by Deb Loughead
Twenty minutes later, the bus rumbles away, leaving us standing on a strange corner in a strange place. I feel like yelling, Wait. Come back!
THE QUARRY ESTATES, reads the bronze-on-granite sign at the entranceway to the subdivision. We’re surrounded by hulking mansions with impressively landscaped gardens and expensive cars parked in front of double garages. Pool slides jut up above the tops of fences.
“God, you could practically fit four of my house into one of these,” I say. “That one looks like a spooky castle, doesn’t it?” I point at a looming mansion with grey stones and turrets.
Almost ominously, the sun disappears behind a cloud, and I shiver just a little.
“So this is the street. What number are we looking for?” Jake asks.
“Sixteen Breezy Lane.”
“Funny thing about the street names here, huh?” Jake says.
I’d been thinking the same thing as we came in on the bus. We’d passed Shady Trail, Clover Court, and Meadow Crescent. They sounded more like something you’d find in a quaint country village than this place.
Quarry Estates almost seems like a gated community, where Jake and I don’t belong. It’s like at any moment security guards might rush us and tell us we’re trespassing. Nearby, a couple of dogs bark from a backyard, as if they’re warning us that it might be wise to leave.
“It’s that way,” Jake says. Then he grabs my hand and starts walking.
9
We stand at the end of the wide flagstone walkway leading to the front entrance. A BMW is parked in the driveway. There are sculpted shrubs and hedges, and a rose garden with a few last vividly red blooms. Great chunks of granite rock are placed at angles around the property. It sure isn’t wild and tangled like our front yard at home.
“Looks like Edward Scissorhands is the gardener here,” I tell Jake with a nervous laugh.
The house is stone and stucco with a massive wooden front door. It looks like a country manor. On the main floor all the drapes are drawn, like the house has its eyes closed. A lot of the other places around here look the same. Beautiful but lifeless. A sleeping community.
Each of them has a security warning sticker on the window. THIS PROPERTY PROTECTED BY …
Are security cameras taping us from secret locations?
Beside me, Jake sighs. “Let’s do this,” he says, and we both walk on.
“Get lost. We don’t want any.”
A kid’s voice, coming from an upstairs window. Kit’s little brother. How did he even notice us from up there? Unless he was watching through the window.
“Kevin? Is that you?” I manage to stammer.
A long, heavy pause. “Who are you?”
“Old friends of your brother.” Jake’s voice sounds way more confident than mine. “We went to school with him.”
“Well, he’s dead. So, what the hell do you want?”
The word dead, and the way he says it, makes my stomach flip.
What do we want, really? Maybe it was a total mistake to come here today. We really don’t have a solid plan. Are we just looking for answers to put our own minds at ease? Will Ms. Stitski see right through us, even if we try to explain why we haven’t spoken to her sooner, why we skipped out on the memorial and funeral back in June?
“We … we just wanted to try and explain a few things,” I say to the face in the window. “Is your mom home? Can we talk to her, just for a few minutes?”
“About what?”
“Um …” I look frantically at Jake, and he shrugs. “About your brother, and how we went to school with him. About how much we liked him.”
There’s a long pause, like he’s considering. “Nope. She’s busy. Take a hike.”
A finger flips us the bird. Kevin is the Keeper of the Castle, protecting his mother from intruders like us. I can barely begin to imagine how they’re both still feeling. Maybe talking about Kit will only make things worse, conjure up their own “horrible shadows.”
I can’t really blame Kevin for sending us away.
“Guess we should just go home now,” I say to Jake.
He nods at me. “We should have known. But at least we tried.”
“Yeah, at least that’s something.”
I, for one, am filled with an overwhelming sense of relief as we turn and head back to the bus stop. I was utterly terrified to face Kevin and his mom. Never in my life have I had to come up with the right words to offer grieving people, and I’m practically ecstatic about this opportunity to put it off for a while longer.
