by Ginger Scott
I asked Elle a dozen times to confirm she didn’t want to go, and I ask again as I pull up to the last light between the highway and our street. I point to the on-ramp and she shakes her head, taking my hand and pointing my finger toward home.
“Thank God,” I breathe out, turning to the right instead.
Eleanor sinks back into her seat but keeps my hand in hers, shaking it to the rhythm of the song playing on the radio. I actually know this one; it’s a hit. I fake my way through most of the lyrics, but Eleanor sings them all, even hitting the high notes that I don’t even attempt. We roll down our street, blissfully ignorant and lost in our own high school clichés, neither of us noticing the pile of cars and media vans camped out in front of both of our houses until it’s way too late to flip the truck around and dart away.
“Jonah,” she breathes out my name, letting go of my hand and covering her mouth with cupped hands.
Lead weighs in my belly and fire burns through my chest. It’s been a month, almost to the day. It’s as if our lives are on rewind, forced to relive something absolutely awful. Only, this is nothing like the first time.
No. This . . . it has to be worse.
Eleanor opens the door before I come to a complete stop, jerking her arm free from her seat belt as she sprints through the neighbor’s yard toward her sister and her parents. I watch, pinned to my seat, as Morgan backs her away from their crying parents and delivers news that cripples the girl who owns my heart and drops her to her knees.
Breathing becomes hard, and I lean forward, hugging my steering wheel as I pull the key from the ignition and flip off the lights, removing a spotlight that the Trombleys desperately don’t need right now.
My eyes scan the scene, the same but different. I’ve come to know the players, the reporters the same ones who have been with Eleanor and her family all along. They are the bridge between the brokenhearted and the aloof. Me? I’m purgatory. I have no idea what to do, where to go, how to help. I get out of the Bronco because I have to, but from there, I shuffle forward, almost aimlessly, until I hear my grandfather call my name.
I find him in the driveway, standing next to Mom’s car.
“Where’s Mom?” I ask, as if that’s the information I need. I don’t want to know the other part. It’s inevitable, but it doesn’t mean I can’t postpone it.
“She went over to help. She’s trying to give them space. Damn media showed up a minute after they found out,” he says. His eyes drift from the chaos to me, and they are filled with apology.
I suck in a hard breath when the tears hit my eyes, a burning sting forcing them down my cheeks without warning. I wipe them away only to make room for new ones.
“They found her body.” It isn’t a question, and he confirms the statement with a nod.
“I have to go . . . go help or something,” I stammer, moving away from him on newly unsteady legs.
I amble across the street, ignoring prompts from reporters begging for answers and a peek behind the curtain. I act as though they’re ghosts, passing right through them on my way to the Trombley front door. I work the handle, expecting it to be locked, but when it isn’t I step inside and lock it behind me.
Morgan rushes from the living room, ready to fight an intruder, but when she sees it’s me, she throws her arms around my neck and bawls into my shoulder, wailing muffled cries as I hold her up and keep her from dropping to the floor.
“I knew this was coming,” she says. She whispers these same words over and over as we stand by the front door for what feels like an hour. I don’t make it inside to see Eleanor until all of the reporters have gone and I’ve helped Morgan appease them with some sort of statement, not that there is anything one can say when they find out that their youngest, most fragile family member was found buried in a heap of snow in a deep ravine next to the body of the deranged woman who stole her.
They’d been there for at least a week. Police found the car first and figured they must have gotten out to walk so they expanded their search. Their bodies were down a ravine a mile away from the woman’s crashed car at the side of the road. It’s not clear whether they fell first and then snow covered them, or if it was snowing all along when it happened. But it was the impact from the severe fall, not the cold, that ended their lives.
My mom is working in their kitchen as Morgan and I lock up for the final time, and she hands us a cup of coffee. We both refuse, and I point up the stairs where I assume Eleanor is hiding.
“They all went up a few minutes ago. The police sent an advocate to help with the process. Shit,” my mom hisses, setting both coffee mugs back on the counter and letting go of the tears she’s clearly been holding back.
“Thank you,” Morgan says, stepping into my mom and embracing her.
I leave them with each other and hesitantly climb the stairs. I don’t know if I’ll make things better, but I can’t fathom leaving Eleanor alone. Not after this. Her day was an enormous wave, the ride joyous and heartrending all within the span of hours. This will change her, more than she already has been. It can’t be helped. I would know, yet I can’t possibly know.
“Hey.” I speak quietly along with a gentle knock on her barely open door.
She is drained of life, her body flat on her bed, one leg hanging off, and her wet, red face contorted where it lays along the back of her hand.
I look down at the line of her threshold. Wood floors from the hallway become carpet in her room, and I don’t know whether I should cross that border.
“Stay,” she croaks out. It’s barely audible, but when I look up to find her outstretched hand reaching for me—needing me—I have my answer.
“Of course,” I say, stepping inside her world and closing the door to keep the rest out.
Twenty-One
Addy’s services are today. It’s been more than a week since the Trombleys got the worst and only closure they’re probably going to get.
