I lift my eyes to his.
“I love you. I love our family. If we’re going to survive, we’ve got to stick together. We have to love and support one another.”
But what if they don’t love me back? What if they can’t?
“Do you understand? Do you see how important that is?” His eyes are pleading. And sad.
I nod.
“Thank you.” He looks out across the parking lot toward the restaurant. The delivery truck is parked out back, but you can still see it: Charlie’s giant face smiling at us.
“I suppose we’ll have to paint over that,” he says. “Can’t imagine covering up his face, though.” A tear slips along his jaw.
I move closer to him and lean against him again. He puts his arms around me and holds tight. Thoughts of Charlie swirl between us. Images of Charlie under this table, trying to tie my shoelaces together as I do my homework. As I ignore him.
When my dad finally lets go, he looks around again at the table that was Charlie’s hideout. “I don’t know what Charlie loved so much about playing under here,” he says. “It’s really pretty gross.”
“Charlie didn’t notice that kind of stuff,” I say. I picture his dirty face, his crazy hair. His sticky hands. I smile, and a tiny hint of warmth enters my chest. “He was kind of gross, too.”
My dad looks up at the tabletop roof. “Now I know why his hair was sticky all the time.”
I almost laugh but stop myself.
“It’s OK, Fern. Charlie wouldn’t want you to be so sad.”
But I’ve already swallowed it down.
“Should we go back inside? It’s pretty cold out here.”
I shake my head. “It hurts too much. Hearing those stories.”
“I know.”
“I mean it hurts so much, I can hardly breathe.”
He nods. “I know.”
“I feel like . . . like . . .”
“I know,” he says. “It’s OK. We can stay right here.”
I picture my mom and Sara upstairs in the office, surrounded by their own guilt. And Holden and Gray, sitting at the table listening to all those Charlie stories, looking miserable. But they all have each other. And I guess I have my dad. But what I really want is Charlie.
My dad shifts again and rubs his lower back.
“You can go back in, Dad. I’ll be OK.”
He smiles at me but looks uncertain.
“I promise,” I say. But I think we both know it’s a lie.
“All right,” he says. “I’ll just go back in for a bit, and then we’ll all go home.” He squeezes himself out from under the table, and I listen to his feet slowly crunch through the leaves as he walks away.
WHEN HOLDEN COMES TO GET ME and takes me to the car, everyone is already waiting. I climb in the back and stare out the window. Sara sits in the middle between Holden and me. No one says a word as we drive home. No one asks me to sing to him. No one asks me to make Doll dance. No one reaches for my hand to hold and squeeze. No one whispers, I love you, Ferny.
At home, I go straight to my room and shut the door. I crawl into bed with the answering machine and hold it to my chest. I don’t play it, just hold it. Hold all that I have left.
Eventually I hear everyone come upstairs to get ready for bed. My dad knocks on my door and comes in to say good night. He holds me close and pats my hair as if I’m a little kid. As if I’m . . . I close my eyes and concentrate on his big hand, gently patting me. Soothing me.
“Get some sleep,” he says. “We’ll talk more in the morning.” No one else comes to say good night.
I wait for the house to get quiet before I use the bathroom and brush my teeth. On my way back to my room, I stop in Charlie’s doorway. It’s dark, but I can see that his bed still isn’t made.
I step inside and take a slow, deep breath. The air smells stale but still like Charlie’s room. Like unwashed hair and baby powder, which he loved to coat himself with after his bath.
I feel along the wall and turn on the light. I look at each wall, plastered with crayon drawings. Each piece of furniture. Each toy still on the floor. I pick up one of his books and put it back on his bookcase. When I do, I see a small brass vase on the top shelf. I step closer. I’ve never seen it before. I reach out for it but then pull my hand away.
It’s not a vase. It’s an urn.
It’s Charlie. In that small metal . . . thing.
I think about the answering machine and how it feels like he’s alive in there. Not like this cold metal object on the top of a bookshelf.
I sit on the floor and stare up at it.
“I miss you,” I whisper.
The room is quiet.
I wait and wait for him to answer somehow. To feel something. But the room is still.
Under Charlie’s bed, I see a bunch of stuffed animals, some stray plastic dinosaurs, and a few board books he outgrew. Most of them have chew marks at the corners. I used to hate reading those to him because they were usually either wet or sticky. I reach for one and pull it out. It’s Big Red Barn, one of his favorites. I open it and look up at the urn again. Waiting to feel something.
I begin to whisper the familiar first sentence.
As I read, I remember Charlie next to me, finishing each line.
Cat, he’d whisper, pointing.
I pause as I read, waiting for his voice to fill the silence.
I imagine him leaning against my arm, reaching for my ear.
And when I finish, I wait for what always comes next.
Again.
I hold the book to my chest and breathe and breathe what I can of his room and its memories. Then I get up and make Charlie’s bed. I set some of the stuffed animals on it. Just his favorites. I put the book on his pillow. When I turn to leave, I see my mom standing in the doorway.
I jump back and almost fall on the bed.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” she says. “I — I saw the light on.”
