after I’d stepped behind the pulpit and saw, sitting three rows back, this goddess leaning into West’s arm and swiping a tear from her eye. My throat dried up instantly, and the first words I read from the paper in my suddenly trembling hands came out shaky and dry. There was also a ringing in my ears that grew louder the longer I stood up there, and it didn’t subsid
e until I slipped into the quiet of the town car that followed my mother’s hearse to the cemetery.

  “You didn’t introduce me, young man,” Corrine chides, her tongue clucking disapprovingly.

  I grit my teeth and scowl. “My mother’s funeral wasn’t exactly a social event, Corrine.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting that it was,” she snaps back before returning her attention to West.

  The ringing in my ears is starting again, and this time it sounds like it’s coming through a wad of cotton, distant and soft. I watch West’s lips move as he talks with our old neighbor but can barely make out the words through the white noise in my head.

  I try to smile, but the mask has hardened and my lips sort of stick in a weird grimace. “Well,” I say with an air of finality, indicating the dish that’s feeling heavier by the second. “Thank you again, Corrine. Much appreciated.” I take another step back, nudging the door a few inches with my elbow.

  Corrine turns her shining face to me, which darkens into a glare as she purses her lips. With a nod, she shoots West one last smarmy smile and waddles off the porch and back across the yard to her house.

  I breathe a sigh of relief when she’s gone.

  “Man,” I say under my breath, “I forgot how much I hated her.”

  West laughs. “Yeah, I remember how she used to get under your skin. Though, to be fair, you did get under hers a fair amount.”

  I try to frown, but my mask pulls at the skin around my mouth so all I can do its flatten my lips. “She always started it,” I say, like a petulant child. Then I wave at him. “So, you’re bringing me food, too?”

  “Uh, yeah.” He holds out his dish and the bag before realizing my hands are already full with Corrine’s green bean casserole. “My mom called and walked me through the steps. It’s creamy chicken alfredo. She said it was your favorite.”

  I nod, touched that she remembered. Bless my mother’s heart, but she wasn’t the best cook in the world, and the meals I spent with West and his family were some of the most delicious I’ve had to date. “That was thoughtful. Please tell her thanks for me.”