Closer

by Mary Elizabeth

  “I’m right here,” I say softly, pressing my lips to the back of his neck. Teller’s body heat seeps through the shirt he lent me after our bath, and I mend myself to his form, wanting every part of me to touch every part of him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  The sound of his grief demolishes my heart, but it’s not a burden I let him bear alone. I sit against the headboard and guide his head to my lap, where I cradle him gently to rake my fingers through his hair and catch his tears in the palm of my hand. Sadness streams steadily down my cheeks, but I don’t take this moment from him, and give it entirely to Teller.

  “We have to leave this room eventually,” Teller says sometime later.

  My head’s back and my eyes are shut, unafraid of the images that come to life behind my closed lids with him in my arms. I replay the accident from beginning to end over and over again with perfect clarity, able to point out things I missed while it happened and I was in shock. The trace of gasoline mixed with burnt rubber is so strong, it’s as if I’m standing wreck side. Transported back to the scene of the crime nearly two days later, I can count broken glass on the street and look into the faces of every person circled around the debris.

  And then there’s Teller, trying to save everyone.

  “We can stay a little longer,” I reply, pulling his hair between my fingers.

  “Are you hungry? Do you want me to go downstairs and get you anything?”

  I open my eyes and smile, even if he can’t see it. “The only thing I need is for you to stay with me, just like this. Let me take care of you for a little while.”

  “Ella, what are you doing?” Teller groans. “Stop shaking the fucking bed.”

  “I thought that was you,” I say in a sleep-thick tone. We’ve completely shifted positions, wrapped in heavy blankets and in each other. He’s underneath me on his stomach, and I’m lying across his back with one foot hanging off the side of the bed. I drooled on his shoulder.

  “How can I do anything pinned beneath you? When did you get so heavy, anyway?”

  “Eat shit,” I say, doing nothing to move my heaviness from his cozy body. “I’m lovely.”

  “Seriously, Smella, stay still or go sleep in another room.”

  “Does it feel like it’s getting worse?” I ask, lifting my head to look around. The ceiling fan above the bed trembles, and the shutters over the windows tremble against the glass. All our things on the nightstands shake, shake, shake to the floor. “It sounds like a fleet of diesels are about to drive down the street.”

  My heartbeat accelerates when the bedroom door is kicked open and Emerson rushes in. He’s naked, holding parts no sister should see in his hands. “Earthquake, motherfuckers!”

  Teller and I dash to correct ourselves, kicking off blankets and straightening the clothes we slept in. He jumps from the bed first, quick to reach for my hand and pull me out the door and down the stairs. Nicolette bolts from the guest bedroom across from Teller’s, tying her robe and cursing her boyfriend.

  Frames fall from the walls, books fall from shelves, and cupboards in the kitchen slam open and closed. Husher, Maby, and Emerson are outside, so Teller follows them to the front lawn. The six of us stand in the grass and watch the entire house sway from side to side as the ground rolls under our feet.

  “It’s never going to end,” Emerson whines. “The world is ending.”

  Like us, a few of our neighbors find safety on their lawns to avoid the roof collapsing on their heads or being injured by a flying plate. Thankfully, Teller’s shirt hangs to my knees, and he’s not entirely inappropriate in a pair of boxers that hangs low on his hips. Everyone else is in pajamas with no indecent body parts exposed.

  Except my brother.

  “Did you seriously ditch me to save the TV?” Nicolette asks. She crosses her arms over her chest.

  “Emerson!” I scold, trying my hardest not to laugh.

  “What? I couldn’t leave it to get destroyed. Teller just got it, and there’s a game on later.” He looks to his girlfriend, sympathetic but unapologetic.

  Standing with his bare ass facing the street, naked and afraid saves us from a full-frontal experience by covering his man parts with Teller’s brand new sixty-inch television he ripped from the wall. Morning sunlight reflects from the surface right into Nic’s eyes, tipping her over the edge of madness and making it impossible for me not to laugh.

  “Find a way to fuck that TV, because you’re not touching me anytime soon.”

