West

by Michele G Miller

  Then I holed up in my room with only Jeff or my family to keep me company. I withdrew from everyone and everything, except for them. Why?

  Again I hear Mindy’s voice asking “What are you afraid of?” As we pull into our driveway I realize I may have no idea, but I know I don’t want to be afraid of Jules.

  “You’ve been awfully quiet,” Dad says as he cuts the engine.

  “Sorry. I was thinking.”

  “You okay?” He attempts to look nonchalant, but his crinkled forehead and tight jawline tell another story.

  “Would you think I’m crazy if I told you I felt as though Mom was there with me when the tornado hit?”

  His chest puffs out as he inhales thoughtfully before a knowing smile forms on his lips. “Not at all. I would expect her to be there.”

  “You would?” We rarely discuss her in this manner. The after death part, her spirit.

  “Of course I would. I think she’s the busiest angel around, watching over her four Rutledge men. I imagine we exhaust her.”

  I smile just thinking about it. I wonder how many times she’s cursed us for the stupid things we’ve done since she’s been gone.

  “I think—I think I heard her voice Friday night,” I admit. Cracking my knuckles, I think of how to explain myself. “I heard two voices in the moments immediately following the siren going off. I heard the static voice of the emergency broadcast system; you know the one, the warning that always interrupts us on the television?” He nods. “And I heard the word ‘safety’. I think it was Mom telling me what to do, leading me to where I’d be protected.”

  We’re sitting in the dark cab of Dad’s truck in the garage. The overhead garage light is on and shines softly through the windows, casting shadows across my father’s face, but not fully illuminating either of us. I watch his profile as I speak. He nods as he listens, a slight smile remaining on his face.

  “I also think she’s the reason I spoke to Jules that night. I never told you about Jules and I, but I liked her, or I guess I had a crush on her back in the seventh grade. I wanted to ask her out, but didn’t get the chance before Mom—anyway, do you believe things happen for a reason?”

  He shrugs. The hesitation makes me sad because it’s something we all struggle with. I imagine it’s something anyone who has lost a loved one struggles with. Fate, destiny—things happen for a reason unknown to us.

  “I try to look at the bigger picture,” he says. “I know things don’t always happen the way we want them to, son, but I think there’s a reason for it. I hope we’ll find out eventually.”

  I swallow hard. I wish I could continue to have this conversation with him, but I can’t. I can barely figure out why I do the things I do, let alone why God, or the universe, or whatever, works the way it does.

  “I’m going to go over to Jeff’s for a bit.” I open the truck door, ready to get away. He nods without a word. He’s lost in deep thought. He does this sometimes, gets all philosophical and spaces out. I assume he’s thinking of Mom like I am. “Hey, Dad.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I really miss her.”

  “Me too, West. Every day.”

  I find myself getting all worked up on the ride to Jeff’s because I’m unable to think of anything besides what I said to my dad. Do things happen for a reason? Jules asked me at Tanya’s grave site. She asked why we lived when others hadn’t. Was my answer right? Were we meant to be there, to live through that night together?

  At the first shrill ring of those sirens, my life changed. My thoughts, my feelings—everything is changing. Damn it. And here I thought I was fine the way I was before.

  I don’t bother knocking as I walk into Jeff’s house.

  “Dude, I’m so screwed,” I shout as I head in the direction of the sound of a television and the only room with a light on. “This is so ridiculous.”

  I walk through the doorway cursing and mumbling about the whole situation.

  “Shit.” I stop in my tracks. Jeff’s laying on the couch and beneath him is Katie. Thankfully they’re fully dressed, but damn, what a way to break up the party.

  “What the hell?” growls Jeff as he scrambles into a sitting position.

  “Dude, I’m sorry. The door was open. Katie—” I backtrack as I apologize.

  Katie sits up, fixing her hair as she adjusts her twisted shirt. Her cheeks are a nice, flaming red as she looks at me. “It’s fine, really,” she says as she touches Jeff’s forearm.

