The Last Time I Saw Her

by Alexandra Harrington

  “I should go. Thanks for everything,” she said honestly.

  He looked away, suddenly awkward, throwing a hand through his hair and pushing it back from his face. “No problem-o.” He flashed a finger gun toward the windshield and then looked away, embarrassed.

  Charlotte swung open the door and hopped out, slamming it shut behind her. After a few tries, she managed to wrestle her suitcase out of the back of the truck. She caught Max looking at her again through passenger door window.

  “What?”

  “Are you gonna tell me—or anyone—why you left?” he asked quietly. Fair question, Charlotte thought. It should have been easy to answer.

  “Ah.” She nudged the gravel nervously with the toe of her shoe. “It’s a really long story, Max.”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t ask for the story. I asked if you were ever going to tell anyone the reason.”

  Charlotte bit her lip. That was an even simpler question. “No,” she said.

  She wasn’t sure what the expression was that crossed his face, but she thought that maybe he didn’t quite believe her.

  “All right,” he said with a shrug.

  She gave him an uncomfortable smile before turning and heading for the steps.

  “Charlie!”

  She froze but didn’t turn around.

  “I’m glad you’re back.”

  Charlotte turned to face Max a final time and tried to believe what she said next. “So am I.”

  three

  Charlotte watched the red tail lights of the truck disappear between the trees before climbing the steps of the porch, the dull glow of the overhead lamp leaking down her path. The lamp swayed a bit in the breeze. As Max and his truck creaked away, she was completely alone again and everything was quiet.

  Propping the screen door open with her hip, Charlotte tried the doorknob. Locked. Of all the nights. When did Sean start bothering to lock the door? Charlotte slapped her palm against the heavy wood a few times.

  “Sean!” she barked at the door. The sound pressed against the little grooves in the wood but didn’t seem to make it any farther. There was no answer. Not that she really expected one. Sean wasn’t home much. She pounded a few more times just to be sure. No heavy, blustery footsteps. No grumbling over the inconvenience. No Sean.

  She cursed under her breath and dug around in the outside pocket of her suitcase for the house key. It was tangled with her headphones and lip chap. She looped her finger through the key chain. The car, the workshop, dad’s truck, Sophie’s. Charlotte traced the cool, floral-patterned metal. Sophie and Charlotte had gotten keys of each other’s houses made back in the sixth grade in case of emergencies. Charlotte’s key to Sophie’s had tiny pink roses, while Sophie’s to Charlotte’s was baby blue with white, fluffy clouds. She wondered if Sophie still had hers.

  Trying not to linger on the fact that Sophie may have access to the place where Charlotte slept, Charlotte flipped past the pink key to the plain one that unlocked her house. As she straightened up, her back to the front yard and the trees, Charlotte wondered if someone could be watching her. She hated that she felt that way. Don’t be paranoid. She jammed the key in the lock and threw her weight against the door. It stuck, like it always did in the heat and humidity of summer, and after a few more tries she finally stumbled inside.

  The front door opened right into the main room—into everything. The Romer home looked about the same as when she’d left it. At least something did. It had been a dark, rainy morning when she’d left town, so a grey and half-remembered version of the place she grew up was all she’d left with. The house wasn’t much—small and rustic and cluttered, with pale wooden walls and thick rafters overhead. Memories hung on the walls and lined shelves. The whole thing sort of reminded her of a museum now, filled with artifacts from a different era. Maybe that’s why it looked exactly the same as when she’d left—Sean hadn’t touched anything. She probably wouldn’t have either, were she in his place. It was as if they were preserving something that didn’t exist anymore.