  “Babe, don’t be like that.” The television slips from his fingers, but his grip tightens.

  Emerson’s linebacker big—at the gym seven days a week muscular. My brother sacrificed a lot after our father died and he took me on full time, including his aspiration in law enforcement. He couldn’t think about the police academy when his little sister needed to be taken care of, and after a while, obligations and a steady paycheck forced his dream further out of reach.

  Not long after our move to LA, his large physique was noticed and appreciated. He got involved in personal security and works for a celebrity bodyguard service. Which only makes this situation more ridiculous.

  The only thing Emerson guarded today was the high definition flat screen.

  “Do you think it’s safe to go inside?” Maby asks when the ground stops shaking.

  “I’ll probably chill out here for a while. There’s going to be an aftershock after an earthquake like that.” My brother turns from the house to us, blinding our eyes with the reflection of the all mighty sun. “But can someone throw me some sweats? Babe, will you make coffee?”

  Nicolette shakes her head in disbelief. “You are an absolute idiot.”

  He doesn’t rally for her attention when she heads toward the house and turns to me instead. “Sissy, you’ll make me coffee, right?”

  I throw my hands up and back away. “I’m staying out of this one.”

  “And I’m going to need this,” Teller says, taking his TV from Em.

  Emerson’s hands immediately cover his private parts, but I rush after Maby and Husher to stay on the side of caution. The damage caused by shifting fault lines is superficial and broken glass is an easy fix. Teller hooks the TV up so we watch the local news, and I run upstairs to put on a pair of shorts and some shoes. I’m tying my laces when I see a pair of Kristi’s nude heels peeking from under the bed.

  My heart drops to my stomach.

  The entire city just shook, and they’re dead.

  Tectonic plates moved, and they are not here.

  The Earth could tip on its axis, and they would still be gone.

  I kick Kristi’s shoes under the bed and run down the stairs before grief I won’t win a war against invades, ending this brief cease-fire. Teller catches the shirt I toss to him, and I go to the kitchen to sweep broken coffee mugs from the floor. My hands tremble, so I grip the broom harder and concentrate on what I’m doing.

  I won’t think about Joe. I won’t think about him in a morgue. I won’t think about never hearing the sound of his voice again.

  “Let me do that.” Teller hijacks the broom, but instead of taking over, he draws me against his body and holds me close. The broom crashes to the tile, scattering the small pile of glass I swept.

  “It’s been two days since the accident, Tell. We can’t pretend this didn’t happen. Neither one of us has made a single phone call, I haven’t talked to anyone from the hospital, and we’ve disregarded their families.” Grief blooms to panic, and I push myself away from Teller, needing space to breathe. “Does anyone even know where they are? Someone has to make funeral arrangements, right?”

  “Stop,” Teller says, grasping my face in his hands. My tears spill over his fingers. “Everything will be taken care of, Ella. After we clean this mess, we’ll figure out what needs to be done. I promise to handle it.”

  It’s a blurry line between grief and logic, but I manage to keep myself in one piece while we put the house back together. Husher threw Emerson a blanket to cover hi
mself, and he eventually joined us once enough time passed without an aftershock. The news reported the tremor as a 4.0, centered ten miles away.

  I try not to pay too close attention to the television in case something’s reported about the wreck that killed our friends, but forty-eight hours later, we’re the only people in the city who care.

  “When was the last time either one of you ate?” Maby asks, opening the built-in refrigerator. She grabs ingredients to make her brother and me a turkey sandwich, dropping an armful of vegetables, deli meat, and condiments to the counter.

  Teller and I sit beside each other at the bar, and I didn’t think I was hungry until she mentioned food and my stomach roared. The younger Reddy kid has dark circles under her jade eyes, and her skin is as pale as porcelain. She’s a natural caretaker with the best interest intentions, so I’m not surprised she’s made herself at home while Teller and I locked ourselves in his bedroom.

