by Lisa Sorbe
I hug my arms to my chest and huff. “I’m thirty years old, West. I’m hardly going to go out and toilet paper someone’s house. Besides, I doubt Amber even lives there anymore. Her parents were pretentious snobs, though,” I say, almost as an afterthought.
West clears his throat, moving on to the next item. “Jump from Halo Falls.”
He’s referring to a cliff jutting out into Lake Superior, one that daredevils with a death wish use to satisfy their urge for an adrenaline rush. The drop is over fifty feet, and the temperature of the water is only about forty degrees—in the summer. “Hell, no!” I grimace. “What were we even thinking, anyway? Adding something dangerous like that? We were just kids…”
West shifts his weight, crossing his boots at the ankles and studying the paper, his brows drawn. “Exactly.” He looks up, pinning me with his stare. “We were just kids. We thought anything was possible.”
“Well, we were delusional.”
But West shakes his head. “No,” he says, slowly. “We were right. Anything is possible. It’s just that, you know, as adults we tend to forget that.”
“You sound exactly like one of those self-help books Mrs. Lekan dumped on me the other night.”
West tilts his head to the side, both of his brows shooting up. “Mrs. Lekan from English class?”
“The very one,” I say, watching him carefully. “The same one, in fact, that you and every other hot-blooded guy over the age of fifteen in our high school had a thing for.”
He sighs wistfully. “She had a way with words.”
“Yeah,” I scoff. “And a closet full of tight sweaters.”
West holds a hand to his chest, pretending to be offended. “That had nothing to do with it.”
“Oh, please. I know you, Weston. I know your type. Mrs. Lekan had that whole Barbie look that you just love.” I let my voice trail off, remembering the blonde from my mother’s funeral. The one leaning into his side, hand wrapped around his bicep as she wiped tears from her eyes. The image makes me feel foul, like shrugging back into damp, muddy clothes after taking a long, hot shower. I scratch my arm then my neck, suddenly itchy.
West ignores me, apparently intent on finding something on that list that I will do. But the joke’s on him. I have no intention of…
“Bury a time capsule.”
“We already did that one,” I shoot back.
He straightens, pulling himself up to full height. “So let’s dig it up.” I open my mouth, the words not a chance on the tip of my tongue, but West rushes on. “Isn’t that the point of burying a time capsule in the first place?”
Reluctant to admit he’s right, I raise a shoulder as if to say who cares? And then I dip my chin and study my chipped manicure, as if to answer: Me. I could care less.
“Now that I think about it,” West continues, “we buried it in your mom’s garden. So if we ever want to see the thing again, now’s the time. Before you sell the place.”
I scratch at a piece of polish and brush my fingers together, flicking the flakes onto the floor. “You’re not going to leave this alone, are you?”
“Nope.” West grins, his eyes lighting up. It’s the look he gets when he knows he’s won. Or, more accurately, when he’s worn me down to the point that I give in if only to shut him up.
Much to my annoyance, he struts over to the fridge and sticks the list to the door with a magnet in the shape of a moose.
But what could it hurt, really? Digging up whatever flimsy things my eleven-year-old self considered important enough to encase in a steel tomb for my future self to find? I can’t even recall what I put in the thing, anyway.
I’ve been wading around in the waters of the past for close to a week now, up to my knees in memories.
What could it hurt to wade in a little deeper?
It’s ten o’clock at night and I’m covered in dirt.
Like, the soil is literally caked on my skin.