  A beat-up leather sofa and mismatched loveseat were arranged in front of the rabbit-ear TV (the TV worked but the rabbit ears weren’t even hooked up; she knew Sean just kept them around for decorative purposes, like their dad had). At the far side of the room was the uneven dining room table, only kept upright and even by Sean’s high school yearbook under one foot. A memory of legs swinging under the drapey tablecloth, pumping back and forth, as she struggled through her homework every afternoon. Her dad over her shoulder, all whispered hints and gentle corrections. The galley kitchen beside the table was just as tiny as she remembered. Beside the kitchen, a narrow hallway led off to Charlotte’s bedroom, the bedroom her parents used to share, the bathroom, and Sean’s bedroom tucked in the back.

  She was home.

  Charlotte lined up her suitcase against the wall by the door. It was quiet, just her and the dust and the sea, somewhere nearby. For a startling second, she felt calm. Home.

  “Sean?” she heard herself call out. More silence. “It’s me!”

  Charlotte chucked her keys on the coffee table and headed for the kitchen. She was hungry, but then suddenly not. Dishes caked with old food were piled high in the sink. Glasses and empty beer cans covered the counter like some kind of shrine. A big paper liquor store bag stained with dark spots from the food inside sat on the floor beside the fridge. At least it looked like Sean was making an effort to compost.

  “Jesus, Sean,” she muttered to herself. Whatever. She’d make him clean it up tomorrow. Right now she was too tired to deal with anything. When she turned to leave she almost wiped out on a stray beer bottle rolling on the floor. Kicking it aside, she left the war zone of a kitchen and headed to the back of the house. She made a detour to Sean’s bedroom. Charlotte disobeyed the handmade Keep Out sign Sean had plastered on the door when he was twelve, and stuck her head inside.

  “Hello?” The bedroom was about as tidy as the kitchen, but it was empty. Her brother was not home. He was probably god knows where, doing god knows what, even though really, she knew what. She loved her brother. A lot. But he had a tendency toward trouble. Busted selling weed, and before their dad died, underage drinking. Vandalism, disorderly conduct, you name it. Charlotte blamed his friends. They were way worse than Sean—a lot less petty and a lot more criminal. Sean never did anything that bad. Charlotte knew that. Sean would never hurt anyone, except himself.

  Closing Sean’s door behind her, she stood facing the back exit, a crappy, clattering metal screen door that looked out on the backyard. Pulling aside the faded blue curtains at the window, she could just make out the small building that stood beside the house beyond the back porch.

  Another memory, a newer one, came to her—her dad out in the workshop, tinkering and fixing and blowing through a pack and a half of cigarettes every summer afternoon. He’d taught Charlotte to use a hammer and Sean how to put things together. Fittingly, Sean would fix what she broke. As they got older, their roles had switched.

  It had been just her and Sean for a while now. Almost two whole years before she left. Boarding school had been Sean’s idea. A relative, their mom’s sister, came up with the tuition money. Aunt Heather, whom Charlotte had never met or even heard of before then. Sean had insisted it was the best solution. After all this time, Charlotte still didn’t think he was right. He had just wanted her out of River John. She should have wanted out, too, but it wasn’t that simple.

  Charlotte snapped herself back to reality and turned away from the window, letting the blue curtain fall back down, covering up the view of the darkened backyard. She found herself at the last part of the house she’d yet to face. She took a deep breath and told herself she was being stupid.

  Her North Colchester High School banner was still taped above the dresser in her bedroom; half-full binders of scribbled notes were peeking out from under her bed. A bulletin b
oard beside the window was covered in photos: her and Sean as babies; old photos of her dad; young, awkward versions of her and Sophie. There were so many of her and Sophie. Max appeared in a few. They got older and less awkward-looking—though Charlotte thought Sophie never really looked awkward. Sophie always looked completely comfortable with herself. There was a small dry-erase board next to the photos. In hot pink, curly writing: Sophie was here.

  Memories were shapes: round and soft, or square and sharp. Hard angles and steep drop-offs. Thinking of her dad was hazier; blurry lines that she couldn’t place on a timeline other than somewhere from childhood. Thinking about Sophie, about last year, was all sharp edges—gaps for missing moments or things that tripped her up. She didn’t know what she’d expected. Did she think some magical Ghost of Christmas Past would have swept in while she was away and cleared out all the evidence of Before? Everything here was a reminder that things used to be better. Easier.