  He doesn’t look as though he agrees, but her touch and silent nod appear to take some of the edge off.

  “What’s wrong? You look like you did that time Kyle Foley said those things about Lauren and we had to kick his ass.”

  “I—”

  “You kicked Kyle Foley’s ass? Lauren who?” Katie’s gaze flicks between Jeff and I like a spectator at a tennis match.

  “Lauren is Austin’s ex, and a friend, and yes there was some mild ass kicking once upon a time,” Jeff explains before looking my way. “So what’s up? Didn’t you party it up at A&M all weekend?”

  “Ha, I’ll tell you about the party later.” I glance at Katie now that she’s straightened her clothing. “I’m good, I’ll leave you two alone.”

  “Not on your life, Rutledge. Sit your ass down,” Jeff commands before I can back out of his living room.

  Katie stands, smiling my way as she leans down and whispers something into my best friend’s ear before exiting the room.

  “Sit and talk,” Jeff growls. “You sort of ruined the mood, so you might as well hold nothing back.” He stretches his arms over his head before propping his feet on the coffee table.

  Hold nothing back? That I can do.

  “She’s a spoiled little cheerleader, right? So why can’t I stop thinking about her? Why can’t I walk away? I’ve turned into a damn chick, texting love notes and baring my soul to my family. It’s ridiculous and it’s just going to end up a big damn mess in the end.” I curse and throw myself into a chair.

  “Love notes?” Jeff chokes back a laugh and I shoot him a death glare. “Uh, what happened?” he asks before clearing his throat.

  “They broke up.” I can barely believe I’m saying these words. I can barely believe I’ve spent almost the last four days ignoring this fact. They freaking broke up!

  “Whoa, this is what you’ve been waiting for, man.”

  “I know.”

  “So why the ‘I’m going to crazy town’ act?” Jeff looks at me as though I’ve just turned down a million dollars.

  Hunching forward, I rest my elbows on my knees and take my head in my hands as I think about Jules and the one fear I have. “She dumped him for me. Mr. Football, for me. What if I screw it up?”

  “Dude, you need to stop—”

  “No, I already messed up. She called me Thursday night, after they broke up, and asked me to meet her at the park. I was such a jerk. I completely freaked out on her and yelled at her for dumping him. I’m such an idiot.”

  “You’re right, you are an idiot.”

  “I’m not good enough. I’m not Stuart.”

  “Mr. Douche Canoe? No, thankfully you’re not!” Jeff laughs sarcastically.

  I chuckle in spite of myself. “You know what I mean. I suck at this. I don’t want to want this. I don’t want to screw it up.”

  “I swear I’m gonna kick your ass if you keep saying those words. You’re a broken record now. You have been for almost five years. Give it up.”

  “I kind of want to kick my own ass,” I tell him. I’m ashamed of my weakness.

  Katie clears her throat as she comes back into the room, and I’m relatively sure she’s been listening to our entire conversation, but I say nothing.

  “Hey, I’m sorry I busted in on you two,” I tell her once she’s sitting next to Jeff again.

  “Seriously, not a big deal. Is everything okay? Should I leave so you two can talk?”

  Jeff’s the best friend I could ask for. He looks at me, a brow raised in questi
on, clearly telling me silently that if I need him he’ll ask his girlfriend to leave.

  “No.” I rise to leave, shaking my head. “I’m okay, I just had a moment there. Don’t mind the crazy man,” I laugh. It’s a fake laugh, but it’s a laugh.

  The moment is awkward so I decide a change of subject is necessary.

  “Hey, I’m going into town tomorrow to help with rebuilding and cleanup. You in?” I ask Jeff as I shove my hands into my pockets.

  “Sure, call me in the morning.”

  Twenty

  The site where a large Victorian farmhouse once stood is now nothing more than a hole in the ground. I sit near the gaping hole among chunks of plywood and slivers of glass, and I listen. In my mind are the terrified screams of students running from a black cloud pressing down upon them. Behind my eyelids are the people I’ve known all my life standing amidst the ruins of our town with shock written on their faces. In my heart is the plea of the one person who spent three hours trapped with me within this hole I’m sitting by.

