What She Left Behind

by Tracy Bilen

  “Where’s Matt? He’s always late for dinner.”

  My dad often talks like he thinks Matt is still alive. To be fair, I do my share of pretending Matt’s alive. But I don’t vocalize it, at least, not most of the time.

  I look down so my mom will answer. My wet hair brushes against the back of my neck, giving me a chill.

  “I think he has a tutoring session with his history teacher. More cheesy bread, Ray?” She passes him the bread basket, then turns to me. “So how was school today?”

  “Fine, I guess. Rachel spilled hydrochloric acid on herself in chem and had to use the emergency shower.”

  “She’s okay, I hope,” says Mom.

  “Yeah, she’s fine.”

  I look over at my dad. As usual, he’s staring out at the fields, muttering to himself. The only word I catch is “oil.” Although I know I should hate him, my heart tells me to talk to him since I may never see him again. My stupid, stupid heart.

  I clear my throat. “So, Dad. How was work today?”

  No answer.

  “Dad,” I say, a little louder. “How was work today?”

  “Oil. Matt needs to change the oil in his car. How does he expect it to run if he doesn’t change the oil?” He bangs his fist on the table for emphasis.

  “Right. I’ll remind him when he gets home,” my mom cuts in. Then, in a fake-cheery voice that most people reserve for two-year-olds, she says, “Call volume was up today.” It’s her way of pretending that this conversation is perfectly normal. She makes a point of looking at both me and my dad when she talks, even though I’m the only one listening.

  “That’s great,” I say. “Any special reason?”

  “We were running a special on the Autumn Splendor sets. I showed you one of the plates, right?”

  “Yeah, really cute.”

  Mom works in management for Essence dinnerware. She’s always coming home with some sample or damaged merchandise. She loves all of those patterned plates and bowls—and especially the matching doodads that go with the sets, like place mats and candleholders. They even make piggy banks and snow globes. Mom has it all.

  After dinner, Dad retreats to the basement and his trains. When he’s in his muttering phase, he’s usually pretty safe, so I follow. Dad’s never actually hurt me, anyhow. He’s just hurt Matt and my mom. Now just Mom. I’m not sure why, but I think the reason he leaves me alone has something to do with the trains. I am the one who comes down here with him, who watches him build and play. I am the one who goes with him on train-picture-taking missions. Together we have taken hundreds of pictures of trains. Maybe he thinks I understand him, get him.

  I don’t.

  But I do the best job pretending.

  Dad sits on a high gray swivel chair. I duck under the table and stand in the center cut-out. He flips a few switches and a steam engine emerges from an old brick engine house. It looks dusty, but only because he painted it that way.

  Trains have a way of helping Dad talk coherently. “I thought I’d make the haunted house next,” he says. Engines, boxcars, and building kits are all we get my dad for Christmas. Matt and I gave him the haunted house years ago, but he never put it together. His town has a grocery store, grain elevator, and an orange and green house Matt and I called the “pumpkin house.” Soon it will have our haunted house. Too bad neither Matt nor I will be there to see it.

  “You can put it right here,” I say, pointing to an empty spot next to a cabin on the bank of the fake river. Dad designed the cabin to make it look like Ramona’s Retreat, this place we used to go on vacation. It also has these little people standing around outside it, like the four of us.

  “Too close.”

  “Good point,” I say, nodding. In real life, the cabins near Ramona’s Retreat are so far apart you can forget there are other people around. “How about next to the hardware store?”

  “Sure. That sounds good.” He smiles for the first time in a long while.

  I stand and watch the trains travel around me, breathing in deeply the wet-potato basement smell that I love, but everyone else hates. And in this way, I say good-bye to Dad.

  When I go back upstairs, Mom is watching our favorite soap, The Winds of Change. Mom let me start watching it with her when I was nine. I’ve been hooked ever since. It’s on late enough in the afternoons that, if I want, I can watch it live after school, but usually I just wait and watch it on the DVR with Mom.