She stays in the doorway. She has her shawl on over her nightgown. She looks even less like my mom standing there in the shadows, all sunken in on herself. As if she really is slowly disappearing.
“I was just . . .” But I don’t know what to say.
Her hands shake as she fiddles with a loose piece of yarn on her shawl. “I heard,” she says. “He loved that book.”
She puts one foot into the room, moving into the light, as if she is finally going to come over and comfort me. But she pauses, as if she isn’t sure she can.
Because she blames me. I know she does.
“He just ran away from me,” I say. “I tried to catch up, but he was too fast.”
“I know,” she says.
“But you can’t even look at me. You blame me. I know you do.”
“No, Fern.”
“Yes, you do! You haven’t even touched me since it happened. You can’t!”
“No.”
“You know it’s true!”
“No. Oh, honey, No. Come here.” She steps back into the dark hall, as if she doesn’t want me to see her up close in the light. See just how much the pain has changed her. But I already have.
Slowly, I go to her, even though I’m afraid.
In the hallway, it’s shadow-dark except for the Snoopy night-light.
“I want you to be my mom,” I tell her quietly. “I just want you to love me again.”
“Oh, Fern.” She takes my hand and pulls me close. “I do love you. Always.” She holds me against her chest and rocks me back and forth. It feels so strange at first. She doesn’t smell like I remember. And my face doesn’t reach the part of her body it used to when she would hold me like this. I know it’s because I’m bigger now, but to me it feels like she is smaller.
“I’m so sorry, honey. I’m sorry.”
There are so many words I want to say back. I want to let it all out, the way I used to when I was little and she would hug me tight and I would tell her whatever was wrong, and she would rub and rub and rub my back in slow, st
rong circles and say it would all be OK.
All will be well.
“I need you,” I cry into her scratchy wool shawl. “I need you.” I squeeze my arms around her more tightly, waiting.
“I know, honey,” she says against the top of my head. “I know . . . I know,” while her own tears wet my hair. And finally her arms squeeze me back. “I’m here. I’m here now. Hush, now. I’m here.”
IN THE MORNING, my dad makes us chocolate-chip pancakes. They don’t taste right, but I force them down. Then he reminds Holden and me that we have to go back to school. I think he’s convinced that the sooner we all go back to our normal routine, the sooner we’ll get back to normal ourselves. But he must know deep down this will never happen. We will never be normal again.
On the way to school, I sit in my usual place alone in the backseat and stare out the window. Holden sits up front with my dad. When we get to school, I feel like I’m going to throw up.
“OK, you two. I know you don’t want to be here, but you can’t stay out forever. Call me if it’s too much and I’ll come get you right away.”
“It’s too much,” Holden says.
“It is,” I agree.
My dad nods. But he doesn’t offer to take us back home.
Holden sighs and gets out of the car. For the first time, he actually waits for me. Together, we walk toward the large entrance and step inside.
The first bell rings as we make our way down the busy hall. People look at us in the predictably I feel so sorry for you way, but no one says it out loud. When we get to my locker section, Holden stops. “You going to be OK?”
I shake my head. “You?”
“Probably not. I’ll meet you after school at the usual place.”
“OK.”
He joins the sea of people moving down the hall.
Ran and Cassie are waiting for me at my locker. They don’t ask if I’m OK. They don’t try to hug me. They just quietly wait for me to get my things and lead me to homeroom.
I spend the day feeling like I’m a new kid at a new school. Like suddenly even the people I’ve known since kindergarten are strangers, and they are all looking at me with curious eyes. Like I am an outsider because of what’s happened. At the start of each class, I tell myself as soon as it’s over I’ll call my dad to come get me, but then I survive that class and go on to the next one. And then the day is over.
After school, my dad is waiting for us at the curb. I get in the car and we wait for Holden, who comes out about a minute later, holding his phone to his ear.
He opens the front door but doesn’t get in. “Hey, um, change of plans. I’m way behind, so Gray and I are going to the library.”
“Well, I’ll give you both a ride,” my dad says.
“Gray’s picking me up. He goes to the Academy, remember?”
“Oh,” my dad says. “Right.”
“I’ll be home for dinner,” Holden says. He walks away before my dad even replies.
“Come on up front,” my dad says to me.
I do, and we slowly pull out of the crowded pickup zone.
Instead of going home, we go to the restaurant. The dining room is empty except for one older couple sharing a banana split.
I sit at Charlie’s favorite booth and get my homework out.
“Want me to make you a milk shake?” Sara asks, suddenly standing over me.
“No, thanks,” I say.
But she doesn’t walk away.
“I got Mom to come to work today,” she says quietly. “She’s upstairs.”
I nod.
She sits across from me. “I talked to Dad,” she says. “And I want you to know, I don’t think what happened is your fault.” She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “You have to know that. And I’m sorry if I made you feel that way.”
I try to pull my hand away, but she squeezes harder.
“I just — I blamed myself, too. Just like Mom. If we’d been watching him so you could do your homework, it wouldn’t have happened.”
And for a minute, I want to say, Yes, you’re right. It was your fault, not mine. If you’d been doing your job, he would have been with you instead.
