The Last Thing You Said

by Sara Biren

  We were playing the Game of Life in Trixie’s basement next to the woodstove, filling our plastic cars with pastel plastic babies. We always named our husbands after our latest crushes. For a long time I’d wanted to name my plastic husband Ben, but I was too shy and embarrassed and scared of what Trixie might think. I usually chose the most popular boy in class—a tall boy named Jack who all the girls liked—or Tyler Clark, my neighbor who was in high school.

  “Congratulations!” Trixie said as she handed me a blue stick person. “I now pronounce you husband and wife. Who will it be this time? Jack? Tyler?”

  I cleared my throat and took a deep breath. “Ben.”

  Trixie jumped up. “What?!” She spun around and twirled and clapped her hands. “Oh, this is perfect.”

  “Trix,” I mumbled and tucked my chin down. My cheeks grew hot.

  “Oh, you’ll get married and have lots and lots of babies and the best part is that we’ll be sisters, Lulu. Sisters.”

  I had been so worried that she would make fun of me or be mad or jealous. But I shouldn’t have worried. This was Trixie, my sweet, caring, compassionate best friend.

  She sat back down, and I twirled the spinner, my new pinhead husband named Ben next to me in the boxy pink car.

  “What do you like best about him?” she asked.

  “Come on, Trixie.”

  “Please? Five things?”

  I named the first five things that came to mind: his one dimple that appeared when he laughed really hard. The gentle way he polished and handled his agate collection. That he called his mother “Mum” (at which point, Trixie interrupted with, “Wait a minute! I call her Mum, too!”). How adorable he looked when he held Emily. That whenever he was around, especially when we were out on the boat or swimming, I felt safe. I knew that no matter what, he would take care of me.

  It would be three years before anything happened with Ben—before I thought that maybe he liked me, too—and all the while, I quietly loved him. We spent time together, the four of us—me and Clayton, Ben and Trixie—and we spent time apart. We grew up. I bought him fudge almost every week and left it in his room, even though he never mentioned it, never thanked me. I watched while he took other girls to football games and the movies, held their hands and kissed them at their lockers.

  And Trixie was right by my side when I felt sad and inadequate and ugly, telling me that her brother was stupid and someday would realize how much he loved me.

  I’ve been pinning quotes for a long time and I’ve got a crick in my neck. I reach up one hand to rub away some of the tension. I find one last quote: It’s a good day to have a good day, swirling script over a photo of a lake.

  Trixie was wrong.

  12 · Ben

  Dana wanted to go to the movies tonight. We see every damn movie that comes to town. There’s got to be something else we could do. We could drive over to Cloud 9, the campground outside of town, and play some mini-golf or hit the Lazy River. We could hike up to the Fire Tower and drink beer high above the treetops. We could go out on the boat, have a bonfire at Guthrie’s. Anything but sit in that stifling, musty movie theater again.

  I lied and told Dana I needed to stay home to help my dad tonight, but I don’t think she bought it.

  After dinner, I head upstairs to my room and flop down on the bed. I stand up and pace, I go to the window and watch the summer world of Halcyon Lake drift by.

  Drifting.

  I turn away from the window and bang my leg into the corner of my desk. The desk where Lucy used to leave fudge for me. The desk is covered with stones and equipment—agates, a rock tumbler, sandpaper, a shallow dish with white, chalky rings of evaporated water. All this stuff used to be my dad’s, and I was so proud when he said I was old enough for it. That was fourth grade. I wanted to be like him—the fishing, the rocks. For a while I even thought I’d teach earth science, too.

  I pick up an agate from a small pile on the desk. An agate in the rough—one I’d found on a beach up the North Shore Scenic Drive along Lake Superior last summer but haven’t polished. It’s coarse and uneven and pitted on one side, so different from the beautiful striping and colors of the opposite side. It’s got a lot of potential. They say it’s worth more this way, uncut, in its natural state, but I’ve always liked the shine and design of the polished stones, the cabochons.

