Since We Last Spoke

by Brenda Rufener

  Grace squints at me, then Umé.

  “What?” Umé asks.

  “Not long ago.”

  Grace grunts. “Why do you make excuses for them?”

  I open my mouth, close, open again. “We have food in the house. We have . . . soup.”

  “Thanks to Dr. Nelson,” Grace mumbles.

  True, but Grace shouldn’t be aware the cupboards are spotty or the food in the refrigerator requires a sniff test before tasting.

  “We need to get you out of the house more,” Umé says, running her fingers along the sugar packets. “With all due respect, Aggi, your parents need help. Family members? A therapist?”

  Grace drops her chin and pushes against the seat.

  Umé has lived my last year alongside me, as tragic as it’s been, and she knows my survival skills. How I can’t stand to be out of my room for more than a few minutes. My three-ingredient rule. And what makes Umé the best friend anyone could ask for is that she never judges me or my parents, even behind the sarcastic tone and raised eyebrows. She gets seriously irritated with my folks, though she’d never admit it.

  Becky appears at our table without menus or a writing utensil. Umé shouts out our order. “Three platters of sweet potato fries smothered in cheddar. Three cheddar-and-chicken biscuits. And two fried green tomatoes. Grace?”Grace nods.

  “Make that three tomatoes,” Umé continues. “And one order of chicken tenders.” She winks at Grace, and Grace grins.

  I’m salivating as Becky mentally notes the food list. “Dipping sauce for the tenders?”

  “Ranch, please,” I say, and Grace gasps.

  “Do you still have the Brie and Carolina hot sauce?” she asks Becky.

  “Sure do, little friend.” Becky clicks her tongue. “Drinks?”

  “All the pop,” Umé says, slapping the table. The silverware clanks.

  “And hot tea for me, please,” Grace says. “With honey.”

  Becky nods and rushes toward the kitchen shouting, “Wake up, Gill! Order in and these kids are hungry!”

  “You are hungry,” I say, tucking a foot beneath my butt.

  “Always,” Umé says. “And somebody needs to make sure you eat.”

  “I’m eating just fine.” Grace unzips her coat and slips her arms out of the sleeves. “Thanks to Dr. Nelson’s peach and meat pies.”

  Becky drops off three dark and three pink sodas. All the pop.

  “Hot tea on its way.”

  “Thanks, Becky,” we say in unison, and she hesitates at the table, circling her rag in the same spot.

  I draw a deep breath and prepare for what’s coming.

  “Saw your daddy in here yesterday, Aggi Mae. He doesn’t look so well.”

  My natural reaction is to stick up for my father. Tell Becky that Dad’s doing the best he can, which isn’t much and that makes me angry, but I nod and wait for her next question. Becky smiles as if she knows exactly what I’m going through. Maybe her daddy was like mine. A father who copes with grief by yanking at the loose strings barely holding his family together until we’re a tangled pile of thread. A father who won’t look his two living children in their eyes because he’s too busy shouting, pointing fingers, and blaming others for an accident. I think about Umé’s words. How my parents do need help, and if Dad doesn’t seek it out he’s going to combust.

  Umé studies me, lifts her glass without breaking her gaze, and fishes for her straw with her tongue. She slurps until the glass is empty, shoves it at Becky, saying, “Going to need a refill. I am so thirsty.”

  Umé, protecting me from questions I don’t have answers for.

  But Becky pauses, and storm clouds swirl in my head. Even if Becky’s questions originate from a caring heart, they will push me to a place I don’t want to go.

  “How’s your mama doing? Saw her walking near the college the other day. I waved, called her name, but she wouldn’t look up from her feet. She didn’t look okay. Is she all right?”

  I close my eyes, and Umé clears her throat. “Soda? Becky, please.” Umé’s voice sounds like her mother’s after her daughter’s arrived home fifteen minutes past curfew.

  Becky spins on her heel, taking Umé’s hint, and scurries off toward the soda machine.

  “You have to know how to handle these nosy villagers.”

  I push a smile. “Low energy, remember?”

  “No energy’s more like it. Drink up.” Umé pushes a soda at me. “Fill your blood with sugar.”

