The Last Thing You Said

by Sara Biren

  “Wild rice burger, pub style, onion rings. And a Coke. And a slice of lemon meringue.”

  My mom raises her eyebrows at me. “You must be feeling better.”

  I shrug. “Yes and no. I suppose Dad filled you in?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that why I’m here? So you can lecture me? Trust me, Dad’s was sufficient.”

  I don’t expect her to laugh, but she does. “I’m sure it was.”

  “So what, then?”

  “Are you okay, sweetheart?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I mean that it’s been a rough year for you, and you’ve been so distant this summer, and I just want to make sure that everything’s okay with you.”

  My mouth drops open. I can’t help it. There’s so much I could tell her, but she continues before I can say a word.

  “I know it’s been a lot different around home now that I’m running this place. And with Clayton at school. Your dad and I have had to figure out a lot of things financially, and it hasn’t been easy.”

  “I know.”

  “I appreciate everything you do to help out around the house, Lucy, and here, too. You’re one of my best servers.”

  “I am?”

  “Yes. People love you. You work so well under pressure, you’re never ruffled when it gets busy, and you treat everyone like your guest. I’m proud of you. I know I don’t tell you that often enough.”

  “Wow. I mean, thanks.”

  She laughs, then smiles sadly. “Losing Trixie was hard on us, too, Luce. It’s hard to see someone close to you lose a child. It was easier for me to throw myself into the restaurant. But then this place burned, and I realized that you can rebuild a restaurant, start again. Other losses are . . . irreplaceable. When Shay asked me how you were doing with the anniversary coming up, and I couldn’t answer her, I felt terrible.”

  This is a lot to take in. “Shay?”

  “Yes.” She takes a sip of coffee. “Simon told her about Trixie and the anniversary, and she asked me how you were doing with it. I had no answer. Luce, I’m so sorry.”

  When I don’t say anything, she continues. “It’s okay to be sad, Lucy. It’s okay to miss her. I hope you know that your dad and I are here for you if you need us.”

  It’s nice to hear her say this after some of the conversations we’ve had this summer. I nod. “I know.”

  Joellen sets my food down and laughs as I dig into the pie first.

  Mom smiles and reaches across the table to pat my hand. “Now, I need a favor. Can you work Monday? It’s our big Grand Reopening, you know, with a ribbon cutting from the Chamber of Commerce and everything. Louis from the paper will be there. Clayton’s coming home for it.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes, and Dad took the day off. I’d like for the whole family to be there.”

  “But you need me to work?”

  “You’re as much a part of this place as anyone.”

  “No problem,” I tell her. “What time?”

  “No problem?” she repeats. “Who are you and what have you done with my daughter?”

  “Ha ha.”

  Mom reaches across the table again, this time for an onion ring. “So, tell me about Simon.”

  I roll my eyes and take another bite of pie. “Don’t invite Simon and Shay to the Grand Opening, okay?” I mumble through a mouthful of meringue. “I’m going to break up with him.”

  “I thought you liked him.”

  My phone buzzes with Simon’s name at the top of the screen. “Speak of the devil,” I mutter.

  My grandpa died today. We’re on our way home. I won’t be back for a few days.

  My breath rushes out of me, awful feelings of relief and guilt. “Oh.”

  “What’s wrong?” Mom asks.

  “Simon’s grandfather died.”

  Her eyes go soft. “That’s terrible.”

  I tap out a quick reply. Simon, I’m so sorry.

  I set my phone aside. There isn’t much else to say.

  47 · Ben

  When I get home from the cemetery, Mum’s clearing glasses and a tray of cookies off the table.

  “Hey,” I say to her back, and when she turns from the sink, she has a huge smile on her face.

  “Ben, thank you.” She sets down the tray. “Thank you so much.” She hugs me tight.

  For what? I count the glasses. Four.

  “Um, did you have company?”

  “Yes,” she says, and finally lets me go. “Lucy and her delightful friend, Hannah.”

  “What?”

  “They popped over after the parade. Thank you, Ben, for clearing things up with Lucy. I hope that you’ll be able to be friends with her again.”

