Since We Last Spoke

by Brenda Rufener

  2

  Max

  I KICK THE FRONT DOOR closed and rush my basset hound, Pawtrick Swayze, into the kitchen before he jumps on the girl I’ve regretfully invited into my living room. He barks and snarls, and I squeeze his tube-shaped torso like a football and send him packing into his crate beside the pantry.

  I wander the kitchen in circles, trying to gather my thoughts and compose myself, as I slip off my coat and toss it on a bar stool. I forgot to take the girl’s coat. That’s what a guy like Ryan Gosling would do. But I’m flustered, and besides, the coat rack sits right beside the front door. She’s bound to see it. I draw a deep breath, swirl my temples. Pawtrick barks, and I jump. Seeing Aggi in the window makes me feel like there’s something I should do, if only I knew what that something was.

  “Thought you wanted pizza?” the girl shouts from the living room, and I collapse onto the counter.

  Why do I keep doing this to myself? I mean, I know why. My symptom. A problem? No. The therapist definitely referred to it as a symptom, like loss of appetite, but every time I try to test myself in this area, see if the symptom no longer exists, I’m filled with remorse. I exhale, push myself off the counter, and shake my arms and roll my neck as my skin tingles and thaws in the warm kitchen.

  I should never have invited her here. It’s unfair to her and I need time to think. When I’m alone, though, my thoughts visit unwanted places, so here I am, standing in the kitchen beside my dog’s crate while there’s a wonderful human being sitting on my couch with a Lucio & Sons large BLT pizza. And Aggi. She’s only feet from me, shutting her stupid blinds in her stupid room, probably wishing she’d never met stupid me.

  My dog yelps, and I squat at his cage, letting him lick my fingers. “Exactly, Pawtrick. Exactly how I feel.” Caged and restrained.

  “I’m going to start eating without you!” the girl calls. The girl. Britney? Leslie? Lynn? I can’t remember her name, because I am an asshole and have none of my shit together.

  On the couch, BritneyLeslieLynn swings a piece of pizza in my direction. “You’re the one who wanted to stop and get something to eat. Aren’t you hungry?”

  The vertex angle of her slice folds and flops as she waves it in the air. I feel like she’s sending me a message, but I know it’s in my head, as I’ve told no one about my problem—I mean, symptom. However, I nod at the commonality between the limp crust and me.

  I sit on the couch beside her, and she chucks a couple of bacon chunks into her mouth. I smile, as does she. But I’m smiling at memories, not at the present situation. She reminds me of Aggi. Comfortable, confident.

  “So when do your parents get home?”

  I chuckle. She’s forthright, too. So Aggi.

  “Not for a while.” I scoot back on the couch and pet the armrest like it’s my dog.

  “You look nervous.”

  My back straightens. “Do I? I do? I don’t feel nervous.” Complete lie.

  She laughs and takes another bite of pizza.

  If I had game, and if that’s what those with game even call it, I’d make a move. This is where I’m supposed to reach over and ask if I can touch her. No. That sounds ridiculous. Not the asking but the touching. Guys do this shit, though, with girls they take home. Girls sitting on their couch asking when their parents will arrive. Guys un-Max-like, that is. I do things like sketch shapes on my jeans, forget to make eye contact, pet the couch like it’s Pawtrick Swayze, and think about the girl I wish were here. The one who laughs only when I really deserve it. The one who can out-eat me in pizza. The one who’s lived next door to me since we were babies.

  She scrunches her napkin into a ball and drops it onto the coffee table, stands, takes my hand, and nods toward the stairs.

  Okay, I think. I can do this. I slide to the edge of my couch and brake without delay. My hand slips from her grip. I can’t do this. Not today. Probably not ever.

  Ryan Gosling does this shit in every Ryan Gosling movie. He hops to his feet, rips off his shirt, pounds his hairless chest. Girls—women—seem to eat it up. I am not Ryan Gosling. I am not even close.

  “Are you coming?” she asks. “If we’re going to do this, shouldn’t we get started?”

  I nod with no intention of moving from the couch. Now I have to figure out how to ask her to leave, which is going to be difficult since I’m the one who invited her here.

  “Well?”

  I look up from my feet and shrug.

  “Oh, God.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m incredibly sorry. It’s just that—”

  She whips around and snatches her purse from the side table. “Not sure why I thought you were better. Wasn’t therapy supposed to cure you?”

