Truest

by Jackie Lea Sommers

  The week was long and lonesome. Dad spent evenings over at the old Griggs house, and I spent them alone in my bedroom, wallowing in guilt and grief, trying to come to the surface long enough to learn calculus. I overheard my dad mentioning an autopsy to my mom, but when I asked for details, he said he didn’t know.

  “How is Silas?” I asked, trying not to sound desperate.

  “You’d know better than I would,” Dad replied, headed off toward his bedroom. “He doesn’t say much to anyone else.”

  Dad didn’t know. He still hadn’t realized what had happened between me and Silas. I could hardly imagine the Silas my dad had just described—quiet, reclusive, broken.

  “How—” I started to ask, but Dad was already gone.

  I didn’t even know what I was going to ask. Nothing. Everything. How does he look? Has he been eating? Does he go running? Please, God, let him run. It would probably be the finest choice of medicine for him right now.

  Does he ever ask about me? Does he still blame us?

  I knew the answers to those: no and yes.

  I didn’t want to go to the funeral—really, really didn’t feel ready to face Silas—but of course I went anyway.

  Libby stayed home with Shea while Mom and I walked across the parking lot to join Dad at the church. Inside, we passed my dad’s empty office—and the discreet, locked door to the bell tower—then up the stairs to the lobby of the sanctuary, where I hadn’t been in over a month.

  The whole building felt cold; in the front of the church was the coffin, surrounded by flower arrangements—forget-me-nots in blue, pink, white. When I saw Silas in his suit, I felt my throat constrict and tears prick at my eyes.

  “Coming, honey?” my mom asked, pausing at the open doors to the sanctuary.

  “In a minute,” I said, then retreated to the ladies’ room, where I came undone.

  My heart was going too fast. My throat felt raw. Even though tears were expected at a funeral, I wiped away all evidence of my crying with a wad of toilet paper. I willed myself to breathe while I waited for my face to return to its right color, staring into the tiny mirror above the sink, which reflected a second mirror on the wall behind me. Image after image after image trapped between the two, shrinking into a minute infinity. “Just a second!” I shouted when someone jiggled the doorknob. My voice sounded strange: a facsimile of the real thing.

  With deep breaths, I stepped out of the bathroom and made my way back to the sanctuary. My parents were standing together near the front, but off to the side. A part of me wanted to take them each by a hand and drag them from this place; another part wanted to leave Green Lake on my own and never, ever look back.

  I hung back in the lobby until Silas left the sanctuary with some cousins before I approached the coffin. The center aisle felt a thousand miles long as I made my way to the front.

  Laurel’s eyes were closed; her face looked plastic. She was wearing the same dress she’d worn to Carmina Burana.

  Someone stepped up beside me. Papa Arty, his tears quiet but devastating. “Sweet Pea,” he murmured, his lips barely moving. “Sweet Pea, how?” Then he glanced over at me, and though his gaze was soft with empathy, it felt like an indictment. I hurried away.

  I had thought I’d sit beside my parents, but when I saw Whit sitting alone a few rows back, I joined him instead. He had this strange, pained look on his face as if he had bit into something rotten. It occurred to me that he’d probably worn that same charcoal-colored tie to his own father’s funeral years ago. When my eyes lingered on it, I knew he interpreted my thoughts. “It’s the only one I’ve got,” Whit whispered.

  People had flown in from north and from south, relatives from all over. Papa Arty and Oma Lil, along with Glen’s parents, sat in the front row with Glen and Teresa and Silas. Beside me, Whit stared at the back of the pew, at his feet, at his hands—anywhere but the front.

  My dad officiated. His face was perfect: grieved but consoling, sorrowful with that small strength of hope that came from his core. He looked directly at the Harts while he spoke from the podium, “Today we celebrate the life of Laurel Judith Hart.” I wanted him to look at me.

  There was no mention of suicide—of course—just a continual stream of platitudes about heaven, about the people Laurel had touched, about the pleasant memories of her we were left with.

  Bullshit.

