The Memory of Us

by Lisa Sorbe

  “Of course.” West shifts his weight. “Mom wanted to fly back, but Dad’s still recovering from his rotator cuff surgery and everything. They both send their condolences.”

  My throat tightens for what has to be the millionth time today, so I just nod. A few seconds of silence pass, the uncomfortable kind, where you can’t think of anything to say and the quiet sits heavy in your ears.

  “Well,” he says slowly, “seeing how your hands are full, I’ll just bring these in for you…” He lets his voice trail off as he nudges past me.

  My mouth drops open, cracking the dried clay on my skin, and I scurry behind him as he makes his way from the landing up the stairs. He glances into the living room to the right, where my laptop and several spiral notebooks along with a mug of Earl Grey tea that long ago lost its steam are scattered on the coffee table. The heels I wore to the service are tossed haphazardly in the middle of the room, where I kicked them off before dragging my heavy body down the hall and into the shower. Normally, I’m not so messy, but I’d been eager to wash off the day, the people. I spent close to twenty minutes under the hot spray, scrubbing away their sympathetic looks and their I’m sorry’s until my skin burned red. Until I felt normal. Or, as normal as I can feel in this house. I’ve only been here a little over twenty-four hours and already the place has been steadily seeping through my skin and toying with my mind, pulling memories and pangs of regret up from where I’ve kept them buried all these years.

  West moves through to the kitchen, flipping on the light as he goes and dropping everything but his mom’s casserole on the counter next to the fridge. Once, this house was his second home, and he probably still knows every nook and cranny as well as I do. When he opens the refrigerator door and sees the contents, he throws his head back and laughs. “You,” he says, tossing me a look over his shoulder, “are going to need a bigger fridge. And,” his eyes flicker down to my t-shirt before skirting back to my face, “a bigger stomach.”

  The food has been arriving in droves since yesterday. The first visitor, my mother’s old boss Mr. Pratt, stopped by with muffins less than fifteen minutes after I dropped my bags down in my old bedroom, and the doorbell rang practically every half an hour on the dot after that. Neighbors, old co-workers from the bank where my mother worked, people I didn’t even know and whom my mother never once mentioned…All of them arrived with sad eyes and watery expressions, bearing sweets and casseroles and slow cooker meals of meat loaf and chicken and cheesy potatoes. The last person, my old English teacher from high school, appeared on the doorstep at damn hear ten o’clock, bearing not food but an armful of self-help books on grief and letting go. She wrapped her arms around me and told me she wanted to get together for coffee before I left town again, and I hugged her back awkwardly, lying as I promised that we would.

  And, to be honest, as much as I didn’t feel like socializing, their impromptu visits did manage to keep the ghosts in the house at bay.

  “Yeah,” I say, indicating the piles of tupperware, “too bad I’ll probably have to throw most of this out. There’s no way I’ll be able to eat it all before I leave.”

  West is quiet as he shifts around items in the fridge. The clink of glass against glass against plastic echoes in the silent kitchen. I rarely watch television, so I didn’t bother turning it on when I got home. There’s too much work to do in getting this house ready to put on the market, and I don’t have time for tasteless reality TV shows or mind-numbing sitcoms. But now I wish I’d at least turned on the radio; the quiet makes everything seem louder, even the beating of my heart.

  “How long are you staying?”

  West is still rummaging around in the fridge, and I’m starting to wonder if it’s just to give him something to do so he doesn’t have to look at me.

  Which is fine. Just fine.

  I, however, let my eyes roam over his back as he maneuvers the casserole dishes around, watching his muscles flex under his t-shirt with the movement. He’s still buff, carrying the sort of build that would make even the most prudish woman blush. (i.e. Corrine.) I remember when he started to fill out, turning from my lanky best friend into the hot jock that all the girls in school wanted to date and all the boys wanted to be like.