This is how it went down:
After forgoing my instincts and agreeing to dig up the damn time capsule, we pulled a couple of shovels out of my mom’s garage and trudged through the backyard and into the overgrown garden, wading through dead tomato plants and dried up cucumber vines and crusty patches of green bean and pepper bushes. We argued for a bit about where we thought it was and, after realizing that neither of us really remembered exactly where it was buried, each picked our desired spot and dug in. I tilled dirt until my shoulders ached, digging my spade into not one, not two, but four sections of that garden, each time getting about four feet in before admitting defeat and moving on to the next patch of land. To make matters worse, the heat of the day had spilled over into the evening, and beads of sweat rolled down my forehead, stung my eyes, and washed over my skin, leaving a sticky, crusty glaze that seemed to attract every mosquito in a twenty-mile radius. It also didn’t help that, at one point during the search, West absently pitched a shovel-full of dirt over his shoulder that smacked me square in the face.
He found it hilarious and told me so.
I had too much dirt in my mouth to say what I was thinking, so I replied with a not-so-subtle hand gesture.
“This is stupid,” I say now, after checking the time on my phone and sticking it into my back pocket. The lights from the back deck coupled with the moon barely provide enough light to see by, and I can’t understand why West demands that we do this tonight. It’s almost like he has something up his sleeve…
Punching my blade into the dirt, I lean against the handle and tilt my head back, closing my eyes against the breeze. There’s still grit on my face, and I swipe the back of my hand against my forehead in an attempt to remove it, though it’s probably just smearing the mess even more. “How the hell can we not remember where we buried it? I know it was over here,” I drop my hand and swirl it around in front of me, “in this area. I’m sure of it. You didn’t already dig it up, did you? And now you’re making me root around in the dirt as a joke? Because if you did…”
As if in answer, a dull metallic clink interrupts my rant. West tosses me a triumphant grin over his shoulder, and I catch it like I caught his shovelful of dirt—with a glare. “Damn it,” I mutter as I head over to his section. “You were right.”
West holds a hand to his ear, cupping his fingers around the lobe. “What was that? What? Did Elena Know-It-All Everhart just admit that I’m right?”
“Oh, get over yourself.”
West chuckles as he edges the blade around the object in the ground, pushing the soil this way and that before bending down and lifting the tiny bundle out of the hole. He carries it back through the garden and into the yard, setting it down on the picnic table. Then, taking a step back, he falls in beside me. His bare arm brushes mine, a tiny lick of flame against my skin. I resist the urge to reach up and rub the spot; instead, I allow the fire to spread, pricking my nerves like little tsunamis of molten lava.
It’s been so long since I’ve felt anything like this—this heat coming from someone else’s touch. In fact, I can’t remember the last time Brent’s touch made my insides swoon. I don’t think it ever has.
“I remember it being bigger.” West crosses his arms and stares down at the table, his head cocked to one side. At first glance, it appears to be nothing but a lumpy black trash bag, the entire thing only slightly larger than a shoe box.
“That’s what she said.” I say it deadpan, without even thinking, surprising myself. I’m not one to crack jokes—and corny ones at that. West glances at me, his lips wobbling as he tries to hold back a smile, so I quickly rush on. “At least we knew how to wrap it. Didn’t we use, like, four heavy duty trash bags?”
“We did,” West agrees. “All because you were worried about keeping the worms out.”
“Well, duh.”
Forever passes in a minute until West pulls out a pocket knife and mutters, “Well, here goes nothing.”
He peels through layers of plastic, unwrapping bit by bit until finally tugging a small metal box from th
e depths of the last bag. He pretends to find a worm, which has me scampering toward the house faster than a dog bounding inside for a cookie, and it takes a good minute or two to coax me back over.
“I can’t believe worms still freak you out.”
I look over his shoulder as he brushes dirt off the box and flick his arm. “Everyone has a phobia.”
“I don’t.” West says this matter-of-factly as he works the tip of his knife under the box’s lid.
“Well, maybe you have a phobia of phobias.”
West pauses and looks back at me. “I do not have a phobia of phobias. That’s not even a real thing.” Then he elbows me out of the way. “And stop hovering.”
I cross my arms and stomp to the other side of the table. “It’s absolutely a real thing. It’s called phobophobia, and one of my classmates from law school had it.”
