In Her Wake

by K. A. Tucker

  She doesn’t answer right away, and I can feel her choosing her words. “They need him in the Manhattan office. He’s going to look into a place to rent, seeing as he’s going to be there a lot.”

  “I thought he said he’d never do that.” His partners have been trying to get him to move for years, but it was too big a risk to my mom’s agency, and it’s always been a rule for Carter Reynolds that he stays with his family.

  I guess things have changed.

  Chapter 8

  Dec 31, 2008

  “Hey, buddy! Glad you came.” I throw a hand up in time to catch Fitz’s friendly slap. “Beer?”

  “Nah, I’m good. I can’t stay long.” My eyes survey the sea of familiar faces from high school. A lot of them I saw back in April at the funeral. That was eight months ago. They all look the same. With a full beard covering my face and at least twenty pounds less muscle, I’m sure they wouldn’t say the same about me.

  I’d still be sitting in my boxer shorts and T-shirt had my mom not run into Fitz’s mom at the supermarket, who told her about the New Year’s party that Fitz was throwing. My mom guilt-tripped me into coming.

  I obliged, with the plan to show my face and then bolt.

  “So . . . What have you been up to? I hear you’re back in the neighborhood.” I don’t miss the way he shifts on his feet. He’s probably as uncomfortable as I am right now.

  “Uh . . . you know. Just work and stuff.” It’s as though I’ve forgotten how to carry on a normal conversation. I just don’t know what to say to anyone anymore. That’s why I rarely leave home. The rec room has become my lair. I’ve even moved my bed down. It’s odd—I was always such an extrovert before, and rarely alone. But I can honestly say that I’ve come to appreciate the peace that solitude can provide. At least I can judge myself in privacy.

  “All right, well . . .” Poor Fitz just wants to get away from me. “We’ve got burgers on the grill and the hockey game on in the living room. Help yourself to the stock in the fridge if you change your mind.”

  Another hand slap and then Fitz is out, his steps fast and heading in the opposite direction of me.

  I glance at my watch, giving myself five minutes before the front door sees my back. Five long minutes to kill. Luckily, the place is crammed with people and the music is loud. It’s easy to squeeze through the crowd with a nod and a smile without actually being forced to talk to anyone.

  So, that’s what I do, weaving through room after room. It’s a big house, and Fitz’s parents have always been cool about him throwing parties here. Even in high school, they’d take off for New York City, five hours and change away, and let him do whatever he wanted, as long as the house was spotless by the time they came back the next day.

  I pass through the kitchen. And smile, remembering the beer bong showdown between Sasha and me at that very table in the corner. He won, of course, but it was—

  Fuck. Just fucking stop, Cole.

  Stop thinking about him.

  Sasha’s dead.

  Gritting my teeth, I keep moving, into the living room where the Red Wings game is on.

  And Madison is sitting on Henry’s lap.

  She stopped texting back in October, after I ignored countless attempts to reconnect and then sent her one single message, asking her to please stop. I figured it was best to just let her wounds heal, undisturbed by me. I guess they have. The Madison I know wouldn’t be sitting on a guy’s lap unless she was really into him.

  She doesn’t see me right away, giving me a chance to watch her for a moment, leaning into his chest, a cute smile touching her lips as he whispers something in her ear. Her head falls back and that boisterous laugh of hers that I always loved—way too big to fit into that tiny body—bursts out.

  I’m beyond feeling pain over loss anymore, or I’m sure this would feel like a kick to the gut. Instead, a tiny smile touches my lips, such a foreign sensation to me now. She’s moved on. Exactly what I told her to do.

  I wish I could keep that smile for just a while longer, But when those whiskey-colored eyes—Sasha’s eyes—suddenly land on me, and her face pales, the smile drops away.

  I’m sure it’s been five minutes by now. And if not? I don’t really care anymore.