  I stare at her, dumbfounded.

  I think back to last night. Did I say something to Lucy? Did I apologize to her? I was drunk, yes, but not drunk enough to not remember every single thing I did or said.

  Or what was said to me.

  “Did she say that I did?” I ask.

  “No, darling, I’m sure it was awkward for her.” Mum smiles again. “We had a wonderful visit.”

  It’s been a long time since I’ve seen her this happy.

  God, I’m a real piece of shit for a son. All those days she couldn’t get out of bed, all the times she sat in Trixie’s room and cried, all those hours she spent in her garden, missing her dead daughter—would those days have been better if I hadn’t been such a shit to Lucy and kept her away?

  I take a deep breath. I should tell her that I didn’t say a word to Lucy, that I haven’t kept my promise.

  Lucy came back on her own.

  “That’s nice, Mum,” I say.

  “Are you okay, Ben? You seemed upset when you left.”

  Am I okay? I think I’m better, at least. “Mum, I’ll be in my room, okay?”

  But I don’t make it that far. Trixie’s door is open, the late afternoon sun streaming across the floor. There’s a fresh vase of wildflowers on her desk.

  I haven’t set foot in here since before Trixie died.

  But I do now.

  I walk into her room, over to her bed, crisply made, half a dozen decorative pillows propped up against the headboard. Her alarm clock, an empty glass, two unwrapped butterscotch candies, a paperback copy of The Outsiders facedown and splayed open to the page where she’d stopped reading. Lucy always scolded her when she did that.

  I turn to the window, run my finger along the sill. There is no dust.

  Trixie’s desk is cluttered, papers and pencils and books scattered across its surface. A bulletin board above the desk is filled with movie ticket stubs, postcards, photos of her and Lucy through the years. School dances, with Emily, at the beach, on the pontoon.

  In all these photos, Trixie’s face is lit and sparkling and wild, and that light carries across to Lucy’s.

  I peer closer, to one of the two of them at the Aerial Lift Bridge in Duluth last summer, and I can see that I’m wrong. I remember Lucy’s excitement, her joy, and I realize that the light of her smile is her very own.

  They were good for each other, those two.

  Lucy was good for me, too.

  A composition notebook lies on the corner of Trixie’s messy desk. I recognize it, the notebook that Trix and Lucy scribbled in constantly.

  The words The Book of Quotes stretch across the cover, written in blue bubble letters.

  I sit down at the desk and gently open its tattered cover. Colorful letters fill each page, each quote written with a different, bold-hued marker. Song lyrics. Movie quotes. Funny things they said to each other. Long passages from The Great Gatsby, Jane Austen. Sketches and doodles fill the edges of the pages: flowers and stars and hearts.

  I hold on to the words that my sister loved enough to write them down. I feel closer to her here, in her room, the same as it was the day she left us, everything exactly as it was that last morning she lived.

  She died doing what she loved best. She died in the lak
e she loved.

  I turn another page and there, in bold purple letters, Trixie wrote this:

  Life is short, so live it.

  I can almost hear her say the words the day I bought the Firebird.

  Her life was short, but she did—she lived it.

  I close the notebook and set it back down on the desk, feeling a familiar sinkhole in my gut.

  She’s never coming back.

  She’s never coming back.

  I didn’t get to her in time.

  I sit at her desk, my head in my hands, and choke back a sob.

  Life is short, so live it.

  Ever since that day, I haven’t been living my life, not really. I’ve blamed myself and numbed the pain and wasted time.

  I won’t do it anymore.

  I can’t do it anymore.

  I stand, push in the chair, walk to the door. But I stop, turn back, and grab the book.

  It doesn’t belong here.

  Lucy should have it, this artifact of her friendship with my sister.

  A couple of hours later, I get a text from Guthrie to meet him at the carnival. I assume he’ll be there with Hannah, and I want to ask him if Lucy’s going to be there, but I don’t. What would I do anyway? Not go?