  Charlotte sat down on the lumpy grey bedspread, a cloud of dust rising like blown snow. She couldn’t take her eyes off the photos hanging right in front of her. It was like she was seeing them for the first time. They were all from before the accident.

  Every September, the senior class of their high school hosted a car rally after the first week back to school. The entire class divided into teams to partake in a town-wide, free-for-all scavenger hunt. Performing wild and borderline-illegal activities earned you points. These ranged from kidnapping a freshman (who was in on it, of course; it was considered an honour to be chosen), which was thirty points, to convincing someone from the sheriff’s department to let you and another teammate make out in the back of a squad car (one hundred and fifty points). You could also earn points by solving clues, written by the host, that led you to different spots around town. Each team paid a one-hundred-dollar entry fee, which covered the winner’s prize money (or their posted bail, depending on how the night went).

  Max was the host last year. He had been meticulous. Down to every last detail, Max had spent most of the previous summer making sure everything would work, coming up with clues, shortcuts, and hints within hints. The rally had been all anyone talked about for the weeks leading up to the return to school. Teams had matching outfits, people decorated their cars, and teachers were wary of assigning too much homework that weekend.

  Originally, Charlotte, Max, and Sophie had been a team. They were the three-person-exception team, because Max had insisted on being with Sophie, and Sophie had insisted on being with Charlotte. Everyone else was in pairs. It didn’t really matter, though, because Max wasn’t technically allowed to play since he’d made up the questions and knew the answers. The clue-solving had to be up to Sophie and Charlotte.

  But a week before, Sean had informed Charlotte—abruptly, and maybe strategically, just as she was going out the door—that she would have to miss the car rally for a babysitting job he’d set up. They’d fought about it for days. But Charlotte did end up missing the scavenger hunt and instead spent her evening with an eight-year-old boy who was obsessed with Star Wars. Sophie made Charlotte swear to show up at the afterparty. In her purse she’d packed makeup and something less family-friendly than what she’d worn babysitting to change into afterward.

  But Charlotte never made it to the afterparty.

  As it turned out, no one did.

  Charlotte had just finished babysitting, and was heading for her car when her phone rang. The first words that had come flying out of Max’s mouth when Charlotte had answered were, “It’s Sophie.” At the hospital she found Sophie’s family, and eventually Max’s, and a few kids from school who’d heard what happened and followed the ambulance.

  Charlotte learned later, through the police and what little Sophie and Max remembered, that there had been a collision. Direct impact on the passenger side. Max had been driving. Technically, the police said, Max wasn’t at fault, but Charlotte had seen how the guilt warped him in the weeks that followed. His truck had flipped, and Max was the one who had woken up and managed to call 911. They never found the other driver, and no one ever came forward. If it had been someone just passing through River John, they were gone forever.

  Sophie refused to speak to anyone for a long time. Everyone else just spent a lot of time not knowing what to say. Charlotte had tried to string together words but nothing seemed to line up right. Looking back, she knew she was a lot quieter than she should have been. It was like all those years of friendship didn’t mean much when everything came falling down.

  Max became closed-off, a different person. He was a kind of dark that Charlotte had never seen in him. She remembered him during those terrible days at school after the accident, if he did show up at all. Max wouldn’t talk to anyone, and if he did it was only to her or his buddy Leo. Leo was the only one who seemed to be able to cheer him up a bit, but if Max ever cracked a smile he just went back to looking completely miserable two seconds later.

  Max, like Sophie, had been the type of person who could talk to anyone, good-natured and charming. Charlotte didn’t know a single person who seriously disliked him. Except her, maybe, but that was on purpose—because he wanted her to, and because he liked antagonizing his girlfriend’s best friend. Harmless. Charlotte never thought she would miss Max’s smug attitude and biting sarcasm. He used to be friends with everyone, but after the accident it was like he didn’t know how to move when every single person in town knew about the worst thing that had ever happened to him.