  Instead, I thought of Laurel’s sadness, of how she struggled to let people in. Thought of her wasting away right in front of us.

  A few relatives spoke: Laurel’s aunt—Teresa’s sister—about one of Laurel’s performances. A cousin shared a funny story about a time she and Laurel got caught taking mud baths. Then Silas stood up.

  “My sister . . . ,” he started, then stopped. His hands gripped the edges of the podium, white knuckled. “My sister was beautiful and brutal.” I saw Teresa clutch at Glen’s arm. Then, Silas said, “I wrote this poem for her. ‘The low moon lags beside men out late. . . .’”

  He struggled and strained against words that he still desperately wanted to believe. He had meant for this poem to feel safe, protective; it felt so backward here at a funeral. I stared at his lips, at the way he formed each word with intentionality, like each one was a gift for his sister—which I supposed was true, both then and now. The church was full, but this moment was between Silas and Laurel alone.

  Silas’s voice faltered. He pressed his lips together, and I could see him swallow hard. Bereft, he looked up, looked into the crowd. I knew it wasn’t me he needed—just strength somehow—and though it cost me, I straightened in my seat and met his eye, nodded once. That second felt like ten minutes, and I swear I wanted to run to the front of the church and hold him, wanted to take the paper from his trembling hand and read it myself.

  He looked back at the poem. “‘What words work . . .’”

  You’re a distraction, I reminded myself bitterly. Just a distraction.

  I was the only person in the room—except maybe for Whit, I didn’t know—who understood what it meant when Silas adjusted his tie at the pulpit, his two fingers pausing for a millisecond over his heart.

  Displays were set up in the lobby: photos and trophies and a looping home video of Laurel’s dance recitals. On a table with the guestbook sat the small pile of picture books Arty had given her the afternoon we’d spent in the Mayhew attic. I signed my name to the guestbook, offered the pen to Whit—who refused it with a terse dismissal—and then opened Vivien’s New Friend.

  Inside, the illustrated girl from the cover held a doll—a tiny ballerina with a red dress and gloves, and small silver toe shoes.

  My breath caught.

  I closed the book and moved it to the bottom of the stack.

  Without warning, Whit hurried toward the door. Suddenly on my own, the same panicked feeling returned. My mom was talking with Mrs. Hart. My dad was talking to Silas. Dad had a hand on Silas’s shoulder, and I could almost feel the weight of it, the strength and solace of it. I hurried out after Whit.

  I was surprised to find it was still morning. The funeral had seemed to last hours and hours. Whit was making a beeline for his car. I jogged to catch up to him. “You okay?” I asked, wondering if I looked as destroyed as he did.

  “I don’t think so,” he said, his voice quiet, hoarse.

  “Are you going to the burial?”

  He already had his car door open. He turned around and shook his head, just slightly. “I can’t do it. I can’t watch them. I have to go.”

  “Whit,” I said, and it was a plea.

  He paused but didn’t look at me.

  “Whit, I have no one to talk to about this,” I said.

  “You have Silas,” he said.

  “No. I don’t.” I didn’t elaborate.

  After a few more moments of silence stretched between us, he nodded his head toward his passenger door. “Get in.”

  Whit’s mom and stepdad weren’t home, so Whit went straight for the liquor cabinet, grabbed a big bottle of wh
iskey, and took it outside, where the two of us sat on a trampoline, trading off the bottle between us.

  “Is this wrong, you think?” I asked after taking a gulp that burned my throat. “When alcohol is what probably killed her?”

  “You think that was it, then?” Whit answered. “That it was a drunk-driving accident?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “Do you still think she . . .”

  “I can’t decide which way is worse,” he said.

  “Silas thinks it’s my fault,” I said. I hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

  “No, he doesn’t. Why would it be your fault?” Whit responded. “That’s stupid. He thinks it’s his fault.”

  “It’s because of me that we . . . disappeared.” I paused. “How do you know he thinks it’s his fault?”

  “He told me,” Whit said, taking another drink. “I went over to their place to get the note.”

