The Last Words We Said

by Leah Scheier

  I don’t know what to say to bring him to speak, but I’m getting desperate. I want one word from him. Just one. I can’t say goodbye like this.

  “I’ve decided to study journalism,” I continue. “I just have to find a way to tell my parents. They still think I’m going for premed.”

  He raises his eyebrows.

  “It’s just that I’m not finished writing yet,” I explain. “I feel like there’s more than that—” I motion at the manuscript. “A lot more. Maybe volumes.”

  There’s a flicker of light in his eyes, finally. I’ve gotten through. I think that maybe he’s ready to speak to me.

  “Danny,” I beg. “Please say something.”

  His lips part, and I hold my breath—but nothing comes. He steps back into the shadows.

  “Just one word,” I urge him. “And then I’ll say goodbye. I promise.”

  The curtains rustle as he moves back into the darkness.

  “Please. Whatever you want, really. It doesn’t have to be much. You don’t have to say I love you. I just need one word.” My voice breaks. “Danny, I’m sorry for what I did. It’s too late now, I can’t ask you to forgive me, but I want you to know. I know that you can’t tell me that it’s okay. I just want to hear your voice. Say anything, Danny. It can be stupid or crazy. It can be completely inappropriate. I don’t care.”

  The shadows are silent.

  “One word,” I plead. Maybe an old memory will bring him back, I think. “You can say dildo face,” I whisper. “That would be enough for me.”

  I can barely see him now. His head is down; he’s fading into the gray behind the curtains. He raises his eyes for a moment, and I think he’s going to speak, but instead a little smile dawns.

  I step forward, my goodbye still on my lips, but the darkness closes over him, and he disappears into the shade.

  I’m alone in the room.

  Chapter 33

  “You’re in control, Ellie,” Nina tells me in one of our therapy sessions. “When you feel that you’re losing that control, when you can no longer gain comfort from your talks with Danny, you have to reevaluate. That’s where the rules come in.”

  I don’t need the rules now. Moving on isn’t just about me anymore. My fantasy world may have comforted me for a while, but my friends had suffered for it. I know that I can’t support them in their grief unless I deal with my own. So I can’t go back on my goodbye. As hard as it is, I can’t keep bringing him back, even for a moment. I’d been through enough to know that it never ended at just five minutes. If I allowed myself, I would spiral again, like an addict.

  So that last meeting at Nina’s is really our goodbye, though I never got to hear him say it. I suppose that’s fair, though. My Danny never got to say goodbye; I didn’t get to tell him I loved him one last time; I would never hear him forgive me. No fantasy could ever make up for that.

  I may know all of that, but there’s hardly a moment that I’m not tempted to break the rules. When the loneliness gets too heavy, when my pillow feels too cold, when the shadows outside my bedroom window claw through the glass, I’m desperate to push them away, if only for a second. I’m in control, I tell myself, but the meaning of those words twists in my mind. If you’re in control, why not? my demons taunt me. Just a quick hello. What’s the harm?

  So I leave my room when the longing gets too sharp. I talk to my dad about school. I let my mom take me for a haircut and argue about the best style for me. (We settle on a bob.) I go to Rae’s house and volunteer as her sous-chef. (I’ve become an expert onion chopper.) I take long, silent walks with Deenie, or go for short sprints on my own.

  Sometimes I try to write my thoughts down, but loneliness blocks me, and I find it hard to speak to a piece of paper.

  A few weeks after I submit my story, Ms. Baker has some news for me. I’ve won second place. The college grant I receive is small, but what I’m really excited about is the writers’ retreat in the summer. Two famous authors will be attending and giving seminars to students about their craft. It’s an honor that both thrills and terrifies me. How can I go to this retreat when I’m still blocked? What if I’m asked to submit a writing sample and I can’t think of anything to say? What if they expose me as a fraud?

  I draw out my winning story and copy it just as I had submitted it—but in my own handwriting. Beneath the title I scrawl “by Eliana Merlis, inspired by Danny Edelstein,” then wrap the package in foil and ribbon. Deenie and Rae meet me at my door as I head out. We park at the cemetery and follow the path we’d walked the day of his funeral.

