by Rachel Vail
“No,” he whispered.
“Was I ever with Bret?”
He shook his head, and the tear shook loose and got caught in his bottom lashes.
That’s all I remember of that. I don’t know what happened next, or where Mom was during it. But it’s not a story they’ve told me; it’s my own memory. What I wish I had asked him then, or ever, though, is: How did you move on from that? How do you and Mom not just cry all day every day? How do you sometimes laugh, find things funny, buy bagels, care about politics or stupid little kid bead necklaces or anything at all, when your child died?
And: If I died, would it finish you off? Or would you move on from that, too?
Either answer is horrible.
Is why I’ve never asked.
And why I sometimes, like this afternoon, have a horrible panic that they will someday forget about me and just move on.
In the silence of my overheated apartment, waiting for them to please come home, I Googled their names and Bret’s and today’s date but eighteen years ago, and I read about my sister getting hit by a car in a town just west of Boston when she ran out into the street. The driver, who stopped immediately after, was taken to the hospital too, despite not being injured in the accident. Bret’s funeral was three days later. In lieu of flowers, it was requested that donations be made in Bret’s name to the charity of your choice.
I knew all that, basically. I knew it already. It’s my family history.
One news story said Bret died in her (my) mother’s arms at the hospital before they could do anything to save her. That was a bit I hadn’t known. In her arms. There were more details I also didn’t know in a few other articles. I kept reading and then clicking away. Then clicking on one more link, feeling guilty and nauseated, like somehow I was going through my parents’ private stuff and if they caught me, I’d be in trouble.
At Emmett’s once, when we were little, we were playing in his mom’s closet until his sister came into the room and shouted at us to get out! Respect people’s privacy; what was wrong with us? We shrugged at each other, not knowing what or if something was wrong with us. The dresses were silky, was all, and pretty colors, and we were walking through them, pretending our faces were cars at a car wash.
I kept clicking, despite Daphne’s question pounding in my head: What is wrong with you? One short article a few months after the accident said the lawsuit against the driver of the car was being dropped. I clicked away. Lawsuit? First I heard of it. I cleared my cache. Not that my parents would check my browsing history (or know how to) or be mad if I was looking stuff up about Bret and what had happened. Probably. Still.
I closed my computer and sat on my bed and cried.
I wasn’t crying for my parents’ heartbreak, or for my sister who didn’t get to live long enough to have a best friend or to help her best friend get a first boyfriend or first kiss, or to get either of those nice things for herself.
Honestly? I cried for myself, for being alone in my apartment while my parents were out together somewhere I wasn’t included in, having forgotten to even leave me a note saying when they’d be home because they were busy remembering their first daughter, the beautiful one, the one I was supposed to but will never replace.
36
OOPS
We ordered in sushi. I took a deep breath before mentioning her name.
“I was thinking about Bret today,” I said.
They stopped eating. Dad had a piece of tamago suspended midway between his plate and his open mouth. Mom let her chopsticks clink onto her plate, and rested her hands in her lap. “Yeah,” she said. “Us too.”
“Did she like sushi?” I asked, which was not at all what I wanted to say.
They each smiled a tiny frown-smile. “She was kind of a picky eater,” Mom said.
“She mostly liked pasta,” Dad said. “With butter.”
“And rice,” Mom said. “White rice.”
“And berries,” Dad added. “At least that was something not white.”
“I wish I had known her,” I said quickly.
Mom took a deep breath and then another. “I wish you had too.”
“Do you think, though . . .” I started, but couldn’t finish. My throat was stopped up.
“Gracie?” Mom asked. “Do we think what?”
“You probably wouldn’t have had me if she’d lived,” I blurted. “So I guess I should be grateful in a way that she died! Hahaha!”
They both stared at me.
I burst into tears. And ran to my room.
So that went super well.
My whole idea, while they were out and I was home alone, was to cheer them up when they got back. That is, after all, my job in life. Right? As Riley pointed out in her otherwise ridiculous insult-fest, Bret’s death wasn’t my tragedy, really; it was my parents’, and Bret’s. I weren’t, then, when she got hit by that car and died before she even got treated at the hospital, died in my mother’s arms.
And I wasn’t there before that, when she was alive. Even now, it’s not my place to be sad about the death of some random seven-year-old I never met. I may have spent an embarrassingly large amount of time imagining conversations and a relationship with Bret, but imagination is just playing. It’s for children. I’m fourteen now. Twice what Bret ever was.
Grow the heck up, I growled at myself. You are not a child anymore.
That just made me cry more: Not a child anymore.
I grabbed my pillow to stifle the sound as I sobbed for a good minute more.
Pull yourself together, I told myself. Seriously. You’re actually just not a child, despite your childish tears; that is simply a fact. You’re not in mourning, because you’re not part of the family that was Bret’s. You never even met her. I forced myself to breathe slowly, in for ten, out for ten. Fourteen years old and teaching myself how to breathe. My parents must be so proud.
According to what I read on the Internet after I cleared my cache again but before they got home, carrying takeout sushi: a good way to help someone who is grieving is just to ask gently in an open-ended way about the dead person’s life—without pushing, just be available to hear about the grieving person’s memories.