I don’t own the right kind of clothes for something like this, so Jake brought over a few of his things and I’ve been trying on combinations that fit and don’t make me look like a boy playing dress-up. The best I’ve got so far is the black dress pants, gray shirt and one of my grandfather’s ties. I don’t know how to tie one, though, so I’m thinking of abandoning that part.
I turn at the knock on my door and meet my grandpa’s soothing face as I drop the ends of his tie in frustration.
“Come here. I got it,” he says, curling his fingers to call me close.
We square our shoulders with one another as he tugs free the mess I made and re-tucks the tie under the collar of my shirt.
“The trick is to make the short side shorter than you think you should.”
His glasses are balanced on the tip of his nose while he concentrates on his work. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how lucky I am to have him. I guess I’ve also been thinking about how old he is, and death.
Loss.
In a few quick motions, he forms a perfect knot that he slides up to the base of my throat. A few tugs and pulls on either side evens it out and he spins me around, giving me a little push toward my mirror. I touch it with my hand but there’s no adjusting needed.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Of course.” His reply lifts my mouth into a short smile. It’s funny the little things that get passed down the line. I don’t remember it, but I have a feeling my dad said that to people a lot too. We’re a lineage of men who try to do the right things. I’m honored to inherit that.
“You see her today?” He’s talking about Elle. Last night was the first one I didn’t go over to her house at midnight to coax her to sleep.
“Not yet. I said I’d meet her there, so she can ride with Morgan.”
Grandpa nods and steps forward, resting his hand flat over my heart. He pats twice and meets my eyes before heading back downstairs.
Eleanor missed another week of school. I don’t know if she’s coming back. I don’t know if she’s eating. She barely talks.
It’s as though she and Morgan traded places. Her sister spent the last few weeks mentally preparing for this moment. Eleanor spent those days living her life. Then the switch flipped; it flipped everything.
Deciding I look appropriate enough to do right by Addy, I leave my room and head downstairs to meet my mom and Grandpa Hank. I stand up straight so my mom can inspect me, and her face falls.
“It doesn’t seem right to say you look nice,” she says.
“You should have seen the tie before Grandpa helped,” I add.
“Well then, that’ll do,” she replies, stepping close to straighten the knot to her liking.
“I think I’m going to drive myself.” Both of them nod in agreement, understanding my desire to be alone, and my hope that maybe Eleanor will let me drive her home later.
We all head out together, and we’re at the service hall within minutes. It’s only a block away from Toby’s, and I can’t help but glance at the sign as I pass and think about the laughs shared with Eleanor inside that store. What I wouldn’t give to hear her laugh like that again.
I park next to my mom at the far end of the parking lot, leaving most of the spaces open for family and those who knew Addy best. We huddle together on our way into the hall, and I find Morgan once I’m inside. My mom and grandpa take a seat near the back while I slip out to talk with her. She texted me early this morning asking if I could talk to her before the service.
We make polite smiles to a few people who arrive as we step outside. Morgan hands me an envelope as soon as they pass and I stare at it, not sure I want to know what’s inside.
“I need your help, Jonah. It’s Elle,” she says, and my heart squeezes.
“Okay,” I agree. Elle is an automatic for me. I study the packed manila envelope in my hand, though I don’t dare unfasten the flap. I’m afraid everything will spill to the ground.
“She’s going to quit. She’s going to skip the showcase competition and turn down Woodsman-Still in Texas.”
My head lifts at that.
“Why would she do that?” The question is rhetorical. I know why. Guilt. Loss. Grief. Self-blame. Punishment she thinks she deserves. A lack of passion.
“She can’t, Jonah. I feel like it’s my fault, maybe. I was so hard on her, and now—” Morgan breaks down a little but dashes away the threat of tears and draws in a breath for strength. “She can’t quit, Jonah. She’s too good at what she does. And it makes her so happy. Addy, she would want her sister doing her thing for everyone to see.”
A soft smile breaks through her devastated face and I find I’m smiling at that thought, too. She taps on the envelope in my hands.
“You’re a smart kid. I thought maybe you could figure out how to do something with this stuff, like a video or something. There’re pictures and there’s a memory card in there with a bunch of videos of Elle and Addy together. She just needs to see how happy she made her sister. A push back in the direction of trying again.”
The weight in my hands suddenly feels a lot heavier than a bunch of paper and a microchip. I don’t know that I can deliver all that she wants, or all that Eleanor needs. But I will try. I will try so fucking hard.
“Okay.” I nod, giving her the temporary relief that comes with hope.
She hugs me once more then slips inside, making her way to the front where her family is one member smaller than it should be. I hover outside, peering through the doors for as long as I can before joining my family that carries along a ghost of its own.
One at a time, people stand and share stories that are meant to offer healing. Every word seems to open a wound, though. It’s Thanksgiving next week. There is nothing in this space that feels worthy of thanks.
Zoning out on the words from the pulpit, I turn my attention to the envelope, slipping it open carefully to get a sense of what’s inside. It catches my mom’s attention when I do, so she unfolds her hands from her lap to help me sort through the contents one item at a time. There are photos of Addy as a baby being rocked to sleep in Eleanor’s arms. Addy getting hearts painted on her cheeks like her sister. A tea party with nothing but Barbie, a stuffed teddy bear and Eleanor as guests. I hold on to the image of the youngest Trombley dressed up in her big sister’s cheer uniform for a long while, my heart soothed by the story that goes along with it.