  I gave Lucy an agate on that North Shore trip. I wonder if she kept it or if she tossed it aside, put it in a box of sentimental garbage. Years from now she’ll pull the box out from under her bed, covered with dust, and wonder about the agate, where it came from.

  I used to have the patience for polishing stones. I used to want to make something smooth and dynamic out of something dull and misshapen, but I haven’t worked on any rocks since Trixie died. I’ve left everything the way it was, like Mum has left Trixie’s bedroom.

  I balance a few rocks into a small stack, careful to keep it from tumbling over. It reminds me of an inuksuk. Dad told us about them on our first trip to Duluth years ago when we saw a couple along the side of the road. They’re stone structures that the Inuit used as guideposts, to mark good hunting or fishing, to give direction—practical reasons, but spiritual ones, too, Dad said, as memorials or to mark a place of respect. Last summer, that last trip before Trixie died, we saw at least fifty of them at one of the rocky beaches.

  My tower is irregular, off balance, but the clink of the stones as I stack them is like a balm on my soul. I’ve created something.

  But unlike an inuksuk, these rocks don’t tell me which direction to go.

  I sweep my hand across the stack and the stones crash to the desk.

  13 · Lucy

  Monday, my day off. I sleep in, then throw on shorts and a ratty Halcyon Lake Hawks hockey T-shirt, and get to work cleaning the house, something that falls on me a lot more now that Mom and Dad are both working longer hours. I’ve got a pretty good routine down, starting at the loft at the top of our log home and working my way down, the kitchen last.

  I’ve just finished vacuuming the living room when I look through the sliding glass door and see Shay Stanford down at the lake. She and Simon have been here a couple of days. Simon and I have texted a few times, but I haven’t been home much, and I’m nervous about seeing him again. Nervous and excited.

  Shay stands with her hands on her hips, looking out over the lake, the sunlight a bright, rippling streak across the water. The trees are starting to fill out in a brilliant green, and the air is thick with the scent of lilac and lily of the valley.

  Any other time, I’d stop what I was doing and walk down to take it in, to sit in my favorite chair on the patio and let myself get lost in the cool, fresh breeze.

  I can’t do that now. Shay has set up her easel and sketch pads and what looks like a tackle box, the cover open, art supplies spilling across the table. When she turns back from the lake, the smile on her face is wide and as bright as the sunlight on the water.

  That’s got to be worth more than fifty bucks a week.

  I open up the bank of living room windows, make a quick round of the bookshelves and tables with a dust rag, and move on to the kitchen.

  The kitchen doesn’t see a lot of use these days, not with Mom at the restaurant all the time. It doesn’t take long for me to load and start the dishwasher, wipe down the countertops, and go through the stack of mail. When I’m finished, I take a glass of water out to the deck, lean over the railing, and watch Shay again. I wonder where Simon is, what he’s doing.

  I don’t have to wonder very long. When I turn to go back into the house a few minutes later, Simon Stanford is standing at the fireplace, a framed photograph in his hand.

  He’s here. My heart jumps a little, but my glance quickly moves to the mantel above the fireplace. I know the exact photo he’s taken down.

  The four of us—me and Clay, Ben and Trixie—on the dock in front of the Porters’ pontoon, two months before Trixie died. Ben stands in between me and Trixie, his arms over our
shoulders. He’s wearing jeans and a green T-shirt. But he’s not looking in the direction of the camera. He’s looking at me.

  It’s my favorite picture of all of us.

  The last picture.

  “Put that down,” I snap, and I walk across the room and snatch the frame out of Simon’s hands.

  He takes a step back, his hands in the air. “Whoa, sorry. I rang the bell. You didn’t answer, but the door was open, and I could see you out on the deck.” He grins.

  “So why didn’t you come out to the deck, then? You had to snoop around?”

  “I wasn’t snooping around, Lucy. This is a great picture of you. Who are the others?” He steps around so he’s standing next to me to look at the photo again. He taps the glass. “This guy must be your brother—looks just like you. Who’s the other one? Your boyfriend?”