  “I don’t want to die,” she’d cried as the winds tore the house to shreds and deposited it down on top of us.

  I’m uncertain as to why I’m here. When I woke up this morning my plan was to call Jeff so we could meet in town to volunteer. Last night Dad mentioned there were trucks filled with plywood and building supplies showing up this morning and those leading the cleanup and rebuilding efforts had asked for able-bodied helpers to unload.

  But as I left my house, ready to throw myself into doing anything to keep my mind off of Jules, I found myself turning in the opposite direction. Taking a back road around town, I headed for the Rossview town line and straight to Grier house. Or what was formerly known as Grier house. I had to see it. I had to see the place where so much happened. The place where my life changed.

  As I sit here, I reflect.

  The day after the storm, when my dad and I went to the neighborhoods and pitched in wherever we could, I’d talked to the people I worked with. The faces were all different, but their stories were the same. Their homes were destroyed, clothing gone, furniture gone, wedding photos, baby photos, heirlooms, and valuables gone.

  Like Dad and I, most hadn’t slept since the storm hit. Unlike us, though, when the sun went down they were heading to shelters or friend’s and family’s homes for a place to sleep. They were homeless and I wasn’t, and so I whispered my thanks for how lucky I’d been Friday night.

  At the vigil on Sunday I was faced with a whole other loss. The loss of life. Before the tornado and before my mom, I’d lost three people in my life. They were all grandparents who, while loved, were old, happy people who lived amazing lives and whom I could scarcely remember.

  Walking around Center Park before the vigil and seeing the memorial to the victims growing around the large tree, I felt the loss of those lives as though they’d each been someone special to me.

  The little girl who walked by me wearing what I’d assumed was her father’s shirt, the parents of a classmate, the classmate who lost a parent, they all wore a face different from those I’d met Saturday. They wore the faces of people who’d lost something you could never replace.

  A person, a human, a heart and soul.

  I felt their loss as I lit my candle.

  I felt it as I offered Jules my strength while she struggled with her own pain.

  I felt the loss, but I didn’t own it the way the family members of the forty-five people who died did.

  So why did I wake up today with this unfamiliar feeling? It’s as though I’ve lost a limb and the spot aches and itches, and no matter what I do it’ll never go away because my mind thinks it’s still there.

  Personally, I lost nothing Friday night. I mean people I care about lost their lives and my town is forever changed. I’m not soulless, this means a great deal to me, but at the end of the day I’m a lucky guy.

  I’m a lucky guy who lived through one of the largest storm systems to ever hit this area of Texas, and yet here I am sitting at the graveyard of a house. A house that could have killed my friends and I, but didn’t.

  I could have died. My throat tightens and I swallow, wishing I had water with me.

  I could have died. My ears ring as I stare at the blanket of debris Jules and I were covered with.

  “Shit,” I sigh as my eyes burn.

  The Texas sun stings the back of my neck as, all around me, the air is filled with the sounds of recovery and rebuilding. Chainsaws hum, hammers pound. A dump truck near what was once The Ice Shack beeps as the driver goes in reverse.

  I sit here right beyond the yellow ‘Do Not Enter’ tape. I drop my head into my hands as it hits me. And I cry.

  I could have died. I don’t want to die. My phantom limb is urging me to find it, but I don’t know how. How do you find something you know you lost, but you don’t know what it is?

  Man, I feel it so clearly. Something is missing. Something is eating away at my insides and making me feel as though I’m withering away because I’ve lost that one thing that makes me not feel lost.

  “What the hell is wrong with me?” I rub the stinging tears from my eyes. My pocket vibrates and I check my phone, reading the text.

  Jeff: Main and Queens?

  It’s the intersection in town where I’m supposed to meet him. I pull myself from the ground, stomping off dirt from my worn jeans as I reply.

