All We Left Behind

by Ingrid Sundberg

  “Nothing scares you,” I tease, but he doesn’t laugh.

  I sit up and twist my legs off the cot. That seemed like a good idea, but the room spins. I grab the metal railing and Conner throws a hand on my shoulder.

  “Just chill out,” he says. “You’re not going anywhere till your dad gets here.”

  “You called my dad?”

  “Coach did,” Conner explains. “He had to, by law. You passed out on school property.”

  The headache pings behind my eyes and the small room comes into focus. White walls. Inspirational posters. Plastic curtains.

  “He’s pissed, you know,” Conner says, refilling my cup.

  “Who, my dad?”

  Conner’s eyes flash at me sharply. “No, Coach.”

  I look at the ceiling. The fluorescent lights sting like vinegar. “How long have I been out?”

  “Only about a minute on the field,” Conner says, handing me the drink. I gulp it down and my eyes water from the lights. “But you were so woozy when you came to, Coach called your dad and I took you here. You’ve been in and out for about twenty.” He squeezes my shoulder, and I hear the clanking of the water pipes through the wall.

  “I’m fine,” I say, and he nods.

  “Of course you are.” But the look on his face says I’m anything but. “You know . . .” He wraps the yellow pamphlet around his finger. “If you ever need—”

  “I know,” I say, so he doesn’t have to. Of course I know.

  The fluorescent lights buzz and Conner stuffs the pamphlet back in his pocket. “Okay, well, if you ever—”

  “I know,” I repeat, louder, and Conner steps back. He sits down on the confetti-covered chair and I close my eyes. I can feel him staring at me, like after Mom died, when we were in my kitchen the week after her funeral. There were half-eaten casseroles covering the entire table, triple-wrapped in Saran. They probably should’ve been in the fridge, instead of rotting out in the heat. But I wasn’t going to touch them. I refused to eat dead-mom food.

  Conner sat at the table, fishing a pinkie through the plastic of one of the dishes, thinking I wouldn’t notice. I was making PB and J as he slid a bean between his teeth, and I let him get away with it. I tossed him a sandwich and headed out back.

  There was a little patch of grass behind the porch where Mom used to sit, and a green shed with the paint peeling. I ate two bites of my sandwich before I got out the soccer ball and started pounding it against the shed, trying to obliterate the rest of that paint.

  Somewhere in the middle, Conner joined in.

  I was kicking the ball against the shed, and then he was kicking it, and then I was kicking it, and I don’t know if he could tell I was crying, but he didn’t say anything.

  We just kept kicking the ball.

  Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang.

  * * *

  Dad dangles a cigarette out the open window as he drives me home. It’s the first one I’ve seen him with since he brought Josie home. My head throbs. I lean it against the passenger door and the rumble of the road shakes through me.

  “Conner says you were pushing too hard,” he says, eyes on the road. I’m pissed Conner told him anything. “You can’t do that.”

  “I can do whatever I want,” I mumble, letting the pulse of the tires ring through my ears.

  “I wish you wouldn’t,” he says softly. “I wish you’d realize soccer is a way for you to get to college. To get out of—”

  “College didn’t do shit for Josie, now, did it?” I interrupt, and he grips the wheel, the veins of his hand bulging.

  He takes a long drag from his cigarette.

  “When did you get it in your head that you’re like your sister?” he says finally, and I don’t know what to say to that.

  We’ve got the same blood. Josie. Mom. Me. We’re all locked up in this together.

  “What is that thing on her ankle?” I say, and he flicks ash out the window. “You got her locked up and you’re upset that I ran too hard on the soccer field? Where do you get off?” His jaw tightens. “Huh?” I press.

  He chucks his cigarette out the window and puts both hands on the wheel. I think about opening my door. To shake him up. Make him react.

  I unhook my seat belt.

  “Put that back on,” he scolds, and I like the edge in his voice.

