The Memory of Us

by Lisa Sorbe

  Helena was right. I vastly underestimated the time I’d need to get everything that needs to be done done. I thought I’d fly in here, whip everything into bags with my usual efficiency, and have it all out the door and be back in Phoenix so fast it would be like I never left. Like coming back here was nothing more than a bad dream during a bad night’s sleep, something I could easily shake off with a few good cups of coffee and heavy caseload.

  But so far, all I’ve managed to do is pull the recently packed boxes from my bedroom and rifle through them while listening to old CDs and gorging on plates of heavy casseroles and baked goods. My usual energy has been fading since I arrived earlier this week, like an air mattress slowly deflating under the stress of a hole the size of a pin prick. Until coming back here, I felt hollow—good and hollow—for so many years, mistaking that dreamy, empty feeling as lightness, as freedom, like I finally purged everything from my past and could live the rest of my life in a safe, blissfully neutral state. There were even times when I equated my peace of mind with that of a monk on a hilltop, having finally reached a state of such enlightenment that I welcomed detachment from people, places, and things.

  Here I was, thinking I was so high and mighty when, in reality, all it took was a few days bumbling around in my past and…boom. Not so perfect anymore.

  There’s a reason I stayed away all these years.

  At the very least, I can feel vindicated in knowing that.

  It’s seven thirty when I admit defeat, the need to get out of the house hitting me harder than it has since the night I arrived. Tossing on a chunky cardigan over my tank top, I whirl my hair into a loose bun, slide into some ankle boots, and grab my keys.

  Air. I just need some air. Away from here.

  Then…I’ll be fine. Just freaking fine.

  The town hasn’t changed much, and as I wind my way through the streets, it would be easy to feel as though I’d never left Wolf Lake. A few restaurants have changed names, and the old mom and pop shops that line Morningside Avenue (it was simply called Main Street until the late eighties) have closed, their walls now housing yoga studios and coffee shops and (I do a double take) a float studio.

  Okay. So maybe this place has progressed a bit more than I thought.

  But when I reach the outskirts of town, it’s obvious one establishment hasn’t changed, and almost on a whim I turn into the gravel parking lot of Lottie’s, the oldest dive bar in town. I frequented this place a few times a month way back when, though it wasn’t as a customer. As the bar rarely carded, this was the hip place for those who were still under twenty-one to hang out and be guaranteed service. My brother Mike adopted the habit of stopping at Lottie’s after parties, and it was usually my job to haul up here and drag him back home on the occasions he couldn’t do it himself.

  The Jeep’s tires crunch to a stop next to the building’s scarred cement wall and I sit in my seat, my hands still clutching the wheel like at any minute I might decide to peel out of here and head back home. Although, home isn’t on Vining Drive anymore. Home is a condo in downtown Phoenix, all sleek steel and pristine glass, and my old life is so far removed from my current one that, for one scary moment, I’m not sure where I fit.

  Here, I don’t feel like Elena Everhart, attorney at law and long time resident of Arizona.

  But I don’t quite feel like Laney Everhart, either—local townie that kept her nose to the grindstone all through high school and who lost both her father and brother by the time she was sixteen.

  I’m caught somewhere in the middle. Or maybe I’ve been flung so far outside of both realities that I won’t be able to find my way back to either of them.

  I keep my sunglasses on as I head inside but, much to my dismay, am forced to remove them when the bar’s dim lighting becomes too difficult to see by. The smack of pool balls greet me, along with a slow moaning country song about days gone by and the heartbreaking absence of lost love.

  How appropriate.

  I slip into a booth in the back and slide my hands over the table, pleasantly surprised it’s not sticky, and discreetly look around. Most of the booths and tables littering the square room are empty, though there appears to be a dart tournament going on behind the two pool tables. Two groups of a dozen or so cheer and cat call while swilling pale beer from wide mouth mason jars. I release a shallow sigh of relief, noting that my little section is empty, and as most of the action is on the other side of the bar, I’m pretty confident I’ll be left alone.

