Authors: Mechelle Morrison
21
I WAKE IN
silvery gray, my surroundings at first unfamiliar and dream-like. Kyle’s curled by my side, warm beneath the covers and breathing the slow, shallow rhythm of sleep. I run my hand along the curve of his waist and the bare smoothness of his hip. He doesn’t budge.
We talked
last night for hours, until our eyes refused to focus. Kyle turned out the light, then, but I don’t remember which one of us fell asleep first. For a while we mumbled in the dark, lying side by side and holding hands, our words drunk with exhaustion. Toward the end I couldn’t tell if I’d even said what I thought I’d said out loud.
I roll to my left side and in a practiced motion, push against the bed with my
hands until I’m sitting. Doing this takes my breath away so I rest, gulping air in short quick bursts until I’m no longer seeing stars. Then I stand up.
I don’t remember Kyle opening
the bedroom door but it’s open wide, resting against the wall. A rogue shiver wracks my body. My ribs twinge. Hugging my arms across my naked chest, I stumble over the jeans lying at my feet. In this light they’re colorless, just a lump, and I don’t know if they’re mine or Kyle’s. His closet door is ajar so I walk into it, flip a switch and find a cotton long-sleeved tee. It fits over my head easily, reaching mid-way down my thighs. From a wicker basket on a shelf I choose a pair of fresh boxers. In his room, I spy his thick wool socks resting on the seat cushion of his chair. I grab them and wander for a door I hope leads into a bathroom.
When I’m ready
, I retrace last night’s path through the softly lit hall. I stop when I reach the slate-stone entryway, listening to the quiet conversation up ahead. I swallow once. Twice. Then, stocking-footed, I walk across the cold rock and into the kitchen.
Dad and the
Thackers are seated round the window table, drinking coffee. Their eyes seem appraising and strangely adult as they shift to greet me. “Hello,” I say. My voice rattles like it’s surfacing through gravel. I comb my fingers through my hair.
“Morning,” Dad says.
“Where’s Jesse?” I ask.
Dad pauses, fixed on my clothes. “She’s long gone home, honey.”
“Kyle and I didn’t sleep together,” I say, giving into a sudden, irritating urge to explain myself. The adults look at each other, from the corners of their eyes. “I mean, we slept in the same bed, but we didn’t you know, do anything. We just talked.”
Dad says, “And I was so looking forward to stepping
outside with Kyle.”
Angella Thacker clears her throat.
The coffee pot seems miles away, like the end of the counter is Antarctica. My legs move mechanically as I walk for it. Once I’m there, I take a mug from a cupboard near the sink then set it too loudly on the granite counter surface.
“Sorry,” I say.
Ray Thacker’s eyebrows lift a fraction of an inch toward his hairline. Angella seems suspended, almost in a trance or something. Her gaze is glued to the blue rim of Kyle’s boxers showing below the hem of his shirt. Her eyes shift slightly. I swear she’s analyzing his socks, big and floppy, on my feet.
I focus on what I’m doing.
Cupping my hands round my warm mug, I wander to the table. Dad scoots a bit and pats the cushion, like he’s forgotten it would take a healing miracle for me to flop down and inch around the bench seat to where he is. So instead I choose a chair, lowering myself into a sitting position like I’m a stop-motion animation character, saying, “Ah, ah, ah,” as I adjust to the pressure in my side. I exhale, surprised by how good I feel. Dad pushes the sugar and cream toward me.
“Thanks,” I say.
He studies me for a moment. “I’ve got to go back to work,” he says.
I dump a heaping teaspoon of raw sugar into my coffee and stir, adding enough cream to
turn the brew the color of caramel. Then I take a long, slow sip, tracking the hot liquid as it flows down my throat and into my stomach. Snowflakes thump against the window like angry bees, propelled by furious wind. “You’re going today?” I ask. “I mean, it’s a snow war-zone out there.”
“
I should, but no.” Dad glances at the weather. “I’ll go in tomorrow, though.” The house shudders. I can’t see the barn, or the garage or Dad’s Jeep, for that matter.
I take another long draw of coffee.
“So, um, what day is this?”
Ray Thacker bursts out laughing.
