The Last Words We Said

by Leah Scheier

  “I knew the difference. What’s your point?” I spit the words out through gritted teeth. I can’t look at her anymore.

  “My point is that we’re all grieving. In our own way. But you’ve gotten stuck in this neverland between denial and acceptance.”

  “There’s nothing to accept!” How many psychiatrists, teachers, friends, and cops have said the same thing? Why does she need to repeat what I’ve heard a thousand times? “They never found him!” It’s the only solid ray of hope I’ve got. “That must mean something.”

  “Mean what? What could it possibly mean?” She’s crying now, and the sight shocks me. Never once throughout the last nine months have I seen my mother cry. It calms me to see her tears. For once, she’s the one weeping and I’m the rational one.

  “Are you really asking? You want to know what it means?”

  She nods and rubs a hand over her red-rimmed eyes. “Yes. I want to know what you believe happened.”

  I’m not ready to tell her that. I don’t think she actually wants to hear the truth. She’s just waiting for me to bare my soul, so she can pick it apart. And yet, I know those tears are real. My mother can’t act to save her life. Maybe she’s as desperate as I am for the truth; maybe she wants answers as much as I do, and she’s just been hiding her pain to spare her daughter. Is it fair to walk away from that? Don’t I owe her a few words of comfort?

  There’s a rustling sound behind me, and I turn to see Danny slipping quietly into the back seat of the car. He grins at me and leans forward over the headrest. “Just tell her, Ellie,” he says. “Tell her my story.”

  My boyfriend’s confident smile is my security blanket; it warms me and makes my world sane. It even touches my mother. She stops crying and stares at me, then glances over to where Danny is sitting. “Oh,” she whispers. Her eyes widen and focus on his face; her lips go pale. I know she sees him, just like Rabbi Garner did. Just for a second. Danny raises his hand and gives her a little wave. And then she shudders and her vision blurs again.

  But that moment is enough to convince me. My mother has finally opened her mind and made the connection. She’s ready to listen. If Danny wants me to reveal what happened, it doesn’t matter if I’m ready. This is his story, and I’m the only one who can tell it.

  “Mom, look at me,” I say. “I need you to promise me something.”

  She clasps her hands together and takes a deep breath. “Of course. Whatever you need.”

  “I want to tell you what happened that night. But I need you to promise to let me finish, all the way to the end. No interruptions. And when I’m done, I want to get out of the car. No arguments. No lectures on logic or probabilities. I just want to tell you the story, and then go.”

  “But what about Nina—”

  “I’ll walk. It’s just a few blocks. And then I can take the bus home. Okay?”

  She nods and reaches out for my hands again. “Okay.”

  I take a deep breath. I know I can’t start at the beginning, of course. I can never start at the beginning. But I can tell her just enough that she will understand—but not so much that she will hate me. “Danny didn’t drown that night,” I tell her. “He never fell into the lake at all.”

  A shade of doubt crosses over her eyes, but she remains silent, as promised.

  “I know they found his jacket floating in the water. He climbed up on the bridge guardrail after the accident. He called me while he was sitting up there.”

  I’m not telling her anything new. This is all in the police report.

  “We talked for a little while, and then I heard him shout. He didn’t explain what happened then, but I know that’s when his jacket blew off into the water below. I told him to wait there for help, but he said it was too cold on the bridge. Then he promised me he was coming home and hung up.”

  She hasn’t said a word; even her expression is patient and accepting. I glance back at Danny for a final boost of confidence and then plunge into his story.

  “After he hung up, Danny jumped down from the barrier; I think that’s when his phone dropped from his pocket, but it was so windy that he didn’t notice. He started to walk up the road. I’d urged him to call the police, but he was too afraid to ask for help. He was scared they would arrest him for drinking and driving. So instead of waiting by his wrecked car, he tried to flag down a passing motorist, hoping for a ride to the nearest gas station, somewhere dry and warm to wait for a cab home. It was freezing on that road, pitch dark and completely deserted. The rain was beating at his face and soaking through his shirt. He was miserably cold and desperate, so when a car finally pulled over and opened the passenger door for him, he climbed in without hesitating.”