But he was with me.
And it wasn’t because they were neglecting him. Not really. He was with me because he wanted to be.
“I was the only one who could have stopped him,” I say. Deep down, everyone knows that. “But I couldn’t. He was so fast. He just took off and —”
“Don’t you get it?” She squeezes my hand again. “There are a million things we all could have done to change what happened. But we didn’t know. We couldn’t. And we can’t go back and do those things now. It just happened, Fern. Not because of Mom. Not because of me or Dad or anyone else. And not because of you.”
I close my eyes because I don’t want to cry.
Sara reaches for my other hand and holds mine tight inside hers. “No one blames you, Fern. I promise.”
I raise my eyes so we’re staring into each other’s souls. I never thought she knew about the tell-me stare, but it feels the same.
“I believe you,” I say.
She pulls our hands toward her and lays her head against them. “I love you,” she whispers.
The bell on the door tinkles. She lifts her head, and we both look toward the door as Ran and Cassie walk in.
“We thought you might need help catching up,” Cassie says when they get to our table.
Sara smiles and gets up so they can sit with me. “I’ll be upstairs with Mom.” She walks away before I can respond. Before I realize I didn’t tell her I love her back.
Cassie sits across from me and scoots along the seat to make room for Ran. If Charlie was here, he’d squish himself right between them. He’d hand Doll to Cassie, and he’d snuggle his head against Ran and ask for a story. And Ran would tell him one because that’s the kind of person Ran is. And I would feel jealous.
Instead, the three of us just sit quietly. They get out their homework and give me their notes. But when I open my notebook, my pen feels so heavy. And everything just seems too hard.
“I’m getting a sundae,” Ran says. “What do you guys want on it?”
Cassie smiles. “Everything.”
He comes back with three spoons and a giant bowl overflowing with so many toppings, you can’t see any ice cream. I slide all my stuff into my backpack, and we start to eat. For the first time, I can taste. I taste the sugar and vanilla in the fresh whipped cream. The chocolate sauce and butterscotch. We eat spoonful after spoonful. It’s so much easier to eat than to talk. When we finish, we all lean back. Ran finally takes off his zipped-up sweatshirt. He’s wearing his be T-shirt.
“Let’s try again,” he says. And this time they help me take notes, and we talk a little bit about school, and they remind me that the homecoming dance is coming up. It’s a huge event for the middle school and high school because it’s one big dance. Every year, a group of parents gets together to try to separate the two groups, but there’s always another group that fights for the tradition, and they all end up agreeing to have more chaperones instead. Sara thinks pretty soon there will be more chaperones there than students.
As Cassie talks about the dance, she keeps glancing over at Ran with a hopeful look in her eyes, but he doesn’t ask her if she wants to go.
When it’s time to leave, Sara offers Cassie and Ran rides home, but they say they can walk. They each give me a hug and head off together. I wish I could go with them.
In the car, Sara drives, and my mom sits in the passenger seat. She leans her head against the window. I thought after last night, she would be more aware of the rest of us. Of me. But now I wonder if the hug in the hall will be my last one. I know it’s selfish and awful of me, but I wonder if she would have been this sad if it had been me instead of Charlie. Charlie was her special joy. I know that. I never felt like the special youngest child before Charlie was born. Only that one day when I was sick. Most of the time I felt like the ext
ra kid to clothe or take to the dentist. But when Charlie came along, my parents totally changed. They doted and coddled and adored. They filled a baby book with all of Charlie’s firsts, while my own baby book remained mostly blank except for my birth date and how much I weighed. They called Charlie their autumn surprise. He was their gift. And I always wondered what that made the rest of us.
But I realize now, he was my gift, too.
I touch my ear.
I love you, Ferny.
Why didn’t I know it? Why didn’t I pay attention? I don’t want to be the youngest again. I can’t be.
At home, I go straight to my room and shut the door. I pull the answering machine from under my bed and plug it in. I press the side of my face against the speaker and wait for Charlie’s happy, proud voice to vibrate against my cheek and imagine his sticky fingers are touching me. I play the message again. This time I put my hand on the speaker, as if mine is touching his. And listen again and again.
“Fern!” Sara calls from downstairs. “Dinner!”
I play the message one more time, trying to hold the words and his voice inside, even if they are a lie. Then I carefully put the machine back under my bed.
AT DINNER, my mom has a big glass of wine, and my dad has some sort of amber-colored liquor in a glass. We’re almost done by the time Holden shows up. When he comes in, his cheeks and lips are rosy red. He looks like he has a little of the glow he had the first time he came home from being with Gray. Until he sees my dad’s expression.
“Where have you been?” my dad asks. He’s on his fourth glass. He never drinks this much, and he seems different. At first, I was glad when he said he was going to come home to be with us for dinner from now on. But now I’m not so sure.
“At the library,” Holden tells him. “Remember? I told you I’d be there.”
“You said you’d be home for dinner. We were worried.”
Holden looks at the time on his cell phone. “It’s only seven thirty. Sorry I’m a little late.” He sits down and reaches for a serving dish of rice.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” my dad says.
“What?”