by Ginger Scott
“Tell me,” she says, almost breathlessly.
“Before your parents left, your dad came to see me. It was before my game, before you and your mom got there. He…he told me something, and Rowe…it’s killing me. I hate that I know this, and I hate that I’ve lied to you.”
“Tell me!” She’s crying now, gripping the blanket close to her with one hand while the other covers her mouth, and her body is starting to shake. “Just say it. Say it!”
“You’re going to hate me,” I say, and in that moment, our eyes lock, and I know that she will. This is that time—there’s no going back from here. “Josh died, Rowe. A few weeks ago.”
Her eyes are locked open, dripping tears down her cheeks, while the rest of her body remains rigid, frozen. I lean forward from the chair, making a movement toward the bed, but she reacts quickly, almost scurrying backward away from me. “No! Don’t!” she yells, and my heart literally rips in half. “How? Why?”
“I don’t know, Rowe. Your dad…he didn’t want you to find out until the semester was over. He was afraid this might set you back. He only told me because he wanted me to be here for you when you found out. But I just can’t know this and not tell you. You deserve to know…”
“You shouldn’t have,” she bites back. “You should have kept this to yourself!” She’s not looking at me any more, and her stare is wide, and off somewhere else entirely. Her knees are pulled tightly to her body, and her arms are wrapped completely around herself.
“Rowe…” I begin, but I don’t know what to say, so I just sit there and wait for her hate to grow.
“I was better off not knowing,” she says, her voice an angry kind of calm. Minutes pass before she speaks again. “Are they even selling the house?”
“Yes, that part’s true,” I say. “But the trip—” I’m unable to stop myself, and the second I say it, I know I shouldn’t have let out so much. But it’s too late. Her eyes are on me like lasers.
“There’s no trip.” Her face has gone through so many emotions in the last few seconds, and the one looking back at me now is full of anger. All I can do is shake my head no, and when I do, Rowe is quick to get to her feet, and she starts shoving all of her belongings into her suitcase, not even taking time to change from her pajamas.
“Rowe, you can’t go back,” I say, reaching for her arm, but she jerks it away from me.
“Watch me.” She’s so angry, and I know I’m going to get the brunt of it, so I close my eyes and take a deep breath, readying myself.
“I’m coming with you,” I start again, but she cuts me off.
“I don’t want you to,” she says, her fingers already dialing her phone.
“Rowe, you need to process this. Stop. Just wait until morning, and then we can call your parents and figure out what to do.”
“Ha! Don’t you think the three of you have figured enough out for me? ...Hi, I need a cab,” she’s says, snapping her fingers at me suddenly and holding the phone away from her ear. “Address.”
“Don’t. Do. This,” I whisper one more time, pleading with her. I reach to touch her arm, but everything about her is cold. I may as well be touching a statue. She looks down where my fingers wrap lightly around her arm, but her stare is blank, and Rowe…Rowe is gone.
“Address,” she says once again, her voice seething, and her eyes narrow, and so very angry. Everything about the way she’s looking at me right now is killing me, but I take it. Because I know as soon as she’s done being angry, she’s going to be destroyed. And I guess I’d rather see her mad at me instead.
“Seventy-four seventy-one North Meadow Drive,” I relent, then listen to her repeat it to the person on the other line. I sit back and let my head rest against the window while I watch her make her arrangements to leave my parents’ home—to leave me. I’m helpless. I could bully her, because I’m stronger. I could physically keep her from leaving. But then what?
This…this…has to happen. My only hope is somehow, in the end, she’ll come through her broken heart completely. And still want me.
I watch her wheel her luggage down the hall, and I stand several feet away from her in the foyer, just watching her pull her jacket tight from the chill. I would give anything to be able to close this gap, to put my arms around her and let her cry on me for hours. But I’m not the one she needs right now. And unfortunately, the person she does, is gone—forever.