  “Why?” I say. “Mom didn’t? Mom threw herself—”

  The brakes screech and he spins the truck to the curb. We haven’t stopped, but he’s grabbed my shirt, yanking me toward him.

  “Is this what you want?” he yells, spit in my face. “You want a rise out of me? You want me to hit you?”

  “Yes!” I struggle, hoping he will.

  His hand trembles and he pumps the brake as the truck rolls to the curb. His face is red.

  “Do it,” I say. “Hit me for being the only one left.”

  He pushes me hard against the seat. Fist in my chest. My head smacks against the seat and then his weight is on top of me. Only—

  This isn’t a fight.

  This isn’t him roughing me up or setting himself up for a punch. This is him grabbing the seat belt and yanking it over the front of me. It’s him strapping me in, and clicking it shut.

  Like I’m a child.

  Like he wouldn’t dare lose what is left.

  Marion

  I sit in the arms of the oak tree in my backyard. Stars dot the sky above and my bare feet press into the trunk. It’s so cold we could have a frost, but all I want is the contact of my skin on this tree.

  I run a hand over my name carved into the trunk, not sure my childhood self still exists somewhere under the puckered bark, and I wonder if it’s possible that growing up has nothing to do with what you do right, but everything to do with what you do wrong.

  “Marion?” Light flashes up the tree and I look down to see my father below. “What are you doing up there?”

  The sight of him makes my toes curl and some silly piece of me says—

  “Come up.”

  As if it’s an offer he might accept.

  I remember the sun dappling this tree, and how the green leaves glowed like stars. The branches were firm underfoot as my seven-year-old self raced higher and higher into the light. My father was below, stomping around the tree and huffing.

  “Fee fie foe fum,” he called out, hunched over, pretending to be the giant, and I scrambled above, as Jack.

  “Come up,” I yelled to him. “Come up and catch me!”

  “Fee fie foe fum.”

  He swung into the tree, climbing higher and coming after, and I giggled and squirmed above but didn’t go too high. I wanted him to catch me. It was the best part of the game.

  Dad’s flashlight wavers and the light falls off me.

  “Come up and catch me,” I whisper, not loud enough for him to hear.

  I can’t make out his features in the shadows below. There’s only the dark stillness of his shape. The light swings again and floods over me and I’m caught, but only by the light of him.

  “Come down,” he says quietly, pointing the beam to the ground. “Come down.”

  Marion

  I get up early and go to school. I park next to Abe’s silver pickup in the lot and look in the cab, but he’s not inside. I find him in the library sitting in one of the cubicle desks near the stacks with papers spread out around him, back to me. One hand is in his curls and the other is on the desk with his index finger tapping. I knock lightly on the cubicle, but he doesn’t look happy to see me.

  “Can I sit down?”

  “I’ve got to get this done, M,” he says, but the fact that he called me M means it isn’t a “no.” I pull out the chair beside him and he goes back to his homework. I sit down and pick up a stack of Post-it notes, pulling off the top note.

  “I’m sorry about yesterday,” I say, pressing the Post-it to my thumb. “About Kurt.”

  Abe doesn’t say anything, but his pen has stopped writing.

  “I . . .”
/>
  I run the edge of the Post-it against his desk. It bends and starts to peel off, just like me, flimsy and unable to stick to any of this.

  “You were right about Kurt,” I continue, jamming my finger against the Post-it, trying to make it stick. “That was—is—nothing.”

  He chews on his bottom lip.

  “Why do you even like him?” he asks, not looking at me. “Guys like him are shitheads.”

  Suddenly I feel the need to defend Kurt, because he isn’t like that. I mean, maybe it started out that way on the cliff, but there’s more to him. A tender part. A quiet part, like he can see the shadows in all the negative spaces. Like he can feel the sorrow and the weight of the silence.

  “You don’t know him,” I say, but I catch myself. “I mean, I don’t really know him,” I admit. “He isn’t what you think.”

