The Memory of Us

by Lisa Sorbe

  In the years that followed, our mothers relayed the story about that morning with amused exasperation:

  West set his own alarm the night before.

  West didn’t think to tell his mom he was leaving.

  West got himself up and packed and dressed and across the street all on his own.

  It wasn’t until Addie Brooks woke up that morning and went to check on her son before getting ready for work that she realized he was missing.

  And she knew right where to look.

  Of course, we all laughed about it as time went on. Back before my dad passed, before my mother had her breakdown…before Mike died.

  After that, we didn’t laugh at all.

  And any memories that did induce laughter were forgotten. Or shoved so far into the backs of our minds that they might as well have never happened in the first place.

  Maybe that’s why the thing that stands out the most about that day is the pain. The ache I felt as I watched West’s mom pull him away, her slippers slapping against the driveway and his little legs scurrying to keep up with her angry gait. I, in turn, was inconsolable, crying the sort of tears that come from somewhere so deep they only surface when you’re in the deepest throws of agony.

  Back then, West was the sun to my moon. I didn’t know how to exist without him.

  Some days, I still don’t.

  Time spins on like a record without end. The memories may be scratchy and the mind’s turntable wobbly, but the melody falls from Life’s speakers all the same.

  I don’t remember a lot about the actual trip to the Black Hills. Of course, pictures tell me I was there, but none of those grainy images jog my memory. It’s like looking at snapshots of a life that happened to someone else. I’m detached, distantly removed from the scene. No feelings of nostalgia tug at my heartstrings as I thumb through photographs of Mike and my parents and me at Bedrock City, Reptile Gardens, Wall Drug. There’s one of the four of us in front of Mount Rushmore, our arms intertwined and our smiles frozen in mid-laugh.

  I don’t remember that.

  But the part about West—the part where he was wrenched right out of my arms and the searing sense of loss I felt as I watched him being marched back across the street in dawn’s muddy light—stings as much today as it did all those years ago.

  Absolutely everything about that recollection is crystal clear, sharp, as if it happened yesterday and not twenty-five years ago.

  I don’t know what to do with these, all of these photographs that are smudged with fingerprints and blurred by time. There are crates of leather-bound albums and boxes of individual pictures that haven’t been scrapbooked yet. Shipping them back to Phoenix is an option, but a stack of memorabilia this size would take up all the space in my one (tiny) storage locker that’s already crammed full of old law textbooks.

  Modern condo living is great; it provides a minimalism I appreciate. My small space isn’t conducive to hoarding trinkets from the past. But to throw these pictures away seems wrong, disrespectful. Like I’d be scrubbing away my family from the very fabric of existence. As if they’d never been here at all.

  Some days it’s hard to remember they were.

  My heart beats heavy in my ears, and suddenly I’m so angry at the injustice of it all that I have to ball my fists and take a few deep breathes so I don’t lose it. But my attempt to keep the rage at bay doesn’t work, and a red hot well of emotion fills my stomach, surges through my veins.

  It’s bullshit. This is all bullshit. And I’ve had enough.

  The couch does its best to suck me in as I try to rise, pushing aside piles of photo albums as I do. A shoebox filled to the brim with pictures topples to the floor, spilling memories I want nothing to do with onto the old carpet. Kicking them out of the way, I stomp to my bedroom, wrench my suitcase out from under the bed, and begin shucking clothes into it as fast as I can. I’m blind in my frenzy, tugging random garments from their hangers, and it’s only when I notice my old softball jersey crumbled atop my pinstriped pencil skirt that I break down.

  The sobs are wrenching, rising up from somewhere so deep and fathomless it’s like I’m crying not just for myself, but for the whole of humanity. For the people who’ve never known love, and for the ones who have but lost it somehow. For children and dogs and the polluted oceans and the elephants gunned down for their tusks. My heart hurts for both the bullied and their tormentors, the criminals and their victims, the hungry and the well fed. Each heaving sob sucks in with it a shuddered gasp; the stutter in my lungs couples with a bottomless ache that’s ripping me apart inside.

