Fragments of the Lost

by Megan Miranda

“Jessa?” It’s a whisper-yell, like he’s not supposed to do it. He must be standing at the bottom of the steps, his voice funneling up the narrow halls and crooked stairs, spanning the distance between us.

  I hear water running through the pipes and imagine Caleb’s mother is in the bathroom or rinsing the dishes.

  “You doing okay?” he whisper-yells.

  Okay? Whatever it is I’m doing, it’s not okay on any level. My hand is on the ball cap, scared to move it from its spot on the door, as if I am the great disturbance of this room. The air changes. The room changes. The meaning behind Max’s words changes.

  “Tell her I need some tape,” I call. This is the only thing I can think of to say. I can picture Caleb on his bed, trying not to smile. The way he thought it was cute when I said the wrong thing.

  I prop open the first box, scoop up the clothes, the ball cap, all of these things that Caleb once loved, and I pile them into the bottom of the box with a knot in my throat. I look around the room, expecting that something will have changed, but everything remains the same.

  We’re here. Caleb’s gone.

  I hear Max talking low downstairs again, Caleb’s mother’s voice in response, and he’s the one who brings the tape. I hear his slow steps on the wooden stairs, the creak that Caleb used to leap over on the way down. Max shuffles his sneakers against the rug at the entrance, and I can almost hear the zing that would always come after, when Caleb touched the light switch—how he always seemed to accidentally charge himself on the rug, shocking himself on the way in.

  But Max doesn’t touch the light switch. He doesn’t move any closer. “I told her I’d do it,” he says. He doesn’t look at me when he says it. Max and Caleb aren’t related, but they told me they once had the whole sixth grade convinced they were. They don’t even look that much alike—Max is tall and thin, with pitch-dark hair, where Caleb was more broad-shouldered, his light brown hair even lighter in the summer. But there’s a similar cadence to the way they speak, a lilt, like a script they both tend to follow. A habit of people who’ve known each other for years, who’ve spent so much time together.

  I ignore him, emptying an entire drawer into a new box in one fell swoop. A summer wardrobe. An entire season. Months and months of a life. Just gone.

  He leans against the wall behind me. I see his sneakers, notice him rock back on his heels, like he isn’t sure whether to stay or go. “We missed you at the meet,” he says.

  That’s when I notice his hair is still wet from a shower, his school track pants and jacket still on. He must have come straight from the meet. Today was the last race of the season. I’ve missed this one, and every one, since September.

  And for a moment, I can hear the cheers of an early Saturday-morning race, smell the dew on the grass, feel the adrenaline surging to my toes. I reach for the necklace at my collar on instinct, then remember it’s no longer there. I finally have it back in my possession, but I know I’ll never wear it again.

  Like everything else in this room, the necklace belongs to another time. Even the weather has turned. Caleb’s summer wardrobe will never be needed again.

  “Jessa—” Max says, reaching for the box. “Here, let me help.”

  “She wants me to do it,” I snap, folding over the top of the box, holding out my hand for the tape. I position the box between my legs and peel the tape across it, the noise cutting through the room. I slice it off, stick another strip across in the opposite direction, a crooked X. I pick up the box and thrust it at Max. “Here. So tell her. Tell her I’m doing it.”

  I push him with the box, and he backs away, and he keeps going, as if he cannot stop the momentum. I hold tight to the feeling, and I keep moving.

  —

  I’m doing the clothes. I’ve done the hard part, the ones on the floor, the ones I can picture him still in. These will all be donated, I assume, belonging to someone else soon enough. I do this every year, cleaning out my closet, making room for the next size, or the next style, or finding the ones that had accidentally been shrunken in the dryer by my dad. The emptiness of the closet only temporary, a gap that would ultimately be filled. A sign of change—with the seasons and me.