  I’m going to go, whether she’s there or not. This is the Watermelon Days carnival. I’ve never missed one.

  I’ve never missed one and neither had Trixie. Like the parade that we always watched from our front yard.

  Another first. My first Watermelon Days carnival without my sister.

  I see Guthrie and the girls at the mini-donut stand, lit up bright and cheerful against the dusky night sky. I stop, shove my hands into the pockets of my jeans, and take a deep breath.

  How much does Lucy remember about last night? If she didn’t remember that I beat up her boyfriend, I’m sure she knows by now.

  But Simon’s not here. I wouldn’t guess he’d show his face, for a couple of reasons.

  There’s a twinge at the base of my stomach as she looks up from her bag of mini-donuts, one held between two fingers, catches my eye, and looks away quickly. Guthrie sees me, too, and lifts up his hand in a half wave. I move my feet again. Hannah smiles, first at Lucy and then at me.

  “Hey,” Guthrie says. “You made it.”

  I nod. Hannah loops one arm through mine and one through Guthrie’s. “Lucy has to be home by eleven, so let’s do this.”

  Lucy doesn’t say a word, not to me, not to anyone.

  I can’t believe it, but Hannah convinces her to go on a ride. Last year she could only handle the Ferris wheel—the worst if you’re afraid of heights, I think—and the rest of the night, I stayed behind with her while Guthrie and Trixie and Clayton and the others hit every one, some two or three times.

  “Go on the rides, Ben,” she said while we waited in line for the ring toss. “You don’t have to stop having fun because of me.”

  “I’m having fun,” I said. “Are you kidding me? What’s more fun than the ring toss?”

  I smiled at her then, and she looked up at me and smiled, too, and it would have been so easy to lean down and kiss her and show her how I felt about her.

  But I didn’t, and Clayton appeared out of nowhere then to tell us where everyone had ended up for the fireworks.

  Now, after the first ride, she steps off the car and says, “I—I think I’m going to go home.”

  Hannah frowns. “No, Lucille, not yet! It’s only 9:30! It’s not even dark yet, not really. Come on, stay.”

  Lucy shakes her head. “Really, I can’t stay. This—this is the first carnival without Trixie, you know?” She says this in almost a whisper, but I hear it. She feels it, too.

  I expect Hannah to say something like It’s time to accept it or She’s gone, there’s nothing you can do, those terrible things people say, people who don’t understand.

  Instead she pulls Lucy into a hug. “I get it. This is a sad day for you. We’ll take you home.”

  Lucy shakes her head again. “No, don’t be stupid. I can walk.”

  “You’re not walking home by yourself! Guthrie, tell her we’ll take her home.”

  “I can take her,” I say. I don’t know where it comes from. Hannah and Guthrie both look at me, surprised, but Lucy doesn’t. She won’t look at me. I don’t blame her.

  “No,” Lucy says. “I want to walk home. It’s fine. I’ll be fine.”

  I reach out and put my hand on her arm. Now, finally, she looks up at me, her eyes wide. “I’ll take you home.”

  She nods and hands the rest of her ride tickets to Hannah.

  “Text me when you get home, Lucille,” Hannah says, “so I know you’re safe.”

  Lucy starts walking.

  She’s not arguing with me. She’s letting me help her.

  She’s not pushing me away.

  There’s a twinge again, but this time, it’s not guilt. It’s hope.

  48 · Lucy

  What is wrong with me?

  I’m still not one hundred percent on everything that happened with Ben at the party last night, and now I’ve just told him he can give me a ride home. Or didn’t tell him he couldn’t, I guess. My stomach churns with anxiety and the leftover effects of the Hurricane ride.

  Once we get to the mini-donut stand, I’ll stop and tell him I changed my mind. That I can’t get in the car with him.

  But we pass the mini-donut stand, and I don’t say a word.

  When we get to the Zipper, I’ll tell him. I’ll say, “You know what? It’s fine, I’m fine, just go back and have fun.”

  But we pass the Zipper, too, the screams of its riders cutting into my thoughts.

  The gate. I’ll tell him at the gate.