  I kneel by his grave and place my offering on the fresh earth. “This is really yours,” I tell him. “I may have written it, but you inspired it. You inspired all of them.”

  Rae places a wrapped package of white chocolate chip brownies by the stone; Deenie lays a yellow rose by its side.

  “I need to start telling my own stories,” I say to him. “I really want to try. But I think I’m still waiting for one last story.”

  But there are no more stories in this place; the only sound we hear is the rustle of leaves whispering over the tombstones.

  “What happened, Danny?” I ask him. “I need to know what happened.”

  I feel Rae looking at me; I know she’s remembering the police version of events, their theories about that night. I’m so thankful that she doesn’t say anything. For us, those theories will never be enough. We need to know the truth.

  But he doesn’t speak to me anymore. He can’t comfort Rae and Deenie, can’t give us the ending we want.

  I have to tell his story, his last one—as best as I can. And it will have to be enough.

  It was so cold on that bridge, I begin. Danny’s jacket had blown off his shoulders into the lake, and the sweater he was wearing was soaked through with rain. He was desperate to get inside, but he had no idea where he was. So he started to walk down the road, hoping to flag someone down. As he crossed over the bridge, he realized that there was no shelter for miles and that nobody was coming along. So he decided to call his father for help. He knew he’d be in trouble, but there was no point in delaying it anymore.

  He felt for his phone and discovered it was gone. He wasn’t sure where he’d dropped it, so he started to retrace his steps, hoping it was somewhere in the slush nearby. He was leaning over a black shadow by the guardrail when a pickup truck came roaring around the bend. They saw each other too late.

  He didn’t feel anything. That was the surprising thing. It didn’t hurt, somehow. When he opened his eyes, there were two men leaning over him. The bearded one was swearing. Danny could tell that it was bad, but only by the expressions on their faces. There was a strange metal taste in his mouth, but he felt fine. He couldn’t move for some reason, but it was okay, because he didn’t really want to. For the first time since the accident he was comfortable, lying in the back seat of their truck.

  The two men argued about what to do. The bearded one pointed at his phone. “Hospital’s twenty miles from here. I say we take him there. Drop him off.”

  “And then what?” his companion asked. He wrapped a scarf tighter around his throat. “What if they want to question us?”

  “We don’t have a choice,” Beard replied. “We can’t just leave him here.”

  They kept arguing as Scarf started up the engine. He was freaking out. “I’m screwed, I’m totally screwed,” he babbled. “It’s a company truck. They’re going to fire me.”

  “Just drive, okay? The kid’s not looking so good.”

  They both glanced back at Danny. “I’m fine,” he tried to tell them, but the metal in his mouth was blocking the words.

  “Aw, Jesus,” Scarf muttered. “He’s making noises.”

  “He’ll be all right,” Beard snapped. He unbuckled his belt and climbed into the back seat. “We’re just a couple of miles out now.”

  Danny’s arms were getting numb, and there was a crushing weight on his chest. He closed his eyes and tried to inhale, but it was li
ke breathing through water. Somebody was shaking him.

  “Come on, kid, come on. Wake up.”

  He wanted to tell them that he was awake. He was suddenly sitting right in between them, watching them; he could smell the whiskey and cigars on Scarf’s breath.

  “I’m Danny,” he told them, but they didn’t seem to hear him. “Could you take me home?”

  “Oh, fuck,” Beard spat out. “Oh, fuck!”

  “Do something!” his friend shouted. “Breathe into his mouth.”

  “I can’t,” he cried. “Look.” He lifted his fingers in the air. They glistened maroon in the moonlight.

  Scarf hit the gas hard, and the truck bounced and veered off the road. They came to a halt on a deserted side street.

  “What do we do now?” Scarf yelled. “What the hell do we do?”

  “This is going to be manslaughter at least,” Beard warned. “You stink to high heaven.”

  “Fuck you, what do we do? Do we just leave him here?”

