What You Left Me

by Bridget Morrissey

  I bet you’re thinking that every person that’s ever been stuck has managed to get out. I wish you’d seen Back to the Future because it would help me explain my point. Long story short, the main guy, Marty McFly, gets stuck in 1955, and his mom kind of falls in love with him. I know that sounds wild, but you gotta watch it. Anyway, spoiler alert, he gets back to the time he’s from by the end, which isn’t that bad of a spoiler because I doubt it would be such a universally loved movie if he didn’t.

  I’m telling you about it because he got back with the help of this guy, Doc, like you’d get your head out of the banisters with the help of a parent or—in my case—an EMT with a saw. You’d get out of the tree with the help of a parent, or—in my case—Spitty with a mattress. There isn’t anyone here, Petra. It’s just me and my mind. There’s no one to help me out of the quicksand. You saved me from sinking down farther, from losing myself, but I’m the one that has to do the rest. Helping Spitty let go of that memory dream is my way out. I’m Doc. He’s Marty. I’m the mattress. He’s the kid in the tree. You see? I can set him free, Petra, so don’t you dare go to sleep and dream of me first. I don’t want to hear it.

  You’re already so close. I know it. It’s like I can feel your breath on my face.

  • • •

  “Doesn’t it seem like if you get close enough, you’ll wake him up?” Mama Dorothy asks.

  I jerk up. I’d been trying so hard to send Martin my message that I’d been leaning closer and closer until the space between us could be measured in inches, and I didn’t even realize. “Yeah, it really does.”

  Dorothy strokes Martin’s head. “It hasn’t worked for me yet, but I keep trying.”

  “So,” I start, holding out the o.

  “Unplug one and it’s done, apparently. It’s my call.” She grabs my hand and squeezes tight, kissing my knuckles.

  It doesn’t seem right. Bodies function every day without any thought. It’s all automatic. Breathing, speaking, sitting, standing. Even if I tried to think about it, stop myself from breathing, the breath itself would win eventually. I wish that would happen for Martin too. It’s so unfair.

  There’s that word again. Fair.

  A tear falls down my cheek onto my hand interlaced with Mama Dorothy’s. “Please don’t cry. You’ll get me going again.”

  “I’m sorry. This must be so impossible for you. I hardly know him, and I feel this way. You—” I stop myself. “You.”

  “Hey, it’s not about how long you’ve known someone. It’s about what you give them,” she says. She wipes a tear off my cheek. “Besides, moms are made of steel. We have to be. I’m thinking of this round as nothing but another one of his little tests.”

  There’s a knock at the door. It’s Mr. McGee. Everyone else from the waiting room crowds behind him.

  “Didn’t the nurse say two at a time?” Mama Dorothy asks.

  “Yeah, well, you know teenagers,” Mr. McGee says. “The nurse buzzed the door open for me, and they all followed.”

  Mama Dorothy gestures everyone toward us. “All of you hurry in here before someone comes to yell at us.”

  The whole group files into the room. We stand shoulder to shoulder, like a pack of commuters snuggled together on the train in winter. Someone, the boy who must be Chris, closes the door, and the room becomes beeping machines and shuffling feet, everyone in a constant state of readjustment. For some, like Daniel, Cameron, and Aminah, this is their first time seeing Martin like this, and the reality of it paints their faces into sinking, sagging, sad portraits. It’s almost electric in here. Tears and desperate breaths. Whispered words. Wringing hands.

  A synthesizer?

  It’s quiet at first, a hand covering the sound. The hand moves away, and I comprehend what I’m hearing—the first few chords of “Jump.” Mr. McGee has his phone held up above his head.

  “This one’s for you, Marty,” he says. The volume’s still too soft, but it doesn’t matter. We all know it. A foot starts stomping. A hand claps the beat. My voice hums the shrieking opening notes. The vocals come in, and in unison, we sing. Then there’s mumbling, some people knowing the words—the McGees and the older ladies, us kids faking it along—until we get to the chorus. All at once when Van Halen commands it, we do it. We jump.

