The Last Summer of Us

by Maggie Harcourt

  “I guess not.”

  I picture Becca, sneering at me. I picture us, the three of us, sitting up on the hill by the pillbox. I picture Jared, carrying a lantern and setting it down between us and I figure it’s okay.

  “You know about my mother, right?”

  And I tell him. I tell him about the drink. I tell him about the slurring and the forgetting and the falling down stairs. I tell him about the nights I had to put her to bed because she couldn’t do it herself. I tell him about all the times I was the parent and she was the child. I tell him about the bottles hidden around the house: in wardrobes and cupboards and tucked into corners. I tell him the truth of it – because what’s the point in pretending? I tell him all the things I’ve carried with me, quiet and close, the things I couldn’t bear to think about, let alone say out loud; the things I didn’t even realize I had words for – and I know I can, because of the pillbox and the shower block and Barley Vale; because of the lantern; because of the bonfire and the night and the sound of the waves on the beach. The fire burns it and the darkness smothers it and the waves wash it all away.

  He sits and listens and I talk and I talk and I talk and it’s all pouring out of me suddenly. Things I’ve never told anyone; not Amy, not Steff. No one. And now I’m telling Jared and I can’t stop. Might as well try to stop the tide going out. Might as well try and hold the whole beach in my hands.

  I tell him about the fights. About the time I came home and found both my parents drunk and bruised and my father telling me to pick a side. I tell him how my dad locked all the doors and sat down at the table; how he hid my phone and pulled the landline out of the wall and how my mother just sat on the floor and stared into space. How I climbed out of the window and ran to our neighbours, and how he’s never forgiven me yet. Did I pick the right side? I wonder. Was there ever going to be one? I couldn’t say, because this doesn’t feel like winning.

  I tell him how I know everyone in town knows about the drinking. How they probably knew long before me. How it’s unfair that a town which thinks it’s fun to go out on a Friday night and get collectively hammered can stand and point fingers on a Monday morning. The sheer injustice of the comments behind my back. The whispers I didn’t pick up on until it was too late, and I can’t decide if I wish I had noticed them sooner. Because you shouldn’t wish for things you wouldn’t like. But what would I rather: that people in our stupid little town, where everyone knows everybody else’s business before they know it themselves, were laughing at my mother, or at me? Which is worse? To be the one at fault or the one tainted by someone else’s mistakes?

  And when the flood subsides and I don’t have the words any more, I stop. I have to. The light from the bonfire casts long, distorted shadows and if I squint I can just about make out Steffan with his arm slung around the shoulder of one of the surfer dudes. He’s still laughing, and I’m sure I can smell cigars. He’s obviously been making friends and handing out the rest of the box. Good riddance, I say. They’re vile things, and not nearly as cool as he thinks they are (although naturally the surfers think they’re The Best Thing Ever). Every now and again, the fire flares blue and green, shooting up sparks from the salt in the burning driftwood.

  Jared waits the longest time, and then I hear him sigh. He rolls his empty bottle between the palms of his hands. The glass catches the light from the bonfire and glitters between his fingers. Grains of sand fall to the floor of the boat like stardust. “Can I tell you something?” he says, and it’s not really a question. It’s a plea; a prayer for absolution. Jared’s opening the shutters, unlocking the doors. Letting the mask drop – even if it’s only by a fraction.

  “Sure.”

  “You won’t like it.”

  “Oh.”

  What’s he going to tell me? He’s already with someone. He’s with Becca. Ha! No. Not that. But what if…what if he tells me that he’s had enough and he’s leaving too? That Steffan leaving, that his mother and her newly-planned life without him, they’re all it takes for him to shrug and pack his bags and disappear. What if he’s leaving too? What if, what if – what if I lose them both?

  He’s watching me. Waiting for me to put my listening face on. I’m sure I have one; I’ve always used it in chemistry, even when I haven’t got a clue what the hell is going on around me. Maybe it’s not my Listening Face so much as my…actual face. Just my face. Still. It’ll have to do. I arrange my face into what I hope looks like the kind of face someone who’s listening would wear, and I listen. After all, he’s listened to me, hasn’t he?

