The Last Words We Said

by Leah Scheier

  I shrug and sink into a lunge. “It was a therapy suggestion from Nina. It’s supposed to release endorphins or something. Raise my mood. Clear my mind.”

  He grins. “Clear me from your mind, you mean.”

  I smile. Maybe inviting him on my run was the exact opposite of what Nina intended.

  “Well, I’m ready when you are,” he says.

  “But you haven’t stretched.”

  He gives me a wry smile. “I haven’t pulled a muscle in nine months, Ellie.”

  I smother a pang of guilt. He didn’t mean it as an accusation, I tell myself. He was just joking around. “Nice one,” I reply, trying to match his lighthearted tone. “You’re hilarious.”

  He throws his arms out. “Well, that’s why I’m here, aren’t I? For your entertainment.”

  “Are you in one of your sarcastic moods again?”

  “Now, why would you say that?” He’s bouncing on his heels like a kid holding his pee. “All right, Ellie. Ready or not—”

  “Danny!”

  “Catch me if you can!” He takes off in a sudden sprint, kicking dust into my face. I drop my water bottle and race after him, but he’s too fast. His feet barely touch the ground as he runs.

  “Danny, slow down!” I shout.

  He obeys, and I race to his side. “Don’t yell my name like that,” he warns, pointing to another jogger down the road. “Someone will hear you.”

  “She’s far away,” I assure him. “It’s fine.”

  “Whatever you say, m’lady.”

  “M’lady? Really?” I sigh and shake my head. “You are in one of your moods.”

  “My moods are your moods. I don’t have my own moods anymore.”

  Again, the jab of guilt. I frown and try to ignore it. “I hate it when you say that.”

  “It’s true.” He speeds up a little, and I struggle to keep up. There’s a stitch in my side that is stabbing me with each breath. We’ve zipped past the squat, comfortable ranchers on my street and are pounding toward the nature trail before I manage to catch up with him.

  “Wait up. You promised me a story, remember?”

  He nods but doesn’t break his sprint. “As you wish, Princess Buttercup.”

  “Jeez,” I exhale. “This is definitely all you. I would not have come up with that.”

  He doesn’t answer right away; his lips are twitching, and his eyes get the faraway, dreaming look I love.

  After a couple of minutes, he settles into a comfortable jog and glances over at me. “There once was a young man who fell in love with a girl he could never have.” He pauses, and I wonder if this is just an idea, if he’s working out the details while we run. The best stories are the ones he makes up on the spot.

  “Why couldn’t he be with her?” I prompt. My breathing is more regular now that we’ve slowed our pace.

  “Because he came from a cursed tribe,” he replies. “A tribe of men doomed to eternal sadness. The villagers of the town had exiled much of the tribe years before, so they wouldn’t be tainted by their pain. But the man managed to keep his job as town treasurer, and he sometimes saw the girl when she came to inspect the city’s coffers. He was forbidden from speaking with anyone for fear of contamination, so he’d hand her the ledgers and step back, his head low, so that she wouldn’t have to see the sadness in his eyes.”

  “She never spoke to him? Not once?” I’m breathless with anticipation, like a child at a candy store.

  “Never. Until one day he learned her secret, and he understood the key to her heart.”

  We pass by the entrance to my running trail and head up the main road toward the elementary school; I normally prefer to run on small streets, but I have no choice but to follow him.

  “What was her secret?”

  “Well, it turns out that the young lady was also in pain, though she pretended happiness so that the villagers would accept her. Her first husband had died young, leaving her alone. And she wanted a baby more than anything in the world. But the doctor had told her she would never be able to have children. She lived in terror that the others would learn of her sadness and exile her, too.”

  I’ve heard this story before. He’d told variations of it for years. I already know where it’s headed.

  “So what could the man do?” I ask him.

  “He couldn’t do much while they were both surrounded by judging eyes,” Danny says. “So he packed up his bags and went searching for a way to make her happy. Years later, when he finally returned to the village, he was carrying an abandoned orphan in his arms. The lady was so excited by the baby that she convinced herself that she’d fallen in love with the man. She agreed to marry him even though he was cursed.”