  I’m out the door and halfway down the walkway when I hear her shout my name. She’s running out in socked feet, her arms curled around her chest against the blistering cold. “I didn’t think you’d be here. I’m . . . sorry.”

  She’s apologizing to me. It’s almost laughable. “You have nothing to be sorry about.”

  She searches my face for a long moment. “Still.”

  I attempt to lighten the awkwardness. “Henry always did have a thing for you.”

  A sheepish smile passes her lips. “Yeah, that’s what he told me. I had no idea.” Of course she didn’t. Madison has no clue how beautiful and sweet she is. “How are you? My mom said you moved home?”

  “Yup.”

  Her smile falls as she swallows hard and asks in a soft, sad voice, “How could you just cut me off like that?”

  “I didn’t want you to hold on to hope.”

  She nods, bowing her head until she can control the tears threatening. “Well . . . Happy birthday. I wanted to come by and drop a card or something off, but . . .” Her voice drifts. Madison has been there to celebrate my birthday for as long as I can remember, before she can even remember. First as friends, then as more.

  Now as something lost.

  I’ll never be that guy again, and what we had is really and truly gone. The simple fact that she is able to move on creates an impassable rift between us, the connection we once shared growing more distant with each day.

  “Have a happy new year, Mads.” I turn and continue down the path, struggling to draw a breath, my lungs heavy.

  It’s suddenly so clear. The guy Madison loved died in a terrible car crash last April.

  She deserves to be happy, and it’ll never be with what was left behind.

  Chapter 9

  February 2009

  I wake up to my dad’s bellowing voice from the kitchen. “Why am I hearing about this from a goddamn newspaper!”

  I knew this was going to happen.

  I can picture him sitting, leg crossed, mug of coffee steaming, the kitchen table covered with a myriad of papers. That’s how he’s always spent his Saturday mornings. I’m glad to see that at least one thing hasn’t changed.

  He’s seen the notice that the courts made me publish in the local paper, after I filed my petition for my name change. Because now that I’ve realized that Cole Reynolds is dead, there’s no need to keep answering for him anymore.

  I roll out of bed, pulling on a pair of track pants on my way out the door. I guess I could have warned him. But what’s the point? I knew he wouldn’t agree to it. My mom knows. It took less convincing than I expected. Maybe that’s because I’m using my middle name and her maiden name. Or maybe it’s because she doesn’t know how to handle me.

  I can’t hear my mom’s response but whatever it is, my dad’s not happy about it. “Supporting him with this isn’t helping him, Bonnie! He needs to deal with what happened and move on!” my dad yells as I round the corner.

  “I am. Dealing with it, I mean.”

  They both stop to turn and look at me. My dad’s wearing dress pants and a button-down shirt, as if he’s heading out somewhere. He hasn’t been home in weeks, and yet I see his bags sitting in the corner. He’s ready to leave again. I’m starting to wonder if it’s more about the office expansion or about the bits of conversations I’ve overheard, comments about the lawsuit from the family of that guy, Billy, and the partners not being happy with all the billing hours they’re burning, and how they’re worried that this case will look bad for the firm if clients catch wind.

  I don’t know how true that is, but just the possibili
ty weighs on me.

  “By becoming Trent Emerson?” My dad throws the paper to the floor.

  “By letting go of who I was.” I swiftly pick it up and tuck it under my arm. Proof for the court so they can finalize my petition.

  I almost miss the head shake, it’s so subtle. “What does your therapist say about this?”

  I stall with my tongue sliding over my teeth, deciding how I want to answer that. Is now a good time to tell him that I stopped going back in October, after four two-hundred-dollar sessions of the guy asking me how I feel and me telling him that I feel damn guilty and getting nowhere beyond that?

  Another thing my mother knows that we haven’t enlightened my dad about.

  But he’s smart enough to figure it out on his own, it would seem. He throws his hands up in exasperation. “I don’t know what to do, anymore, Cole. Please! Tell me how we can help you. Everyone else is putting their life back together and yet you don’t seem at all interested in helping yourself.” His tone, his words, the way he’s looking at me—all of it is sliding beneath my skin.