Dad says, “You nut,” and almost smiles, shaking his head. “It’s Friday, honey. Thanksgiving was yesterday.”
“
Oh no! Did you guys eat all the cobbler?”
The
Thackers and Dad glance at each other, again. Angella stands up and walks for the fridge.
“What?” I
ask. “I love cobbler for breakfast.”
“
Angie and Ray have invited you to stay here,” Dad says, “until your stitches come out next week. They both work from home. They’ll look after you.”
“
I don’t need baby-sitting.”
Angella
places a plate-full of cobbler into the microwave. “We have a lovely guest room,” she says.
“
Where you are required to sleep alone,” Dad adds.
“
Hello? I’m injured? All we did was talk.” I sound annoyed and I check myself. I mean, knowing I’m welcome has me desperate to make sure I’m always welcome. I don’t want to wreck it.
Sipping
coffee, I stare from Dad to Ray Thacker. When Angella places the steaming hot cobbler in front of me I say “Thanks,” then ask, “Does the deal include access to Kyle’s clothes? They’re easy to get into. And way comfortable.”
Ray
Thacker laughs again, the silent kind that has tears squeezing from his eyes.
From somewhere behind me Kyle says,
“You mean all I’ve had to do, all along, is agree to share my clothes?” He walks to where I’m sitting and kisses the top of my head. “Mornin’, girl,” he whispers.
Dad’s eyes pop wide,
like he’s being squeezed too hard. Kyle shrugs. “Just testing. I mean, a guy’s gotta know he’s awake. This would have been a right cruel dream, otherwise.”
22
A RED BULL
jolt of country music shoves me from my dreams. I swear my heart spasms. I’m in total panic before I remember that I’m sleeping in the guestroom, tucked between Kyle’s parents’ master suite and his father’s office. Kyle told me that on school days he’s up at four. I glance at the bedside clock. Three fifty-nine. He could have warned me I’d hear his alarm from half-a-house away.
I sit up
slowly, wincing at the unforgiving stitches in my side and the dull, awakening throb of my bruised ribs. Then I pull on an old Yellowstone sweatshirt and stumble into the guest bathroom, not bothering with the light.
Kyle
runs for an hour, every day, though this morning he’ll run in the barn on a treadmill. That’s what he does when the weather’s too crappy to run outside. I wish I could run with him, even in a stinky barn. I miss exercise. But judging by my ribs, it will be a while. Sounds reach my ears—opening doors, soft whispers in the hall. I yawn. I need more sleep. When I’m finished I head back to bed and climb in, but I can’t relax. Last night Kyle told me this room used to be Evan’s.
I switch on the lamp.
Evan’s room is a lot like Kyle’s: pine furniture, a faux bear-skin rug, blankets on the wall. The steer horns above the windows are different, and in one corner stands a totem, though I’m not so sure it’s antique. There’s nothing personal. No books or sports stuff. The nightstand drawer is empty.
I don’t know why, but
I’m desperate for evidence of the person who once lived here. I want a face to go with the name. There aren’t pictures of Evan in the Thackers’ house, at least none that I’ve seen. There’s no proof of him anywhere, even here in the room that was once his. I slip from bed and check under it, hoping for boxes. Nothing is there.
The
wardrobe is basically empty—a stack of fresh towels, an extra set of sheets and a TV. The top two drawers of the dresser hold my underwear and jeans and sweaters and tees, so I skip those. The third drawer down is full of clothes Kyle wants me to wear. I pull open the bottom drawer. It has a latched lid.
Latched, but not locked.
A bubble of guilty tension grows in my stomach. I tell myself to stop snooping. I mean, even if there’s anything in the drawer, it isn’t my business. Then I decide I’ll only take one quick peek. Turning the latch feels invasive, like I’m defiling something pure. But I unlatch the lid and lift it anyway. There, tied in red-string bundles of pictures and jute-string bundles of saved homework and wire-tagged trinkets and trophies, I find Evan’s life.