“When’s the next bus?” I ask as Jake checks the schedule on his phone.
“Oh, crap, not for about twenty minutes.” He sounds as disappointed as I feel.
“Hey! You guys! Wait a second!”
The voice from the window again. Jake and I stop on the sidewalk and look back. A head is sticking out now. The relief hisses out of me like a deflating balloon.
“Come back. My mom says she wants to talk.”
She’s waiting for us at the front door, and by the way her arms are crossed, there is no way we’re getting inside. Small mercies. It’s the absolute last place on earth I want to go right now. Ms. Stitski is dressed casually in slim jeans and a rust-coloured tunic. She looks older than she probably should, with lines etched into her face that clearly haven’t come from smiling. Kevin’s head is still sticking through the upstairs window like a castle gargoyle.
“You okay, Ma?” he calls down.
“Go do some homework, Kevin.” She stares at us with wary eyes. “What do you two have to say for yourselves this afternoon?”
When you’re a kid, they give you shots to prevent lockjaw. That obviously isn’t working for me right now. My mouth refuses to open, even as Jake is nudging me to speak.
“Well? Do you have something you’d like to share? Speak up or I’m going back inside.”
“Please, don’t do that Ms. Stitski,” I finally manage to get out. “We really want to talk to you. About what happened after that night. And some other stuff.”
Her eyes get narrower. “What happened after that night? What I want to know is what happened on that night, when my son drowned. When everyone abandoned him. There’s nothing left to say about what came after, is there?” She looks up. Half of Kevin is hanging out the window. “Get inside. Now!” And he does. Fast.
“It’s just that …” How to even say this? “Well, Jake and I … I’m Clementine, by the way … we didn’t go to the vigil at the quarry. Or to Kit’s funeral. And we’re feeling awful about it.”
Mrs. Stitski’s jaw tightens, and she tilts her head. “Feeling awful about it? My heart bleeds for you. I didn’t go to the vigil at the quarry either. Because it was really just for Kit’s so-called friends, wasn’t it? And I don’t have a clue who was at his funeral. So is that it? Are we done here?”
“No,” Jake says. Thank god, because I’m tongue-tied again. “First of all we want to apologize for not being at the funeral. And for not coming to see you sooner.”
“Do you really think that matters to me? Or to Kevin? Nothing matters now.”
Her words sting because they’re so true. How can anything matter more than Kit? I almost feel his ghost again. Is it watching through his bedroom window, a vacant room now, which must shriek out sadness? I’m more than half afraid to look, just in case.
Then suddenly I know what to say.
“We know it can’t possibly matter more than Kit.” When I say his name, she flinches slightly. “Nothing ever can. But we just wanted you to know how much he mattered to us.”
Mrs. Stitski looks down at her sandal-clad feet, then back at us.
“Come inside,” she says. “I’m just making tea.”
At this moment there is nothing I would like more than to be a coward and bolt in the other direction, away from the yawning darkness behind tha
t door. But Jake grabs my arm before I can even think twice about making a move.
“We’d love to,” he says, and we follow her through the door.
Inside seems to be all polished wood and marble. It even smells rich. There’s one of those curved staircases, like you see in movies, and what must be fine art on all of the walls. On every flat surface, there are vases and flowers, sculptures and carvings. I can’t imagine having to dust in there, but then I realize that Ms. Stitski probably has a cleaning lady to do those things for her.
Kit’s picture jumps out at me from everywhere I look, twisting my gut. He’s still here, in every room of this house, asking not to be forgotten.
We sit at an antique kitchen table, probably made of pine. The kind my mom has on her wish list. None of the china teacups match, but each is pretty in its own way. Ms. Stitski pours our tea from a flowered pot, then sits down across from us with her elbows on the table.
“So, what exactly was it that you wanted to say? It’s Clementine and Jake, right?” Her green eyes are red-rimmed and squinty, as if she never gets enough sleep.