  The three of us slurp in silence until Umé dabs a napkin to her lips and says, “Something interesting happened today.” She double-clicks her phone. “Henry texted me and asked what you were doing earlier on the side of the road.”

  I straighten in my seat, dropping my foot to the floor.

  “He said Max saw you and got worried.” Umé brushes her fingers over her phone screen and, with her head down, looks up only with her eyes. She whispers, “Should we believe him?”

  I exhale as I do when the conversation shifts to Max. “Henry? Definitely. When have you ever known Henry to lie?”

  Umé forcefully shakes her head. “Not Henry. Max.”

  I hold a breath.

  Umé nudges me with her eyebrows.

  “He’s following me again.”

  “You saw him at work?”

  Grace moans. “Max loves you. What else do you expect him to do?”

  We stare at Grace, my mouth gaping, as Becky reappears at the table and slides platters of smothered fries in front of our faces. I grab two cheeseless sticks from the edge of the plate while Umé tears open a packet of Lactaid and dumps the pill into her mouth.

  “Thanks, Becky.”

  Becky hesitates, and for a moment I think she’s going to unload more questions on me, but when Umé shoves another empty glass at her, Becky beelines toward the counter.

  Umé wiggles a fry in her hand like a wand. “Please tell me Max isn’t planning to do something ridiculous.”

  I chuckle. “This is Max we’re talking about.”

  Umé frowns. “I’m not sure how I feel about Max following you to work. The whole tragedy is awful. But these fries.” A fake British accent ensues. “Oh, bloody hell, these fries are scrummy.”

  I laugh, thankful for Umé and how she reminds me that I’m a whole person, three-dimensional, who has not lost the two critical pieces holding me together, upright and in place. Umé helps lessen the guilt I cling to over losing Kate. She helps me think of Max without blame. The contempt my father feels toward Max and his family has nothing to do with me. If only Dad understood this.

  When Kate died, Umé told me to let every emotion have its time. Anger. Hurt. Guilt. I went numb while Umé shook my shoulders and begged for one tear to squeeze from the corner of my eye and spill onto my cheek. Something held my throat, tight at first, and I could barely breathe. Minutes felt like hours. Hours like days. Time stopped after the accident. My motion froze with fear. How do I go on without her? How do I live without my sister?

  It was midnight on a Friday when I called Umé and begged her to come over. She arrived within minutes and stood on my porch wrapped in pink cat-printed pajamas and a terry bathrobe for a coat. I felt the dam of salty tears and snot building, pushing, ready to burst, and as soon as Umé draped her arms across my shoulders, it broke.

  “Talk to me like I’m Kate,” Umé said. “Tell me . . . her . . . everything you need to say. Everything you’ve been holding inside.”

  The only words that formed were questions. “What could we have done? What should we have done? Why weren’t we enough? Why weren’t you?”

  Umé never answered the questions I whispered to Kate. I only needed her to absorb them like a sponge. We’ve never revisited that moment on the porch, but I know Umé’s holding my questions safe, protecting them from stupid truths, and when I’m ready, she won’t have to answer.

  After we devour our chicken biscuits, fries, and green tomatoes, and Grace spoons the remaining dipping sauce into her mou
th, we drive toward the lake and Connor’s supersized log cabin, belting out songs from Umé’s playlist. Being away from the house, free of worry that Mom and Dad might say something that will cause Grace pain, feels like an oxygen mask strapped to my face. Whether it’s the cold air or the ease of being with my best friend, I am resuscitated. And with Grace beside me, where Mom and Dad won’t hurt her with their words, distant stares, and folded arms, I can breathe.

  We pull onto the narrow, private pine-lined drive leading up to Connor’s cabin. After Umé parks, she drums the steering wheel and says, “I have an announcement to make.”

  Grace squeezes between the front seats, grabbing our shoulders. Her cold hand slides against the base of my neck and a tingle shoots down my arm. Grace hasn’t touched me in months. I miss her and she’s right beside me.

  “We’re all ears,” Grace says, and I smile.

  Umé tilts her head, and I nod for her to go ahead, proceed with caution in front of the ten-going-on-sixty-year-old.

  “I broke up with that girl from town.” Umé exhales and slams her back against her seat. “God, that felt good to say!”

  I moan. “No. Oh, no. You were perfect for each—”

  “Nope!” Umé pushes her palm in my face. “She was not perfect. She deserved a good dumping.”