Chapter 29
Rowe
Flying angry makes flying easier, too. Maybe it was because I hadn’t slept much, or because it was six in the morning when my plane took off. Whatever the reason, I barely even registered the five hours it took me to get to Phoenix from Baton Rouge. I charged the American Airlines ticket, and it was pricey. And my parents would pay it. They owe me that much.
I was ready to walk through this door and rip into them. I pushed my key in, my face showing everything I’m feeling. But then nobody was home, so I started looking around, and all of my verve completely deflated.
Boxes take up places where furniture used to sit. The walls are empty, dust and dirt on the walls outlining places that used to showcase family photos. Even the simple things are strange—like the fact that the cord from the lamp that used to sit behind our sofa is no longer taped along the floor to the other side of the wall. Everything—everything—is gone.
I take a trip upstairs, because I like torturing myself. It feels good, takes away the other things I’m trying not to let simmer to the top of my mind. I’ll be angry about this instead. My room is nothing more than a pile of boxes, stacked neatly in the middle, and labeled “North Room 2.” My parents’ room is pretty much the same, except there’s a tattered looking air mattress with a few rumpled blankets sitting in the middle of the room. The move, it seems, is happening very soon.
“Hello?” my mother’s voice calls from downstairs, and my heart starts thumping fast again, my hands naturally forming into angry fists.
“Rowe? Are you here?” my father calls out now, and I exit their room, charging down the stairs. “Oh, honey. You’re home,” he says, opening his arms, expecting me to hug him. I can’t come near him—I can’t come near anyone!
“What were you thinking?” I growl, rushing beyond their reach to the foyer, where my bags are still dropped by the door.
“Nate called us, told us you were coming home.” My dad’s voice is calm, and I don’t know why, but it only makes me angrier. I don’t like being coddled. This is coddling.
“Stop it! Just…just stop this! Both of you! Quit pretending this…this…is normal!” I shout, turning slowly in a circle, my hands gesturing to the packed house and the darkness that seems to be settled everywhere. “None of this is normal! And I don’t need you to feed me make-believe!”
“I told you. But you wouldn’t listen,” my mother says under her breath, walking away from my father and pushing through the kitchen door. My dad stares after her, his face pained. He’s upset that my mom is upset, that this situation is upsetting her. But what about me?
“Hey! Here!” I say, snapping at him and forcing his focus on nothing but my face. My dad is speechless, and all he can do is cover his mouth with his hand and shake his head. “You don’t get to feel bad that she’s angry. She’s right! This was a bad idea, keeping this from me. You stole everything from me! Everything! Josh is dead! And it should have been me! I get to live, but he died. And I didn’t even see him!”
My dad is still frozen, staring; I can feel my mom coming back behind me. Her fingers are on my shoulder, and I jerk, but she holds on, and I jerk again. “Rowe, honey…” she says, and somehow my cage cracks the tiniest bit, and my lungs stutter with one big cry, but I bite my lip quickly, doing my best to hold it in.
“I didn’t get to say goodbye,” I say, my voice softer now. “I didn’t get to say goodbye. He didn’t know I was there. He was alone. I left him…alone. And I didn’t even say goodbye…”
My eyes are flooded with tears now, and I can no longer stop myself fro
m feeling. Anger can only carry you so far, and mine has run out. Now, I am only devastated. I collapse to the floor, and my mom collapses with me, pulling me to her body and rocking me in her arms while my dad still stands in front of us—his hand to his mouth, and his eyes crying just as hard as mine are.
I cried for a solid hour, and I don’t remember breathing. My mom managed to find a box with towels and pulled one free for me so I could take a shower. I feel like a zombie—not as ugly as the Walking Dead, but as animated. I pull a clean outfit from the top of my suitcase, a purple sweater and a pair of jeans, and then run a comb through my tangled hair.
“I packed the dryer. I’ve just been towel drying,” my mom says behind me.
“That’s fine,” I say, scrunching the ends of my hair until the dripping stops. I turn to face her, and she reaches up to my face, holding her hand to my cheek, and I close my eyes because I don’t want to pull away. But I’m still so angry. “When do the movers come?”