  I can see from the fear in her eyes that she knows where this is going. We’ve all read the same horror stories. Young teen kidnapped by a stranger, kept in a dank basement as a prisoner, starved and molested for years. I can quote those police reports like a seasoned detective. I’ve spent months combing the Internet for missing person cases that have ended with a miraculous rescue. I know all the victims’ names and ages, their time in captivity; I’ve tortured myself with the details of their pain. But despite the scores of voices that have seeped into my blood, Danny’s case has stood apart. His story is more tragic than terrifying, and it makes me sad without tearing out my heart.

  “It was a woman,” I tell my mother. “An older woman who took him. She really didn’t mean him any harm at first. She just wanted to help; she saw how cold he was and suggested he warm up in her house down the road.”

  It’s hard to guess what my mother is thinking now. She seems to be hanging on my words, waiting for me to finish. Still, there’s no judgment or doubt, and for now, that’s enough for me.

  “The lady actually served him hot chocolate and cookies. Can you believe that?” I tell her. “She talked about her son who was serving abroad. The scene was about as innocent as you can imagine. Until Danny woke up a few hours later in a strange room and couldn’t remember how he had gotten there. He tried to open the door and found that it was bolted shut. The only window in the place was barred like a jail cell. He shouted for help and banged on the walls, hoping someone would hear him. But there was no way out. She had locked him in.”

  My mother shakes her head slightly, opens her mouth to speak; but no words come, and I’m grateful that my mother never breaks her promises.

  “The lady is sick,” I tell her. “About as messed up as you can be. She has this fantasy that Danny is her son who has come back to her. Her real son died in Iraq years ago. But Danny is around the age that her boy was when he was deployed. He’s her replacement, and so she’s never going to let him go.”

  Still no sound from my mother—she’s mesmerized by the story. Her silence gives me the strength to tell her my ending.

  “Danny was scared at first. He tried to escape, over and over. Pried at the bolt, scraped at the bars on the window. Then he became furious. Screamed his rage for days, swore at her through the walls, threatened to burn down the place with both of them inside. She braved it all quietly, waited for him to calm down and accept his fate. And then one day he did. Not completely. But just enough for her to enter the room without fear. Just enough to listen to her story.

  “She talked for hours that day, well into the night. And he listened to her, patiently, as if she really was his mother.” I glance back at Danny one last time. His head is bowed over his hands, like he’s praying. “Since that day, he’s stopped fighting,” I explain. “He hasn’t accepted his fate, not at all. Every waking moment he hopes that someone will find the remote house, will knock down the door and free him. But he’s accepted his captor. In a way, he’s almost grown to understand why she did it.”

  I think maybe my mother has lost her voice. I’ve never known her to be quiet this long, promise or not. But her eyes speak for her. They shine with fresh tears.

  “She’s good to him, in her own way,” I assure her. “She makes him her son’s favorite foods.
Which unfortunately aren’t always his favorite.” I remember the story he told me of the chopped liver he kept choking down, just to spare her feelings. “He’s actually put on a little weight,” I add with a smile. “Not even Rae could manage to pad those skinny bones, even with all the cookie dough.”

  There’s a ghost of a smile on her face, but the rest of her remains completely immobile. She doesn’t speak, and, again, I’m grateful.

  “That’s what happened to Danny,” I conclude.

  She takes a deep breath, bites her lip. But no words come. Instead, she just clasps my hands in hers and bows her head, like a mourner at a memorial.

  I bristle at the gesture, even though I know she’s faithfully kept her promise by remaining silent. Still, there’s too much pity and resignation in her bowed shoulders. Somehow, I’d been hoping for more—maybe a spark of hope in her red eyes, some flicker of my faith reflected in her expression. I hate that she still looks like a person in mourning.