  I step away from him, set the photo back in its place on the mantel, and swallow hard.

  “No.” I turn back around to face him. “He’s not my boyfriend, not that it’s any of your business.”

  Simon doesn’t react the way I expect him to: He laughs. Then he says, “Lucy, I’m sorry. I guess I should have found a less intrusive way to find out if you have a boyfriend. My reasons for asking are purely selfish, of course.”

  My anger dissolves in an instant. My cheeks go red, and I tuck my chin. When I look up again seconds later, Simon is grinning at me.

  “So,” he says, “what should we do today? I’m dying of boredom over there and you’re finally home. Any chance you could show me around town?”

  I look down at my filthy clothes and take a surreptitious sniff—sweat and the pungent pine of floor cleaner. I’m fairly certain there’s a streak of dirt across one cheek. My phone chimes as I reach up a hand to rub away the dirt.

  “Hold that thought,” I say, grateful for the chance to step away and think about my answer as that queasy nervous feeling swirls through me again.

  The text is from Daniel. Jeannie’s home with a sick kid. Please can you work 3–6 until Rosemary comes in?

  I glance at the time. It’s 1:15 now. By the time I shower and change, it will be almost two, and then I’ll need to walk to town. Hannah’s in Texas with her mother for the book tour, Dad’s at work, and it’s doubtful that anyone from the Full Loon would be able to get away to pick me up.

  “That was my uncle,” I tell him. “I help out at our family restaurant, and they need me to come in. Could you give me a ride to town, and I’ll show you around another time?”

  He frowns. “How late do you have to work?”

  “Until six.”

  “Okay, six is another time. I’ll drive you to work and meet you there when your shift is over.”

  He smiles at me, quick and wide and genuine. Sparks ignite in my chest. I blush and stare at the Captain America symbol on his heather gray T-shirt.

  “Thanks,” I mutter to the white star on his shirt. “I’ll be in the driveway at 2:30.”

  The minute I walk in the door, Mom gets on my case for being an hour late.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask. “Daniel asked me to work from three to six.”

  “No,” Mom says, “two to six.”

  I open the message and shove my phone in her direction. She glances down and passes it back.

  “Well, get your apron on and take over the front tables.”

  “You’re welcome,” I mutter under my breath.

  Later, my shift almost over, Clare catches me as I walk past. “Thanks for coming in on your day off, Lucy. We would have been in the weeds without you.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “I’m glad somebody around here appreciates my help.”

  Clare’s a hostess here and Daniel’s girlfriend. They live together in an apartment above the Goldilocks hair salon, where she also works part time.

  “Give your poor mom some slack, Luce. It’s been a hard couple of months since Rita left. I’m working longer days, too, but I can’t do much more, not with my hours at the salon.”

  “So replace Rita already.”

  “You know better than anybody how hard that can be. You’ve seen the parade of waitstaff we’ve had come through here the last five years. Your mom wants someone dependable, who’s in it for the long haul. That takes time.”

  “Six weeks?”

  Clare doesn’t get a chance to respond because the red screen door opens and closes with a bang, and Ben Porter walks in.

  Oh, God. It’s Monday night. Why did I ever agree to work on a Monday night? Ben and Guthrie have been coming here every Monday night since right after Trixie died.

  I scurry behind the counter before he makes it to the hostess stand. From here, I’m blocked by a partition but can still hear every word.

  “Hey, Ben,” Clare says. “I saved you a table.”

  Please don’t let it be one of mine.

  “Thanks,” he says, “but I’ll just eat at the counter. I’m on my own tonight.”

  My first thought is one of relief since I don’t have the counter tonight, but then I realize that I’m standing behind it. I push my way through the swinging door into the kitchen but not before Ben slides onto the stool at the far end of the counter. I’m sure he saw me.

  I press myself against the wall and take a few deep breaths.

  “Whoa,” Daniel says. “You look like you’ve seen a zombie.”

  “You might say that,” I say in a quiet voice, not that Ben would be able to hear me over the din of the café and the noise Daniel and Chris, another cook, are making back here.