  “It was at the funeral. Your mum’s,” he adds – just in case I don’t know which one he means. “At the funeral, in the church. I was thinking about you…”

  (Oh really? No. Stop it. Listening Face.)

  “…and I was thinking about Steff…”

  (Ah. Bugger. Stand down, soldier.)

  “…and about his mum’s funeral…”

  (Well. That escalated quickly…)

  “…and about how life would go if mine wasn’t here any more either.”

  (Don’t wish for things you wouldn’t like, Jared. Sound advice there. I even gave it to myself about three minutes ago.)

  “I know it sounds bad. It’s just…I don’t know.”

  “‘Bad’ is one way of putting it, yes.”

  “Forget it. Forget I said anything, alright?” He’s still rolling the bottle between his hands – faster now, back and forth, back and forth. Listening Face didn’t do the trick, obviously. My hands have gone cold and hot at the same time, and there’s a lump in my throat. I swallow it back down and I curl my fingers into fists because look at him. Rolling the bottle between his hands, his head down and looking like he’s all alone in the world. There’s a reason he’s telling me this and not Steffan – and much as I’d love to think it’s because he felt the same thing I did earlier on the wall, I know he’s telling me because he doesn’t think he can tell Steffan.

  Why doesn’t he think he can tell Steffan?

  He feels like he’s all alone, and he needs someone to show him that’s not true.

  “It’s not just my mum,” he says, and thank god the Listening Face seems to be holding up. “It’s my dad too. If they were gone – just gone – then there wouldn’t be all this. I’d be free, wouldn’t I? I wouldn’t be their kid. I’d just be me. Whoever that’s supposed to be.” He says the last part with a laugh; tries to hide it behind his hand as he rubs his jaw.

  Who are any of us supposed to be? That’s the big question, isn’t it?

  “It’s like you said – everybody talking about you and your family, everyone whispering behind your back. I know that. I know how it feels. Every single day – only it’s not just Becca bloody Roberts, is it? It’s the local paper. It’s the news. It’s Dad being hauled out of the house by the police again, and this time he’s stolen from everyone you know. From your friends. And you have to walk past them every day. You’ve got classes with them the day after he’s sentenced.”

  “He’s coming back, though. Maybe you should try and patch it up.”

  “I don’t want to patch it up.”

  “He’s your dad…”

  “He’s a liar and a thief and an all-round shit, Lim.” He lowers his eyes, drops his voice until I can barely hear it over the sound of the waves on the beach. “Besides, I’m not you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that you’re the one who would be able to do that. You’re better than this. Better than me.”

  “Am I interrupting?” Steffan’s timing remains impeccable. He swings himself into the beached boat with a grin, his voice a little too loud.

  “Bit late to ask now, isn’t it?” Jared mumbles, turning his face away.

  Steffan’s eyebrow shoots up. “Oh, is it?” He makes a clicking sound out of the corner of his mouth. I wish I didn’t know what that meant, but I do. Bloody Steffan.

  “Shut up, Steff.” Everything feels taut; strained somehow.
Stretched. Like we’re all holding back, pulling our punches. There’s something in here with us. Something else. Not one of our attendant ghosts; it has too much weight, too much bulk for that. Something that can do more damage than a ghost. A secret.

  “So, what are we talking about?” He leans back slightly and tries to put his feet up on the side of the boat. He misses and his legs drop down with a thump, knocking the remains of the sandcastle over. RIP castle. We barely knew you. Steffan’s trying to figure out what to do with his feet now he can’t put them up, and Jared’s mood is sinking fast again. I can feel it pulling us all down with it, just like in Barley Vale.

  Barley Vale, where Jared said he wanted to see what his father had done; where he realized that it was all still there. To see that the rust might be setting in, but the foundations were still strong: chipped and damaged but still standing.

  Barley Vale, where Steffan pulled away and gave him that look that was so unlike him. So unlike them.

  Something I’ve not seen. Something I’ve been missing.

  Steffan, so reluctant to tell us he’s leaving. Steffan, who’s been my best friend for years. Steffan, who’s known Jared for ever.