Angella is well into cooking breakfast when, two hours later, I wander into the kitchen for coffee. She has a fire burning on the big hearth the kitchen and dining room share. Ray Thacker says, “Morning Miss,” turns up the collar of his duster then slurps from his steaming cup as he steps outside. By the time Kyle appears, his hair wet and combed back, his shirt half-buttoned and his boots under one arm, I’m enlisted: flipping pancakes, scrambling eggs, pouring coffee, frying bacon. The kitchen smells fabulous—like a diner. Kyle smiles at me as he settles into the breakfast nook. I laugh and say, “May I take your order?”
He says, “Just keep it
comin’, girl.”
Angella and I serve him
eight pancakes, four fried eggs, hash browns and bacon, toast with blackberry jam. He gulps down two glasses of milk, buttons his shirt, finishes his coffee and chases everything with a banana. I think he’s done, finally, but he opens the fridge door, his eyes foraging. He grabs a peach yogurt.
I’d never thought about how hungry boys are in the morning.
As Kyle slings his pack to his shoulder I line up next to the back door, right along with his mother. He smacks a quick kiss across my cheek without breaking stride. “I’ll bring your homework,” he says. “Bye, y’all.”
Angella and I
follow him out and wave, shivering in our slippers in the early morning chill, as Kyle drives an old farm truck from the barn. Then we rush into the kitchen, slapping the cold from our clothes and stamping our feet. I’m feeling good today, still tender but more myself, so while Angella adds a log to the fire I curl into the window seat. She joins me, sitting close, like we’re old friends. We nibble on our eggs and toast while playing gin.
I see my mother in this
moment, her dark hair crazy from sleep, her movements practiced as she prepped me for my day. How I must have churned her life with hurricane force! No wonder Mom preferred saving her coffee. With me at school she could drink it in peace.
“Why’s Kyle driving that old truck?” I ask,
discarding the queen of hearts.
“Ray doesn’t want him obvious
.” Angella takes the queen, which peeves me, though it’s too late to take it back. Her discard is the two of clubs. I don’t want it.
“Obvious
to who?”
“Em Harrelson.
I’m surprised he drove the Ford, to tell the truth. Ray and Kyle’ve been arguing over how to best handle things. Kyle’s got his own ideas. Ray feels himself in charge. They’ve gone at it every morning, yelling at each other in the barn—till you came.” Angella smiles. “Seems Ray knows leverage when he sees it.” She draws again, then lays her cards across the table in a neat and numbered fan, placing her discard face down. “Gin.”
“Ouch,” I say, adding up my junk. “Twenty-seven
points plus gin. Fifty-two.”
Angella leans on her elbows and sips coffee from her oversized mug.
“We’re playing a spade,” she reminds me.
“
Oh yeah. Seventy-seven.” I look up, meeting her gaze. “I fret about Em, sometimes. If you really want to know.”
Angella
takes another sip of coffee. “That girl is not how people are here. Maybe that’s why I never once suspected her.”
“She’s obnoxious at school,” I say.
“She kept that side of herself hidden, at least when she was around me. Still, sometimes I wonder how I lost sight of Kyle enough not to notice what was happening to him. The signs were there. The trips to the doctor. The stitches. Every time he got hurt I bought his explanation without question. I owe you for him, Aspen. If you had never come to Gillette he’d still be under that girl’s claw. He might have ended up like . . . like . . .”
“
He won’t end up like Evan,” I say softly. My face flushes with heat. I gather the cards and return them to their box. “Sorry. I don’t know if it’s okay to say his name. But Kyle told me about him. We emailed, when he was in Salt Lake. And I feel bad, because this morning I woke up early and instead of heading for the kitchen I hung out in my room, and I got. I mean I should tell you—”
“
Ray’s a good man,” Angella says suddenly. “A loving man. For a while there I thought I’d lost him too, right along with Evan. Kyle struggled after Evan died. But Ray was drowning. Grief devours your energy, you know?”
“I do,” I say.
“I could barely drag myself from bed in the morning. Ray was drinking too much. Our lives were crumbling. I had to make a choice and I chose my husband. After two years, Ray’s learned to be happy again. He’s almost himself. But Ray and I shut down, for months. We made safe harbor for each other, but we weren’t there for Kyle. Not really. I thought Kyle was okay, or at least coping, but I was wrong. He needs his friends to know his brother. He needs you to know. He’s barely started to talk things out, but. Ray will never be there for him. Not when it comes to Evan. I don’t know how much I can be there for him. It still breaks me, to have lost my son. I’m suggesting they’ll be times Kyle needs a shoulder. If you’re willing.”