  And then, within a few weeks of the accident, Charlotte left for boarding school. Sean had said there wasn’t time for her to offer any explanations to her friends and that it would only make everything harder. That sounded like the right answer for the first few days, but after that Charlotte knew it had only sounded right because it was easier. She was a coward for not saying goodbye to Sophie. For not explaining.

  There hadn’t been a day since that night last September that Charlotte hadn’t thought about what would have happened had she been in the car, too. Selfish, she thought. But she figured maybe with three of them, they wouldn’t have been in that exact spot at that exact time. Maybe they would have solved another clue first and wouldn’t have driven that way at all. Maybe Charlotte would have taken a few extra seconds at one stop and held them up. Maybe if she’d been there it wouldn’t have happened at all. Or maybe it would have been worse.

  Charlotte let out a deep breath, throwing herself backward onto her bed. She turned her head sideways, looking to the message scrawled on the whiteboard.

  • • •

  Charlotte groaned against her pillow as she rolled over in bed, the sunlight peeking through the floral curtains across the room. She reached out blindly for her phone on the night stand, checking the time. The display read 12:24 p.m.

  She twisted onto her back, staring up at the discoloured ceiling. Squeezing her eyes shut, Charlotte tried to remember what time it had been when she had fallen asleep. It must have been after 4 a.m. Her brain just wouldn’t shut down last night. Lots to think about.

  She had made a cup of tea (which turned out to be difficult, as she didn’t know where Sean had hidden their kettle) and spent the evening—which eventually deteriorated into early morning—organizing and reorganizing her old school binders. It was pointless, because the notes were more than a year old, but it helped. Organize what she could. Put some order to this chaos.

  Charlotte sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Lots of housekeeping to do today. She padded out toward the main room, where she found the only other Romer child draped majestically over the worn leather sofa, hugging a half-eaten bag of barbecue chips. She had been up until nearly daylight and hadn’t heard him come home, which she found vaguely concerning.

  “Sean?” she called, only drawing a low murmur from her brother. “Hey, Sean!” Charlotte said more sharply, the sound snapping through the empty house. Sean flew upright, the bag of chips drifting to the floor.


  “What the fu—” he muttered, disoriented. He looked around, peering down at his spilt breakfast before he looked up at her. They looked alike. Dark hair and tanned skin and the same dark eyes. They both resembled their mom, or at least the mom Charlotte knew from the faded photographs their dad used to keep in his bedside table. They both looked different from the other people in River John—like they’d been transplanted in at the last second. They looked alike, but the Sean in front of her looked exhausted, as if he hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in a year. His eyes were rimmed with dark, unforgiving circles and Charlotte couldn’t stop herself from noticing the way his loose clothing hung off a slimmer frame.

  “Morning, sunshine,” Charlotte said.

  Sean checked his wrist for a watch that wasn’t there. “Was that today?”

  “Last night, actually.” She sat down in front of him on the oversized chest that they used as a makeshift coffee table. “I only called you, like, a thousand times.”

  Sean put his face into his hands, pulling down on his cheeks. “Shit. School. The car. Driving. Right.”

  “Yup.”

  Sean sighed and grabbed his watch from beside her leg. “I’m sorry. I just…lost track of the days, I guess.”

  “And the rest of the house too, apparently,” she noted.

  “Sorry, Mom.” Sean fastened the strap around his wrist. “I’m sorry I forgot to come get you, all right?” He softened. “Next time for sure.”

  “Right. The next time I’m returning from a mysterious long-term absence?”

  He smirked, and looked a bit more like the Sean she remembered. “Precisely.”

  Charlotte picked her way to the kitchen and found half a pot of cold coffee in the maker. She inspected it and wondered about its age. Whatever. She wasn’t the one drinking it. She dumped it in a mug and threw it in the microwave. (The plate didn’t spin anymore. Excellent.)