  Jared, who is so angry with his father. Jared, on edge and so guilty and always standing back watching and listening and…

  Something I’ve missed because I’ve been caught up in my own head. In my grief. Tangled in this strange dark thing with teeth and claws and a thousand thousand blinding-black scales.

  “Steffan,” I say, and my voice is small. “Why are you leaving really?”

  twenty-one

  There’s a silence in our little boat. It’s thick and it’s heavy and it comes between us like a curtain. We are three people all adrift, lost at sea – even on the sand. We are alone, however together we might seem.

  Steffan shifts on his narrow seat. “Why am I going?”

  “Why are you going?”

  “Told you. Dad. Headhunted. All that.” He waves an arm at the night.

  “Bollocks.” Why couldn’t I see it before? Lying, lying, lying. He might be telling the truth about the job, the headhunting – but that’s not all of it. That’s why I couldn’t see it: a partial truth is so much easier to pass than a whole lie.

  “You want to know?”

  “No. I’m asking for fun. Of course I want to know!”

  “Ask him.” He jerks his thumb towards Jared, who crumples inside. I see it happen. It’s not the look on his face, which stays just the same. It’s the way he holds his shoulders, the way he carries himself.

  “Don’t,” he says quietly.

  Steffan scowls. “She asked.”

  I’m on the verge of telling them both to grow up – mostly because they’re both scaring me now – when Jared cracks.

  “They’re broke,” he says quietly. There is nothing beyond the boat but the sand and the stars and the faltering light from the bonfire. “They’re broke because he took it all.”

  I don’t need to ask who he means.

  It explains a lot: the odd looks between them, the half-sentences. Why Steffan’s left it until he’s as good as gone before he tells us he’s leaving. Why Barley Vale meant so much to Jared, and why Steffan was so unlike himself. It might have made Jared feel better, but how did it help Steff?

  “You’re broke?” I turn towards him.

  He throws his arms wide and flops backwards, banging his head on the side of the boat. “Broke as a very, very broke thing.”

  “But…the house…”

  “Not ours any more.”

  “Your dad’s car?”

  “Nope.”

  (I decide not to remind either of them that the last time anyone saw the keys for that, Jared was lobbing them into the pond.)

  “Your car?”

  “Christ, you don’t think anyone’d actually want that thing, do you?” He’s right about that: even I wouldn’t want the Rust Bucket – not unless you disinfected every centimetre of it, and then nuked it just to be sure. Some of the crap he keeps in there is…well, it’s unsanitary.

  “You’re not going to lose your violin, are you?”

  “No.” He sounds pretty sure. “That’s mine. All part of my inheritance, remember? Anyway, who’s going to be brave enough to try and take that away? Doesn’t scan well, does it: bailiffs take away son’s treasured violin, bought with his dead mother’s legacy…” He presses a hand to his forehead.

  “Would you just stop?” Jared snaps. “Stop.”

  “What’s your problem?” Steff asks, sitting up again. “It’s not like you’re having to leave, is it? It’s not like your friend’s dad came along and took your dad for everything he had – and then some; it’s not like you went into your mate’s house and looked around and wondered exactly what had been bought with your mum’s life insurance, is it? It’s not like it happened to you, so what’s your problem?”

  “Steff!” I’m appalled at how casually cruel he’s being. It’s more than the words, it’s the sound of them. The feel of them. The feeling behind them. No wonder Jared couldn’t talk to him about his dad.

  Why didn’t I know this? Why didn’t Steffan tell me? Why’ve I been so thick that I couldn’t see it before now?

  Steffan catches my eye, and I see myself through his eyes for a second, all open-mouthed and fish-faced. Still. He’s seen me looking worse. Ugly-crying, the works. And Steffan being Steffan, he knows exactly what I’m thinking, too.

  “Nobody’s perfect, remember? Parents included. His, yours. Mine…”

  “But Steff—”

  “Nope.”

  “Steff—”

  “Not listening.” He’s stuffed his fingers in his ears.

  “Steff!”