  The room shakes. A nurse immediately opens the door. “What in the—?” she starts. “There’s way too many of you in here!”

  “Please,” Turrey begs, putting his smooth-talking confidence to good use. “We’ll be quieter.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Five minutes,” she warns.

  “Jump!” we shout when she leaves.

  38

  In a lot so packed cars are double-parked, Spencer still got his designated spot. As he walks up to his beautiful color-inverted orca of a Caravan, he can’t help but smile over all his good fortune. He got great parking. He got his last in-school suspension waived. He graduated high school.

  He climbs into the driver’s seat of the White Whale. Fly rides shotgun. Neither has removed their robes, even though it’s hot as hell outside and Spencer hates his. Stronger than the hate is the love for what it represents—one last middle finger to the schooling system. Nobody can tell Spencer when he can or cannot leave his own graduation. To prove a point, he’ll be a yellow-clad rebel in a van made for a soccer mom with his best friend by his side doing the same.

  Spencer takes the whiskey bottles out of the glove compartment. He’s already feeling woozy from the two he chugged before the ceremony and the one he drank with Fly behind the bleachers. He hands a bottle to Fly and takes the other for himself. The liquor burns less this time around, which is good, because he can chug it faster. Nothing is better to Spencer than having Fly do this with him. Stand by his side as he waves the black flag.

  “You did it,” Fly says. “You got me first.” He looks so happy. Just like he should be. But he hasn’t touched his whiskey.

  “You gonna have that?” Spencer asks.

  “Nah,” Fly answers. “Don’t need it.”

  The Caravan revs up with ease. Spencer throws it into drive. Windows down. Warm air. Their town flies by, each passing foot of distance traveled both familiar and brand-new. All of it perfect.

  “I used to think I hated this place,” Fly says. “Now I know that I wouldn’t be me without it. I’d have different friends, probably different nicknames. A whole different life.” He tickles the outside air with his fingers. “And I wouldn’t want that.”

  Spencer presses his foot harder into the pedal. The White Whale screeches along, trying to satisfy his need for speed and take him into the magical, unidentified something he’s convinced waits for him on the other side of this momentous occasion.

  When he looks to see Fly’s reaction, he finds Fly smiling like he’s got a secret. “We had it good, Spitty. Really good.” Fly looks at Spencer. Right in his eyes. “By the way, there’s a car coming.”

  It’s nothing but a flicker. A black hole growing by the millisecond, ready to devour them whole. Fly pulls his hand back in from the window and tugs the steering wheel to the left. “Don’t hit the brakes!” he calls out.

  That’s right. That black dot is not a gigantic bug or a huge bird or an enormous piece of dirt. It’s an old black Pontiac Grand Am driving steadily along, the man behind the wheel not wearing sunglasses or a seat belt, unable to see the giant white van headed straight for the center of the intersection.

  “Fly! Look out! Look out!”

  The car doesn’t stop. Neither does the Caravan. Spencer’s foot doesn’t find the brake pedal. They make it across the intersection without a collision, veered so far over they’re in the oncoming traffic lane. Fly corrects the steering wheel, and Spencer lays off the gas, easing onto the brake until the White Whale comes to a puttering stop.

  “It worked!” Fly yells.

  Spencer pulls his palms to his mou
th for a series of screams, needing to release all the pent-up adrenaline of the almost accident. When his tirade runs its course and every curse word has been cursed, he unbuckles himself to get some air. He gets out of the car and walks past the driver’s back seat, staring at his shoes, trying to shake the persistent fear out of his tensed limbs. Beneath his feet, he notices debris. Small, indeterminate chunks of plastic and metal and glass. He looks up.