  Is this what it’s like to breakdown? To lose yourself completely?

  Is this what my mother felt when my dad died? When she lost the strength to go on, existing as nothing but a shell for years and years and years?

  Is that my fate? Is this what awaits me?

  Time, for once, stands still. Allows me this moment of weakness that I’ve been fighting for the last two decades. The shadows stretching across the carpet are the only indication the world is turning outside of this bedroom, this house. I sink to the floor, curl my knees to my chest and lean against my bed. My comforter is splotchy with tears and my head is pounding, but grief continues to pulse through me, pour out of me, until there’s nothing left.

  June brings with it warmer weather, though the nights still carry a slight chill.

  I’ve fallen into a routine these past few weeks, resuming my five-mile run in the mornings, jogging up the hill from my house and down the other side before turning right and covering the six blocks to my old elementary school and eventually winding my way back. It’s a path I used to know well, and memory carries me over the sidewalks and through the streets without much thought. During the afternoons, I rest my sore muscles in the pool, swimming laps before floating around on an old inflatable air mattress I dug out from under the deck. The other day, I ran across a mix tape I put together in middle school, and I’ve taken to listening to that while my raft drifts over the surface of the water, the songs of the past mixing with the sounds of the present.

  Sometimes, when I close my eyes, it’s easy to forget that I ever left Wolf Lake. That the last twelve years didn’t happen at all. Or, if they did, they were just a dream, simply figments of my imagination conjured up during a seriously intense REM cycle.

  And speaking of cycles, I’m back on a schedule again, which is comforting since I’m a creature of habit. The tide that was my mother’s death, the one that dragged me back to Wolf Lake against my will, almost pulled me under. But now that I’ve managed to regain some semblance of a routine, my days have become more predictable, and the turbulent waves have calmed enough that I can at least keep my head above water.

  Or maybe that’s just because I haven’t seen West again.

  It’s been three long weeks since that night with Candy, and we’ve managed to keep our distance despite our otherwise close proximity to one another.

  Which is why, when I’m floating in the pool and drifting halfway between sleep and wakefulness, I squeal and fall off my raft when I hear the sound of his deep voice—

  “Elena”

  — inches from my face.

  I surface, sputtering. When I clear my matted hair away from my eyes, I see him crouched down by the edge of the pool, one arm dangling lazily over a knee and his face shadowed by a worn baseball cap.

  “Jesus, West!” I bob-swim my way back to the raft and tug it over to the shallow end. When my toes touch the bottom, I stand and adjust the halter top of my bikini. “What the hell?”

  “No t-shirt anymore, huh?” he jokes, standing.

  The late afternoon sun is behind him, golden against his frame, and the bill of his hat throws a darkness over his features that make it impossible to read his expression.

  I shield my eyes, squinting up at him. “What do you want?” I say, ignoring his sarcasm. Either he likes what he sees or he doesn’t. I couldn’t care less.

  West doesn’t answer righ
t away. Instead he takes a step back, his work boots scuffing against the concrete skirting the pool’s edge. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he turns and looks up at the deck. Perched against the railing is my old boom box, The Cure’s Just Like Heaven crooning from the speakers. With the shift of his stance, the sun’s light creeps under his hat and lifts the shadows from his face. A small smile touches his lips before he returns his attention to me.

  It dies when his eyes meet mine.

  “My lawnmower quit. I was wondering if I could borrow the one in your garage.”

  I hop out of the pool and sidle past him, dripping water as I go. “Go ahead.”

  West watches as I grab a towel from an old lounge chair and fling it around my waist.

  Creeper.

  I turn and face him, hands on my hips. “Is that it?”

  He lifts his chin and crosses his arms. “Yep.”

  “Well, then…” Reaching up, I squeeze the excess water from my hair and head for the house. I’m halfway up the stairs to the deck when I hear the backyard gate slam shut.