  Cure? I wish. Besides, I haven’t seen a counselor in months. It’s not exactly the kind of place I want to get in touch with my feelings, when Mom and Dad sit like statues next to me on the couch while I try to figure out the right words for I haven’t been able to get an erection in months. I need to know if this is part of the grieving process.

  “What do you know about my therapy, anyway?” I stuff both hands in the front pockets of my jeans.

  She ties her scarf into a complicated knot. “Jess said, Katherine said, Lei Lei said.”

  I scoff. “Of course they did.”

  “You should just take me home.”

  I step into my boots. “You know, you shouldn’t believe everything you hear about me.”

  I’m still not sure exactly what she’s heard, but word travels fast at school, so I can only imagine.

  “Okay, Max,” she says flatly and zips her coat. “Just take me home, or should I call someone? Aggi, maybe?”

  I wince. “Why Aggi?”

  Her eyebrow lifts and she sighs. This is an effect I have on people. Acquaintances, even friends. When I insist I’m okay, people sigh. It lets them off the hook. They feel as though they can move on from an otherwise uncomfortable conversation. My therapist sighs, but I don’t think it’s out of exhaustion or annoyance or even relief. I think she sighs because I won’t open up. But what do I know?

  “I really am sorry,” I say as I open the door.

  She stops on the porch. “I know, and that’s what makes this so sad.” She glances over at Aggi’s house, then back at me. “I really feel sorry for you. What you’ve gone through. What your families are dealing with. This shit’s tough.”

  I’m grateful there’s no sarcasm in her tone, but she turns abruptly and stomps down the steps. I suppose I deserve the cold shoulder. I invited her to my house for selfish reasons. I knew I’d see Aggi in the window. Her silhouette greets me nearly every day. Aggi, in that oversized sweatshirt, hair pulled up into a messy bun that draws her cheeks into sharp points. She’s every time period of art mixed into one masterpiece. Sharp edges in one spot, rounded corners in another. Eyes I can’t figure out. Do they belong in the Medieval or Pre-Raphaelite period?

  I grab the back of my neck and squeeze. A grin forces its way out. It’s incredibly difficult not to laugh at the mess I’ve become, at the actual shit that is now my life.

  3

  Aggi

  AS ON EVERY NIGHT SINCE the accident, dinner plans belong to me. My little sister, Grace, lives with Mom’s boss and only remaining friend, Dr. Nelson, five to six nights a week. A light bulb went off in my mother’s brain after Kate’s death. Mom said she needed time to process grief, and who can think with a ten-year-old on your lap begging for kisses and hugs after her big sister died? I suggested I stay with Dr. Nelson, too, because Grace and I need each other, but Dad said, “Hell no!” and when Dad says, “Hell no!” he means he wants control and is afraid who I will run to if I’m not being controlled. So I stay home, make dinner for myself, and eat alone.

  At the refrigerator, I rummage for packages of food that have not passed their expiration date. There is no sense waiting for the oven or stovetop to heat with Grace gone, so I prepare cold foods for myself. A bowl of cereal. A sandwich. A spoonful of peanut butter.


  After Cal died and Kate was still in the hospital, I grilled fluffernutter sandwiches, Grace’s favorite, stuffed them into Dad’s old lunch box, clutched Grace’s arm, and headed for the lake. Grace in her puffy coat and gloves, me in my down-filled parka. We’d sit on the dock, shivering, but warm on the inside as we had each other and we were still together. My heart broke for Max and his family, but I believed time would heal our families and we’d get through the loss if I focused on the one person my parents put me in charge of: Grace.

  But one evening, Dad returned from the hospital to check on us and Max’s father met him in our driveway. Shouts first. Then fists. Blows.

  Dad caught a glimpse of us on the porch, spoke to me with his eyes, and I knew to rush Grace away from the house and down to the lake. Max followed us to the dock, but his father’s pain froze his steps. Mr. Granger’s heart fractured and broke so loudly the woods stopped moving, including Max. The heartbreak he felt over losing his brother surfaced, too, and slowed his stride, pushed at his spine until he couldn’t lift his head. All while his father shouted, “Kate did this! If she hadn’t gone! If she hadn’t driven! If she . . . If she . . . If she . . .” Max never made it to the dock where we were sitting. He paced the trail, wandered in circles, then disappeared into the trees.

  Paperwork now prevents our fathers from coming to blows but hasn’t stopped the blame.