  The clothes in the drawers are the easy part, indistinguishable in their current form, folded into tight squares. They smell like laundry detergent and dryer sheets, the pine scent from the inside of the dresser. I leave them folded and try not to look too closely. The drawers are mostly jeans, khaki shorts, gym shorts. The T-shirts with band names and brand names. Socks and undershirts and boxers. I don’t differentiate. I don’t care. She said pack, and I’m packing. It all goes into the same place, before it can register. I’m taping boxes, I’m stacking them on the floor, on to the next, and the next, and the next.

  At some point I hear the back door open and close, and I know that Max has left. I know because I go to the window and watch as he walks across the backyard, his head tucked down—how he pushes the latch at the back of the fence and looks up once before slipping to the other side, where he lives. I duck myself behind the window curtain, but it’s too late.

  And then I see her reflection in the window, filling up the doorway. I spin around, my back pressed to the wall beside Caleb’s bed. Her eyes are red-rimmed and she’s staring at the boxes, and then she’s staring at me, standing beside the window. I think she’s going to tell me it’s okay, that I should go home, because she always had a soft spot for me—inviting me to stay for dinner, asking about my plans—but instead I see she has a black Sharpie in her hand. “You need to label them,” she says, her voice cool and flat.

  And what can I do except take the marker from her hand and nod?

  His clock on the wall above me keeps ticking. A cruel, even tempo. On and on, a tally of moments in which Caleb remains further and further behind.

  I want to tell her that I haven’t had lunch yet; that my brother is home from college this weekend; that I’m sorry.

  “I’m almost done with the clothes,” I say, because she’s still standing there, and I don’t really know what to say to her, this woman I believe secretly blames me for the death of her son.

  It’s not until I turn to the closet that I hear her footsteps retreating on the stairs.

  The hamper in the corner is empty, and I fold the wooden stand, flattening the fabric to a square on the floor. But underneath, right side up, is a slab of wood with words carved in and a rope attached by nails to the edges. I run my fingers over the letters—this must’ve once hung from his doorknob when he was younger.

  The Bunker, it says, and even here, even now, I can’t stop the smile from spreading.

  —

  Last year, Labor Day weekend, my first time seeing his house. The first official day of us. I had just turned sixteen, the day before.

  School would be starting on Tuesday, and the group of us were enjoying the last days of summer. Hailey had to leave early for back-to-school shopping, and her mom was picking us up, but Caleb offered to drive me home later. Hailey smiled at me then, like she knew.

  On the way home later, Max and Sophie rode in the back. Max was in a rush—he had to get to work—and Sophie’s car was at his place. So we hit Max’s house first. This was the first time I had seen either of their homes. They both went to my school, which was private and not exactly inexpensive, and I didn’t want to judge too much, but their neighborhood didn’t seem to scream I can afford to send my kids to private school.

  The town itself was considered affluent, but their homes were narrow and older, small yards crammed back to back, in a track. Max, I knew, had an unofficial baseball scholarship (unofficial because the school did not officially give athletic scholarships, but a rose by any other name and all)—my brother was the one who convinced him to apply to our school in the first place. But I didn’t know much about Caleb’s family situation.

  “I live right behind them,” Caleb said as Max and Sophie piled out of the car, dragging their beach gear behind them. “Do you want to stop fo
r a sec? Get something to eat first?”

  He drummed his hands on the steering wheel, didn’t look at me when he asked.

  “Okay,” I said, and my heart beat faster.

  He drove around the block and parked in front of a small brick house, in a parallel spot, zipping into the space in a way that seemed like it was second nature to him. I followed him up the concrete steps, the iron railing wobbling under my hand. He used his key, one of several on a chain that held the letters of his favorite football team, and called, “Mom?” as he swung open the door.

  His words echoed through the narrow halls. The floor was wooden, as was the staircase directly across from the front door. He dropped his bag at the entrance, led me through two small, partitioned rooms—a living room with an oversized couch across from the television; a dining room with a wooden table with red placemats and family pictures hanging on the walls—until we reached the kitchen.

  He opened the pantry, then the fridge. “Okay, confession, really slim pickings here.” He squeezed his eyes shut, held out his hands. “I have food in my room, and I swear this isn’t a line.”