  Me: On my way.

  I give the hole where we were trapped one last look. I don’t think I’ll ever return to this field or this house. I may not have lost my personal belongings or my life Friday night, but standing on this field, huddled in that house and under that debris, something happened to me. I’ll never be the same.

  I could have died. Part of me did.

  Twenty-One

  A day full of manual labor followed by a sleepless night filled with a mind that won’t turn off leads to me sleeping in on Wednesday. My arms protest every move they make. When lifting my toothbrush proves to be a difficult task, I seriously mull over the idea of returning to bed. When I consider a full day of doing nothing but contemplating the tornado and Jules, my choices are clear. Neither of these things is tempting in the least, so I’m heading back out to punish my muscles some more.

  I promised myself I would do my best to move forward so my dad won’t worry about me; getting out and staying busy has become my best bet. Jumping on my motorbike, I take my usual route into town in search of work. Judging by the construction traffic jam, there’s no shortage of things to be done.

  I swing around the ‘No thru traffic’ signs on Kenilworth to avoid the traffic, only to nearly run over Carter Cooper. He’s standing in the middle of the street, so I pull to a stop out of curiosity. I flip my visor up and switch off my bike.

  “Hey, man,” Carter offers with a nod.

  “Hey, you’re doing some work too, huh?” I ask, taking in his paint-splattered shorts.

  He points out the small storefront behind me. “Yeah, my mom’s shop.” The walls inside are half painted. A counter and various fixtures are pushed into the center. I consider offering to help, but a paper rustling nearby distracts me. Pulling my gaze from the storefront, I glance around Carter, nearly losing my shit at what I see.

  Rising from the curb in front of Carter’s black sports car is Jules. She’s holding a crumbled lunch sack in one hand and a half empty water bottle in the other, and she’s dressed casually, like Carter, in work clothes with the same green paint from the shop splattered on her shins and the front of her shirt.

  What in the actual—

  I focus on Carter as I slide from my bike while removing my helmet and setting it on my seat. The moment I see Jules I go into over-thinking mode. Is my heart or my head making my decisions right now? I don’t know and I don’t care; I’m not keeping score right now. I don’t think. I don’t second guess. I don’t ponder, question, or argue with the voice telling me what to do. I listen. I move.

  “Do it.”

  Carter backs up a
step, raising his arms in defense as I round my bike and stand before him. “Whoa, man. She was just helping me paint the shop. Nothing else.”

  He’s blocking my view of Jules, and I’m torn between knocking him out of the way and being polite. Since I’m attempting to win Jules over, polite wins.

  “Excuse me,” I hint, and Carter hops to the side. Obviously he can read my expression and knows not to screw with me in this moment.

  Jules, on the other hand, looks as though she might prefer to argue with me as she stands ten feet away. She doesn’t have to say a word. Her ire is visible in the way her chin juts forward defiantly as she clenches her jaw. Her arrogance brings a smile to my lips.

  Raising my hands, I absorb her angry looks as I whisper my nickname for her. “Buffy?” It’s a plea of sorts, of forgiveness. I hate the way she seems so standoffish right now. I’d do anything to make her forget the way I acted on Thursday night.

  So I do. I do anything. I do the grand gesture in the hundred romance movies I watched with my mom. The Clarke-Gable-lifting-Scarlett-O’Hara-and-carrying-her-up-the-staircase sort of gesture. The Richard-Gere-with-roses-hanging-out-the-sunroof-of-his-limo type of move. Mom used to sigh at every one of those scenes and tell me to take notes, as I groaned and sank deeper into my seat and complained of all the ‘kissy junk’.

  “Some day, baby,” she says with a smile and a wink, “you’re going to fall in love, and when you do, she will fall right back. You’ll find the epic kind of love your dad and I have.”

  “Epic?”

  “Yes, plain old love and romance won’t do for my boys. You deserve nothing less than a sweeping love story made for movies and told over and over for generations. Your father has given that to me, and someday each of you will find it yourselves.”