West squints, his focus on the stubborn container as he gives the knife one last jiggle. “I think you’re lying.”
“I hardly care what you think,” I retort, watching him work.
Then West pops the top and the whole world sighs.
The first time West and I kissed was when were three, and it was at the prompting of our mothers. I don’t remember it, but someone captured the moment on film and for years each house had a copy of that photograph sitting in a frame, proudly displayed on a hallway wall along with a thousand other mishmash memories.
The one I’m staring at now used to hang in our house, and seeing it makes the back of my throat ache. I run my fingers over the image, which is surprisingly clear considering it’s spent the last nineteen some years underground.
Where has the time gone? I feel like I’m stuck somewhere between the past and the present, not quite myself yet not the girl I once was, either. My feet barely touch the ground in this reality; I’m living outside of time, where clocks don’t exist and minutes mimic hours.
In the photo, I’m wearing a puffy-sleeved red dress with little white daisies embroidered on the fabric. My dark locks are braided, each end tied neatly with a bright red bow.
West is, of course, shirtless. His flaxen hair is wild and there’s a streak of dirt on his cheek.
Night and day, I think.
Yet somehow, we worked.
Do we still?
“I can open the pool tomorrow.”
I toss the picture down onto the pile of others that we pulled from the time capsule and glance at West. We’re sitting on the old picnic table, under the stars, the items we buried a lifetime ago spread out between us. “That’d be good. Thanks,” I add quickly, because I know he doesn’t have to be here, helping me with all of this.
“No problem.” West was overjoyed to discover the baseball from one of his first no-hitters among the stuff we buried; he’s spent the last ten minutes tossing it up into the air and catching it. Every once in a while, he’ll run his fingers along the stitching, a soft smile on his face.
We haven’t said much since we poured through the items inside the box: a small pile of photographs, a rusty locket with a picture of my old dog inside, a role of tickets we won at the carnival and never got a chance to spend before it up and left, departing our town for another. I included my favorite Fear Street book (Ski Weekend) and West added a few baseballs cards. We found letters we’d written to our older selves along with a list of predictions about where we hoped we’d be by the time our twenties rolled around. Back then, we promised ourselves we wouldn’t open it until we were at least twenty-six; by then, of course, I’d be a best-selling author and West would be pitching for the Twins. At the time, I remember thinking that fifteen years sounded like a million. How could I possibly wait that long? Unlike West, patience wasn’t my strong suit.
In the end, it took almost twenty years for us to come together and pull these memories from the ground. I ache for the girl who buried this, not knowing the heartache that was waiting for her just around the corner. The sad days she had lurking ahead, just a breath away.
“My dad was still alive when we buried this. He died that summer.”
West doesn’t say anything, just continues to toss the ball. But I now he’s listening. He always is.
“Mike was still alive.”
West palms the ball and turns in his seat. His eyes catch mine, and before I pull my gaze away, I see my best friend as he was back then. I see the boy I used to love in the downturn of his lips, the strong curve of his jaw, the set of his shoulders. His hair is flopping over his forehead the way it did back then, back when I didn’t think twice before reaching up and brushing it out of the way, chattering at him the entire time about needing a haircut.
But now…now I kind of like it.
Funny the way things change and preferences evolve. How something that used to bug the bejesus out of you can suddenly become one of the things you adore the most.
Loving West was never the problem. Even now, I feel the pull, the tether that stretches out, keeping us close despite the distance I’ve tried to put between us. He’s as easy to love as warm day at the beach or a rainy day spent inside by the fire with a book.
In one way or another, I guess I’ve always loved him.
The problem is…I can’t seem to stop.
“West,” I say now, because if there’s anyone I can say this to, it’s him. Anxiety creeps from my gut to my throat like a slippery serpent, wrapping around my muscles and choking my words. “I’m all alone.”
I’m looking at the tarp-covered pool, on the verge of hyperventilating, when I feel his strong hand slide over mine.