  The scene of the crime roars to life. The Grand Am is pushed away from the Caravan, but the front hood is so scrunched up it looks like an accordion. That would be horrific enough on its own, but what lies on top of the scrunched hood is so unfathomable that Spencer starts heaving up all of the whiskey and some of the cereal he scarfed down this morning. His tender ribs make the whole process hurt so much he fears he might pass out, but he’s incapable of stopping. He empties his stomach, and when nothing but clear spit comes up, he uncurls himself to look again, clutching his broken ribs. Because they are broken. It doesn’t matter that Fly moved the wheel and the Grand Am didn’t hit them in the dream.

  That doesn’t change what happened in reality.

  The front windshield of the Grand Am is shattered, leaving only a jagged outline around the periphery. Most of the glass has ended up on the ground, mixed in with a liquid that’s not quite red. More like cherry-tinged chocolate sauce. The source of it, stretched out like Superman attempting to fly into a wall, is a mangled body, the head of which is turned at such an unnatural angle that it’s facing skyward. Spencer can’t help it. He retches up more clear spit.

  The passenger door of the White Whale opens. “Holy shit,” Fly says. He can’t take his eyes off the wreckage. Once he steps far enough away from the van, it twists and crumbles into its proper form. “I didn’t even think about the other car.”

  “He’s dead,” Spencer says, pointing to the lifeless man. “I killed him.”

  “That’s what Petra meant,” Fly mutters. He shoots a look to Spencer. “I can’t change this.”

  “I killed him,” Spencer repeats.

  Fly grabs Spencer’s shoulders, shaking him. “Don’t do this. It’s not your fau…well, it’s not just your…you made a mistake, but so did I.”

  “I killed him.” Suddenly, Spencer remembers the rest. The way it really happened. “And I killed you too.”

  “No. Spencer. No. I swear on—on—on—my shoe collection that you didn’t. That was a pathetic thing to say. I don’t know what to say. Shit.”

  “You told Petra about the pact. You knew you would die.”

  “I thought this would be easier. I’m only making a bigger mess. I wanted to set you free of this.”

  “What do I have?” Spencer asks. “Nothing. My car is totaled. Everyone hates me. As they should. I killed someone. He’s dead. Right there. And I killed you. I know I did.”

  Spencer starts wailing. His cries are loud and ugly, so invasive that Fly shudders.

  “This happened!” Spencer screams. “It’s not a dream. It’s reality. You’re not supposed to be walking. You’re supposed to look like—”

  He stops, thinking it instead of saying it, using his memory to change Fly’s body into how it was after the real crash. Fly’s entire right side crunches and curls, not hurting him physically, only altering his appearance.

  “Look at yourself!” Spencer screams. Fly checks his reflection against the side of the van. “That’s what I see! That’s what I did! It’s not okay. It won’t get easier. How could you say that?”

  “Spitty, I’m sorry! I wanted to make it better.”

  “It’s not. It won’t be.” Spencer looks at the body on the car. “I caused this. I bought the whiskey. I told you to leave early. I drove too fast. You can’t change any of it.”

  “Shit,” Fly whispers.

  “Whether you live or you die, this is what it is for me. This is what I have,” Spencer says. He falls to his knees, then sits back, staring at the scene of the crime. “If anything, you made it worse. You made me relive this part.”

  Fly wraps his arms around Spencer. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, but it isn’t enough.

  Nothing ever will be.

  Part Five

  39

  MONDAY, JUNE 18

  Aminah gives me shotgun. Daniel turns the air vents so they’re facing me. Cameron pats my head from the back seat. And the Prius does what it always does, takes us where we need to go without complaint. It’s stunning outside. Picturesque in a surreal way, like the sun has managed to crack everything open and make it sparkle. Trees shimmer in the unyielding light, dripping leaves. There are no shades in the sky, no varying levels—it’s as pure a blue as a child’s crayon portrait of the perfect day.

  “Which one is it?” Daniel asks as he turns down the cul-de-sac.

  “Orange one with the basketball hoop. You can’t miss it.”

  “That’s right,” he remembers. We can see it from the start of the block. Cars are everywhere, parallel parked on both sides of the street. “Looks like we’ll be walking.” We follow the curve of the cul-de-sac and go back out onto the perpendicular street, driving a full block and a half before we find an open spot.