  “Sorry I started without you,” Mom says, hitting pause on the remote. “You want me to rewind?” She looks so pale and uncomfortable that I worry when Dad comes back up he’s going to figure out what we’re planning.

  “No, it’s okay.” I sit down next to her. “You’ve got to try harder to look normal,” I whisper.

  She nods and takes a deep breath.

  “What’s happened with Julia?” I ask.

  “She doesn’t remember getting hit by the car. Or that Ramón isn’t really her husband.” Mom takes a handful of Ritz Bits and offers me the box.

  “She doesn’t remember that Ramón’s her stalker? No way. What about the apartment? How did he explain why they don’t have any pictures?” I pop a couple of crackers in my mouth.

  “He said there’d been a fire.” She shakes her head.

  “Hmm. I guess that would explain why they don’t have much furniture, either.”

  I wonder if that’s what we’ll say too, when we get to where we’re going with just our duffel bags.

  CHAPTER 2

  Tuesday

  Second period. Gym. God. I hope my new school doesn’t have a PE requirement. I loathe all forms of organized sports. Why didn’t we just leave last night? Or this morning? The gym smells like chalk, which I guess is better than sweat, but not by much. I try not to breathe in too deeply.

  Today is volleyball. I especially hate the bump hit. It’s just wrong to hit a ball with that part of your arms. If I can’t hit it with my hands, I’m not hitting the damn thing at all.

  The ball is heading straight toward me. Great. Then I think of my dad kicking my mom and this time I slam it across the net. No one expects anything more than a wimpy hit. Most of the girls, in fact, see the ball heading for me and start up conversations, moving out of position. Including Jessica Hamilton. She gets hit smack in the nose. It starts to bleed.

  “Who did that?”

  “Was that Sara?”

  I confirm my guilt by running over to Jessica and offering her a crumpled tissue from my pocket. “I’m really sorry, Jessica.”

  She grunts back. I can’t tell if that’s a “you’re forgiven” grunt or an “I hate your guts” grunt. I hope it isn’t the latter. I hate having people mad at me.

  We take a five-minute break while Mrs. Koster takes Jessica and Stephanie to the nurse. Jessica for her nose, and Stephanie because she fainted at the sight of Jessica’s blood. Blood doesn’t bother me. I’m used to it. Unfortunately, once Mrs. Koster gets back, she makes us keep playing.

  The opposing team usually hits the ball to me, since most days I deliberately miss. So even after my nose-busting, blood-squirting return, the girls, in their forgetful laziness, continue to send the ball toward me. In my freaked-out frenzy I fire them all back, racking up points for my team, and we win by sixteen points.

  “Hey, Sara, good game,” says Jamie. “You should come out for the team.” If I were staying, I could just imagine the next gym class. I would be first pick; the captain would be psyched. Cue replay of the third-grade kickball game the day after I caught three fly balls in a row. It was a disaster. I disappointed everyone, especially myself. Short version: On a normal day, I suck.

  English is on the third floor in the old part of the building. I love having classes there. It’s like going back in time. When they installed whiteboards in the rest of the building, they skipped the six rooms on the third floor. You would think it was because they ran out of money, but I’m betting the truth is that Mrs. Monroe refused to part with her blackboard. Mrs. Monroe is way
into chalk.

  The wooden floors creak as all the students come in and take their seats. Mrs. Monroe’s clunky heels make soft thuds as she walks across the room and opens the wall of windows to let in the breeze. Mrs. Monroe likes to pretend that she’s mean. I had her last year too, and she even dressed up as a witch for Halloween because she said it was a reflection of her personality. Then she gave us chocolate and no homework.

  Our free writing topic is on the blackboard. We always spend the first ten minutes of English class doing a free writing assignment. This usually stresses me out because I can’t write fast. I agonize over every word, even though I know it’s graded only on completeness and Mrs. Monroe is the only one who’ll read it.