But instead of helping them to talk about good times they had with Bret, I had turned instantly into a drama queen Looney Tunes baby, ruining dinner. And then asking for a few minutes to myself, please, when Mom knocked on my door, instead of apologizing like I knew I should.
“Okay, sweetheart,” Mom said, outside my door. “I just hate it when you’re sad.”
“I know,” I said.
“Okay,” she said, sounding hopeful but a little unsure. “Do you need anything?”
“I’ll scoop out some ice cream,” called Dad from down the hall. “We got you some cookie dough! And cookies from Insomnia! The deluxe one you love!”
“Thanks!” I yelled back. “Be there in a sec.”
I listened to Mom’s footsteps quietly padding away. I cried for a few more minutes, but really, the urge had passed. I felt kind of self-indulgent at that point. Dangerously close to the selfish turd Riley had accused me of being. So I pulled my hair up and myself together. Time to go apologize, because, really.
My parents deserve a little sunshine.
37
GONNA BE SO FULLY PREPARED FOR HIGH SCHOOL, WITH ALL THIS LEARNING I’M DOING
Sienna was already at school when I got there this morning. She smiled as soon as she saw me. “What happened last night?” she asked.
“What do you mean?” Had I butt-texted her a video of the disaster I’d caused in my family?
“You didn’t respond at all!”
“Oh,” I said. “I . . . My phone . . . I turned it off and didn’t—”
“Gracie!”
“I’m sorry.” We walked up to the eighth-grade hall together. “Why? What
happened?”
“No,” Sienna said on the way up the stairs. “I’m sorry. Who even cares, right? I mean, when you didn’t answer, I just didn’t text anything to AJ. I got my homework all done by eight. It was relaxing, actually. I played multiple rounds of Apples to Apples with the monsters before they went to bed.”
“Sounds nice,” I said.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I said. “It sounds nice!”
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean—”
“No!” I smiled. “I know. Sienna. It’s fine.”
“You sure?” She scrunched her little nose. “How’s Lightning?”
“Awesome. Did I tell you Emmett calls her Tempus?”
“Why?”
“You know, like, ‘Time flies’? Tempus fugit? Because she’s so fast.”
“Okay.”
“Or sometimes Flash. Once he called her Bite Size.”
“Don’t let him pet-sit.”
“Seriously.” I took out my phone to show her Lightning’s most recent pictures but then slipped it quickly into my pocket when I heard shoes with heels approaching. No phones in school. If a teacher catches you with a phone out, she’s supposed to take it away.
“Definitely didn’t see that,” said Ms. Valerian, striding past us.
“Thanks,” I said to her back.
Sienna and I smiled at each other.
“She’s great,” Sienna said. “And you’re right: Brown Girl Dreaming is so good.”
“Right? Emmett and I might read some of the poems out loud for our project.”
“That’s a great idea,” she said. “So, okay. Last thing I’m saying at all about the party or AJ or any of that?”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “What?”
“You’re coming to the game later and then Michaela’s, right? Please?”
“The thing is, my mom really—”
“Gracie,” Sienna begged. “You don’t have to come to the game, boring, but—”
“How could I not go to Michaela’s?” I smiled again. “Would I miss your first kiss?”
She practically tackled me, shushing me so much.
38
PLEASE LET THIS NOT HAVE HAPPENED
It was an accident.
And now it’s a secret.
But I don’t know for how long, because now it happened and there’s nothing I can do to fix it or make it not have happened. I hate myself.
I can’t breathe. I have to pull myself together and clean up the mess before Mom gets back home and sees the shattered plate in three chunks and a hundred slivers and infinity molecules of powder on the kitchen floor.
I just . . . I don’t know. We always put cookies on Bret’s handprint plate. That’s where cookies go. Well, not always. Sometimes. Usually not when we’re bringing them to somebody’s house. Why didn’t I just put them in a Tupperware?
Why is there no delete key in time?
Why can’t I just turn time back? Not years. I’m not even asking for that. Just two minutes’ worth of rewind—tocktick, like on the DVR, like the time-warp trumpeter—and I would leave the plate with Bret’s handprint on it up where it belongs, in the cabinet above the fridge.
But no.
Tempus just ceaselessly fugits. Ticktock, always: ticktock. Never ever tocktick.
Mom was about to come home to walk me down to the party at Michaela’s, where my best friend was probably going to have to kiss her new boyfriend, maybe in front of everybody, and I had said I would bring homemade cookies. I figured it would give me something to do, and keep me from having to watch them all sportsing after school.
I stood there in my kitchen, staring at the mess all over the floor and on my socks, hating myself. Think, think, think. Lightning was heading toward me, looking like she wanted to taste some plate dust. No!
I got the broom and dustpan to collect the mess that used to be the plate that had had my sister’s handprint on it. Swept it all up and then dumped it into the garbage pail, like just trash instead of the most precious piece of art my family ever owned.
Gone. The plate Bret had indelibly touched. Fugit.
How many times have I measured my hand against Bret’s handprint? My whole life. That funny, precarious R, the ridgy brushstrokes. Her handprint.