  “What note?”

  “The note Laurel was writing to me in a notebook.” Whit tipped the bottle up, slammed another gulp, and then pulled the note out of the pocket of his dress pants. “Here.”

  Dear Whit,

  You’ve made me happier than I’ve been in ages. Whatever happens, I’m hoping

  “Is that it? It ends in the middle of a sentence?”

  He nodded. “What do you think?”

  “Are you asking me if it’s a suicide note?”

  Whit looked grave. “I told her the worst thing my dad did was not leave a note. Was she trying to . . . spare me?”

  “I don’t know.” I looked at the note again. “I mean, it’s maybe a little weird that she didn’t write, ‘You make me happier’—present tense—but it doesn’t prove anything. You’d think if she knew it was a good-bye letter, she’d have finished.”

  “But what does ‘whatever happens’ mean? And what was she hoping?”

  “Oh, gosh, Whit,” I said, leaning back and staring at the clouds. “Could be anything. Like, it could mean, ‘Whatever happens between you and me this next year, I’m hoping we’ll stay friends.’”

  “Or ‘Whatever happens to me, I’m hoping you’ll forgive me and move on,’ that sort of thing.”

  “I don’t know,” I whispered.

  “Seems like that’s all anyone ever says these days.”

  “I hate it. But the police report—that will have some answers, right? That’ll be good.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed, lying down beside me.

  “How are you doing?” I asked. The whiskey was starting to get to me: I couldn’t remember if I’d asked him this already.

  Whit turned his head and looked at me like I was crazy. “I’m fucking awful,” he said. “You?”

  “Same.”

  “The night before my dad died, we played catch. Did you know that?”

  I shook my head, took another drink. It was either because I was lying down or because I was tipsier than I thought that a little came spilling out the sides of my mouth. “Shit,” I muttered. I felt it drip down my neck.

  “We played catch,” Whit continued, “and he seemed so happy. He told me about the day I was born and about when Jenna was born, and about when he and Mom got married, and I thought things were getting better. And then . . . not even twenty-four hours later, he was gone. And no note.

  “Laurel,” he continued, “was so happy at the dance. I should have known. I should have said something.” He started to cry.

  “No,” I said. “Shhh, you couldn’t know.”

  It would be so convenient to blame Whit. I wanted to blame him. Anything to make it someone else’s fault. My tongue felt loose and ready, and I wondered if I was drunk.

  “Did you—?” My words died on my lips. I had been going to ask, Did you love her? but it was one answer I didn’t need. Maybe didn’t even want.

  We lay on the trampoline, our heads together, and Whit cried. “I sh’d go,” I said, my words slurring a little.

  “I drove you,” Whit reminded me. “I’ll call someone to come get you.”

  “Not my parents.”

  “No.”

  I forgot everything for just a moment while Whit dialed a number on his cell phone. “Yeah, can you come get West?” I heard him say as I eased into a stupor and fell asleep.

  thirty-two

  “You’re an idiot, Whit,” I heard someone say what felt like only a moment later. “You got her drunk?”

  “You don’t know anything about it,” Whit replied. “You barely even knew her.” This I took to mean Laurel. “And I didn’t force her to do anything.” This I took to mean me.

  I blinked my eyes against the late-afternoon sunlight.

  “You knew she’d be a lightweight,” he accused. “She hardly ever drinks.”

  I sat up. My head felt a little dizzy, but mostly okay.

  It was Elliot.

  “Hey,” he said. “I’m your ride. Let’s go.”

  I didn’t argue, but I felt stupid. I climbed down off the trampoline, then stumbled, falling onto my butt.

  “Oh shit,” Elliot said, presumably still to Whit, “I’m going to have to sober her up before I take her home. She’ll be dead if her parents see her like this.”

  “Hey, watch your words, man. Fuck you,” said Whit.

  Elliot helped me up off the ground, slung an arm around my waist, and helped me move toward the driveway.

  “Bye, Whit,” I chimed lazily.