  Before mom sent Grace to live with Dr. Nelson, I’d bundle my sister in her coat and we’d run to the dock. We both needed to be there. Alone but together. The sandwiches tasted better when we were sitting outside watching snowflakes drop and dance before hitting the lake. I wish Grace were here now so we could dangle our legs while we tore at the crust and smacked our lips when the marshmallow fluff froze on our mouths. The snowstorms outside my house don’t hold a candle to the storm that brews on the inside.

  A casserole dish with a brick of lasagna looks appetizing but reminds me of Kate. Two weeks after she died, casseroles brought into our home by local Plum Lake residents emptied and the dishes stacked in the sink. I decided to make dinner for my family. I thought if we sat together at the table and talked about how much we missed Kate, we’d draw closer. I’d read a grief article online that suggested Grace, the youngest and most vulnerable family member, needed to see us together. And I did, too. I wanted to talk to Mom and Dad about Kate. I wanted to remember funny things she said. I needed us to cry together. Empty dams had already begun to build between us. But the article said tears would connect us. Lasagna, I believed, would hold us together as love was supposed to do.

  After I spent hours in the kitchen preparing homemade pasta and spreading it with oily sauce, Mom sent Grace to Dr. Nelson’s, then disappeared behind her bedroom door. I waited up for Dad, though. He’d want to sit and talk at the table as we used to. He’d fork the noodles and comment on their texture. He’d thank me and tell me to save him another plate for breakfast, and I’d save one for Mom, too. When our stomachs were full, he’d build a fire and ask me to stay up with him while we talked about Kate and what a great singer she was. How the song lyrics Kate wrote sounded so beautiful when Cal put her words to music. We’d remember how Kate could outswim anyone at Plum Lake, and I’d share how she was the best big sister and friend anyone could dream of having. But I was naive.

  When Dad stumbled into the house after midnight, I zipped into the kitchen and popped his plate into the microwave, then watched as he stumbled to the counter, peeled back an aluminum lid from a can of Cirrus’s cat food, and spread the meat onto a slice of bread with his finger. He folded the bread in half and bit the center. Not even a wince.

  I said, “Hey, Dad. That’s cat food you’re eating.”

  He yanked the plate of lasagna from my hands and smashed it against the wall. Dad doesn’t remember that moment in the kitchen, or if he does, he won’t mention it, but the tomato sauce soaked into the flat eggshell paint and the wall turned pastel pink. The stain reminds me Dad has changed. He’s angry, but for all the wrong reasons. Now, every time I walk into the kitchen and see the salmon stain on the wall, I remember how much my family has changed. And I grow angry, too.

  But to protect myself, I have established boundaries. Like Mom’s idea to send Grace away. Like Dad’s enforcement of the law. His rule. I now live by a three-ingredient rule.

  When I’m outside my room longer than it takes to sling together three ingredients, the air thickens and becomes stagnant. My chest tightens. Outdoors, in school, or even in my bedroom with the door closed, my chest moves without labor, but this house reminds me of losing everyone I love, and the pressure of loss is like a weight on my chest, crushing and flattening who I once was.

  Grace goes to Dr. Nelson’s, and the only one left to care for at home is Cirrus the cat. But even as I feed Cirrus, the house and all its memories squeeze my neck. Grace has felt the pressure, too. In the tiny window of time Grace is allowed to be at home, her eyes hollow and her spirit shrivels. It’s the house, I know it, and it’s strangling her. No matter how hard it is to live here without Grace, I’m glad she’s gone. At least when Grace is with Dr. Nelson, I know she’s not ignored. My little sister won’t hear the hurtful words that will prick her heart and leave holes that will stick with her as she ages. It’s better that I’m the pincushion.

  My mouth dries, throat pinches. I’ve been out of my safe space for too long. Every room in this dilapidated house reminds me of Kate. Space she consumed, pictures she posed for, furniture she touched. Even when Cirrus, the cat our parents gave us for Christmas right before Kate died, purrs and rubs her white fur against my shins, my chest aches.

  I stomp the hardwood, and Cirrus dives beneath the table and licks her paw. The cat is as much to blame as the rest of us. Even her purrs and fur couldn’t comfort Kate and give her the lifeline she needed to stay alive and with us.