  “I’m not discussing this decision. It’s mine to make and I’ve made it.”

  “But this is crazy!” The confusion in his eyes is genuine. “You can’t move on by doing this, and you need to move on!”

  “I don’t deserve to!” I bellow. My dad flinches with surprise. I can’t remember the last time I yelled at him like that, if ever, but I don’t stop now. He doesn’t get it. No one gets it, and they need to. “Why should I get to move on? Sasha and Derek can’t! Kacey Cleary can’t!” I’ve found myself thinking about her more than I do Sasha and Derek, lately. I haven’t stopped thinking about her. Every day, from the moment I open my eyes to the moment I drift off into oblivion, I can feel her shadow haunting my subconscious. She was so completely innocent in all of this.

  It probably doesn’t help that I’ve saved a picture of her onto my phone and I check it at least ten times a day—every time I imagine a new way that she may be disfigured and I’m desperate to bleach the image from my mind, I fixate on her photo. On her smile.

  Only it’s cyclic, because then I remember that that smile has surely been wiped away. By me. And I’m not even brave enough to face her in the hospital, to confess to my part in it. To say I’m so damn sorry. That I’d do anything to fix it.

  I don’t remember what it’s like to not feel this toxic mixture anymore—pain and sadness and guilt that eats away at my insides, leaving me hollow and wishing that I’d just lay my head on my pillow one night and never have to lift it off again.

  “Kacey Cleary will be released soon—” my dad begins to say, but I cut him off.

  “To what? She has no one left! They’re all dead because of me!” The paper I just picked up goes flying across the room, hitting a glass that sits on the counter, knocking it to the ground, to shatter into countless pieces. “So how am I supposed to just move on? Please explain that to me, Dad! How? I’m just going to finish my degree and play ball and laugh and live? I don’t deserve to live! Don’t you two see that?” The words tumble out of my mouth, more than I’ve said in almost a year, more than I’ve admitted to anyone.

  They seem to deflate my dad. The anger and frustration that contorted his face before slides off, leaving only a tired, wary man who falls into his chair, as if his legs can’t hold the weight of him anymore as his hope for his only son falls to the kitchen floor, to lie with the shattered glass.

  A heavy silence hangs over us.

  “You’re right, Sasha and Derek can’t,” my mom says shakily, stepping forward to take my hands. “But you can and we need you to. Please. For us. For everyone who loves you. For yourself.” Her eyes are watering. I’ve never seen my mom cry as much as I have in the last ten months. Hell, I’ve never cried as much as I have in the last ten months. And seeing my parents like this now, again—like they’re grasping at every last fiber that’s keeping them together, like they’re about to unwind into a heap—deflates whatever fight I have left. “We love you, Cole. And we miss you. Please,” her pleas turn into whispers. “I need my son back.”

  I bow my head to avoid facing her pain. I’ve hurt so many people and I’m still doing it. I’m hurting my parents so much. I know it every time I look into their eyes.

  “Yeah, Mom. I’ll try.”

  For all that it’s worth.

  Chapter 10

  August 2009

  “Any more boxes?” my dad asks.

  “I’ve got it. I’ll meet you outside,” I holler back, the yellow folder staring up at me.

  I should have known. Being the astute lawyer that he is, my dad has a file of information on the Cleary family. Notes about their ages, schools, the date that Kacey was released from the rehabilitation center. The address of her aunt and uncle’s, where she and her little sister now live. Where her parents are buried.

  Her medical bills.

  So many medical bills, which my parents are obviously taking care of.

  Billy’s family settled with my parents out of court, for how much I can’t say, because neither of them will tell me. But I doubt they’ll be able to buy that summer home on the Cape anymore, and that guilt festers inside me.

  It’s a complete fluke that I’ve come across this information. I opened the box with the intention of dividing the files into two boxes, because I knew there was no way my dad would be able to lift it. The Cleary name was right there, waiting for me.

