The Last to Let Go

by Amber Smith

  After cake and presents Jackie corners me in the kitchen. “You know, I have had the damnedest time getting ahold of Aaron these last few weeks. Will you tell him he needs to stop by and see me?”

  “Why?” I ask.

  She widens her eyes and looks around, like the answer should be obvious. “We need to talk about Callie.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, playing dumb, as if nothing’s wrong at all—a technique I’ve learned to master over the years from watching Mom do it.

  “What do you mean, what do I mean?” she says, her voice sharp, yet still trying to be quiet so Callie doesn’t hear us. “I mean . . . what’s going on over there that Callie doesn’t want to live there anymore?”

  “We’re okay,” I lie. “I think Callie got mad at us over the whole New Year’s Eve thing.”

  “Are you sure?” she asks. “It seems like more than that.”

  “I’m sure,” I lie.

  “If it’s not working out, that’s okay, but then we need to make proper arrangements for everyone.”

  “Everything’s working out, Jackie.”

  “Okay, but let your brother know I need to speak to him.” She pauses, looking at me like the liar I am, but thankfully, she drops it. “You know, they moved your mother. I talked to her on the phone today. She said it’s actually better there than in the jail. She has more privileges, a little more freedom now.”

  “I don’t really care,” I try to tell her as gently as possible.

  “Well, she’s asking for you, and we’re planning on heading up there next weekend. So let me know if—”

  “I don’t want to see her.”

  “Brooke . . . ,” she says.

  “Am I not allowed to be mad about what she did?”

  “Of course,” she finally relents. “Just think about it. Let me know if you change your mind.”

  “I’m positive I won’t.”

  She nods and squeezes my shoulder, then walks back out into their dining room.

  Ray drives me home, and I’m thankful that he doesn’t try to make a bunch of small talk with me. He looks straight ahead, and I look out the window.

  We’ve reached that part of winter when we haven’t had much new snowfall, so all the old snow has started to pile up on the sides of the roads like miniature gray mountains, turning to slush in the streets, no longer white and shimmering, magical crystals, but cold mud, contaminated with all the grime and debris of the frozen months. The trees look like skeletons of their former selves. It seems like the longest time of the year, these weeks of ugliness.

  We cross the bridge, and as we drive past the shop, I can see Owen through the window, laughing with the lady who works weeknights when I’m not there. Ray and I exchange our good-byes, and he reminds me again to call if I need anything.

  I trudge up the stairs slower than usual. I leave my coat on the floor. I stand in the living room for a minute. I dare myself to go into Callie’s room, my old room, our old room, for the first time since she left.

  The door creaks as I push it open. I flip the light switch on and enter.

  It’s pretty bare. Nothing on her desk or walls. Her bed is made, but even her dolls and stuffed animals are nowhere to be found. I open one of her dresser drawers. Empty. I open another. Empty. I open every last one—they’re all empty. Everything’s gone. Even the books in the bookcase. Half of them are there, but I realize as my fingers travel over the spines, all the ones that remain are mine. I pull my globe down from the top shelf, and a layer of dust brushes off against my sweater as I cradle it in my arms.

  When did she take everything? She must’ve come back with Jackie. She couldn’t have gotten everything out on her own, even if she was doing it in bits and pieces.

  It hits me hard.

  She’s not coming back. None of them are coming back.

  I try to rewind the evening, but I can’t remember if I even said good-bye to her when I left Jackie’s house. Did I say happy birthday? I must have. I sink down into her bed, fall onto my side, and bring my knees to my chest, my body curved around the globe. I hold on so tightly—that hollow sphere that used to hold so much potential, so much wonder, now just feels fake.

  I bury my face in her pillow, missing her so much, even though I was with her less than an hour ago. I feel something hard—I reach my hand underneath her pillow and pull out that silver picture frame from Jackie’s house. The picture of all of us together, smiling and happy. I study it for a moment. Then I chuck it across the room. The glass shatters as it hits the wall.