  Abe’s reluctant expression turns dark, and I know he’s thinking about how Kurt treated him yesterday. I can’t deny how he acted. It’s not like Kurt said nice things to me, either. But I know he isn’t only one thing. Kurt’s both shitty and tender. He ignores me, then shares his music. He’s ocean and air.

  “Look,” I say, knowing I can’t tell Abe all that, and wishing this was simpler. Only, we can’t go back to dandelion wishes and pretending half the seeds won’t burn up in the sun. “I want to apologize for the way Kurt treated you. And I want you to know that he and I aren’t anything. Or whatever . . .”

  Abe doesn’t move. He presses the tip of the pen into his notebook and the dot expands into a small black stain. I drop the Post-it on the table and get up.

  “M,” Abe says, not looking at me. He taps his calculus papers with his pen. “I have to do this. It’s due first period.” His pinkie grazes the side of my hand. “But stay, if you want.”

  Kurt

  There’s nothing to look at in chemistry but Abe and Marion.

  Her hair is down.

  At one point Abe reaches over and touches it and I don’t think she even notices. Not like when Tommy’s hand was in her hair. Not like when it was mine.

  I look out the window and think about the game. I wonder if Coach will even play me. He bitched me out in front of everyone and benched me in practice yesterday.

  But I can still run. I need to run. Especially if I’m going to have to sit here for another fifty minutes and watch the backs of their heads.

  * * *

  Coach benches me.

  I dig my cleats into the grass and bounce my knees to keep them warm. I haven’t sat the bench since freshman year.

  Time clicks by. I keep looking to Coach. Waiting for that head-nod. But he doesn’t look my way.

  We’re down by two at the end of the third and Conner drops himself next to me. He’s the only one holding up the offensive line without me out there. The replacement striker is too slow. He can’t keep pace for the whole game.

  “Their left fullback is weak,” I tell Conner as he squirts water down his neck. “If you drive it up the right you’ll have an open shot. I’d set you up if—” I glance at Coach and dig my knuckles into the bench.

  “Don’t blame Coach for that,” he says, tossing the water bottle to my feet. The whistle blows and Conner returns to the field.

  The other team scores a goal. We score none. And I don’t get up from that bench till it’s over.

  * * *

  They’re in the hall together. Again. Abe against the locker next to hers. Marion putting her books away. Sun shoots down the hall and I’m not paying attention to her hand on his elbow. Only, my feet are walking. Toward them.

  Abe sees me and his grin falls. I step between them and lean my hand against the locker. My shoulder in Abe’s face.

  “Excuse you,” he snaps, stumbling back, and Marion scowls. I swallow hard. I’ve seen that look before. On other girls. Not her.

  “I need to talk to you,” I say, and she frowns.

  “Then talk.”

  I shoot a glare over my shoulder at Abe and my fingers curl into a fist against the locker.

  “You mind?” I say, and he flicks hair out of his eyes.

  “Kind of.”

  I drop my shoulder and face him. “Kind of? Are you sure you want—”

  “We were having a conversation,” Marion interrupts, and I look back at her. She’s pissed. “If you have something to say, Kurt, say it.”

  A locker slams behind us and suddenly everything’s too loud. I crack my knuckles against the aluminum and roll my shoulder.

  “Say it,” she says quietly, without the anger of the moment before, and I think maybe she wants to know.

  Only, I don’t do this.

  Any of it.

  I drop my arm and I’m gone.

  * * *

  I lean against the brick of the school and kick the grass.

  I want a cigarette.

  Instead I pull my cell phone out and call home. Maybe Dad will let me take Josie out of the house. Go bowling. Get ice cream. So she’s not rotting in that house all day long. So it’s not just the two of them. Maybe it’s my turn to get her out of that cave.

  Students pour out of the building and I see Troy, fighting the crowd with his practice bag on his shoulder. He catches my eye when he reaches the gym door and steps to the side.

  “Sucks that Coach didn’t play you yesterday,” he says, and I shrug, lifting the phone for him to notice.