  I laughed, and he opened his eyes, grinning sheepishly.

  “After you, then.”

  I followed him up one narrow flight of steps, and then the second, until I stepped across the threshold, looked at the built-in shelves along both side walls, which did hold bottles of sports drinks and assorted snacks.

  “Welcome to the bunker,” he said, gesturing his arms around the room.

  “May I?” I asked, grabbing a bag of M&M’s, which had been leaning against a stack of books on the bottom shelf.

  “By all means,” he said, smiling. I ripped into the bag, surprised by how bright the room was with the sunlight pouring in through the single window behind his bed. “It’s not very bunkerish,” I said, “if I’m being totally honest.”

  He put his hand on his heart, feigning shock. “Exhibit A, the shelves.”

  I looked again. “The bookcases?”

  “No, not bookcases. Pretty sure the people who lived here before us were end-of-the-world believers.”

  The candy was slightly melted from the direct sunlight, and it stained my fingers red and green and brown. “You don’t believe in an eventual end of the world?” I asked.

  “Oh, I do. I mean, eventually the sun will explode, or some supervirus will wipe us all out, but nothing that an attic full of food would save us from. I’m not that type of believer.”

  “Or it was just a library,” I said.

  “Oh,” he said, and he narrowed his eyes at the space. “I mean, I guess that’s possible. Except I found a box of cereal left behind the day we moved in. Just a single box of unopened cereal in the middle of the shelf. Like it wasn’t worth packing up.”

  I looked again, tried to see this room filled with food, but it didn’t take. “I’m trying here, Caleb. But all I see is a library.”

  “It doesn’t sound as cool to call it the library. Don’t go messing with my street cred, Jessa Whitworth.”

  And then he took a step closer, like I knew he would, and he put a hand on my waist, like I knew he would. “Okay, I lied,” he said, “it was kind of a line.”

  “I know,” I said, which made him laugh. And then his expression turned serious, his hand moved to the side of my face, and he stepped even closer, so his body brushed up against mine. I could feel his breath, the tremble of his hand, smell the salt and sunscreen and summer air as he leaned in to kiss me.

  I kissed him back, my hands sliding around his waist, thinking that everything about him reminded me of the ocean, and that was perfect. His skin was still hot from the sun, and the salt water had dried in his hair, and I lost myself in the feeling of floating, of drifting. Then I heard a pitter-patter of steps echo from below, like an animal was loose.

  Caleb pulled back, stepped away. “My mom is home,” he said. The four words every girl is dying to hear.

  He launched himself down the steps, in that Caleb fashion I would come to know so well, but at the moment, I was just trying to orient myself, think up an excuse—Oh, hi, I was hungry and the M&M’s were upstairs; oh God, really? Really? I was practically tripping over myself to keep up.

  “Hi, Mom,” he said, standing at the base of the stairs.

  His mom was carrying a paper bag of groceries, lettuce peeking out the top. She had long, dark hair, the color of ink, and green eyes lined expertly with makeup, her lips a pale rose. Her eyes shifted from Caleb to me, currently standing behind him and trying not to die of embarrassment. A little girl darted in and out of view, a carbon copy of her mother, not paying any of us much attention.

  “This is Jessa,” he said. And he left it at that. So many things he could’ve said, to clarify. For all of us.

  This is Jessa, the girl I just kissed.

  My friend, Jessa.

  Julian’s sister, Jessa.

  “Jessamyn Whitworth,” I said, stepping out from behind Caleb and sticking out my hand, as if I were here to sell her something.

  I felt Caleb cut his eyes to me and grin, shaking his head.

  She shifted the bag to her hip, took my hand in hers. “Ah, Jessa,” she said, like she’d heard my name before.

  Caleb blushed. I blushed.

  “Well, stay,” she said. “We just picked up way too much food. Sean won’t be home until later.”

  I looked to Caleb, questioning. Stay, he mouthed.

  “Okay,” I said. “Thanks, Mrs….” And then I blanked. Caleb’s last name was Evers. But his mom had remarried. I had no idea what to call her.