I take a sip and almost choke when it burns going down. Ms. Stitski pours some more milk into my cup to cool it down. Just like my own mom would do.
“I wanted to go to the funeral.” I stare into my tea. “But I couldn’t face you or Kevin. I had no clue what to say that would make things better.”
I watch Ms. Stitski add a teaspoon of honey to her own teacup, and a lot of milk.
“You were in a play with Kit, back in middle school, weren’t you, Clementine?” she says as she stirs, and I look straight at her. When our eyes meet across the table, I try to smile.
“Yes. Kit was hilarious playing Sam-I-Am, wasn’t he? Walking across the stage with that sign. And randomly showing up when he wasn’t supposed to. The whole audience cracked up. And the way he stole the mic from the drama teacher and started thanking everyone at the end of the show.” The memory helps me genuinely smile.
“I used to let him try my skateboard,” Jake is grinning himself now. “He wiped out a few times. I was always worried he’d hurt himself. But he never did.”
“Oh, so you’re the guy,” she says. “Kit told me about you. He really liked you.”
“He did?” Jake looks surprised.
“He knew everyone’s name at middle school, I swear.” Ms. Stitski spins her teaspoon on the table. “He was always great with names. And times tables. Used to help Kevin with math. And science, too. So much that it drove the poor kid nuts!”
When she looks up at us her eyes are watery. “Now isn’t this so much better than coming here and telling me you’re sorry you missed the funeral? I’d rather hear your personal stories about Kit than apologies for something that doesn’t even matter anymore. I don’t want to forget him, or for everyone else to, either.” She sniffles, wipes her eyes. “God, I miss that kid so much. He was a total challenge, frustrating and inspiring. And I truly loved every minute of it.”
My throat aches, and I can’t hang on to it anymore. I choke out a sob. Ms. Stitski passes me a box of tissues. I pull out a couple of pieces and dab at my eyes and nose.
“Look, I don’t want to sit here and burden you with my grief,” she says. “We’re all dealing with this in our own way. Like Kevin. He’s acting out, stays home a lot, and the school keeps calling. But with everything else on my plate right now, I’m letting him have some space, take his own time to heal. That works best for both of us.”
A tear slips from my eye, and I brush it away. All my fears, for all those months, have come to this: a sad woman who’s working through her terrible grief. And her remaining son, who’s doing his best to keep strangers away and protect their fragile feelings.
She actually appreciates that we’ve shared our memories of Kit.
Then she leans forward on her elbows again. And something odd happens, something starts to change. Her face begins to morph, to harden, as though she’s struggling to overcome the vulnerability she just let loose. As if she needs to trap it again, so she can take control of the situation. The room feels charged with a different sort of energy now, and it’s no longer sadness.
“So, Clementine, Jake, there’s no denying I’m still curious,” she says, her eyes wide and intense as she explores our faces. Probing for clues and answers? “You were at the assembly Friday. You must be here for another reason. What is it? Tell me what you know. You were there that night, weren’t you.”
Gulp. I do not want to try and find out if she has any more clues about what happened that night. Because our visit here has turned into something else. Something better than that. Before I can open my mouth, though, Jake touches my hand, and when I look over, he nods.
“We honestly wish we had more to give you,” he says.
She sits there quietly appraising us, as though she’s trying to get a reading, to gauge our honesty. “But how did he wind up in the water? I need to find out what really happened. In order to reach some state of peace. Do you understand that?”
Under the table, Jake nudges me with his knee.
“I do understand that, but we don’t know anything Ms. Stitski. Has anyone new come forward? Did you get any new clues after the assembly?” There. I got something out, at least.
She sits up straight, and she takes a sip of tea.
“No, that hasn’t happened. Not yet. Look, I want this solved.” She sets her cup down with a clatter. “Because someone else was there and knows something.” Her nostrils flare, jaw juts outward. “That kid was there, the one who liked to give him a hard time. I’ve heard something about a fight between them. So, I can’t help thinking that maybe he said something, did something that upset Kit. What if he even pushed Kit over the edge, into the water?”