  “Ben’s here, huh? He’s early.”

  Daniel’s a lanky guy with a mess of dark hair, a scruffy goatee, and a fondness for classic rock. Today he’s wearing a Blue Öyster Cult T-shirt. He’s only ten years older than me, more like another older brother than an uncle.

  “Remind me never to work on a Monday again,” I tell him. I finally feel like I’m starting to catch my breath.

  “Wanna take his burger out to him?”

  “Very funny.”

  “All right, if you won’t do that, the order for eleven is up.”

  I load the plates on a tray and back out of the kitchen, pivoting so that I can’t see Ben at the end of the counter.

  I make it through the next fifteen minutes, although there are times when I feel Ben’s eyes on me. I finish up my last table and pass the rest on to Rosemary. I’m untying my apron when Simon walks through the door.

  Simon—I’d forgotten about Simon.

  He’s asking for a table for two.

  “There you are!” He pulls me into a hug. In front of everyone at the Full Loon Café. My mother, Clare, even Daniel, who is at the counter talking to Ben.

  And Ben.

  I pull away.

  “You know Lucy?” Clare asks Simon.

  “Of course I know Lucy,” he says much too loudly. “My family’s renting the Clarks’ house this summer.”

  “Oh, sure, you’re one of the renters.” Clare sets menus down on the table.

  I sit down and when I glance up again, I notice that we’re in Ben’s direct line of vision. I can see him and he can see me. Us.

  “Why did you ask for a table, Simon?” I ask after Clare has gone back to the hostess stand.

  “Mrs. Clark said the pie is really good here. What would you recommend?”

  “Baked pie or cream pie? Fruit? Candy?” I slip into my waitress mode. Daniel’s pie is the best around.

  “Not fruit,” he says. “It’s pie.”

  “What? That’s the best kind of pie. My favorite’s strawberry rhubarb.”

  “Gross. How’s the coconut cream?”

  “You can’t go wrong with the coconut cream.”

  Apparently Simon’s not just here for the pie, because when Patty comes over to take our order, he asks for a half rack of ribs, a bowl of wild rice soup, and a slice of coconut cream.

  Simon tells me about his school—an arts magnet—and the hardware store his dad and grandfather own. “Dad wants
me to take over someday, but I don’t want to be stuck at the store my whole life, you know what I mean?”

  I nod. I do know what he means.

  Mom brings over our order herself. “Simon, so wonderful to see you. And how nice that you and Lucy are having dinner together. Enjoy your meal. Compliments of the house.” She winks at me. I roll my eyes.

  I got a slice of Loonberry pie, a crazy mix of whatever berries Daniel has on hand with a crumble topping and a scoop of homemade vanilla ice cream. I watch Simon eat, half listen to him ramble on about the graphic novel he’s writing. He’s artistic like his mom.

  And when I’m not watching Simon, I watch Ben. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, scowls, and taps on the screen with one thumb. He puts it facedown next to his plate and scrubs a hand over his face.

  Was it a text from Guthrie? His mom? Dana?

  I look away, press my fork into the last bits of berry on my plate.

  Simon twists around in Ben’s direction.

  “Why do you keep looking back there? Do you know that guy at the counter or something?”

  I nod. “Sort of.”

  “Just sort of?”

  “Yeah, I know him. I guess you could say that we used to be friends.”

  “Used to be.” It’s not a question. He turns back around to get another look at Ben. “Old boyfriend?”

  “No.”

  “You have a crush on him or something?”

  “No,” I say, probably too quickly, because Simon nods his head like he knows some big secret.

  “Hey, that’s the guy from the picture, isn’t it? The one from your mantel? I totally get it now.”

  “No, I don’t think you do.” My words are sharp.

  “Well, why don’t you fill me in?”

  I pause. Why should I tell him my problems?

  “Come on, Lucy, don’t be like that. You’re the only person I know up here.” He smiles, and his whole face lights up under all that shaggy hair.