  I pull in a breath, fold my arms across my chest. “I’m hoping only a week. Just long enough to clean the house out and get it on the market.” I briefly think of my boss, Helena Glaser, and her insistence that I take more time to deal with all of this. She’s tough as nails and busts the balls of most attorneys in the firm. But for some reason she seems to like me, has taken a special interest in my career since I started working under her five years ago, and we’ve grown close during my time at her firm. I have no doubt that if I do achieve partner, it will be because of her.

  West finally turns and meets my eyes. Narrowed, they appear as cold as the icebox behind him. “That’d be a quick turn-a-round, getting this place ready in that short a time.” He motions around the room, taking in the old cupboards and the round kitchen table piled high with my mother’s latest crochet project, a bundle of unwrapped newspapers, and a ceramic vase bulging with silk, artificial flowers. A small television, the old boxy kind, sits on the counter closest to the table, the wonky antenna sticking up at odd angles. I remember how my dad used to watch the morning news on the old thing, sitting in his chair at the head of the table, drinking coffee and flipping his attention back and forth between the screen and the day’s paper. That memory steers me straight into another, when I was young and would toddle out to the kitchen and help him lace up his work books. I’d get a kick from winding the thick laces up the hooks, intent on tying a perfect bow once I reached the top. My dad would then swing me up onto his lap, and we’d share his breakfast (eggs and sausage or homemade donuts or biscuits and gravy) while my mom bustled around the kitchen, prodding my brother to hurry while refilling my dad’s mug and putting together everyone’s lunches for the day. How she always managed to get us all moving and out the door on time, I’ll never know.

  My mother was a whirlwind of efficiency. Until she wasn’t.

  “I can do it.” My tone is defensive, and West’s eyes narrow even further.

  The clock above the sink clicks, ticking the seconds away like drops of water trickling from a leaky faucet. I’m well aware of Time, what it’s capable of, the way it can slip through your fingers as easily as sand sifting back to the earth. It’s the most powerful thing of all, the way it tirelessly marches us forward, even when our hearts are tugging us desperately in the opposite direction.

  West finally pulls his gaze away and sighs, shaking his head slightly as he does. Then he reaches into his pocket and removes a card, holds it out. When I don’t reach for it, he sighs again and sets it on the kitchen counter. “If you need anything,” he says, nodding at it and then looking back at me. “Help with the house or…anything.”

  I tighten my arms around my middle, refusing to shy away from his gaze. “Thanks. But like I said, I’ll be fine.”

  West appraises me once more, and I’m reminded of the green face mask and the oil caked thick in my hair. There’s no doubt I look ridiculous, and a flash of my old friend surfaces as a smirk slides over his lips. The old West would tease me outright, joking that I looked like Yoda or some green-tinged alien from one of those sci-fi shows we used to love so much. But this West, this version that I know nothing about, keeps his mouth shut.

  Although, sometimes a look can say more than words ever could.

  “Shut up,” I mutter.

  West pulls a face, his eyes widening innocently. “What?”

  “I know what you’re thinking,” I huff.

  His expression turns playful, but the blue in his eyes darkens dangerously as he considers me. He shoots me a crooked smile, the same one that won me over years ago and briefly tipped the scales of our friendship into something more. “I,” he says, letting his gaze drop to my mouth, “seriously doubt that.”

  My face burns—because he’s joking
, he’s obviously joking—as I wave his words away. “What’s that?” I ask, diverting the conversation and nodding at the bags he set on the counter.

  His eyes twinkle. “Well, I thought you might be hungry.” He blows out a long breath and then hooks his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the refrigerator. “Obviously I was wrong.”

  I step past him and pick up the greasy bag. The smell wafting from the rumpled opening is familiar, but I can’t quite make it out due to the earthy scent of the mask coating my nose and upper lip. I pry apart the paper and peer into the bag, the clay cracking across my face as my mouth drops. “Milwaukee Weiner?” It comes out as a question, because while I recognize the trademark logo stamped on the napkins, I can hardly believe what I’m seeing. My mouth instantly starts to water, and I press my lips together so I don’t drool.