  “But if he got everything he wanted, the curse would have been broken,” I point out.

  Danny stops by the entry of the local elementary school and looks toward the parking lot. A couple of teachers are unloading books from their car, but the area is otherwise deserted.

  “The curse doesn’t work that way, Ellie,” he says, switching abruptly to present tense and dropping the singsong voice.

  “Curses in fairy tales do,” I argue. “And that was obviously a fairy tale.”

  As usual, he doesn’t tell me if I’m right.

  “Those teachers are staring at us,” he remarks, pointing to the two ladies in the parking lot. “I should probably go.” One of the women lays down her bundle of books and heads toward me.

  “Hey there,” she calls out. “Are you lost, my dear?”

  I shake my head and wipe the sweat from my flushed face. “Nope, just jogging.”

  She stares at my loose skirt in confusion.

  “Oh, that’s a religious thing,” I explain. “I always wear skirts. Even when I jog.”

  “Ah.” She nods but doesn’t appear satisfied. “I thought I heard you talking to someone,” she observes, scanning me up and down.

  I reach into my pocket for my cellphone and realize I’ve left it behind. There’s no easy explanation I can offer this nosy woman.

  I glance at Danny for help, but he just gives me a toothy grin.

  “Yeah, that was also a religious thing,” I declare. “I was chatting with God.”

  Chapter 3

  I’m late to my appointment at Nina’s because Ms. Baker, my English teacher, wants to have a chat after school. Something about the creative writing assignment I handed in and how it relates to my future. I’m not really listening, though. The woman likes me for whatever reason and is convinced that I have a knack for something.

  I don’t really have time for writing, I tell her. I’m going to major in biology and then go to med school, like my parents and my grandparents. (Dad says that practicing medicine is the best way to give back, a way to pay the miracle forward. He likes to remind me that modern medicine is the reason I exist.)

  “Okay,” she says slowly. A strand of gray hair falls over her eyes, and she brushes it back absentmindedly. “You can still participate in the contest, though. Broaden your horizons a little.” She pushes a folded piece of paper into my hand. “Ellie, I really think you have a shot.”

  “A shot at what?” I ask, glancing at the announcement in my hand. “This is for a short story contest. I have no ideas for a short story.”

  She blinks at me. “But you just handed in one of the best writing samples I’ve ever read. And I’ve been teaching for twenty years.”

  “It’s not a story, though. I don’t tell stories.”

  “The building blocks are all there. The character sketch. The vivid descriptions—”

  “I don’t tell stories,” I repeat. “I think you have me confused with someone else.”

  She gives me that pitying look. The cocked head, the narrowed, understanding eyes, the puckered lips. I hate that look more than anything. It makes me vicious.

  “And if you think that writing a stupid story about elves or fairies is going to be some kind of therapy for me, you can just forget it, okay?” I continue, my voic
e rising. “I’m getting enough therapy.”

  “Ellie, I just think that it would help—”

  “I’m getting plenty of help, thanks.”

  “Okay, but this isn’t about Danny—”

  Except that it’s always about Danny. “Look, if you want someone to write for your story contest, why don’t you ask Danny to do it?”

  That shuts her up, and I make my exit with a little more noise and door-slamming than is really necessary.

  I realize that she was just doing her job. If Danny had been there with me, I would’ve been nicer to her, I know it. He would have calmed me down, showed me the humor in the whole thing. But the rules say that he’s not allowed in our school anymore. The closest we can get to each other during class is in English. It’s the only period where I sit next to the window. Sometimes he’s on the soccer field outside, kicking a ball around. He makes that hour tolerable, at least.

  My mom is tapping impatiently on the steering wheel when I run out to the parking lot. “Are you okay?” she asks, scanning me anxiously. “We’re late to Nina’s.” Everything seems to make her nervous now; the final school bell rang less than ten minutes ago, and she’s already short of breath.