  “Seriously? But I thought she was the one—”

  “The one? Are you serious? Let me tell you what the one was capable of.” Umé clears her throat. “Last week, we’re driving back to my house and I shout, ‘Stop! There’s a squirrel!’ and do you know what that human being with no soul did?”

  I shake my head, and Grace clutches her chest.

  “She stepped on the fucking gas!”

  “No!” Grace gasps, and Umé clutches Grace’s hand.

  “She did. She fucking did.”

  I wince and Umé catches herself. “Sorry, Grace. Don’t repeat my words to your parents.”

  “Is the squirrel okay?” Grace asks.

  “Oh, yeah, she didn’t run it over. Those squirrels are nearly impossible to hit. But the way she laughed about it sent a chill up my spine. Like what kind of monster is this girl? Like what else is she hiding in her basement?”

  Grace and I nod, unsure where to steer the conversation.

  “You’d think she was related to the Beacon boys,” Umé says. “Didn’t Henry’s brothers pay a huge fine a while back for killing a cat? I have heard those rumors and believe them all.”

  “Well, as long as you’re happy,” I say.

  “I’m ecstatic! I mean, it does suck a little that she had to do something like that, but better to see her true nature now than later. Besides, she wasn’t ready for me.”

  I smile, knowing exactly what Umé means. I never met her girlfriend from town, the one Umé raved about for months—claiming she was the one—but I’m certain she wasn’t ready for Umé. The world does not deserve Umé yet, but maybe it will someday, and when it does, watch out.

  Umé unbuckles her seat belt. “Let’s go have some fun.”

  Grace climbs out of the car but I freeze, unable to move. I scan the driveway for Max’s Jeep. What if he’s here? Umé walks to the passenger side and opens my door.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I exhale and crane my neck behind me. “Think he’s here?”

  Umé shrugs. “So what if he is?” A smile pushes, but like a glitch, it disappears, leaving concerned eyes. Umé knows as well as I do what will happen if Max and I show up at the same party. We talk or we don’t talk, but either way, shit will always find its way back to my dad. This town is too small to be safe.

  Umé extends a hand, and I clamp onto her fingers. On the way to the stone steps, Grace tugs the back of my coat and I slip out of Umé’s grip.

  “Please don’t treat me like your little sister tonight.” Grace scrunches her brow, demanding a serious response. “I mean it, Aggi. Treat me like you would a friend.”

  I nibble my lip and promise Grace, though I wish she would let me knuckle the top of her head, clutch her in my arms, and rock her like a baby. Grace has pushed my cuddles away since Kate died. It sounds cliché, but a part of Grace died with Kate. The part that giggled when a ladybug landed on her fingertip, the part that etched her name in snow with a stick and marveled at the loopy letters, the part that sniffed her fuzzy blanket until she fell asleep while I grazed her eyebrows with the back of my nail. Grace aged ten years in five days, and I’m not sure I will ever get my little sister back. The sister I want to hug and hold and tickle and squeeze.

  At Connor’s door, Henry greets us like he owns the place. My built-in invader alert goes off, because where Henry is, Max lurks. Shooting my head to one side, then the other, I spin around until Henry reaches toward me and says, “Relax, Aggi. He’s not here. He went home a while ago.”

  “That’s right.” Connor slides into the foyer in fuzzy socks and blinds us with his sunshine pants. He attempts to scoop my hand with his, but I stuff my fingers into my purse and dig for something. Pepper spray, perhaps. “Max went home, where he belongs,” Connor continues. “No babies allowed.” He lifts an eyebrow in Grace’s direction.

  Grace glares.

  “Who said anything about Max?” Max. His name is beginning to sound foreign. That’s what happens when you’re afraid to speak it. Like goddamn Voldemort. “I never said anything about him. Max. Maxwell. Maxwell Granger.” There. His name sounds perfectly familiar now.

  Umé’s eyes smile, and Henry folds his arms. They watch me with sympathetic eyes, afraid they’ve said too much or not enough, until Connor clears his throat. “Help me light the fire?”