  West chuckles. “I stopped there for dinner before coming over here,” he explains, like he wants to make it clear that he didn’t just pop in at our favorite childhood restaurant strictly for my benefit.

  A little squeal of excitement escapes my parted lips when I open the next bag and see its contents. I quickly snap them shut and clear my throat, determined to regain my composure as I pull a six pack of root beer from the bag. I hold it up and goggle at him, my eyes wide. The soda is made locally and is only available in our home state. West and I lived on this stuff when we were kids; I’m surprised I haven’t developed a serious case of adult onset diabetes because of it.

  “I could hardly bring you chili dogs without pop in glass bottles now, could I?” But his grin slips as he shifts his weight, and suddenly he seems like he wants to be anywhere other than here. In this house.

  With me.

  And just like that…we’re strangers again.

  “Thank you. This really wasn’t necessary…” My voice sounds weird, like it’s coming from someone else.

  West rocks back on his heels, blows out a breath. “Well, I should get going.”

  I nod and watch as he turns to head back through the living room. But something swoons in my stomach, just above my belly button, and before I even know what I’m doing I reach out, my fingers wrapping lightly around his arm. A light tingle kisses my skin, and for a moment we both just stare at my hand before West casts his eyes back up to mine, his expression uncertain.

  I have no idea what I’m doing. It wasn’t a conscious act, grabbing him like this, but more like a decision I made on some other level of awareness, where my heart overrides my brain and obviously doesn’t care how stupid I look.

  The clock above the sink is ticking the seconds away with a scratchy, metallic click, but its rhythm is no match for the stammering beat of my heart—which, right now, is fluttering at a rate that’s more on par with a hummingbird than a human. I jerk my arm back and do the only thing I can think of…pull a bottle from the six pack I’m still clutching. With a cheesy grin, I hold it up. “Thirsty?”

  West pauses, takes a step toward me. His hand starts to rise, like he’s going to take the drink. But his body… His body is leaning away, in the direction of the door, like some invisible force is pulling him, threatening to split him in two. “I…” He pauses, drops his hand, and shoves it into the pocket of his jeans. “Nah. Thanks, though. I just…I really should get going.”

  I shrug, pretending like I could care less, and slip the bottle back into the pack. Feeling like a complete dumbass, I walk him to the door and lean against it as he steps out onto the porch. But West doesn’t linger, and there’s no time for an awkward good-bye as he turns and looks down at me. “Take care of yourself, Laney.” His words are so final, it makes the weight sitting on my chest sink into my stomach. Before I can even begin to form an answer, he’s gone, down the steps, his strides wide and hurried as he crosses the street.

  The corners of my eyes burn as I close the door.

  Like the rest of the house, my old room still looks the same. Though, if you step inside and look closely, you’ll see that it’s really just a faded version of what once was. Signs of the girl I used to be mixed with the woman I was becoming are splashed across the walls—band and movie posters, slick and shiny pages torn from magazines, photographs of the few friends I allowed in during my high school years. There are posters of Green Day and Bush stretched out above my desk and, on the wall to the left, a framed print of the movie Before Sunrise that I scored from the old Tamarack Theater downtown. I made West watch that one with me, the night I discovered the DVD in the bargain bin at our local Blockbuster, and even though he gave me shit about swooning over a cheesy romance, I could tell in the set of his eyes while he studied the screen that he liked it.

  The few pieces of furniture hugging the pale-yellow walls are white with gold trim, and they’ve been in this room ever since my crib was removed and my twin day bed (complete with a canopy) took its place. The bedspread has changed several times, however, going from yellow Holly Hobbie to peach and mint green plaid to, finally, the blood red quilt that’s draped over it now. I went through phases growing up, like we all do, I suppose, the events of my life leading me further and further away from who I started out to be.