  “I’m going to go now,” I say.

  She doesn’t move to stop me. Instead, she quietly releases my hands and folds her own in her lap.

  “By the way, you’re the only one I’ve told,” I inform her. “So please don’t share this with anyone.”

  She appears surprised. “Not even Rae and Deenie?”

  I shake my head.

  “Or Nina?”

  “No. Especially not Nina. Promise you won’t say anything to her.”

  She nods her assent and then swallows hard, like she’s forcing down a bitter medicine. I push open the car door.

  “It’s a good story, Ellie,” she whispers hoarsely. “Thank you.”

  MY DEAR DEPARTED IMAGINARY FRIEND

  It was a dark-mood kind of day—for Danny. I could tell by the story he told me that morning.

  We were hanging out by Bruster’s ice cream shop, stuffing heaps of mint chocolate chip into our mouths. Bruster’s had become our favorite outdoor hangout because it was just a fifteen-minute stroll from my house. Conveniently situated in the parking lot in front of the local strip mall, it was still far enough from the busy shops for two teens to enjoy the best ice cream in Atlanta in relative privacy. Just the sight of the red-striped awning emblazoned with the company’s cherry logo raised my spirits.

  Rae and Deenie rarely rolled out of bed before noon on Sundays, so I knew that if I called Danny early, I’d get him to myself, if only for a couple of hours. Neither of us ever mentioned our ice cream dates to either Deenie or Rae. We weren’t trying to lie, exactly, and yet I think we sensed that if we spoke of our private get-togethers, it would create tension in the group. So, it never came up. I admit that I enjoyed our little innocent secret. It felt like we were starting down a path, one that might lead to greater and more exciting secrets.

  But that day he was in a gloomy mood. So I asked him for a story to get his mind off whatever was bothering him. He gave me a weary look and then gazed off into the distance. “There once was a snake whose home was destroyed by a winter storm,” he began in a low voice. I could barely hear him, so I scooted a little closer to him on the bench. “The snake was freezing and all alone. So, he stole a boy’s clothes off a laundry line to get warm, but it wasn’t enough. The temperature kept dropping, and he knew he wouldn’t survive outside. Just then a young woman came along. He called to her and begged her to help him. She was very nearsighted, so to her he looked like a little boy in need of shelter. She took him into her home and gave him warm soup to drink. But she had no idea she was taking care of a snake. Until one day, the snake boy bit her. ‘But I saved you,’ she cried as she lay dying. ‘Why would you poison me?’ The snake bared his fangs. ‘A snake will always be a snake,’ he said.”

  I crossed my arms. “Wait a minute,” I said critically. “That story sounds weirdly familiar.”

  He appeared startled, even a little frightened.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think that’s an Aesop’s fable. My mom used to read me those when I was little.”

  “Oh.” He sat back, relieved. “Sorry. I didn’t realize. I guess I’m just blocked today. Why don’t you tell me a story for change?”

  The request made me strangely nervous. One of the reasons I enjoyed Danny’s company was that I never felt pressured to impress him. He happily acted as the sideshow entertainer for our little group.

  I wasn’t nearly creative enough to fill his shoes, even for a few minutes. “I don’t think so.” I scooped the rest of the ice cream into my mouth, to discourage further requests.

  “It can be something true,” he suggested. “Something from your childhood.”

  I licked up the last drops of syrup and stared hungrily at his cup. “You don’t want to hear that. My childhood was pretty boring.”

  He pushed his ice cream across the park bench with the smooth assurance of a dealer handing over a bribe.

  “Come on,” he urged me. “Everyone has something weird. Tell me your weirdest thing. And I’ll tell you mine.”

  I actually blushed. Maybe because I already knew what my weird thing was—and it was quite unusual. Or maybe because his proposal was the equivalent of “show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”

  I stared into his eyes, like a psychic trying to read his soul. “Promise you won’t laugh,” I said. He put his hand to his heart.