  “Lying out on the road? So some little kid finds him?” Beard swore again and spit out the window. “Jesus, you really are a dick. Get the tools in the trunk.”

  “I don’t have a shovel.”

  They climbed out, and there was a clatter of metal as they rummaged in the back. “Fine. This will have to do.”

  “What about his family?”

  “Just shut up and dig, will you? Unless you want to go to jail?”

  Danny felt suddenly lighter—almost weightless. There was nothing keeping him grounded to the men who grunted and sweated over a small clay hole in the ground.

  So he came back to me. It took longer than he expected, but he didn’t mind; the rain had stopped and the sun was rising by the time he tapped on my window.

  I pushed it open and pulled him into the room.

  “How are you so warm?” I asked Danny.

  “I think that’s you,” he said. “I’m freezing.” He smiled gratefully as I pulled a blanket off my bed. But even as I wrapped it around his shoulders, I knew that he wasn’t cold anymore.

  I pulled him close to me and promised to wait for him forever.

  I pause for a moment and study Deenie’s and Rae’s tear-stained faces. They’ve been silent through my story, which flows from me like a prayer.

  “And I did,” I tell them. “I really tried to wait forever. I thought our love was different—I thought it was above the rules.”

  Rae and Deenie bow their heads, and I know that my prayer is over.

  “But it wasn’t,” I whisper to myself. “Our love wasn’t above this rule.”

  Chapter 34

  I arrive at Mr. Edelstein’s house more than an hour before I need to. His appointment isn’t until later in the evening, but I’m so anxious about it, I head over immediately after school lets out.

  He’s rummaging through old boxes when I get there, and he points at a pile of old discs on the floor. “I found something for you,” he says. “I know that you’ve finished your collection, but I thought it would interest you anyway.”

  “I don’t know if I’ll ever be finished,” I remark, picking up a disc labeled Danny age 10. “Even if I run out of Danny stories, I’m not going to stop writing. I’m realizing that there are plenty more stories out there.”

  He passes his laptop over to me, and I balance it on my knees. As I slide the disc in, the screen lights up with static, and then a home video comes into focus. A ten-year-old Danny is sitting on a sofa with a sullen look on his face. He’s dressed all in black; a discarded ski mask lies crumpled up next to him. He looks up at the camera and frowns. “Ema!” he protests. “Al titzalmi oti!”

  I realize with a start that Danny has just spoken Hebrew—fluent, unaccented Hebrew. I’d never heard anything from him but a few halting, broken words during Hebrew language class. I’d always assumed he was a beginner. “What did he say?” I ask.

  “Mom, don’t film me.” Mr. Edelstein raises a finger to his lips. “Shhh—Ellie. Just listen.”

  There’s a soft chuckle from behind the camera, and Danny waves a hand in front of it. “Dai, zeh lo matzchik!”

  “Stop it, it’s not funny,” Mr. Edelstein translates.

  A woman’s voice interrupts Danny’s protest. “Idan, ma itcha?” She sounds frustrated—but there’s a note of amusement in her reprimand.

  Mr. Edelstein reaches out and stops the recording. “She was asking him what his problem was. He was in a lot of trouble that day.”

  I have so many questions that I can’t decide which to ask first. But there is one detail that jumps out at me. “His mother called him Idan!” She had pronounced it Ee-dahn, I noted. I’d never heard anyone call him that. I do a quick search on my phone and pull up my favorite name website. “Idan Noah,” I read. “It means ‘time of comfort.’ ”

  I shake my head and put my phone down. Time of comfort. I think if I had learned its meaning later, I might have smiled at the revelation. But it’s too soon, and I’m too raw. Maybe one day I will draw strength from this knowledge. But now it hurts more than it comforts.

  “His mom was the only one who used his given name,” his father explains. “Dalia was fluent in Hebrew, and she thought it was important to raise him speaking his native tongue.” He shrugs resignedly. “I’m afraid my Hebrew wasn’t good enough for that. I spoke to him in English and I called him Danny, like everybody else. But he did grow up bilingual.”