I think maybe I can do this. If the video is anything like the photos Morgan compiled for me, there’s potential. More than that, there’s comfort and peace.
It’s late evening by the time we get home from services. Eleanor wanted to ride with her sister, which I completely understand. I still wanted her with me, though. I want to fix things somehow, to make it all hurt a little less. But I don’t know how to do that. I feel as if I’m back at the very beginning with her, unsure of my words and my actions. I don’t know exactly who I’m supposed to be around her, or rather, what version of me she needs most. I don’t think I actually have versions.
I’ve been sitting in the Bronco in the garage for the last hour sorting through these pictures, trying to find a way to weave them into a story. Not only Addy’s story, but Eleanor’s too. And I need to give that story a happy ending.
“You thinking of moving into that thing now that you’ve got it running?” My mom stands with one foot in the house and the other in the garage.
“It’s not really a live-in kinda comfortable,” I say.
She chuckles and moves toward the passenger side, letting the door to the house fall shut behind her.
“Oh, I know. Your dad took me camping in that thing a few times. We basically lived in it for weekends at a time. And it was . . . tight.” She arches her back to one side, cracking it.
“Wanna join me?” I glance down at the empty passenger seat.
“I thought you’d never ask.” Mom pulls the handle and lifts herself up into the seat. She slams the door shut at her side and breathes out a heavy sigh as she leans back then forward to touch the familiar dashboard.
“My God, the memories in this thing,” she says through a fond smile. Her eyes trace the windshield’s surface then travel down to the console. She reaches forward to push a few buttons, ejecting a cassette tape from the dated stereo deck.
“What the hell is that?” I tease. I know what cassettes are. Grandpa has a box full in his closet, though when his current player quits working, I’m not sure he’ll have a way to play them.
She slaps my arm then hands the cassette to me for a better look. It reads KARA’S FAVORITE SONGS.
“Dad made you a mix tape?” I quirk a brow as she takes it back from me, eyeing it fondly.
“He sure did. There are a lot of great songs on this thing. Lots of mod stuff, like The Cure.” I swear she’s traveling back to her teenage years before my eyes.
“You want me to turn the key and we can give it a listen?” I offer.
“Oh, no. I’m pretty sure that thing will just eat it. You can’t sit in a storage lot for twenty years without wear and tear, and I’m pretty sure Kara’s Favorite Songs are not meant to be played on a cassette anymore.”
“You mean because you’re old?” I joke.
She smacks my arm again, playfully, because she knows I’m teasing.
“What are you going to do with that?” She glances down to the photos I’ve pulled out to rest on my thighs for inspiration. I look down at them and we both take in the faces and memories that aren’t ours but that we deeply understand.
“I’m going to build Eleanor some courage with them . . . I guess.” I lift my gaze and look to my mom, expecting her to be as baffled by how as I am. Instead, she nods with an assuredness I haven’t seen in her eyes in quite a while.
“You’ll figure it out,” she says, pulling the handle at her side and slipping out of the Bronco. She shuts the door and leans in through the window.
“I hope so,” I answer. I look back down at the photos as she walks to the front of the garage. A few seconds pass before she reaches in again, this time dropping my dad’s notebook in he
r empty seat. “Here’s another guy who built someone some courage, ya know.”
I blink from the book to her face and she winks before turning and heading back inside. I pull the book into my lap and prop it open on a random page against the steering wheel. If ever the universe was talking to me—my dad is talking to me—it’s right now. Right there in the middle of a step-by-step instruction on how to replace the weird-ass vintage headlights is a line from KARA’S FAVORITE SONGS mixtape. I can almost guarantee it’s The Cure. He wrote “Friday I’m in Love.”
“Yeah, Dad. I really, really am,” I say, feeling in my soul that somewhere, he is listening.
Twenty-Two
It took me two full days to make something I felt was up to the challenge. There was a bit of a learning curve with the software, and I had to borrow a lot of things from school, along with some help from the digital media teacher, who I’m pretty sure did not like me when I took his class my freshman year.
The good news is Mr. Luvello loves Eleanor. Basically, everyone loves Eleanor. And that love has been the key to creating this miracle that amounts to two minutes and forty-seven seconds of video. Now, I just need to persuade Elle to watch it.
I ring the Trombley bell and ready myself for her dad to appear at the door. He’s usually the one who answers when I come over. He’s handling the closure and the loss a little easier than his wife, but neither of them come out much. I think this video might be good for all of them. Either that or it’s going to be terrible. I’m sort of prepared for things to go either way.
“Jonah, hey. Come on in,” Mr. Trombley says, opening their front door wide for me to step inside.
“She’s still upstairs. Hasn’t been down much today, but she did eat,” he says, picking up a plate with a half-eaten sandwich that she must have left at the entry table. He’s been helping me encourage both Eleanor and her mom to get out and eat a little more.