  “I’m fine, Mom,” I say, sliding into the passenger seat and tossing my bag aside. “Ms. Baker wanted to congratulate me on my last project.”

  The tension in her shoulders eases a little. “Oh.” She exhales. “Great. That’s wonderful, honey.”

  “She wants me to enter some kind of story contest.”

  She nods and puts the car into drive. “Well, I think that’s a great idea. Don’t you?” She glances at my doubtful expression, and her face gets all maternal and wise. “Creative writing is an important skill. How else are you going to put together a coherent research paper?”

  “It’s not really the same thing.” I pretend to consider the idea for a moment. “But I guess I could write something inspirational about medicine,” I suggest. “Some medical miracle story or whatever.”

  “That’s what I was thinking!” The nervousness is completely gone; she’s practically radiating approval and encouragement. “What’s that saying again? Write what you know.”

  “Exactly! I can tell the story of a boy who drowned, but as he was sinking to the bottom of the lake, he was bitten by a radioactive eel.”

  Her brightness blinks out in an instant. She stares at me, openmouthed, but I barrel ahead.

  “And then the boy becomes Eel Man. His superpower is electricity—obviously. Except humans already have electricity, so he goes around fixing broken fuse boxes.”

  “That’s not—” She pauses and gives me the same pitying look I’d just gotten from Ms. Baker. “Ellie, that’s not okay.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I say flippantly. “Like I said to my teacher. I don’t have any good ideas.”

  The tension returns to her lips. “Maybe we should ask Nina what she thinks.”

  “Right, because Nina will have all the answers. Maybe she can even give me some plot suggestions for Eel Man.” I am all snarky bitch today for some reason. Mom doesn’t look sorry when we pull up to my therapist’s home.

  Nina practices out of a converted garage attached to her little ranch. The entire place (including the garage) is decorated like an episode of Antiques Roadshow, complete with ceramic milkmaids and walls of butterfly wing art. As Dad puts it, Nina is a fully accredited psychologist who marches to the beat of her own drum. (Speaking of drums—she has a set of aqua flame bongos from the sixties that hang directly over her desk.) According to my mom, Nina is a fully accredited kook whom we have entrusted with my mental health. During our sessions Mom sits alone in the living room on the carved oak rocking chair. She doesn’t rock or even move; she waits the hour until Nina finishes plumbing the depths of my psyche, and then she dutifully drives me home. Mom doesn’t sample the plate of home-baked oatmeal cookies Nina sets out for her (they’re not kosher) and doesn’t read the alternative healing magazines on the ottoman next to her (she doesn’t believe in alternative medicine). Mom listens politely to Nina’s advice at the end of each session and breathes deeply throughout the entire ordeal.

  The only reason she’s agreed to pay for this is that Nina is the last in a long line of therapists. And so far, she’s the only one I haven’t torpedoed.

  The first two psychiatrists didn’t even get a word out of me. It’s not their fault; I’m sure they were decent doctors. But I was not the problem then, no matter what they said. I wasn’t delusional or depressed. I was simply waiting, like everyone else, for the police to do their job. I didn’t need a psychiatrist; I needed a competent detective.

  Danny is bouncing on his heels outside the garage door as I follow Nina into her office. I smile at him, and he gives me a nervous grin. He doesn’t look pleased to be here; this whole therapy thing has made Danny uncomfortable from the beginning.

  I really can’t blame him. He’s the reason I’m here.

  Nina acknowledges Danny as she always does at the start of each session. (That’s one reason that I agreed to talk to her. She was the only therapist who did.)

  “You’ve come with Danny again, I see,” she says, as we settle in. Nina and I sit on chairs. Danny perches on top of the bookcase and stretches out his long limbs. His heels knock lazily against the wood.

  “Yep.” I steal a glance at him. He waves at us and rolls his eyes.

  She turns in his direction. “Ellie, how did he get up there?” Her voice is a bit sterner; the lines around her gray eyes deepen.