“Do you remember that time in seventh grade, when we had to dissect those worms?”
My eyes snap back to his, wondering where on earth he could possibly be going with this. “Yeah,” I say slowly.
“How even though it made you nauseous to do it, you dipped your hand in that slimy bucket and pulled out the biggest, juiciest one?”
I gag. “Thanks for painting such a vivid picture, Weston.”
He smirks. “You could have opted out of the assignment, but you didn’t.”
“I would have dropped almost an entire letter grade,” I point out, shuddering at the memory of that slimy dissection. “I really didn’t have a choice.”
West shakes his head, that chunk of hair bouncing against his forehead.
I curl my fingers into my palm.
“Yes, you did. You had a choice then, and you chose to fight your fear, face your fear, and come out on the other side…a little slimier because of it.” He winks, because he’s trying to make me laugh; I know he is. “You threw up after, if I remember correctly.”
“You just had to bring that up, didn’t you? It was the smell…” But my lips curl into a semi-smile. It feels good to talk about something that happened in the past with someone who was actually there, who lived it right along with me—even if it is a foul memory like this one. “Worms still give me the heebie-jeebies, though. Didn’t exactly beat the fear, did I?” I say, referring to my earlier freak out.
“It’s not always about beating the fear.” He squeezes my hand. “You’re one of the strongest people I know, Laney. If not the most stubborn,” he adds, and I make a face at him. “You’re going to be just fine.”
I nod, because I know I am. But maybe I’m sick of being just fine.
Maybe—finally—I want to be more.
“And as far as alone,” he continues. “Well, you’re only as alone as you want to be.”
And this time, he’s the one who looks away.
My brother died, and it’s my fault.
Although, I’m sure if you asked anyone else, they would say I wasn’t the one responsible. I mean, I wasn’t even there. They would blame other, more obvious factors like the weather, the irresponsible adult who supplied minors with alcohol, or the drunk teen who got behind the wheel of the car my brother was riding in and crashed right into a telephone pole off of Old Highway 90 at seventy-some odd miles per hour.
But I know better.
&nbs
p; And my mother did, too.
Mike and I grew in opposite directions after my dad died. He went wild while I, in turn, became more serious. Looking back now, I can see that these tendencies were already in us, and the stress of my dad’s passing along with my mother’s complete shutdown right after just brought these temperaments to light.
Or maybe they were just the coping mechanisms we fell into.
Mike found friends that partied…hard. He found solace in alcohol and, for a short while, drugs. He wore flannel shirts in the summer and long, heavy trench coats in the winter. His pockets were filled with cigarettes and eyed drops and a fake ID by the name of Harvey Mascarello.
I found solace in books. In studying. In becoming better, better, better. I wanted to pull my skin off, shrug right out of the girl I was and become someone else. I made lists that I followed to a T, checking them off faithfully, enjoying little highs of my own when I did. I guess I wasn’t all that much different from Mike in that way.
We were both looking to fall into another reality.
My race for perfection became an obsession. And it was this obsession that made me ignore the phone call that night. The one from Mike that came just before midnight, begging me to pick him up and drive him home.
Or, I assume that’s what he wanted. I never answered.
I ignored the call. I was writing, preparing a short story for a contest that could secure a placement in one of the top creative writing programs in the country. Perfection was my goal, and I didn’t want to stop until I’d nail the word count I’d set for myself earlier that evening.
With the flow of the Universe working through me, I was on a roll and didn’t want to stop.
So when the call came in and I saw an unfamiliar number on the caller ID, I let the answering machine pick it up. I’d been fetching Mike from parties since I was fourteen, illegally slipping behind the wheel under the cloak of night and driving to whatever party or bar he was at, shouldering him to the car and then, once home, up to his room and into bed. He was like our old dog Winnie, the one who kept wiggling out from under the fence, dead set on escaping the confines of our yard for something bigger, better.