  I check over my shoulder to make sure he’s not at the door, watching me. I wish I had time to make copies of everything, but I don’t. So I do the next best thing. Pulling my phone out, I take pictures of all the most important information.

  My dad’s waiting for me by his replacement Suburban, the back fully loaded. Mainly with office stuff and sentimental things. Most of his belongings are already at his place in New York—a semi-detached house in Astoria that he’s been renting for almost a year.

  The place he will now call home.

  The high school sweethearts voted most likely to grow old together have decided that they need time and space from each other, and the life they once seemed to cherish.

  I still haven’t gotten more than a vague answer from either of them about why. Which makes me pretty certain that I know what the reason is.

  I eye the loaded trunk. “You sure you don’t need my help on the other end?”

  My dad slaps my bicep—my arms now bigger and stronger than they ever were during my years of college ball, thanks to all of the hours I spend at the gym. “I may be old, but I can handle a few boxes of books.”

  “Right.” I give him a half-smirk. It’s the best I can manage but he seems happy to see it, chuckling to himself. Though still strained, our relationship is better than it has been in a while.

  “Okay, well . . . You keep your mom in line here. I know she was talking about maybe taking a vacation or something. Just,” his eyes drift to the walkway, to the front door, where Bonnie Reynolds leans against the door frame, her lips pressed into a firm line, watching, “keep up with your courses and work and . . . getting your life back on track.”

  Back on track.

  Do they really believe that that’s what I’m doing? I suppose I’ve been successful at making it look like I am. I’ve put up a good front, learning how to force smiles and appear reserved versus emotionally unstable. I ask polite questions. The trick is to ask open-ended ones that force others to talk. And then just keep asking questions. That way they think you’re having a conversation. It’s hard and tiring, because my mind keeps drifting.

  I’ve also made myself look busy. I kill my mornings on mindless graphic design program courses, my afternoons on undemanding design projects from my mom, my evenings at the local gym, and long hours sleeping and thinking about the red-haired girl that I don’t have the guts to face, before I hit repeat. One never-ending stream.

 
I threw the rhythm off just twice: once, on the one-year anniversary of the car accident. That day I sat in the cemetery with a fifth of Jack Daniel’s, babbling to Sasha’s tombstone; the second time was to appease my mother and go on a blind date that Fitz set me up on. A friend of his sister’s. Nice enough girl, but I think she was going in with the impression that she could turn my life around. For about four minutes, while I fucked her in the backseat of my car, I thought maybe she could too. Then reality came crashing down with a vengeance. I haven’t called her since.

  I’m better off sticking to my simple schedule. A schedule that doesn’t allow me to let any of this go, but at least gives me something to focus on while I burn time. Just waiting for the knots in my stomach and the hollowness in my chest to go away.

  Just waiting until I can be like everyone else, and move on.

  Well, maybe not everyone.

  Has Kacey moved on too, yet?

  “A change of scenery may be good for you. You should come visit me sometime, Cole.”

  I grit my teeth at the name. That’s one of the reasons I spend so much time at the gym. I’m only Trent Emerson there.

  My dad must see my reaction. He opens his mouth but hesitates. He ends with, “Think about it.”

  And then I watch my dad officially separate from my mom after twenty-five years of marriage.

  Chapter 11

  February 2010

  “Come on! It’ll be a good time.” Rich slaps my back as we climb a set of stairs that I didn’t think I’d ever be climbing again. The big house looks exactly the same—colorful flags plastering the walls, kegs lining the entranceway, drunk freshmen looking to hook up. Sasha, Derek, and I experienced our first MSU frat party within these very walls. And the front lawn . . . well, Derek later painted that with too many shots of Fireball.

  “We’re too old for this.” I pull my baseball cap down lower. Though there are a few upper years here, and of course the frat brothers, at twenty-two and with my solid frame, I stand out.