  Today the topic is “A Person I Admire.” I don’t know if it’s the topic or the fact that I know I’m never coming back, but I let it all out. As the idea comes to me, I feel a tingling in my toes. I start right away, before the bell rings. Maybe that’s cheating since we’re only supposed to write for ten minutes, but for once I don’t want to wait.

  The person I most admire is my big brother, Matt. He killed himself, but that’s not why I admire him. I’m mad at him for that. But I’ve pretty much forgiven him for any other faults he had, which weren’t many.

  Matt and I were a year and a half apart. When we were little, we were inseparable. We played with nearly everything together: LEGOs and grocery carts, Hot Wheels and Play-Doh, army guys and jump ropes.

  As we grew older, Matt and I turned out to be about as opposite as you can get: I got As; Matt mainly Cs (except in Spanish; that was an A). When Dad told me to do something, I did it right away. When Dad told Matt to do something, he only did it if he didn’t have something better to do. Me: would rather go to the dentist than play sports. Matt: soccer fiend. At an amusement park, my idea of living dangerously is riding the Ferris Wheel; Matt wasn’t happy unless he spent at least fifty percent of the time upside down. While we were opposites, it was a good kind of opposite and it never stopped us from being close.

  The bell rings. I stop writing for a second. I haven’t really said why I admired Matt. Then again, Mrs. Monroe always tells us that we don’t have to rigidly keep to the topic; the important thing is to keep the pen moving. Still, I try to get to the admiration part.

  I wish I could play piano like Matt—he was a natural.

  Matt loved me. He hugged me. He played with me. He picked me up when I fell, both at five and at fifteen. He was my big brother. I adored him.

  Matt was always there for the people who needed him. That’s what I admired most about him.

  Somehow none of us were there for him the day he needed us most.

  I put down my pen. I haven’t filled the page and time isn’t up, but I’ve said all I need to.

  “Your projects need to be about a significant event in world history. You can work on your own or with a partner. I’m giving you two months. Whatever you do, don’t wait until the last minute.”

  Everyone in my history class groans except for me. I’m not bothering to listen to or take notes on anything that isn’t due today. Mr. Robertson drones on about academic integrity and properly citing sources.

  “You should all be taking notes on this,” Robertson says, frowning at me and a couple of other slackers. 11:40 a.m. In fifteen minutes I’ll be out of here. Forever.

  I get out a pencil and a piece of paper and write down a few lines so it looks like I’m paying attention. I write:

  Don’t listen to your heart.

  Can’t trust Dad.

  Must not tell.

  Then I slip Cujo (a Stephen King book) out of my backpack and open it on my lap. I keep the pencil in my hand so it looks like I’m taking notes. I start to read. History fades away as I get lost in the story. My stomach churns. I hold my breath, afraid of what will happen when I turn the page.

  Bang!

  I jump in my seat, nearly knocking my water bottle off my desk. My heart races. The door! Who just came in? I can’t look. Is my dad coming to get me out of class? Has he figured out that we’re leaving?

  I crumple up the paper on my desk. What do I do with it? Do I try to throw it out?

  No time. I stuff it in my backpack and pray Dad doesn’t find it.

  I imagine Dad explaining to Robertson that I need to be excused for a dentist appointment, then yanking my shirt collar and dragging me down the hallway. Does anyone actually monitor the security cameras?

  “Hi there,” Alex Maloy says, to no one and to everyone as he saunters to his seat. I’ve never been so happy to see anyone as I am to see Alex at that moment. I think I even smile at him. I definitely notice how hot he looks when he doesn’t shave. Today he’s wearing a Notre Dame football shirt. Most days he wears college football T-shirts. Not that I pay attention.

  “Pass?” asks Mr. Robertson, out of simple reflex, I’m sure, since Alex never has one.

  “Did I need one of those? Hold on—let me go get you one.”

  “Just sit down,” says Robertson. Good call. Everyone knows that if Alex Maloy leaves the room he’ll never be back. Alex hasn’t always had attendance issues, but he’s certainly making up for lost time. Last year Alex seemed like the rest of us—reasonably interested in turning in homework and passing classes. Now, none of that seems to matter to him, but not in a depressing way. No; Alex is relaxed, confident, and friendly to everyone. So you can’t help but hope that it won’t all come crashing down if he doesn’t get into a good football college.