  I run my fingers along the dresser now, not at all surprised when I don’t find a speck of dust coating the smooth surface. My mind throws up an image of my mother toting her cleaning supplies in here, continuing to vacuum and dust like I’d never left. Like I wasn’t a grown woman with a life and a condo in Phoenix, but a sentimental girl who might someday decide to return back to where she started. And even if somewhere along the way I did lose my mind and decide to return to Wolf Lake, throwing away everything I’d worked so hard for since I was fourteen, I certainly wouldn’t opt to live in my childhood home, that’s for damn sure.

  I can picture her routine so easily because it’s the same one she kept after my brother passed. I’m sure that if I had the courage to enter his room, I’d find it exactly as he left it, too.

  I push away the sad image of a lonely woman going through the same motions day after day, year after year—brushing the dust off her memories so she can better lose herself in them—and drop the two cardboard boxes and roll of trash bags I’m carrying onto the bed.

  If I’m going to gut the place, it’s only fitting to start here.

  But I find, after scrutinizing the room further, I have no idea where to begin. There’s the doll collection in the hutch by the door; a plastic crate filled to the brim with tapes and CDs; a white book case stuffed with thick, steamy paperbacks (romance novels were a frivolous teenage indulgence of mine), young adult horror stories (I wanted to be R.L. Stine when I grew up), and classic hardcovers whose pages most people barely skimmed through in their high school English class (I devoured them before they were even assigned).

  I find myself roaming from one end of the room to the other, reaching out my hand only to pull it back empty handed, and then moving to the next corner, the next thing, the next pile of memories. It’s all pulling me back—everything—squeezing up my insides and making my throat burn.

  I didn’t have a bad childhood. I wasn’t abused in any way. I had two parents that loved me and, aside from West, an older brother who teased me just enough to show he cared. So none of these emotions sweeping through me now bring back horror-filled images of things I long to forget.

  But that’s the thing, isn’t it? Sometimes the good memories hurt more than the bad.

  My legs tense as if ready to spring, and I have to force myself to stay put, to not flee from the room like a child being chased by the monster under living under her bed. The air is stuffy and thick, and I’m having a hard time drawing it in, getting it to my brain. I feel as if I’m falling backwards, through the years, in a room where gravity no longer exists and Time whirls without end, like some mad top that won’t stop spinning, spinning, spinning…

  My cell phone beeps, yanking me out of the past, and when I pull it from my pocket, I find the muscles in my arms rubbery and my palms slick with sweat. I flex my fingers and swipe my thumb
against the screen, leaving a greasy smear I’ll have to buff out later, and a sigh of relief escapes my lips when I see that it’s from Brent, a co-worker slash boyfriend of sorts. It’s a simple text asking about a case we were just about to start before my mother died, and I respond that I’ll send him the notes I made after meeting with the client the morning I left. I’m halfway through attaching the document to an email when my phone lights up, signaling an incoming call.

  “I just sent it,” I say in way of greeting. “Should be coming through any time now.”

  There’s a pause, and I can just make out the click-clatter of a keyboard in the background. I picture Brent sitting at his desk with his laptop aglow and dressed to kill in one of his power suits, dark eyes narrowed in concentration as he scans my notes while his thumb and forefinger rub the strong line of his jaw. “Excellent,” he says, his deep voice clipped. “We’re on the same page. As usual,” he adds, his tone softening a bit.

  “It’s pretty cut and dry, but I’m sure the prosecution will try to throw in a few wrenches.”

  I can hear his smile in his words. “And I look forward to it.”

  I have no doubt that he does. Only a year older than me, Brent is possibly even more ambitious. He lives for law, though I have a sneaking suspicion it isn’t to support the rights of the innocent or to make a difference in the world by upholding justice at all costs. Brent loves the accolades, the status acquired with the win. To him, the courtroom is nothing but a chessboard, and he plays to be king.

  I remind him frequently that the queen is the most powerful piece.

  But despite his cutthroat attitude towards his career, he does have a soft spot, and I’ve found solace in his company for the past two years. Our relationship is comfortable, and most of our free time together is spent curled up on a couch in one of our condos with a bottle of wine, discussing our caseloads. We occasionally sleep together, too. So, you know, there’s that.