  “I don’t understand,” I say. “He could have placed out of our language class. Why did he hide that he was fluent? And why didn’t he ever tell me his real name?”

  His dad laughs and moves to take the computer from me, but I grab on to it and pull it back. There’s precious information on that disc.

  “I asked him the same thing,” he tells me. “Danny could be pretty mysterious when he wanted to be. It wasn’t until I met the cute redhead who’d sat next to him on the plane that I figured out why he didn’t want to be placed in the advanced Hebrew group.”

  I can’t help smiling at the compliment. “We were in different classes in ninth grade,” I said, understanding suddenly. “Hebrew was the only period we had together. I guess he didn’t want to give that up.”

  “As for his name—” He shakes his head. “Who knows? Maybe he was saving it for a last story—in case he ever ran out? Or maybe he was just being a tease. He liked keeping people on their toes.”

  “Yes, he definitely did,” I say. “What was his mother scolding him about—in that video?”

  He laughs out loud for the first time in ages. It’s a light, crackling sound and reminds me a little of Danny’s laugh. “Ah, that was just embarrassing. My boy was the ringleader of a botched break-in. He and a few of his friends dressed up like ninjas and tried to scale the school wall. They were attempting to steal some tests, I believe. They never got past the front gate.”

  “I remember that story!” I exclaim. “I didn’t believe him. It was too ridiculous.”

  “It was ridiculous!” he says. “He didn’t even need the tests; he was a straight A student. Honestly, I think he just did it for the fun. He was really into ninjas for a while. Climbed every tree in the neighborhood.”

  The alarm on my phone beeps, and I reach into my pocket to silence it. “We better go or we’ll be late to your appointment.”

  He nods and rises from his chair.

  “Can I take the disc with me?” I ask him, pulling it out of the laptop. “I want to watch the whole thing. And I think Deenie and Rae will love it.”

  “You can keep it,” he says. “But maybe make a copy for me? I want to have the video on my computer—for after the treatment. Just in case I forget some things…”

  His voice trails off, and he touches the screen.

  “Don’t worry,” I tell him. “You won’t lose a single memory, I promise. I’ll make sure you never forget.”

  Epilogue

  We’re sitting around the computer in a circle, a pile of white chocolate chip blondies stacked in a pyra
mid like a tribute. It’s the third playthrough of the fifteen-minute video, and none of us has the heart to take it off repeat.

  “Skinniest ninja on Earth,” Rae declares after I finally shut it off. “Good old shrimpy boy.”

  “I wonder how many of those crazy stories were actually true?” Deenie muses.

  I reach for a mushroom pinwheel and pluck off the crispy edge. It’s my latest contribution to our defrost parties. We’ve been having one every Sunday morning for the last three months. The freezer of favorite food I’d saved for Danny’s homecoming is almost empty—but it’s been almost empty for weeks now.

  The bottom drawer of my freezer is charmed, it seems. No matter how many times we dig into it, we never come up empty- handed. I strongly suspect that Rae is the magician behind the miracle, but I’m never going to call her on it.

  “All the stories were true, I think,” I tell her.

  “I like the one about the singer,” Deenie says quietly. “The one that nobody can hear.”

  Rae grins at her. “That one is very true.”

  “I know,” she admits. “That’s why I brought it up.”

  I shoot Rae a puzzled look, and she shakes her head. She’s obviously as confused as I am. Deenie brushes some crumbs off her skirt and slowly gets to her feet. “I was wondering if you two could be my practice audience,” she asks. “Before my audition.”

  Our baffled expressions speak for us.

  “I’m trying out for the spring performance of Fiddler on the Roof,” she explains.

  Rae says something loud and unintelligible.

  “It’s not a big deal,” Deenie insists, raising her hand. “It’s just for a part in the chorus. Not a solo role. Anyway, I’m probably not going to get it.”

  “You’re probably not going to get it? Are you kidding?”

  She looks embarrassed. “They’re still pretty mad about my pulling out of the fall production. They weren’t going to give me another chance. My father basically had to beg.”

  “Well, I can’t wait to hear you,” I say, and Rae nods enthusiastically.