  “You forgot your coffee back at your house,” Aminah notices.

  “It’s okay. I had some before you guys picked me up,” I tell her.

  “There’s a little left of mine, if you want some. It’s in the cup holder back here.”

  “Mine too,” Cameron adds. “But I know you don’t like my sugary drinks.”

  “I do though,” Daniel says with a smirk.

  “No way. Sorry I don’t punish myself with plain iced coffee like some people.” She catches Daniel’s eye in the rearview mirror to give him a pointed look.

  “You guys really don’t have to be so accommodating to me,” I interrupt.

  Daniel starts parallel parking. “This is not accommodation. It’s kindness. Mine expires in twenty-four hours, so you better use it up. It’s the best Groupon deal you’ll ever get.”

  I clutch the door handle as he cuts into the tight space. He comes inches from grazing the car to our right, but he makes it work.

  “I’m not the only one going through it, though,” I counter.

  “But you’re the reason we’re here, so you get the love today, kid.” Daniel opens his door and gets out. He fixes his black dress shirt in the window, the same one he wore to prom. Prom—three weeks or a trillion years ago.

  “Accept it. It’s how it has to be. Next week, you can take me to get my car washed or something. Right now, you’re ours to watch over.”

  The rest of us get out and begin our walk to Martin’s house. When we turn down his cul-de-sac, the sound of conversation is so loud it’s like we’re entering a festival.

  In a weird way, we are.

  So many people are everywhere, on the lawn, in the open garage, bleeding out onto the sidewalks, all different ages and varying energies: some more formal in their dark ensembles, others casual, some bold enough to wear bright colors. I know faces now from the other weekend—shuffling in and out of the waiting room. Daniel, on the other hand, knows their names, and as we pass by, he shares anecdotes. It’s what he’s always done, tell us stories about the strangers we call classmates. I never really listened before. Now I find myself wondering who might’ve been my friend. Whose path might cross with mine still. What spaces in my life I’ve yet to notice.

  Martin… Are you here?

  Brooke finds us first. She’s woven dark red flowers into the intricate bun on the side of her head. “Thank you,” she says as she hugs me.

  “For what?” I ask, even though I know where this is going. A twinge of jealousy pinches my face into something like a grimace. I do my best to mask it before she answers, forcing myself to lift the corners of my mouth into a smile.

  “I’ve had so many dreams of him. I know he’s really th
ere watching over me. All of us.”

  She’s not the first person to have told me this. In fact, almost all of my friends, new and old, have talked to me about seeing Martin in their dreams this past week.

  “I like that,” I say. Because I do. It’s been a rough seven days. The victories are worth celebrating, even if I can’t share in them.

  Where are you, Martin?

  “Do you guys want any food?” Brooke asks. “My abuela made these amazing empanadas. Come on. I’ll show you.”

  We form a line behind her, grabbing one another by the fabric of our clothing to stay together. That’s how packed it is. But the crowd tapers out as we go down into the basement. This is where a lot of the food is being kept, spread out on a pool table.

  I know this pool table, I realize.

  And I know this basement.

  Here I am, a place I’ve never been, and yet it lived in my mind before I ever saw it with my eyes. You were right, Martin. I got the couch wrong. It’s a little yellower and patchier. But this pool table is just right. So right my eyes water at the sight of it, and I have to look down at my nails. I start picking off the polish.

  “They’re all stuffed with different fillings,” Brooke tells us. “I made little labels that say what’s in them in case you have allergies or whatever. Or you hate cilantro,” she says, poking Daniel.

  The others grab plates and make their choices. I’m not hungry yet. Cameron places a hand on my back to guide me toward the sectional.

  Are you seeing this, Martin? Are you watching us right now?

  “Is Turrey coming?” Brooke asks Daniel.

  “He’s on his way. Martin’s mom asked him to pick up some more ice.”

  Brooke busts out into a huge grin.