  We approached a junky white Pontiac with rust stains near the wheels. “No more minivan?” I asked, nodding toward the car.

  “Finally saved up enough for this piece of shit,” he said, kicking at a tire. “C’mon, let’s go.” He opened the passenger door for me and helped me in, taking care with my head, then walked around the car and climbed into the driver’s seat.

  “What about Whit?” I asked.

  “He’ll be fine. He’s not going anywhere.”

  “You yelled at him.”

  “He yelled at me too. We do that. We’ll be okay. Where to? I can’t take you home yet.”

  “I don’t care.” I just wanted the wind in my face.

  “Here, drink this,” he said, handing me a bottle of water. “Whit’s an asshole. He could have gotten in big trouble for drinking with you today.”

  “Really?”

  “I don’t know. Probably.”

  “I think Sgt. Kirkwood likes him.”

  “Sgt. Kirkwood likes everyone,” Elliot said. “But the last girl Whit drank with is dead.”

  Those words started to sober me up.

  “Laurel,” I said, looking out the window.

  “What?”

  “You never say her name.”

  “Look, are you pissed at me?” he asked.

  I looked over at him, shocked. “No. Why would I be? Are you pissed at me?”

  “A little,” he admitted.

  “That’s . . . fair,” I said, and he actually grinned.

  Despite what I had said before, it turned out I did care where we went, because Elliot chose the public beach on Green Lake. Seeing the lifeguard stand, sentry of the empty beach, gave me this spastic attack of memories: wet shoulder to wet shoulder, feeling safe. The image felt like a paper cut on my heart, and I flinched a little, remembering. In my head, I heard Silas’s voice, soft and low through his chattering teeth, reciting:

  The broken heart has

  its own stark splendor.

  Did I believe that? Not today.

  “Keep drinking that,” Elliot said, nodding at the bottle of water. “Feeling any better?”

  I gulped the water.

  “How ya doing after—you know?” Elliot asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said, unbuckling my seat belt and turning to face him. “Bad?”

  “Is that a question?”

  “No, I guess not. It’s a statement.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  He meant Silas. “I don’t know,” I said. “We’re not really speaking right now.”

  Elliot’s eyebrows went
up. “What happened there?”

  I shrugged, not wanting to talk about it, especially not to Elliot. Hadn’t he guessed something was up when Whit called him to come get me?

  “Thanks for picking me up.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “I treated you like shit, and then you didn’t even think twice before coming to get me from Whit’s house.”

  “Ahh, that would be false,” he confessed. “I thought at least three or four times first.”

  “You still did it.” My eyes were stinging, but I held back any tears; loneliness blanketed me. “I never deserved you,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  “West—”

  “You’ve always been there for me.”

  “And always will be,” he said, leaning over to kiss my cheek.

  But I turned toward him and kissed his mouth. I saw his eyes widen in surprise but felt him receive me as he returned the kiss. I wasted no time crawling over the center console into his lap. I straddled him, kissing him harder and harder, while the steering wheel dug into my lower back.

  His arms wrapped around me, and my hands were behind his head, forcing his face to mine. Our mouths bruised against each other, tongues forcing teeth apart, devouring, greedy. We had never kissed like this before. I tasted blood, and I wasn’t sure if I’d bitten his lip or he’d bitten mine.

  Elliot felt my tears on his face before I felt them on my own. I heard someone making a quiet sobbing noise, and was mildly surprised to discover it was me.

  “West,” he said, pulling away.

  But I kissed him again, harder. “Please,” I said, embarrassed at how much it sounded like a plea.

  “West. West, stop,” he said, surprisingly gentle as he conceded, “It’s not me you’re missing right now.” He looked regretful. “I wish it was.” Then he wrapped his arms around me and shifted my position so that he was holding me while I cried into his shoulder. “It’s okay. It’s okay,” he said, and I was being rocked like a baby by this huge football thug. I couldn’t stop my tears. “Shhh,” he said. “Is this about Laurel or about Silas?”