  A disinterested waitress eventually ambles over to take my order, her fleshy cheeks barely lifting as she repeats my request for a rum and coke. Her eyes look dead, and for some reason unease works its way up from my stomach and sits on my shoulders as I watch her walk away.

  I haven’t thought about my life in Wolf Lake much since I left for college. My last years in this town were lived under a heavy cloud. A dreary sort of melancholy hung over our house after my dad died, and the heavy feelings intensified a thousand-fold with the passing of my brother a few years later. I remember the first night in my new dorm room at Arizona State and the relief that whispered through me as I lay curled up on my bed. I arrived early, driving southwest on my eighteenth birthday and arriving two days later, and those first forty-eight hours before my roommate arrived were surreal. The weather was hot and dry, but I relished the heat as I roamed the near-deserted campus before classes started, taking in the swaying palm trees and brown mountains spotted with cacti in the distance. It was all so different from home, from Minnesota, that it wasn’t long at all before I was able to push everything aside; out of sight, out of mind. I stayed in Tempe over the summer, taking classes and working as a receptionist at a small law firm near the college. It was an excuse that seemed valid; not every student returned home during breaks, right? Still, guilt of leaving my mother entirely alone continued to eat away at me until, in August, I used some of my earnings to surprise her with a ticket to come and see me.

  And during that first visit, I watched my mother evolve into another person. Or rather, the person she was before. Before death crept into our home and took two of our own.

  The times my mother came to visit were bright and shiny. She was happier, more vibrant and alive in Phoenix than she was in Wolf Lake; the gloom that settled in her the day my dad died seemed to evaporate under the desert sun. It made it easier and easier for me to justify all the reasons I found to avoid going back to Minnesota: extra classes, doubling my major, work and internships and, finally, my career. And I thought that by flying my mother out to see me several times a year more than made up for my lack of presence back at the house.

  But what if it didn’t?

  Cheers continue to erupt from the game area, the songs on the juke box swing back and forth between old school country and classic rock, and I push my guilt aside while nursing my rum and coke and researching realtors on my phone. When a shadow falls over the table, I barely flick my eyes off the screen as I rattle off a request for another drink.

  As soon as the words leave my lips, a drink materializes next to my elbow and then, on the other side of the table, an amber mug of beer appears. I look up, finally giving my full attention to the waitress, only to see that…it’s not the waitress towering over me.

  “West.”

  His name slips from my lips like a curse.

  He smiles amicably, like he hasn’t got a care in the world.

  I give a pointed look at my drink and then back up at him, my brows arched. But he just waves his hand as if it’s nothing and slips into the seat across from mine. “Sherry told me what you were drinking.” He nods at my glass. “You’re welcome.”

  His eyes are glittering mischievously; it’s a look I know—er, knew—well. He leans back in his seat and stretches an arm along the back of the booth like this is exactly where he wants to be.

  I narrow my eyes and fold my arms on the table.

  Maybe he’ll get the hint and leave. I can’t…I just can’t be with him right now. Not
this close, not when I’m feeling this much.

  But he doesn’t leave. Just raises his drink to his lips, takes a sip, and continues to study me while I glower back at him.

  There’s no reason for me to act like this around him. If anything, he should be the one who hates me, who doesn’t want anything to do with me. The last words I spoke to him before leaving, and what we lost…

  Anyway.

  I shot him down. Hard. I was pretty ruthless about it, actually. But I was a feral in my desperation. We got into an argument, pulling on our clothes and firing accusations at one another as the clock struck midnight the night before I left. Furious that he couldn’t see my side of things, I told him I hated him and that the last thing I wanted was to spend my life here, in this town, with him. I slammed the door on him then, slammed the door on the one threat that could have kept me here, stuck and unmoving, as dead-eyed as Sherry the waitress.