  And then we’re out of the gate, walking down the street toward his house. It’s quieter outside the carnival grounds, quieter still as we walk away, except for occasional laughter or the rev of an engine.

  It will take us three minutes to walk to his house, maybe less.

  I’ll tell him in the driveway.

  He’s so close to me. His footsteps and mine are in sync as we walk together. I don’t notice anything around me except for his closeness and his warmth and his smell. Tonight he doesn’t smell like the lake or sunscreen or fish. He smells fresh, like soap, and sweet, like the cinnamon sugar of mini-donuts.

  He pulls his keys out of his pocket as we walk up the driveway. He opens the passenger door for me, and I’m so overcome by the rush of emotion that my knees buckle.

  He reaches out to steady me.

  His fingers on my arm are too much.

  “Ben,” I say, but still, I won’t look at his face. This is when I will tell him that I can’t get in the car, that I’ve changed my mind.

  “Please let me take you home,” he says, his voice so low and plaintive, I want to cry.

  “Have you been drinking?” I ask, like that’s the reason I don’t want to get in the car with him. I bite my lip to keep from crying, trying to make it seem like I’m being practical, logical, like this has nothing to do with the last time—the only time—I sat in the front seat of the Firebird.

  He shakes his head. “No,” he says, and now he sounds pissed. “No, I haven’t been drinking.”

  I know he’s telling the truth. I can see it when I finally let myself look into his eyes, and they are clear, and flashing in the light from the streetlamp, and filled with pain.

  He’s in your heart, Hannah said.

  He is. I want to see if we can salvage what we might have had, but standing here, next to the open passenger door of the Firebird, I can’t. I remember every word that he said to me in that car. Every word.

  I can’t. I can’t get into the Firebird. I can’t let Ben help me.

  “I don’t need your help.” My voice cracks. “I’ll walk home.”

  “Why don’t you ask your boyfriend for a ride, then?” The anger is still there, hovering beneath the surface of Ben’s words, and his expression changes. Tight, closed, pissed off. “Wher
e is he, anyway?”

  I pinch my lips together. It’s none of his business where Simon is, and my stomach twists when I think about the reason he’s not here. “He went back to St. Paul,” I snap. “His grandfather died. And thanks to you, I’m sure he looks like shit.”

  “Not my problem,” he says.

  “What is wrong with you? Why would you do that to him? To anyone? I don’t know you anymore, Ben.”

  I stare at him, see an almost imperceptible shift of his jaw. He won’t say anything. I turn away from him and hurry down the driveway.

  That wisp of a memory of Ben’s fingers in my hair at Hannah’s party must have been my imagination.

  Nothing has changed.

  49 · Ben

  I slam the door of the Firebird, rev the engine, and back out. I drive in the opposite direction of downtown and Lucy, past Lions Park and the carnival. I drive until my eyes blur.

  The peace, the resolve I felt this afternoon are gone.

  Why can’t I get Lucy out of my head? I’ve been able to kill my emotions for months, and the minute I see her at the resort, I’m lost.

  Guthrie thinks I’m on the right path. Isn’t that what he meant that night on the beach? Lucy’s the right path. She’s been the right path all along, and I’ve been too fucking stupid to see it.

  And she’s right, I am an asshole.

  I am a stupid, fucking asshole, and it seems like all I know how to do is hurt the person I love the most.

  I’ve hurt her so much, so many times.

  And, God, Trixie would be so pissed at me for this, for all of this. For pushing Lucy away when I should have held her close. For all those other girls I’ve hooked up with. Trixie would shake her head and smirk and whack me on the arm.

  “Fix it, Ben,” she would say. “Don’t let her go.”

  Life is short, so live it.

  I pull off the road. I turn around in the weedy parking lot of the abandoned Bump ’n’ Putt on 371 and head for home.

  For Lucy.

  If I hurry, I can catch her.

  And she’s still there, out on the county road past Sullivan Street Park, walking on the shoulder. It’s busy and dark and the cars fly past her. She’s going to get herself killed if she’s not careful.