  This is what happens when I’m out of my room for too long. I point fingers of blame, too. But the cat? All the anger and hate and blame that have absorbed into the walls rub off on me. My tolerance level is low after seeing Max with someone new, the pizza we should be devouring together, and that fresh snow that we used to play in, as it fell like torn cotton balls. I spin around, spiraling a strand of hair around my finger. My stamina is dangerously low today. I snatch two ingredients from the top shelf of the fridge and race upstairs toward my room.

  When I kick the door shut behind me, my lungs open wide like I’ve bounded from the lake. I crack the window, though my breath puffs in front of me, and wait for a sound to ping from next door. Max’s chuckle, a girl’s voice. The outside world filling my cold, dark house with life. But silence is all I hear.

  Balling up on the floor beside my bed, I fold a piece of bread in half. Lettuce presses into the dough, and when I bite the middle of the bread, the leaf crunches. After my parents fall asleep, Mom on the couch with Cirrus in her lap, Dad passed out in bed still wearing his boots, I’ll tiptoe to the kitchen for something else to eat. I imagine Mom knocking on my door, offering a hug, asking me to go with her to pick up Grace from Dr. Nelson’s. We could stop by Plum Lake Café and order burgers and sweet potato fries. Imagining a hot meal at the table, together, makes me smile.

  I tear a chunk of bread, squish it into a ball between my fingers as the moisture from the lettuce saturates the dough. I close my eyes, pop the hunk of sandwich into my mouth, and almost taste bacon grease mixed with marinara. Lucio & Sons Picasso Pizza Pies.

  I allow my mind to wander into Max’s house, his living room, kitchen, and bedroom. The spaces we shared together. I miss him. I miss us. But when I think of the pizza he’s sharing with someone else, my eyes pop open, and my stomach aches. Thoughts of Max with someone else hurt, though months have passed and we’ve both moved on. I suppose I didn’t expect Max to move on the way he did. Maybe I should start parading guys through the driveway Friday afternoons and make a show of how we, too, have the house to ourselves.

  Cirrus mews at the door, and my chest tightens. Within s
econds the engine roars outside my window.

  Shit! Dad’s home.

  4

  Max

  SHOUTS BOOM FROM THE PORCH. Pawtrick Swayze hits his doggy door on cue and barks. He loops the driveway, back legs slipping as he races toward the steps and sits next to me on the porch. I wrap my arm around his chubby torso and hug him.

  Most nights between seven and eight o’clock, noise echoes from Aggi’s house. Exact words never form, at least I can’t make them out, but sound ricochets off tree trunks and the chipped white walls holding up the Frank home. I tuck my knees to my chest and brush snowflakes off my snow pants. Shoveling the already-shoveled snow distracts me for a few minutes but doesn’t distance me from the painful reality of Aggi and me no longer speaking.

  My stomach growls, and I regret not eating the pizza. When my parents go to bed, I’ll pop a few slices in the microwave and feast, but now my eyes are fixed on the house next door.

  Aggi’s window above the garage is a swollen black eye and I wish it would open, show light, and tell me Aggi’s safe, but she’s never at her desk when the yelling begins. I imagine her locked in the bathroom or tucked safely in bed. Sometimes, when shoveling snow isn’t enough to clear my head, I run to the dock, and by the time I return, I envision myself marching up the Frank front steps, pounding the door, and interrupting their argument. There are repercussions and danger with this fantasy, and I’d probably mess up the wrongful-death lawsuit my dad filed against Aggi’s family, but in that brief moment of strength, I care nothing about a civil harassment restraining order. I only care about Aggi.

  After Aggi’s dad pinned mine against one of the refrigeration trucks they co-owned for the family business, smashed his face into the hood, it was only reasonable for my father to demand I call the cops. Except Aggi’s dad is practically one of them, or he was. After Mr. Frank finished his day job working side by side with my dad, he used to ride in police cars Friday and Saturday nights, playing pretend cop to kids like Henry with a family history of breaking the law. Aggi’s dad, like other cops in this town of seven hundred people, worked as a volunteer—a reserve police officer—with a heart to serve. I used to see the charitable heart worn on the sleeve of Mr. Frank’s blue button-up. He took pride in his volunteer work, and my brother, Cal, and I looked up to him when Mr. Frank talked about making a difference, but now all I see are his empty eyes, and all I hear are his harsh words. Aggi’s dad hasn’t worn his police uniform since he used his cop moves on my father. Arms twisted. Face planted. My dad calling out for help. After the incident, Mr. Frank was immediately removed from his volunteer position with the police force, and he quit showing up to work with my dad.