  The unease rises again, tickles the back of my throat. I down what’s left of my first drink and immediately take a swig from my second. “So,” I say, trying to sound normal, politely detached, like I’m making small talk with a mere acquaintance rather than having a drink with the gorgeous man I lost my virginity to. “Do you come here often?”

  West just chuckles and leans forward, resting his arms on the table and mimicking my posture. Being with him now, it’s so easy to remember the boy he used to be. Back then, everything was a joke to him. He couldn’t be bothered to take anything seriously. He was wild and carefree, untamable in the certainty that life was a game and everything would always, always work out. He was ridiculously optimistic.

  It drove me crazy.

  But now, with more life experience under his belt, I can’t help but wonder if he views the word in the same unrealistic way. Does he still hold the belief that everything happens for a reason? And whatever the reason is, that it’s always for the best?

  Probably. His parents are still alive. His younger sister lives in Colorado and, from what my mother told me a few years ago, has two healthy children. West is an uncle, and I bet his holidays are filled to the brim with family and laughter.

  He shrugs, lifting his drink to his mouth. “I play darts on Thursdays,” he says before tilting his head back and downing what’s left of his beer.

  I smirk, finally taking in the design on his shirt. “Dart Vaders?” I read, looking up at him and lifting a brow. “Cute.”

  West just smiles. “It’s all in good fun.”

  “Isn’t everything?”

  There’s a bite to my voice, and the words come out in a sarcastic huff. I pull my drink closer, lift it to my lips, and down it in one long gulp. I suck an ice cube into my mouth and crunch irritably while staring into the glass.

  “Laney…”

  West’s voice, unlike mine, does not have a bite to it. Instead, it’s soft, sad…full of pity. I’m pretty sure I know what he’s going to say; it’ll be the same type of things he tried to say the night I walked out on him:

  You can’t run away from your problems. You can’t run away from your past. Bad things happen to good people and it’s not what happens but how you deal with it that matters.

  Yada, yada, yada…

  All easy to say when you’re outside of the shattered window, looking in.

  It’s an entirely different matter when you’re the one stuck inside, shards of glass cutting deep with every step.

  I hold up my hand. “Don’t, West. Just…don’t. Okay?” I look up at him, finally meeting his gaze, and am surprised and embarrassed to feel tears welling. “I just buried the last remaining relative I had. So please don’t lecture me on the importance of keeping a positive attitude right now. I really don’t need to hear that it’s not the circumstances that matter, but your state of being…” I wave my hand around. “Or some zen bullshit like that.”

  West opens his mouth as if to argue, and then shuts it. His jaw tightens, but he nods, and I know it’s killing him to keep his thoughts to himself.

  “Maybe,” I continue, on a roll, “I just need a friend to sit and drink with.”

  And I realize that this is exactly what I want. Someone to sit with, who will let me feel what I’m feeling without judgment. Someone who will let me wallow for just a bit without asserting their opinion on how I could better handle the situation.

  I catch the waitress’s eye, raise my glass, and shake the remaining ice cubes. “And what I want right now is to get drunk. Really, really drunk.”

  I wake the next morning to the smell of coffee.

  For a crazy moment I think it’s my mother and relief flutters through me. My recollection of everything up to this point is a jumbled mess, and when I try to rise, I find my body mysteriously weighted down with cement. A sound slips through the haze, like a heavy fist beating against a door, and only when I manage to roll over do I realize the noise is happening inside my head. Light and shadow flicker against my closed lids, indicating movement, and whatever is swimming out there in a reality I can’t seem to remember bumps against the bed, shaking the mattress. Not long after, something cold and wet pushes itself against my cheek, making me shriek.

  “Casper?” Someone—a man, from the sound of it—is talking too loudly. Bellowing right in my ear. “I told you to stay…”

  That voice…

  I squint, and the world comes into view—a blurry streak of blinding light and a twitching black nose. Attached to a face. Covered in black fur.