“Tuesday,” she says, her hand still there. It’s making my face feel hot. “We meant well, Rowe.” And just hearing her say that starts a new chain reaction through my bloodstream. I breathe in long and deeply, forcing the boiling inside back down to a simmer.
“I know,” I say, but it comes out cold. I can’t say it any other way. I know they meant well. Everyone meant well. But it doesn’t make me forgive them, not yet. I still can’t forgive myself. “I need to go to his house.”
“I know,” my mom says. We stand there in this face-off for several seconds, and in that time, I play out everything I’m walking into—so I’m prepared for it, prepared for everything I’m about to feel. “They’re expecting you. I’ll take you when you’re ready.”
My mom leaves, and I spend the next few minutes putting on eyeliner and lip-gloss, and then twist my hair up into a clip. I look like that girl…the one from two years ago who used to get dropped off at Josh’s house for movie night. It feels right to go there looking like this.
My dad doesn’t talk, but he comes along for the car ride with my mom and me. We pull up to the Andersons’ home; I notice the For Sale sign planted in the yard, and it makes my eyes tear up again. I remind myself to breathe, just breathe, and then I put my hand to the car door, still not convinced if I can do this. “Do you want me to go in with you?” Mom asks.
“No, I’m okay,” I croak. One last inhale, and I pull the handle and step to the curb. Everything here looks the same—the same black door with the gold handle, the same bench sitting off to the side, and the same pillows stitched with owls on the front. I can almost visualize Josh sitting there, pulling his cleats from his feet and banging them together to get out the chunks of dirt.
The door opens before I ring the bell, and Josh’s mom, Patty, is smiling softly. Not the happy kind, but the understanding kind—the kind full of words without speaking. She’s older, even though it’s only been four months or so since I last saw her, she’s wearing years on her body and face. Everything about her is tired.
“Rowe, it’s so good to see you,” she says, and seeing her glassy eyes make mine sting as well. I step into her arms, and she hugs me tightly, her hand gripping the back of my neck. “Come on in,” she says, holding a hand up to my parents who are still out in the driveway. She doesn’t ask if they want to come in too. There’s no need. Everyone knows what I’m here for.
I follow Patty to the kitchen where she has a plate of cookies and a glass of milk already prepared. She always had snacks for me—even when I came to visit when Josh was under their care. She pushes the plate at me, and I pull a cookie into my hand, not really hungry, but not wanting to be rude.
“I didn’t know,” I start, and I can feel the burn in my eyes instantly, so I suck in trying to keep it together. “I would have come. I would have been here. But I didn’t know.”
I put the cookie down on the table and look down to my lap; Patty reaches across the table and puts her hand on mine. “I know you would have, sweetheart. I know,” she says, just holding her hand there for a few minutes while I sob softly.
“Where’s Mr. Anderson?” I ask, doing my best not to notice the small things that are familiar around me. This place is more familiar than my own home at this point.
“He had to work. He sends his hellos though. He’s sorry he didn’t get to see you,” she says, and I nod in response.
“Was it…I don’t know…fast? I mean, that’s stupid…” I fumble through my words, and the more I talk the more my gut hurts. “I guess I mean, did he suffer? At the end?”
“No, Rowe,” she says, the faint smile coming back to her lips, and I know she’s being honest. “He went in his sleep. He had been failing for months. It was his time.”
I nod again and look back to my lap, doing my best to swallow the lump choking my throat. I reach for the milk and take a sip, then pick up my cookie again, breaking off a small piece and eating it. Like everything else, it’s familiar, and it floods my mind with a dozen more memories, so I put it back down.
“Rowe, you know you couldn’t have done anything, right?” Patty asks, tilting her head down to force my gaze up to hers. I shrug, because even though I know I couldn’t have, I feel like I should have tried, or at least been here. “Rowe, my son was gone the day that madman entered the cafeteria. These last two years…while he was here, it wasn’t really him, you know? He was alive, but his mind was gone.”