  I wake up at nine in the morning, still in the fetal position in Callie’s bed. I missed my alarm. I missed the bus. I missed all of first period. The sun is streaming in through the window, its light unfiltered in a way I haven’t seen in months, suggesting the constant cloud cover of winter has finally lifted. The sky hasn’t been this clear in so long I almost forgot how blue it can be.

  I should be rushing to get to school, but I’m not. I’m changing out of yesterday’s clothes and getting into my pajamas instead. What’s the point? I’ll stay home and study, I tell myself.

  I don’t study. I clean up the broken glass. I set the picture frame on the coffee table in the living room. I sit with my books open and think about Aaron and Callie, and Mom and Dad. I think about how only half a year ago, my greatest hope, my biggest goal, was just to get the hell out of here. And now I can barely make it out the door. What is it? Is it like the water thing Caroline talked about? Water seeking water. Is that what keeps me here when it seems everyone else is floating away, fleeing, finding other water to attach to?

  It’s nearly four o’clock when I have an idea. It comes to me so suddenly I jump up off the couch, my books falling from my lap. I go into the bathroom and pick my shirt up off the floor. I strip down to my bra and underwear, pull the shirt on over my head, then shake out the jeans I wore yesterday and step into them.

  I gargle with some mouthwash quickly and catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror—pasty and tired, my hair scraggly and tangled. I pull it into a sloppy ponytail, splash my face with cold water. I grab my sweater off the couch and push my arms through. Fold my coat over my arm and race down the stairs. If I hurry, I can catch her in time to have a few minutes alone with her.

  When I reach the bus stop, I put my coat on, my breath coming fast and heavy, white puffs of air escaping my mouth. I keep an eye on the time. As we cross back over the bridge, the whirring and squealing and screeching of the bus stopping and going, letting people on and off, makes me feel alive, like my body is once again a living, breathing organism, like I can try to be part of something again.

  At last I make it to the corner—I’m the first one off the bus. I race across the street and through the doors of the building, then into the elevator, pounding on the close-door button over and over. It dings at the seventh floor and I get off, my feet flying.

  Just as my hand reaches for the doorknob, it turns from the other side, yanking my arm as it pulls open. I stumble right into Dr. Greenberg and Ingrid, all bundled up in their coats and scarves and gloves, ready to leave for the day.

  “Oh!” I shout, jumping back, scared and out of breath. “Sorry, sorry, I—I was looking for Callie. I was going to pick her up from her appointment,” I tell them, hoping they believe me.

  “Brooke, Callie comes in on Fridays,” Dr. Greenberg answers.

  “Right,” I mumble, stopping myself from asking the question on the tip of my tongue, which is, Isn’t it Friday? “Okay, sorry—I must’ve gotten it mixed up.” I feel my throat closing up around the words. I take a breath, but it gets stuck. I start hacking and coughing so hard I have to brace myself against the wall. “Sorry,” I manage to say as I’m gasping for air, fishing in my coat pockets for a lozenge. I hold it up so they can see—I’m okay, I have a remedy, don’t worry.

  “Here, why don’t you come in for a moment,” Dr. Greenberg says, stepping aside so I can make it through the doorway. “Ingrid, you can go—I can close up.
We’ll just be a minute.”

  “All right. I’ll see you in the morning, then,” she tells him, then to me, a weary, “Take care.”

  I sit down in one of the waiting room chairs and unwrap the cough drop, while Dr. Greenberg gets me a Dixie cup full of water. I drink it slowly, the coughing fit finally subsiding.

  “Sorry,” I croak. “I’ve been trying to get over this cold thing for weeks.” I clear my throat. “Thanks.”

  He sits down across from me, the aquarium illuminating his face in waves. It’s weird to be in a waiting room after hours, no fluorescent lights, no phone ringing. “You know, I’ve tried calling you several times. Have you gotten my messages?” he asks.

  “I don’t think so. Well, maybe,” I lie. “Sorry, I’ve been really busy. School and work and everything.”

  “No, I understand. It sounds like you’ve had a lot on your plate.”