The powdery bits were drizzling down among the garbage in the bag, sounding like the rain stick I used to love shaking. It had sounded so peaceful. This didn’t. Not the good kind of pretend rain.
I grabbed the bag out of the bin. I had maybe five minutes, possibly less. Tying the bag as I dashed down the hall, I looked for my shoes. Forget it. I grabbed my keys.
I hate going down to the basement; it creeps me out. Dad usually brings down the trash, even though that’s kind of gendered behavior. Mom told him not to make me go down myself when he asked me to bring it one time. Maybe it’s dangerous down there? She didn’t specify why. I just assumed it was too dangerous for me alone. What if there’s a bad guy? How would I escape? Who would hear me scream?
I had myself pretty worked up into a major anxiety attack by the time the elevator got down to B. I wished I’d grabbed a shoe to wedge the door open so the elevator wouldn’t leave me down there with the wild animals and bad guys and criminals and zombies I was by then sure were all hanging out together, waiting for me in the basement. How could I wedge the door open? Should I have taken a weapon? Is this why Emmett has all the (Nerf) weapons? There was a box on top of the newspaper recycling pile. Perfect. I grabbed it, placed it across the door tracks, and hurdled it with my sack of garbage. It was bright and clean in the basement, like normal when I go down there with an adult. Nobody seemed to be around. I got back to the elevator as the door was trying to close. Ha! Didn’t even need that box. I jumped over it and kicked it away.
The door beeped, whining about being made to wait there too long, and closed.
Phew.
Ding. The elevator door opened in the lobby. Mom got in.
“Oh!” she said. “Hi! Were you coming down to meet me?”
“Um, yes!”
“Well, I just need to put down my workbag and go to the bathroom,” she said. “Is that okay? Are you in a rush?”
“Nope,” I said.
The elevator stopped at 4. Emmett’s mom got on.
“Oh, hi!” Mom said to her, too. “Sorry, you caught us going up.”
“No problem! I haven’t seen you in forever! New haircut?”
Mom ran her fingers through her hair. “Highlights!”
She got highlights? When?
“Looks great,” Emmett’s mom said. “Really brightens you up!”
“You’re so sweet,” Mom said as the elevator door closed again. “Sorry to drag you on a detour up to eight. Gracie was meeting me downstairs, but I have to get my act together.”
“It’s fine. Glad to see you,” Emmett’s mom said to Mom. And then she asked me, “Are you heading over to Michaela’s too?”
I nodded. “I baked some cookies. Is why I didn’t go to the game. Or the other game. There’s two. At least. Games!”
The moms looked at me like I was unhinged.
I nodded. Fair point.
Eighth floor. Ding. The doors opened. The moms said good-bye to each other and made promises to get together for a walk down by the river or for a coffee soon, agreeing that they’d both love that.
“Let me know about Saturday,” Emmett’s mom called through the closing elevator door. “And don’t forget shoes!”
Mom and I looked down at my feet in their socks.
She squinted at me, blinked twice, and waited.
“Good thing you needed a minute,” I said. “Oh, and I have to put the cookies I made in a Tupperware!”
“You okay?” Mom asked me.
“I’m
fine!” I lied. “Just, yeah! Great!”
“I wanted to ask you about—”
“Mom,” I said, more impatiently than I’d intended. “Can we? I just . . . I promised Sienna I wouldn’t be late to this party and—”
“Okay,” Mom said, and unlocked the door. We hung our keys on their side-by-side hooks and she slipped her shoes off beneath them. I could’ve flipped the secret don’t-automatically-lock thing, I realized. Oh, well.
I found a Tupperware and stacked the fresh-made cookies in it while Mom changed and went to the bathroom. I vowed to myself that I’d be brave and admit what had happened, as soon as she came out. I would say, Hey, Mom, I have to tell you something: I broke Bret’s plate. And threw away the evidence. That’s why I was in the elevator. Then I’d apologize, and handle however mad she’d get, and, even worse, however sad. She’d never have that treasured plate again, that connection to Bret. I wouldn’t pretend it wasn’t me who shattered it. I wouldn’t take the coward’s way out.
“Those look great,” she said, crumpling the used piece of aluminum foil I’d left on the counter.
I opened my mouth, but my confession refused to fall out.
She opened the garbage cabinet and pulled out the pail to toss the crumpled silver ball in. No bag. “Ugh,” she grumbled. “I hate when Daddy forgets to . . .” She took a deep breath. “Hate is an awfully strong word for a lack of garbage bag, isn’t it? Well, you’re in a rush. We’ll deal with garbage bag replacement later. Ready?”
I nodded. Another lie.
39
SO THAT HAPPENED
I spent a long, dragged-out time busily setting up the cookies, taking them out of the Tupperware and arranging them geometrically on three plastic plates, not as nice as Bret’s plate but not breakable or important, either. As I slowly pushed the third plate toward the front of the table so people could get at them, I knocked over a partially full cup of soda.
Don’t worry about me, all you people, including my best friend, whispering way over there next to the potted trees. Me and the spilled cup of soda both abandoned over here: we’re good.