  “Right,” he acknowledges, but then he stands there another moment rolling a rock under his foot.

  “Coach will get over it,” I say. “Especially when he decides he wants to start winning again.”

  Troy kicks the rock into the grass.

  “You should really apologize to the B-squad,” he says.

  I stare at him and he stands his ground. He’s not angry, just matter-of-fact.

  The phone rings in my ear, but no one picks up. There’s no machine. No voice mail.

  Nothing.

  “Right,” Troy says, stepping off and opening the gym door. “See you at practice in ten.”

  Marion

  My bag is heavy with books as I head through the parking lot. It’s almost four p.m. and there’s a flurry of snow in the air. It’s nothing more than a handful of flakes dotting the sky, almost invisible, but everywhere.

  I look up and see Kurt against my car.

  He should be at practice, but he isn’t suited up. There’s a puff of something white near his mouth and I think it’s breath from the cold, but when I get closer I see it’s a cigarette.

  He takes a drag, and I wonder if he deliberately chose to lean against my backseat door, the one we fell through after the ocean when our skin was salted and wet.

  Kurt throws the cigarette on the ground when he sees me and stands upright like I’m a teacher and he’s got something to hide. He shifts back and forth, and it’s odd to see him uncertain on his feet, when he runs and plays soccer the way he does.

  I stop a few feet away, but he doesn’t say anything, like the fact that he’s standing there should be enough.

  “Don’t you have practice?” I say, and he looks to the field, where his teammates are set up for a corner kick. One of the players lobs the ball and then the whole group moves as one. Motion, inertia, goal.

  “Can we go somewhere else?” he asks, nodding to my car.

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  He stuffs a hand in his pocket and stares at me. I shake my head, because he actually does think that’s how this is going to work.

  “Go to your practice,” I say, striding toward the driver’s seat, and he steps back as I approach. “Or go find Vanessa.”

  “I don’t like Vanessa.”

  “I saw you kiss her,” I snap. “So, you like her enough.”

  “I don’t want Vanessa.”

  I shake my head and dig in my bag for my keys. “No, you just want to fuck around. I got that.”

  He looks away, taking that blow, knowing he deserves it. I wait for him to apologize or show any kind of remorse, but he j
ust stands there with his fists balled against his sides.

  “Marion.” His voice gets low. “I don’t know how to do this.”

  “Then don’t,” I snap. “Walk away. Ignore me. Do whatever you do with the others.”

  His eyes cut to the ground and he kicks the asphalt.

  “Can’t.”

  I press my palm against the roof of my car. It’s covered with a sheet of ice crystals.

  “Why not?” I look at him and there’s so much emotion in his face I can’t even begin to read it. Ice seeps through my palms and there’s snow in his hair. “Why not?” I repeat, and he shakes his head. He’s close enough that I can see the muscles in his jaw. They’re clenched so tight I don’t think he could speak even if he wanted to. And for a second, he looks like a little boy. A chill all too familiar reeds through me, shooting straight down to my toes. His eyes are filled with all the things that he wants to say. But he can’t.

  He just can’t.

  My feet go cold. Creek-water cold.

  I know exactly what it is to want to say something—and not know how.

  I turn away from him and lean into the metal of the car. I breathe in the snow. Invisible. Unspeakable. Everywhere.

  “Get in the car,” I say, opening the door.

  He doesn’t move because I know he doesn’t believe me. I throw my bag in the backseat and point to the passenger door.

  “Kurt,” I say, tasting snow on my lips. “I don’t know how to do this either. Just get in the car.”

  Kurt

  There’s still sand on Marion’s dash. Her seats are freezing, but my palms sweat as she pulls out of the lot. The seat belt presses into my neck, anticipating the need to hold me in this seat.

  “Where do you want to go?” she asks.

  I don’t have an answer for that. I didn’t think that far ahead. I didn’t think about any of this. I roll down the window.

  “Just drive,” I say, letting my head roll back and closing my eyes.