  Wet fur.

  Ewww…

  My thoughts are sticky for some reason, and though I try to work through them, everything’s blank. For a wild moment I wonder if I stayed the night at Brent’s place and he got a dog. But that’s crazy. Brent hates animals. The hair, the mess, the smell…

  Something dank and damp mixed with the scent of burnt Cheetos overpowers the smell of coffee, and the last thing I see before I smash my eyes back together is a pink tongue darting out to lick my ear.

  “Get over here. Come on. You’re in big trouble. Yes, you are…”

  Whoever is talking must be a pushover, because even though the words are threatening, the tone isn’t. A soft jangling of metal on metal clinks loudly as the beast goes in for one last nudge; I moan and cover my face with my arms before I sense a presence by my side, pulling the large dog away.

  “I told you not to wake up Laney,” the voice scolds. “She’s much easier to deal with when she’s asleep.”

  Damn it.

  Now I know where I am.

  And who’s with me.

  “You’re hilarious,” I mutter after West before pressing my face into my pillow. My voice scuffs against the back of my throat like a cheese grater, and I sound like I smoked an entire pack of cigarettes, one right after the other. The pounding in my head only intensifies when I try to think. When I try desperately to piece together the previous night and whatever insane circumstances led to Weston Brooks being inside my mother’s house (with a dog?) at—I reach out and grapple for my phone, which is, thankfully, on the nightstand—eight thirty-five in the morning.

  Then I realize I’m in my bed, in my bedroom, and freeze. Up until last night, I’d been crashing on the couch; the thought of sleeping in my old bed, climbing into those cold, dusty sheets after twelve long years, was hardly appealing. Which was stupid, really, because I’m sure my mother washed this bedding monthly, at the very least. Even now, with my face smashed into the sheets, I can smell the familiar scent of the laundry detergent she used.

  Before I can stop myself, I pull in a deep breath. Then another. By the third, wetness seeps through the layer of sleep crusting my lashes, pearling at the corners of my lids before dribbling irritatingly down my nose.

  When I hear footsteps padding down the hall toward my door (unaccompanied by the jingling of dog tags this time) I squeeze my eyes shut and pull the overs up until just the top of my head peeks out.

  “I know you’re awake, nerd.”

  I hear a soft thud near my head, and the smell of coffe
e becomes too overwhelming to ignore. Pulling the covers from my face, I see that West has situated a mug of coffee along with a botte of water and two aspirin on the nightstand. I groan, slide into a sitting position, grab the mug like a greedy kid reaching for the last slice of pizza at a birthday party, and take a desperate sip. I can only imagine how atrocious I must look, so I lean back against the headboard and pretend to study a squirrel clamoring about in the tree next to my window in an effort to hide my face. “Why are you here?” I ask, instead of saying thank you.

  “You’re welcome,” West says, instead of answering my question.

  He tosses a white bag spotted with grease into my lap, and then drops down onto the opposite end of the bed, already digging into his own bag. I look at him fully for the first time this morning and see, with relief, that he’s wearing a different shirt than the Dart Vader one from last night. Which must mean…

  “No, I didn’t spend the night.” West unwraps a breakfast sandwich and takes a big bite, eyeing me as he chews. He swallows, then winks, his full lips turning up into a smirk as he does. “In case you were wondering.”

  “I wasn’t,” I lie, fingering the bag in my lap.

  West notices and nods before tearing off another bite of his sandwich. “Eat it,” he says, his voice thick. “It’ll help you feel better.”

  I frown at him, which hurts like hell and makes the room dip precariously. Closing my eyes, I will the world to right itself only to feel a swooping sensation behind my forehead as it refuses to listen. “And just how…” I pause, taking a deep breath in, a slow breath out. “…is eating greasy breakfast food going to make me feel better?”

  West laughs, rocking back on the bed, and pops the last of his breakfast into his mouth. “What? Have you never had a hangover before?”