“
We’re each other’s shoulder,” I say. “We talk about everything.”
“
I like knowing that. Kyle can be stubborn. I mistook his stubbornness for being okay. I should have known different. Behind his will, he’s always been a gentle boy. Articulate. Thoughtful. He has a poet’s heart.” Angella smiles, but it doesn’t dull the tears sparkling in her eyes. “Evan was different. His was a wild spirit. Always pushing boundaries. Ray loved that about him, but he felt a need to rein it, too. He made rules. What Evan could do. What he couldn’t. I supported Ray’s parenting. But our expectations buried Evan, sometimes.”
I watch
Angella as she watches the sunlight spread across the roof of the snow-covered barn. I don’t know what to say.
“
Lord, we pressured him.” Angella’s voice cracks. “It haunts me. The battles we fought seem worthless, now. All those words strung between us like barbed wire, and for what? I don’t know how much of all that played into his death. I’ll never know, I guess.”
“I have stuff like that,” I say.
“With my Mom.”
“I’m so sorry that you do.”
Angella dabs her tears with her fingertips. “But your Mom, she’d understand.”
“I hope so,” I say.
“It’s dangerous, to be wrapped up in the past. It blinded me to the present. I didn’t realize Kyle was miserable until I saw who he became with you. You’re there, Aspen. In his eyes. He’s nearly grown and, well. I support his feelings for you. His commitment is sweet. The second he heard what had happened there was no option. He packed our bags and we left. He drove through the night. Twelve hours, and stopping only for gas. The whole time he talked about you. How he cares for you. How you’re his one. At the hospital he fell asleep holding your hand. Do you remember?”
“No. I wish I did, but I don’t. I’m glad you told me.”
Angella touches my arm. “I’m glad he found you. I’m so pleased to see he’s happy.”
My eyes sting with tears. My feelings for Kyle
ache to be given words, but I don’t know if I’ll say things right. I mean, Dad sort of laughed when I tried explaining myself to him. He thought I was infatuated. “Kyle’s pretty much all I think about,” I say. “Being around him so much makes it tough to want to go back home with Dad.”
Angella
watches Ray drive a four-wheeler, pulling a trailer filled with hay, into the barn. “I’ve been thinking on that,” she says quietly. She takes a sip of coffee and turns to me, just as the doorbell chimes. We both twist toward the sound.
“
Stay here.” Angella tucks her hair behind one ear. “Please.” She sets her coffee mug on the table then scoots from the seat, tightening the sash of her robe. Her slippers pad like kitten paws as she walks toward the door.
T
he entry echoes with the sound of metal, like a bolt sliding into place. In the moments of silence that follow, I imagine Angella standing on the stone slate floor, adjusting her robe before she opens the large oak door. But when she says, “What brings you here, Deb,” her tone isn’t welcoming. Her words are brittle, like sharp sticks falling on a steel drum.
I’m curious, now
, about Deb. I wonder who she is, and why she’s not welcome and what made her stop by unannounced. I scoot to the edge of the window seat, thinking I’ll creep toward the door and listen or even steal a little peek. But before I can move someone appears outside, at the place where the window meets the house.
A girl
stands there, pressed against the glass. She’s wearing a long white coat. Blonde hair fans from under her white crocheted cap. She turns toward the house then pauses, her face in profile as she stares at the barn.
Em Harrelson.
I melt beneath the table like hot wax, ignoring the sharp burst of pain in my side as my body contorts over the seat and onto the floor. Huddling there, I tuck my feet close to my chest and wrap my arms around my knees.
Em takes a step, and then another, her
movement betrayed by the rock salt Ray Thacker spread along his porch while I helped with breakfast.
The
storm door latch makes a single, pinging click. Its hinges creak faintly, a complaint I’ve never noticed until now. The chain at the top taps against the frame, a quiet shss shss shss. My heart beats like a moth trapped too close to light. Cold air rushes up my calves, as unwelcome as a tsunami.
T
he back door quietly shuts.