  “Yeah, sorry.”

  “You’re saying ‘sorry’ a lot,” he says as he leans back into the chair, crossing his leg.

  I’m about to say “sorry” again, but I stop myself.

  “Which makes me wonder if there’s something you’re feeling bad about, perhaps? Is that what brought you here today?”

  “No,” I lie. “I—I told you. I came to pick up Callie.”

  “Well, I’m glad you did. I’m in no hurry, if there’s something on your mind.”

  “I can’t pay you,” I blurt out.

  “Well, good thing this isn’t an official appointment, then.” He laughs, which makes me relax a little bit. “Seriously, we don’t need to be talking about money.”

  “Okay.”

  “So, what is it that brought you here?” he asks.

  “I told you—Callie.”

  “Yes, but why did you want to pick her up? It seems like you’ve been going out of your way to keep your distance from my office.”

  “I don’t know, I guess I was feeling . . .” I trail off, suddenly not quite sure how I’m feeling, exactly.

  “Yes?” he asks when I don’t finish.

  “Alone.”

  “Mm,” he hums, nodding slowly. “Good answer.”

  “Which is weird,” I continue, “because sometimes all I want in the world is to be left alone. Other people make things so complicated. But then I’m finally alone and all I want is other people around.”

  “Well . . . ,” he begins, then looks off in the direction of the aquarium. “ ‘You are born alone. You die alone. The value of the space in between is trust and love.’ ” He meets my eyes and shrugs.

  “Cheerful.”

  “Yes, it kind of is, actually.”

  “Is that Freud, or something?” I ask, somehow managing to joke, even though I’m pretty sure I’ve never felt quite so low in my whole life.

  He lets out a small chirp—that same laugh I heard with Callie that day behind the closed door. “No, an artist said that. Louise Bourgeois.” Then he slinks out of his coat and pulls a notepad from his briefcase. “Go on.”

  I do. I don’t know why, but I do.

  SPRING

  REASONS

  I RIFLE THROUGH MY desk drawers like a madwoman. I hid it months ago, after we moved back in. But I know I kept it—that small scrap of paper. My hands run over all kinds of objects, erasers and pens that no longer work, Post-it notes, and old flash cards.

  But . . . there. Now I remember, as my fingers grasp for the small box of paper clips. I folded it up into a tiny square and stuck it inside. I dump the entire box out on my bedroom floor; my fingers sift through the pile quickly. I unfold it and read the words again:

  Caroline. Just in case.

  She answers on the first ring, like she has been waiting for my call all this time.

  We arranged to meet halfway between where she lives and where I live. She offered to pick me up, but I told her no. I wish I’d let her, though, because it’s pouring down cold rain now.

  I go into the diner, at the corner where she said it would be. I shake my umbrella off at the door and lower the hood from my face. She’s already here, waiting with a cup of coffee in a booth in the corner, wearing a fuzzy sweater and corduroys.

  “You made it,” she says as I approach. “Thought the rain might keep you.”

  “It was okay,” I tell her, sliding into the seat opposite her. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” she echoes. “I ordered you a water—I didn’t know what you’d want.”

  “Thank you.” I unwrap the plastic straw from its paper wrapper so that I have something to do with my hands.

  “I’m glad you called. I wasn’t sure you would,” she admits.

  “Me neither,” I tell her.

  She starts laughing, followed once again by a bout of hard coughing.

  “Are you okay?” I push my glass of water across the table toward her.

  Still smiling, she shakes her head and holds her hand up, sliding the glass back to me. “I’m fine,” she’s finally able to say after the coughing subsides.

  “You’re probably wondering why I called,” I begin, though the whole way here I wasn’t able to answer that question myself.

  “There doesn’t have to be a reason—just coffee is reason enough.” She waves her hand in the air, getting the attention of the waitress, who comes directly over to the table.

  “What are you drinking, hon?” the waitress asks me.

  “Just coffee,” I answer.

  We wait until she brings it back before either of us says anything else. It’s a comfortable kind of silence, like I remember from our conversations at the courthouse.