  Whatever I’m about to say, or however he’s about to stop me, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because Jared suddenly pushes himself up and leaps out of the boat, sprinting away from us across the beach and into the dark. The little dinghy rocks wildly on the sand – and then Steffan and I are both out of the boat too and chasing him into the night.

  Steff, always so much faster than me, streaks ahead in the darkness. I can hear the ffut ffut ffut of his feet in the sand, hear it scattering behind him – and it’s funny, because this is so very like it was earlier, with the three of us racing across the sand…only this time it’s backwards and wrong and I’m still so angry with myself for not seeing it before.

  Because it’s not about me, is it? It’s not about me and it’s not about Steffan and it’s not about Jared: it’s bigger than that. It’s about the damage our parents have done in their own way – to each of us, to all of us, to each other. Even when they didn’t mean to. It’s about the distance we put between them and us; the distance we need to put between them and us, just like the distance Jared’s trying so hard to put between himself and Steffan right now.

  He’s running the wrong way. He’s running into the dark and away from his friends, deeper and deeper into the shadow his father casts. The wrong way.

  The bonfire lies far behind us now, and they’re somewhere ahead of me, and there I am caught between the two. Always the way. I can just make out their silhouettes, hear their voices – quieter than I’d expected. One of them grabbing at the other, and the other shoving back and lashing out. Lashing out less at his friend and more at the world, at the past, at the sheer unfairness of being his father and mother’s son…

  But he’s more than that, isn’t he? We all are.

  I’ve almost reached them when I hear Jared’s voice raised. “Don’t you think I feel bad enough already? What do you want me to say? That I feel like it’s my fault? That you have to move away, that I lose my best mate because of what my dad did? Fine. I’ve said it. Does that make you happy? Does it make it better?” I see his hand slamming into Steffan’s chest, see Steff tumble backwards and land on his back in the sand. Jared leans forward and grabs a handful of his T-shirt, hauling him to his feet – and Steff raises his hands but Jared’s not letting go and I’
m running faster than I ever thought I could because this is one of those moments when the world shifts and we could spin away and apart…and if we do, what will pull us back together?

  “Stop!”

  Their heads turn towards me – but Jared’s other hand is still raised, and even as he lets go of Steffan’s shirt and steps back, he shakes his head and leans in close and says something quiet and low…and now it’s Steff’s turn to lose his temper. I don’t know what Jared said but it’s pushed his buttons, and his pride is wounded and he has to Be A Big Man. He puffs his chest out and steps in close to Jared again, his face in Jared’s and a finger jabbing at his chest so that Jared is forced to take a step back…and everything is tipping and spinning, and then I’ve reached them and I’m sliding between them and pushing them apart.

  And here we are.

  Steffan. Me. Jared.

  We define ourselves by our relationships to each other. The Quiet One. The Rich One (well, that’s going to have to change, isn’t it?). The Responsible One. We define ourselves by our relationships to our parents: what they’ve done, who they are. Who we think they are. We pick our way between the open wounds they’ve left, but sooner or later every open wound will fester.

  Sometimes, you just have to let the wounds close.

  “You really want this to be how it ends? Do you?” I look from one to the other of them. To Steffan: “You think this would make your mum proud? You want to take this with you to her grave tomorrow? All mouth, no heart. That’s not you. Get a grip.”

  To Jared: “You want to let him win? You want to let your dad take everything you are, everything you really have from you too? All that talk, all that stuff about being better? Well, you’re better than this – and you know it. I know it.”

  Neither of them answers. Smart boys.

  “Right then. Let it go. Just…let it go.”

  On either side of me, they relax. The shadows of their parents, their fathers and their mothers, pass over us and drift away into the night – just like my own mother’s will. In time.

  “Are we done?” I’m reluctant to drop my hands, in case my palms are the only things keeping them from tearing seven shades of shit out of one another. We all know they could have stepped around me, but it’s symbolic, isn’t it? And we all know Steffan can’t simply stop feeling what he’s feeling – and neither can Jared…but now they know what’s at stake. They’ve weighed it and measured it, seen the two ways this could go. And they’ve both chosen the same direction. There’s a long pause and then…