  Connor’s backyard is more an extension of the woods—a few man-made clearings packed with slate and rubbery bushes—but the overgrown grass and pine-straw-covered ground spread out to the edge of the lake. Connor grabs a flashlight and leads us down a snow-and-dirt-covered path to the dock.

  I reach for Grace’s hand out of instinct and she pushes it away as a reminder that my little sister can handle herself.

  We reach a pebbled trail lined with bamboo tiki torches. Connor stops at the first torch, slips his backpack off his shoulders, and retrieves a long BBQ lighter. He zigzags from torch to torch, lighting the wicks and shouting, “Poof!” after each flame ignites. There are five million torches, which cue Umé’s annoyance.

  “Beckoning an aircraft carrier, are we?” Umé kicks a mound of icy snow. “Or maybe the mother ship? Because I’m not sure you have enough damn torches and it’s not quite dark yet.”

  “Keeping mosquitoes at bay,” Connor says. “Candles are made of citronella. Your ass will thank me later.” He winks at Umé, and she winks back with her middle finger.

  “Too cold for mosquitoes, California boy.”

  Adirondack chairs circle a rocky fire pit surrounded by more torches. Umé plops down in the only recliner and says, “Where are all the women you claimed would be here waiting for us?”

  Connor whips around to face me, and my skin prickles as if a thousand mosquitoes alit and bit in unison. “You and Aggi are here.” He grins. “The rest will surely follow.”

  Doubtful. Connor has money that buys craft beer and tiki torches but doesn’t always buy friends. At least not lake-kid friends. We’re different from the friends Connor claims to have left in California. Most of the lake kids Connor begs to build friendships with work jobs so they can buy heat and groceries for their families, not lemon-drop pants or next season’s leather-yoke shirt jackets from Barneys. No one blames Connor for his wealth, no one’s jealous of his dipped-and-dyed good looks—the kids on the lake just don’t understand excess and the freedom it brings.

  Within a couple of minutes, voices wind down the torch-lit trail. Umé smiles, and I snag a chair next to her. Grace meanders toward the lake and sits on the dock by herself with legs dangling over the side. Light from the torches shines a halo over her head as she tosses rocks into the black water, which is becoming an oil slick under the moonlit sky. A thin shee
t of ice near the shore has broken into three pieces and floats back and forth as Grace aims and throws rocks into the water. Once in a while, Grace’s pebble connects with the ice and splinters it into fragments that disappear in the lake.

  I run through a checklist of Grace’s clothing in my head. The items designed to keep her warm and safe. Fuzzy coat, furry scarf, waterproof boots. No gloves. “Grace!” I shout. “Your gloves! They’re in your coat pocket!”

  “Not your kid sister tonight!” Grace shouts back, reminding me of my promise. But after a pause, she yells, “Thanks!”

  Five lake kids arrive in a cluster, laughing about something someone said or did, then a few guys trickle in between the torches. Most of the boys I recognize from school. A couple of younger siblings trail behind them. Like me, lake kids are usually responsible for their younger brothers and sisters at night and on weekends, when parents work in retail stores, restaurants, or the lumber mill forty miles east of town.

  Connor loops his arms around two girls in the group. “Who wants to help me gather firewood?”

  The girls don’t giggle or bounce their hair. Lake kids aren’t like the California girls Connor claims act a certain way. I have a difficult time believing Connor’s version of California girls exists. Nobody is that eager to please.

  Three guys jog down the trail tossing a boomerang that slices over the dock. My eyes stick to the blade, cutting air close to Grace’s head.

  Umé reads my mind. “Do they even see Grace on the dock?”

  When the boomerang inches by her body, I jump to my feet and shout, “Watch where you’re throwing that thing! You almost hit my sister!”

  “Sorry, Aggi!” a guy named Troy shouts.

  Another boy jogs beside me and mumbles, “Sorry about that, Ag.”

  A third guy pops over my shoulder, and I raise my hand before he has a chance to apologize. I’m used to soaking up sympathy but tired of it, too. Once, I was just Aggi, a cute-on-good-hair-days girl, but now I’m a tragedy, that dead girl’s sister, that girl with the dad who smashed his best friend’s face into a truck, the one with the strange mom who wanders the college campus talking to her daughter’s ghost. I’m the grieving girl everyone feels like they should apologize to when they realize they’re having too much fun. I hate being that girl.