  Caroline watches as I doctor it up with lots of cream and sugar, anything to dilute the actual coffee taste. She grins at the number of sugar packets I pour in. “I’m actually not much of a coffee drinker,” I explain.

  “I didn’t used to be when I was your age either.”

  More silence.

  “I really liked that book you gave me,” I say. “Thanks again.”

  “It’s special, so I’m glad you liked it.”

  Another silence.

  “Can I be honest with you?” I ask.

  “Definitely.” She takes a sip of her coffee and looks me straight in the eye, unflinching. “Life’s too short for anything else.”

  “You don’t seem at all like the person I’ve heard stories about.”

  She nods as if she understands everything I’ve heard about her. “I don’t claim to have been the best person in my day. I really wasn’t a very good mother, I’ll tell you that much. Allison saw a lot that I’m not proud of—I can’t defend myself for any of that.” She takes another short sip. “Except to say that people change.”

  I want to believe her, but I’m skeptical.

  “Or rather, people can change. I know I have. But people have to change themselves—you can’t make them change. That’s where I went wrong. I kept thinking I could change her father. That’s why I stayed so long. But I couldn’t, and eventually I became the one who was changing—changing into someone I didn’t much like, in fact. She hated me for staying, your mother. But then she went ahead and did the same exact thing, waiting around for Paul to magically become a different person. Followed right in my footsteps,” she says, shaking her head sadly.

  “She thinks I’m following in hers,” I admit. “Or at least she did, anyway. Do you think that?”

  “Well, I don’t know you well enough to say.” She pauses. “But I’d think if you’re even asking the question, then you’re most likely on the right track.”

  I shrug. I hear myself say, “I told her that I hated her the last time I talked to her.”

  “I can imagine you had your reasons. I can think of a couple myself,” she answers, not at all surprised. I’m beginning to think maybe she’s one of these people who have seen so much they’ve become unshockable. “Did you mean it?” she asks.

  “I think I meant it when I said it. I don’t think I do anymore, though.”

  She nods again, as if everything I’v
e said is totally understandable, like maybe I’m not such a terrible person after all. “Like I said, people can change.”

  We sit and drink our coffees together, allowing for the random exchanges and breaks of silence. It feels easy, simple. When we finish, Caroline pays the bill, and she offers to give me a ride home. But I tell her no; it’s stopped raining by then.

  “Call again,” she tells me, giving me a one-armed hug as we part at the door. “It can be just coffee. Or any other reason.”

  THE THAW

  MARCH IS ALWAYS A BATTLEGROUND. Trying to fight off spring, get a stronghold overnight as the puddles turn back from water to ice. Winter is sneaky that way.

  As I’m waiting at the bus stop, with the sun peeking over the tops of the buildings, new light filtering through the bare branches of the trees in the park, I hear this pop. This crack like an earthquake—something snapping, breaking. I jump and duck my head, covering it with my arms. Then silence. I look around, but there’s no sign of any disturbances. But it happens again, louder this time, echoing, sounding close yet faraway, like it’s everywhere and nowhere.

  Another crack, another snap, another break. I smell it in the air—something like rain and dirt. The river ice is breaking. It happens every year, but I guess I’m never outside when it does. Behind closed doors it never sounded so violent.

  I have at least five minutes before the bus. If I hurry, I can make it over to the park. I’m crossing the street, rounding the corner, before I’ve even made up my mind.

  I keep slipping on the black ice that lines the pathway down to the riverbank, but manage to keep myself from falling. It’s louder and louder the closer I get, drawing me into its urgency.

  When I reach the edge, the ice is giving way, huge pieces of mosaic churning and tumbling over themselves to get downstream. The water level along the bank rises right before my eyes, so quickly that I have to take a step back. I’m consumed by a vision of the river overflowing, swallowing me up, carrying me off, drowning me along the way. I step back again. And again, and again. Until I’m not taking steps anymore; I’m running. I exit the park and cross back over to my side of the street, looking behind me the whole way, just to be sure.