Uh-oh. I look over at Jake, willing him to keep quiet, but I can see it won’t work.
“You’re right. My friend Spencer was there that night,” Jake says in his flat voice. “But I can guarantee that he never hurt Kit, and he had nothing to do with your son disappearing.”
Instant suspicion in her eyes. When she stands up, I wish I could will myself to vanish.
“Ah, I get it now. You’re protecting him aren’t you? Why did you really come here today? To somehow exonerate yourselves, as well as him? Because you two really do know more than you’re saying? Don’t you?”
“No, that’s not it at all,” I tell her.
“If the two of you don’t have anything else to offer, then I think it’s time for you to go. Kevin, I know you’re hiding out in the hallway, listening. Please take them to the door.”
Kevin sticks his head around the corner, and his mother rolls her eyes. Then she turns abruptly and walks off through a doorway into another part of the house. Kevin stares at us. He has a mess of curly hair, just like Kit had. He’s practically a mini-version of his brother. His mother must have trouble looking at him sometimes.
“That way, right?” I point, and he nods then leads us around a corner and down the hall. “So, your brother used to help you out at school, huh?” I say when we reach the front door.
“Yeah, I mostly suck at math and science,” he says.
“So does my brother, Zach. He’s in grade eight, and I have to help him out all the time. I’m kind of geeky.”
“Wait. Is your brother Zach Sanford?” Kevin’s eyes grow wide. “He goes to my school. He’s so cool.”
“So cool?” I laugh. “That’s questionable. So you know him, huh? You want to come to the library and study with him some time, maybe? I can help you, too, you know.”
“Really? That would be sweet,” he says.
“Okay, so how about this coming Sunday? Meet us at the library. I’ll get Zach to let you know what time.”
“Awesome-sauce!” Then he turns to Jake. “I’ve seen you skateboarding around town,” he says. “I’ve got one, too. I kind of suck at it
. But I think I’m getting better. Maybe a little anyway.” He grabs a skateboard out of a closet and shows it to Jake.
“Well, that’s cool,” Jake says with a legit smile as he examines it and spins a wheel. “I started when I was your age. Had an Element deck once, too. Takes a ton of practice.”
“Maybe I’d get some if my mom would let me out of her sight once in a while. She makes me wear a helmet, too.” Kevin grimaces as if he’s ashamed.
“Yeah, most kids are wearing ’em nowadays,” Jake says to make him feel better. “Probably a good plan, right, Clem? Because you never know when you might wipe out.”
He winks at me, and I smile.
Kevin opens the front door, but suddenly he turns and points at something. “See that?”
Jake and I look.
“That backpack in the corner?” he says, and we both nod. “That’s Kit’s. It’s been sitting right there for four months. Right where he dropped it last June. Mom won’t put it away. It’s like she’s still hoping he’ll come home.”
“Wow, that sucks,” Jake manages to murmur, then stands there blinking.
“God, I’m so sorry to hear that, Kevin,” I say. “It must be hard.”
“Yeah.” Kevin sighs as we head out the door. “I just wish my mom would quit blaming herself. See you Sunday, Clem.”
He shuts the door and locks it. At the end of the walkway, Jake grabs my arm.
“Did you hear what Kevin just said?”
“About her blaming herself? Yeah, I heard,” I tell him. “Still trying to process it. But all of a sudden, everything is starting to make a little more sense.”
10
For the entire bus ride home, Jake and I hold hands. Neither of us says a word, we just stare straight ahead, tangled up in our own thoughts.
I can’t help wondering what it means, that our fingers are still laced together on the seat between us. Is he fixated on the same thing? Is he holding on because he’s still in recovery mode after our encounter with Ms. Stitski? Or because he likes it? Likes me?