  “I—I don’t know.”

  “Did he climb?”

  “I guess.” Danny’s always been a good climber; he could scale the tree outside my window in two minutes.

  She sighs and looks back up at the bookcase. “Danny, you’re breaking rule number two,” she calls out. “No magical powers.”

  He gives her a grudging nod and drops down from his perch—a touch magically, as he doesn’t grunt or stagger when he lands. But he’s on the ground with us, and she seems satisfied with that.

  Nina struggles out of her chair and pushes a dusty ottoman out from under her desk. The movement seems to give her pain; she rubs her knee and exhales deeply as she sinks back into her armchair. “You can sit on that,” she tells him.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “I’m great—just great.” She pushes back a strand of damp white hair with a swollen, knobby finger. “For a seventy-year-old with rheumatic joints, I’m the picture of health.”

  “I’m sorry, I could have gotten my own chair,” Danny tells her. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  She ignores his apology and focuses on me. “So, tell me about the last few days, Ellie. Anything new?”

  Nina is a big fan of open-ended questions. I’m not. The way I see it, I’m here to report my “progress,” not chat about school gossip.

  “We’ve been following your rules,” I assure her. Danny’s acrobatics on the bookcase notwithstanding, we really have. “Home by eight p.m., no magical entrances or exits.” I tick them off on my fingers. “No public discussions. No meetings on school grounds.” I pause and look at Danny before I continue. He’s sitting cross-legged on the ottoman, his face turned away from me so that I can’t see his expression. “No touching,” I conclude. He flinches but doesn’t speak.

  Nina appears surprised. “Really? No touching?” she asks.

  Danny and I both shake our heads.

  “Look, it’s a good idea, Ellie. I was going to suggest it down the road a bit. But I just assumed that it would be too harsh for you at this time.”

  I look down at my lap. “The no-touching thing was Danny’s rule. He doesn’t—”

  I’m struggling to find the words to explain. It’s not that I don’t want to touch him. More than anything, I wish I could feel the comfort of his arms again. But Danny breaks apart when I get too close. There’s so much pent-up guilt now that even the brush of my hand can shatter him.

  “We haven’t tou
ched since—not since that night—”

  “The night Danny disappeared?”

  I’m grateful she still uses that word. No one else does. “Yes.”

  “I see.”

  I’m betting that she doesn’t see. In her mind, I’m sure she has some picture of two horny teenagers who just can’t let go of each other. She really doesn’t get it. But so far, she’s come the closest.

  “It’s a healthy rule, Ellie. I’m proud of you.”

  Yeah, she really doesn’t get it. It has nothing to do with health. But I’m not going to try to enlighten her. She’s been friendly to Danny so far, and the two of us can use all the friends we can get.

  “You understand the need for all the rules, don’t you?” she persists. “Why I established them?”

  I nod, my eyes still cast down. Is she going to make me review the reasons for her rules? Again?

  “It’s about boundaries, Ellie. You can’t let Danny take over your life.”

  My head shoots up. “He doesn’t! He would never—”

  The protest bursts from me, involuntarily, before I have a chance to check myself. Next to me, Danny is watching us quietly, waiting for me to defend him. I swallow and consider my options. Fighting for Danny has never ended well for me, not since the accident nine months ago. My parents were all sympathy and understanding at first—until the day Danny reappeared in my life. That’s when they totally lost it and the intensive therapy merry-go-round began. Rae and Deenie were also supportive, but like my parents, only at first. When Danny came back, Rae went totally cold. She wouldn’t even look at him. Deenie’s reaction was milder, more accepting, but she vibrated concern whenever he joined us. I could feel it every time she asked, “Where is he today, Ellie?”

  “Maybe just go over the rules again,” Danny suggests after a long silence. “I think that’s what Dr. Nina is getting at.”

  “Okay.” I take a deep breath. “Here goes: the eight p.m. curfew is so I can spend time on my own, without my boyfriend. It’s the harshest rule, I think. But I understand it.”