  We’re the epitome of maturity, we are.

  West doesn’t return the lawnmower until the next morning.

  I’m sitting on the porch steps, re-reading a Fear Street book and sipping coffee, when a rattle-clink-crunch interrupts my train of thought. I glance up to see West pushing the old mower across the street, the tires crunching over grit and loose pebbles along the way. He gives me a curt nod as he passes, and seconds later the grumble of the garage door clatters as he pulls it open. A split second of silence passes before I hear, “You, uh, want me to take care of yours?”

  For a moment, I’m not sure to what he’s referring. Then, casting my gaze across my yard, it’s pretty obvious. While it doesn’t exactly look like the Amazon, the grass is probably mid-shin deep and in desperate need of a trim.

  I’ve been stuck in my own little bubble and hadn’t noticed the state of it.

  Not working has me all off kilter.

  I need a goddamned goal. Something to focus on. This drifting around all day is for the birds.

  Maybe I should call Helena. It’s been three weeks…

  “Elena?”

  He’s using my actual name and not the nickname he’s called by me for years, which means he’s still ticked about that at Lottie’s. And then, of course, afterwards in his truck, when I bitched out for no real reason except that sometimes he just brings out the worst in me.

  Or maybe I bring out the worst in him. Because this distant, curt, I-could-give-a-damn West is not the West I know. It takes a lot to ruffle his feathers. To tighten his jaw the way it’s clenched right now, while he waits for my answer.

  I don’t like this version of West.

  And it’s pretty much all my fault.

  Of course, I can mow the yard myself. Hell, I can do everything by myself, thank you very much. I certainly don’t need him to do it for me.

  But I know what he’s doing. This is a peace offering, and I owe it to him to accept.

  So it takes every ounce of will I have to nod my head and say, “Sure. That’d be great. Thanks.”

  When you’ve done everything for yourself for as long as you can remember, it’s hard to give up control and let someone else take the reins.

  I pace throughout the house, wearing a path in the old carpet as I try to find something to do, something to focus on, something to ease the unease that’s ricocheting through me.

  Every once in a while, I peek out the window, discreetly taking in West as he mows the front lawn. His shirt is off (of course, it is), his skin shiny with sweat, and if it wasn’t for the fact that I know how much he hates wearing a shirt in the summer I’d think he was doing this on purpose, tempting me so I’d run outside, peel off the remainder of his clothes, and jump his bones right there in the front yard.

  But West isn’t like that. And I’m not like that.

  So this is really all very innocent.

  Except for the thoughts in my head. Those aren’t innocent at all.

  Nope.

  I finally grab the book I was reading earlier and settle down on the couch, in front of the big picture window where I’m guaranteed to get absolutely no reading done because I now have a direct view of the front yard. When the distant rumble of the mower’s engine dies, I hop up and pop my head out the front door like a damn dog. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  West swipes a hand over his forehead before dropping it and propping it against his hip. “I still have the backyard to get to.”

  I shrug. “There’s no rush. Unless, you know, you have somewhere to be?”

  He shakes his head.

  I smile, though it feels weird, because everything between us feels weird. Still, I push on, determined to right the wrong I did those weeks ago. “Then come inside and cool off. Take a break.”

  West opens his mouth as if to refuse, then hesitates, casting a wary glance around the neighborhood. I know he’s just buying time, looking for an excuse not to, a reason to say no. We have a history, and the tail end of it hasn’t been good.

  Again, my fault.

  “Look,” I say, crossing my arms and popping my hip. “Yes, I was a bitch that night at Lottie’s. And no, there’s no excuse for the way I behaved. But I’m sorry, okay? All right? So stop being a baby and come inside and have a freaking lemonade. Jesus,” I huff. “You’re acting like a goddamned hormonal teenager.”

  “Me?” he asks, incredulous.

  And then he smiles.