  “Eve,” she said. “My name is Eve. And this”—she tipped her head to the girl, now hanging off Caleb’s waist—“is Mia.”

  —

  This house feels so much larger with just me and his mother right now. I think of the two of them—Mia and Eve—alone here now. Caleb’s stepfather Sean left them first, and now Caleb is gone. The house was built for four. The master bedroom on the first floor, with the kitchen and living room and dining room. The second floor, with Mia’s room, another bedroom (which was probably supposed to be Caleb’s), and a bathroom. A set of narrow wooden steps of exposed wood to the attic, which was probably not supposed to be a bedroom at all. The bunker, I whisper to myself.

  I try to picture it as the room it had been when Caleb moved in. Bare walls, empty floor, a single box of cereal on the shelves, like a pantry. Except there’s a closet. Pantries don’t have closets. I’d told Caleb this.

  Bunkers do, he said.

  I’m trying to latch on to the sound of his voice, hold his words tight in my head, because I can feel them fading away. Drifting into the fog of memory.

  This house always felt so alive, with Caleb up here, his sister below, music playing from his speakers, the television blaring from downstairs.

  I want to tell him about silence now. How silence can fill a room, seep into the corners, take a place over. How it feels heavy, heavy enough to drown out the memory of his voice. I want to tell him how I spent that first week calling his phone before it was disconnected, just to hear the sound of his voicemail recording, because I felt the silence pressing down. Everything about him, slipping through the cracks, taking me with him.

  I drop the sign into a new box for his personal things while I finish the clothes, because it was his hand that made this, and it seems like something someone might want to keep. His mother wants a different box for his personal things, so I keep this separate, before going back to the clothes.

  His polos are hanging in the closet, rugby-striped, his go-to school uniform. We have to wear collared shirts at school, though that unifying thread is taken in many different directions: button-downs; fitted preppy polos; relaxed rugby-style; sweater vests over white oxfords. Girls can also opt for dresses, skirts, or capris, in addition to the rule for the boys of pants in khaki, black, or navy.

  Everything about our school is a few degrees fancier than the norm.

  This closet is School-Cale
b. The drawers hold the relaxed version, the one he would become at three p.m.—a spare pair of jeans and a T-shirt always in his locker for after hours.

  Hanging in the corner of the closet is a black zipped-up bag, the suit he wore last October for Homecoming inside.

  I place my fingers at the cold zipper, but leave it closed. It had been his dad’s, he told me that night, when I ran my hands down his sleeves appreciatively. I remember seeing it as something new, how he filled it up, growing into the absence, a person with the same dimensions. My heart had ached for him when he told me—his father had died when he was younger, but his stepfather, Sean, had been in the picture for as long as I knew him, so that sometimes it was easy to forget that, to overlook what was missing.

  Still, it was a simple statement that bonded us closer. A piece of his past that he was letting me see.

  I toss the bag on the bed—it’s almost person-sized, and it does something to my head, making me believe I will uncover something different inside. My fingers itch. I unzip the bag. The scent of starch escapes first, and I know it’s been dry-cleaned.

  I don’t take it out, because it’s pressed perfectly and neatly and exactly as Caleb meant to leave it. And it has its own history, like a family heirloom. I run my hand against the fabric inside. I close my eyes and feel him spread out his arms at my front door, letting me do the same that night. It’s gray pin-striped; an older style.

  “Wow, look at you,” I said, and whatever Caleb was about to say as he looked me over halted, with my brother in the background, waiting for his teammates who would all be heading over together with their dates.

  My mom snapped a picture of us, his arm tucked around me, his tie matching the sky blue of my dress, and his eyes. He and Julian did this awkward handshake in the front parlor while I introduced them, though I was sure they already knew each other—knew of each other, at least.

  “Bye, Mom, bye,” I called as I pulled him by the hand, both of us smiling, everything so new we couldn’t wait to be alone.

  When Julian called after me, “See you there, Jessa,” it sounded like a warning.