  “Okay, here it is.” I took a deep breath. “I used to see people who weren’t there. Sometimes I even talked to them.”

  He blinked once. Twice. Wiped his mouth with a napkin. Then blinked again.

  I immediately regretted all my life decisions. A cold sweat broke out over my lips.

  “What kind of people?” he asked after the longest pause of my life. There was no mockery in his voice, just puzzled curiosity.

  “Not, like, dead people covered in blood or anything,” I assured him quickly. “Nothing creepy. Just people I made up. In my head.”

  He nodded, but it was a cautious nod. “Like imaginary friends?”

  “Kind of. That’s how it started. When I got home from school, they would be waiting for me in a little circle around my bed.”

  He smiled, and I felt myself relax a little. Maybe it wasn’t so weird, after all. Lots of kids played with imaginary friends.

  “So what happened to them?”

  I shrugged. “I had a fight with one. Two of them moved to Sandy Springs and didn’t want to hang out with me anymore. So, I was left with one best friend.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Tzili.”

  He grinned. “Ah. ‘My shadow.’ ”

  It was my turn to be surprised. “How do you know that? I thought you were terrible at Hebrew.” He’d been placed in my introductory Hebrew language class, but he appeared to struggle with even the simplest assignments.

  Danny seemed confused for a moment. “I think I saw it in a book once,” he said with a careless wave of his hand. “So what happened to Tzili?”

  “She died. Nodular melanoma.”

  Danny gaped at me. “Wow. That is really specific for an imaginary friend!”

  “My mom’s a dermatologist. She talks about her work a lot.”

  “So why did Tzili die?”

  “I just told you.”

  “No, I mean in your mind. You were in control, right? You decided her fate. Why did she have to die?”

  I’d never asked myself that question. It was just something that had happened over the course of a summer vacation. My beautiful best friend began to get paler and paler, like a consumptive heroine from an old movie. And then one day I came home to find her lying perfectly still on my bed, already wrapped in a white shroud.

  “I’m not sure. Maybe I was getting too old for her. And I was growing closer to Deenie and Rae, so I didn’t need a fake friend anymore. I don’t know.”

  “So why not just stop talking to her? Why did she have to die of cancer?”

  Again, I was stumped. Who questions the motives behind their own fantasies? “I guess I enjo
yed the drama,” I mused. “My life was pretty boring, as I said, and there was something so exciting about nursing a dying friend. I got pretty carried away with it, actually. I started showing up at breakfast with bloodshot eyes. My parents were worried about me. I even sat shiva for her when she died, though I didn’t tell anyone what I was doing.”

  He smiled sadly; but there was still no judgment in his eyes, so I smiled back.

  “So—what do you think? Was that weird enough for you?” I asked.

  He didn’t reply at first. “You know it’s nothing like that, right?” he said finally.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Grief. It’s nothing like that.”

  I poked at my melted lump of ice cream, suddenly ashamed of myself. Here I was talking about fake mourning to someone who had just lost a parent. What had I been thinking? “Oh God, Danny, I’m so sorry—”

  He waved off my apology. “Don’t be. I’m glad you have no idea what I’m talking about.” He looked down at his hands, his expression quiet and sober. “Grief isn’t something you can milk. It’s not dramatic at all.”

  “I know it’s not. I’m sure it feels just awful—”

  “Not at first. At first it feels like nothing. Like this hole that you’ve thrown some sand over. You can even cover it so well that it looks totally solid. Only it’s not and so you keep stumbling in. Over and over. A hundred falls a day. And yet, each time, you can’t believe that you forgot it was there.”

  I couldn’t think of anything to say. It was better to be quiet, for once.

  “Being here feels like a vacation,” he continued after a moment. “I’ve started at a new school. I’ve made new friends. But I think I’m still waiting to go home.”

  “It hasn’t sunk in yet?”