“But I should have said goodbye,” I say, unable to stop myself from full-on crying now. Patty moves her chair close to mine and pulls me into her arms, her hand rubbing up and down my back while I convulse into huge sobs. “He died, and he thinks I forgot him. That I didn’t love him. ”
“No, don’t you for once ever think that, Rowe,” she says, squeezing me tighter. “I’m convinced, the last thing my son remembers is that last day here on earth with you—talking about summer, and the end of the school year, and your date that night. I like to believe he died playing that memory over and over in his head, the best memory of his life. He wasn’t even aware of anything after.”
“But I never saw him. I couldn’t do it. I was too…too weak,” I say, rubbing my eyes with my balled-up fists.
“I’m glad, Rowe, because you can have that last memory, too. The same one Josh had. His dad and I, we weren’t as lucky. And if I could have chosen never to have seen my son like that, the way he lived…barely…for the last two years—I would have,” she says, lifting my chin to look at her and taking a soft towel to my cheeks.
“I don’t know,” I say, feeling ashamed for being so afraid.
“I do. I know,” she says, forcing me to keep my eyes on her. She studies me for several seconds, then she stands and reaches for my hand. “Come with me. I have something for you.”
Patty leads me down the hall to Josh’s room, and my anxiety grows with every step we take. “It’s okay,” she says, over her shoulder. “We’ve boxed up his things and the hospital bed is gone. It’s not the same. You’ll be okay.”
I love that she understands, and I hate that she has to understand. She pushes the door open, and the windows are all open, the room sunny and bright. It’s almost a guest room, as if he never lived here at all. She slides the closet door open and kneels to the floor, pulling out a hatbox and bringing it over to the bed. She pats the side next to her, and I come over to sit.
“I saved some things, and everyone has a box. I made one for us, one for Josh’s grandparents, and one for you,” she says, sliding the box to my lap and pulling the lid off, like she knows I won’t be able to on my own. The first thing I see is the picture of Josh smashing cake in my face at the baseball banquet. Betsy took this photo, which makes it even more special, and I can’t help but smile looking at it. I pull it out and set it in the lid, moving on to the next thing. There’s a stack of letters, and I realize they’re all notes that I wrote to Josh—notes that he saved.
“Don’t worry. I didn’t read them,” she says with a gentle laugh. “I wanted to…but I figured
there wasn’t really a parental reason to do that now.”
I smile and clutch the papers to my heart, letting a tear slide down my cheek. I set them in the lid with the photo and move on, pulling out the invitation for our homecoming dance, more photos of Josh and me at various baseball games, barbecues and parties, and then finally his old baseball jersey, still dirty from the last time he slid on base. I put everything back inside and close the lid, full-on weeping now, holding the box to my body in a hug.
I mouth thank you, unable to get my voice to work, and Patty pulls me into her arms for another hug. “You’re welcome, Rowe. You’re welcome,” she says, letting me stay right there for as long as I need.
Several minutes later, I finally make my way back outside. I never ask them about moving or putting the house up for sale, and I don’t ask about where Josh is buried. Because everything I need—the things that I need to move forward, but remember—are in this small box.
Once I’m back in the car with my parents, I set the box next to me on the seat, keeping my left palm flat along the lid, just to make sure nothing escapes. When my mom starts driving, I reach forward and put a hand on my dad’s shoulder; he sinks under my touch before reaching for my fingers and squeezing. I hold his hand for the few minutes it takes us to get back home.
Nate
It feels like the first day of school again, even though Ty and I are only coming back for a few days for finals before leaving again. It feels like the first day because it feels like everything from before was a dream. Rowe isn’t here, and I wonder if she’ll come back for her finals.
I’ve sent her a few texts, but she hasn’t written anything back. I hope she’s not angry that I let her parents know she was coming, but I wanted to make sure she got home safely, and that someone was there for her. Her dad sent me a text when she arrived, so I know she landed. But that’s the last word I received.