  “There’s not an easy way to start this conversation, but we should probably hash out details while I have you in front of me.” Maby spreads mustard and mayonnaise onto four pieces of bread with a butter knife. Her chin quivers, but she maintains a straight face. “I’ve been in touch with the coroner. Autopsies were performed on Joe and Kristi, and their families requested death certificates and burial forms.”

  “Joe’s not going to be buried in California, is he?” I attempt to mimic Maby’s strength but crack at the edges, unable to keep my face from falling.

  She doesn’t meet my eyes and slices a steak knife into an overripe tomato. “I don’t think so, Ella.”

  “And Kristi?” Teller asks.

  The tomato splits apart, oozing seeds onto the cutting board. Maby tosses the blade into the sink on top of other dirty dishes. “Mom actually spoke to Mrs. Reinhart, Tell. Her body’s going to be transported to Anchorage tomorrow. The funeral’s in a week.”

  Teller scrubs his hands down his face. “I don’t know why I expected them to wait.”

  “The flight’s booked,” Husher says, pulling out a chair for him and Nicolette at the kitchen table. Just like Maby, sleeplessness bruises their eyes and washes color from their complexion. We’re echoes of the people we were days ago. “We’ll go together.”

  This house contains the sorrow of six people, and its claws are sunk deep into our hearts. We tried to ignore it, but avoidance did nothing to help our loss hurt less, and taking it head-on is killing us. Sadness spills freely from my eyes, dripping onto my untouched sandwich, and I can’t bring myself to take a bite despite the growl in my stomach.

  Maby leans against the counter, noticing how closer Teller and I sit near each other, and continues. “Ella, we know this is tough, but if you can get in touch with Joe’s family, maybe they’ll work around the date of Kristi’s funeral. It’s a shitty thing to ask, but I would hate for them to fall on the same day. Especially since they’re on opposite sides of the country. If you give me their phone number, I—”

  “No, I’ll do it. I’ll call them right now.”

  “Eat first,” Teller says as I slip from my seat. He hasn’t touched his food.

  “Can someone wrap that up for me? I’m not really hungry.”

  “Gabriella, don’t go back into that room, please,” my brother bids. I recognize the concern in his eyes. “I can take you home, sissy. I’ll look after you there.”

  I walk past him and climb the stairs to Teller’s room where my phone’s on the charger with the ringer still off. There’s comfort in this lightless sanctuary. Familiarity and the sense of affection, which comes with Teller, make me feel safe. The walls smell like ginger and nicotine, and the pillows still hold the shape of my head from the night before.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed with my phone in hand, I don’t give myself a chance to back out and dial the number. It rings once before a somber gentleman’s voice answers, and an explosion of nervous heat ruptures through my body.

  “Hello, is someone there?” he asks when I don’t respond right away.

  My heart beats me. It hammers at me. It swings and punches. “Umm … yes, this is Gabriella Mason. We’ve met before. I’m Joe’s girl—”

  “Do you know how many times I’ve tried to get ahold of you?” Subdued shifts to barefaced wrath.

  I bite my bottom lip before replying, “I know. I’m—”

  “You know?” He stops me, raising his voice even louder than before. His thick New York accent distorts his words. “Then you must know that my wife and I learned from a stranger that our only son was killed. It was something like, five in the morning, and I wasn’t going to answer my phone because I didn’t recognize the number, but thank God I did, Gabriella. Would we even know Joe passed otherwise? Would we know if it was left up to you? If it wasn’t for the coroner finding my number in Joe’s phone, would I still think my son is alive right now?”

  “I’m so sorry,” I choke out.

  “You’re sorry?” he questions, scoffing. “That’s what you have to say to me? You’re sorry?”

  “It … it was an accident,” I say, slipping from the mattress to the floor.

  “The wreck that killed Joseph or your negligence since it happened?”

  I cover my mouth with my hand and swallow anguish deep into my belly. There’s nothing to say to this man—to the person who gave life to Joe—to a grieving father. His anger is warranted, and I’m a coward. I deserve this.

  “Are you there?” Mr. West asks.

  I nod my head as if he can see me and whisper, “Yes.”