  Alex sits in the only free seat, which happens to be next to mine.

  “Whatcha reading?” he whispers as Robertson runs through a list of possible topics.

  Oh my God. He’s not actually talking to me, is he? My cheeks heat up and I know they’ve just turned three shades of scarlet. Trying to act casual, I show him the cover. He lifts his eyebrows and looks back and forth between the book and me. “I never would have guessed,” he says. “Can I see it?”

  I pass him the book.

  Act natural, Sara. As if guys like Alex Maloy ask you questions every day.

  I sneak my cell phone under my desk and check my text messages. There’s one from Zach, asking what movie I want to see Sunday afternoon. We go to a matinee most Sundays. It’s cheap and it gets me out of the house. I can either pretend I didn’t get the message or that I’ll be around on Sunday. There’s no way I can tell Zach the truth. If he knows anything and my dad asks him about it—it will show in his eyes. Zach can’t lie. And I know my dad will ask him when we don’t come home tonight because although he’s currently Robot Dad, he’s a very cunning robot.

  PICK WHEN GET THERE, I text. EAT LUNCH W/O ME.

  A minute later I have Zach’s reply. WHY??

  I turn off the phone.

  Alex hands me back the book. “Have you read Misery?” he whispers.

  Now it’s my turn to look surprised. Wow. I guess I need to readjust my football player stereotype. I glance over at Robertson and try to talk without moving my lips. “No—that’s another Stephen King one, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, I can loan it to you. I’m almost done.”

  As long as you finish it in the next ten minutes and you don’t care that you’ll never get it back, I think. “Sure, thanks” is what I say.

  When the bell rings, I’m out of my seat and at the door. So is everyone else. I have this urge to push everyone out of the way, but instead I wait my turn like I always do. Then I take the stairs two at a time, run outside, and cross in the middle of the street without really looking. Traffic in Scottsfield is practically nonexistent. Scottsfield doesn’t have any actual traffic lights, just this one blinking light at the intersection of Main and Scott Streets. It blinks yellow on Main (slow down, you might actually see another car) and red on Scott. All the businesses in Scottsfield—all eight of them—are on Main Street along a two-block stretch. We’ve lived in Scottsfield for six years, and it feels like I’ve lived here forever. Even before we moved from Philadelphia, we would come for a
week in the summer and during Christmas vacation, because my grandparents (on my dad’s side) used to live here.

  I make my way to the Dairy Dream. Me and everyone else. We’re all going there or to Lucy’s, the only restaurant in Scottsfield. We have an open campus, which means that as long as you’re back for afternoon classes, you can go where you want for lunch.

  I walk by myself, eavesdropping on the conversations around me. Amber and Melanie are talking about Amber’s roots. Melanie keeps insisting that they’re barely noticeable. Hello. They’re about as noticeable as a hippo in a flower garden. Cameron is laughing so hard he’s staggering all over the sidewalk. Breathe already. Then there’s Josh and Kevin, discussing some game on TV last night. Kevin says the word “shit” eight times. After that I stop counting. Finally, there’s me. Surrounded by people yet completely alone, already missing Amber’s roots and Kevin saying “shit” and everything about this lame-ass town.

  I’m wearing jeans and a short-sleeve T-shirt and starting to feel kind of cold. Yesterday was so warm—what’s up with today?

  When I get to the Dairy Dream, I’m not sure what I should do. I’m too nervous to be hungry, which is a good thing since I didn’t bring a lunch and the Dairy Dream only sells variations on ice cream, nothing actually nutritious.

  For a while I sit on one of those yellow parking space markers, waiting for Mom, but then a car comes and some guy wants to park in my spot, even though there are plenty of other spaces. Jerk. So I stand up and head toward the outdoor counter, keeping my eyes on the street.