  “You’re so easy to get a rise out of,” he says easily, pulling on his shirt as he follows me inside.

  “Shut it.”

  I shoo his sweaty ass through the kitchen and out onto the back porch, where he settles into a seat at the wobbly patio table while I prepare two glasses of cheap powdered lemonade. When I return, I set down his glass and slap a sheet of paper alongside it.

  He looks up at me, brows raised. “What’s this?”

  I slide into a seat opposite him, drawing my legs up to my chest and pulling my drink toward me. “Flip it over.”

  West does, his jaw dropping. When he looks up, his expression is dubious. “Okay?” he says, drawing out the word. “And why are we looking at this again?”

  “I want to do it.”

  His lips flatten. “Really.”

  “Really,” I say.

  He considers me for a moment and—I’m not gonna lie—I’m a little concerned. I expected far more enthusiasm than this. “Unless, I mean, you don’t want to anymore…”

  “No, it’s not that. I just…” He drops the list back onto the table; it slides a few inches away from his fingertips. “I’m not sure if it’s a good idea.”

  I frown, suddenly angry. Here I am, putting myself out there, and he’s shooting me down. “What? Why?” I demand. “You were badgering the hell out of me weeks ago to do this. And now you’re suddenly all ‘I’m not sure if it’s a good idea.’” I deepen my voice as I mimic his words. “What the hell, West?”

  This isn’t going at all how I thought it would. I’m tired of being this close to West and not having him in my life. Of getting the cold-distant version I got yesterday and, briefly, this morning. We have a past, and while some of it was bad, the majority of it was good. Amazing, actually.

  He was my best friend and, the truth is, I miss him. I miss him so much, more than I even knew, would even admit to if I did know. And I want him back.

  West closes his eyes, shakes his head.

  “Laney.” It’s just my name, just one word, but it’s packed with so much emotion…so much hurt and suspicion and angst and yearning that tears spring to my eyes and I have to look away, out into the bright sunlight so I can blink them back down.

  I know why he’s hesitant. That little throwdown at Lottie’s is still fresh.

  The way I walked out on him twelve years ago, and everything that happened the days, the weeks before obviously hasn’t been forgotten, either.

  I sigh. “Remember
the night we opened the time capsule?”

  He nods.

  “You…” I sigh again, because it’s taking every ounce of courage I can muster to say this. “You told me I was only as alone as I wanted to be. Well, I don’t want to be alone.” I clear my throat and pull at a loose thread on the knee of my jeans. “Not anymore.”

  The thread comes loose, sliding through the worn fabric and creating a hole.

  Just a little tug, a little effort. But sometimes that’s all it takes.

  When I look back up at West, I hold his gaze.

  I let him in.

  “I’m not sure about this.”

  My voice sounds strangled. Nerves are eating me up inside. This seemed like a better idea when we were just talking about it. But now that I have to actually do it…I’m not so sure.

  “You’ll be fine.” West is firm.

  I groan. “I know, but… I’ve never done anything like this before.”

  West laughs, and when his breath brushes my cheek, the butterflies in my stomach flutter even more. “Yes, you have. And not to bring up the past or anything, but I, for one, know for a fact you’re pretty damn good at it.”

  I humph and reach up to smack his arm, which is awkward because we’re already standing so close. My elbow bends at odd angle, and the momentum pushes me closer into him. And since I’m wearing practically next to nothing, the contact between his chest and mine pulls goosebumps from my already prickly flesh. “Yeah, but…” I backpedal, trying to come up with an excuse, a way out of this remarkably uncomfortable position I’ve found myself in.

  “I’m not really, you know, that kind of girl. Someone who does…stuff…like this.”

  West smirks and leans in closer, his voice a warm caress against my ear. “You mean, make out with a man who’s practically a stranger?”

  Full-fledged chills skate down my naked arms, my exposed cleavage, and I can barely nod.

  “You wanted this, Elena.” The husky way he says my name, my full name, almost makes my knees buckle.