  “Assuming you have a key to Joseph’s house, you should take this time to retrieve your belongings. I’ll be in LA after the funeral to manage his assets and other effects. It would be easier for us if your side of things is taken care of before I arrive.”

  “I have a key,” I say softly.

  “Leave it there once your possessions are collected,” he replies harshly.

  “David,” I speak, using his first name. My vocal cords tremble. My bones quiver. My nerve endings shake. “Please forgive my carelessness. Joe is so important to me. What happened to him has really messed me up. I should have contacted you right away, but please understand that it’s not because I don’t care for him.”

  “I never wanted him to move to California,” he replies stoically.

  “Can you give me any information about the funeral?” Dropping my head between my knees, I clench my teeth together to keep from crying out.

  “The service is in Brooklyn. Joe’s going to be buried on a plot with my parents—where his mother and I will someday be buried as well.” His voice cracks.

  “If it’s okay, I’d like to be there.”

  “Of course. A private viewing is scheduled Friday evening, and the memorial and burial service are the following morning at All Saints Catholic Church. Feel free to attend Saturday.”

  “Saturday?” I ask hesitantly.

  “Is that a problem, Gabriella?” Any trace of vulnerability he showed a moment ago is overcome by sudden suspicion.

  “A friend of mine was in the car with Joe.” I run my hands through my shampoo-needy hair and pull at the roots. “She also passed in the accident.”

  “I’m aware of Joseph’s passenger.”

  “Her funeral’s on Thursday. In Alaska, David, and I don’t know if we can travel to both states with only one day between services.”

  His voice is even when he replies, and he knowingly or unknowingly goes straight for my jugular. “Then maybe you should have picked up the first time I called you.”

  Teller, carrying my sandwich and a bag of chips, finds me on the floor with my face in my hands and the phone in pieces across the room. Thoughtfulness after the devastating conversation I suffered through officially kicks me over the point of sensibility, and I come apart.

  I pulverize into one billion pieces.

  He closes the door with his foot and sets the plate down before squatting in front of me to patch my shattered parts. His eyes are beautiful, my light at the
end of a dark, never-ending tunnel.

  “We’ll make it work, Smella,” my heart mender says. He listens with sweet consideration as I retell the details of my talk with Joe’s father. “I’ll get us there. We won’t miss it.”

  When I get to the point in the conversation when David requested I get my things from Joe’s and leave the key, Teller’s jaw tightens and he stands straight. Easily frustrated and totally overprotective, he steps onto the balcony and lights a cigarette, drenched in sunlight. I watch smoke leave his lungs and reach for the blue sky, and I’m envious as it disappears into thin air.

  “Get up and get dressed. I’ll take you to pick up your shit.” Teller’s eyes squint as he takes a long drag. He holds nicotine in his lungs as he adds, “I need to get the fuck out of this house, anyway.”

  Now

  “I should go home with Emerson after we get back.” Ella’s black bra shows through the thin white cotton T-shirt I lent her. She ties it in a knot at her waist and rolls the sleeves for a better fit. “He’s ready to get out of here, and I need my own clothes. Besides, you probably want your space.”

  “Your clothes are fine,” I say, spitting suds into the sink. After slipping my toothbrush into the holder, my eyes fall on Kristi’s pink Oral-B. Without thinking, I open a drawer and drop it inside before I face absurdity. “And why would you say some shit like that?”

  She shrugs, purposefully avoiding my eyes. Ella walks out of the bathroom, and I follow the scent of just-scrubbed skin and vanilla shampoo. Her long brown hair sweeps across her back, air-drying to a natural wave. She slips her bare feet into a pair of shoes and challenges me.

  “This isn’t a good look.” Ella points from herself to me. “I shouldn’t sleep in your bed, Teller. Joe and Kristi aren’t even buried yet, and we’re acting like they didn’t exist.”

  “Don’t be fucking ridiculous.” I pull a flat-billed hat over my head and pocket my wallet and keys. “We don’t need space from each other. That’s not what we’re about.”