Last Couple Standing

by Matthew Norman

  “Patty?” said Scarlett.

  Luke looked down at the back of Mr. Butler’s head.

  “Did you know her name was Patty? Next time she’s bitching me out, I’m gonna be like, ‘Shove it, Patty.’ ”

  Mr. Butler turned around again. “Seriously?”

  “It’s pretty easy to tell when someone’s depressed, right?” said Dr. Gambir. “The power of simple observation is all it takes.”

  Students looked at one another. Some nodded.

  “If someone’s depressed, they look depressed. They listen to sad music. Power ballads from the eighties, maybe. They’re all pale, because they don’t want to go outside. Generally speaking, if you’re depressed, you put out a pretty standard, run-of-the-mill ‘I’m sad’ vibe, right?”

  There were a few more nods, but mostly there was caution. The students sensed what was coming. The old lecture-hall switcheroo.

  “Well, actually, no,” he said. “Not at all, in fact. Right now, suicide is one of the leading causes of death for people your age. And when it happens, who can guess what the friends, parents, and loved ones who are left behind almost always say?”

  No one guessed. It was an all-school assembly. Raising a hand and saying something would’ve been either an act of stuntman bravery or social…well, suicide.

  Dr. Gambir cleared his throat. “I…never…saw…it…coming.”

  He looked around the gym, from one wall to the other and back again.

  “Depression looks like a lot of things. But more often than not, unfortunately, it looks totally normal.”

  The A/V team’s monitor, which was behind Dr. Gambir, started showing a diverse montage of faces, one after the other. Different ages, races, genders. Frowns, grins, scowls, blank stares.

  Dr. Gambir went on. “And here’s the scary thing, guys. And this is why I’m here today—to drive this point home. As a community, we need to check in on the people we love. Even the people we just like, in fact. Because sometimes, just before someone reaches a crisis point, just before they’re about to make a decision that they cannot undo, depression looks like this.”

  The montage stopped now and held on the single image of a woman smiling. A pink blouse. A pretty necklace. Nice teeth.

  “She looks happy, doesn’t she?” he said.

  “I’d tap that,” whispered Scarlett.

  “She doesn’t look depressed at all, right? You could look at her and say, ‘Oh, she’s fine.’ She looks like she’s got all the energy and optimism in the world. Well, that’s the point. The fact is, suicide requires a great deal of energy. Like, a tidal wave of it. So, as counterintuitive as it seems, depressed people are often at their worst just when they appear to be at their best.”

  Scarlett whispered something snide, but Luke didn’t hear her, because now he was thinking about his mom.

  For the last few months, her sadness had been like furniture or a major appliance—something Luke was so used to that he barely saw it anymore. She slept in nearly every morning, arriving downstairs in her pajamas and robe. But since his dad left the previous weekend—like, officially left—she’d been up every morning, dressed and ready, asking him about his homework and flipping through the A.M. talk shows. That very morning, in fact, she offered to make him pancakes.

  “Pancakes?”

  “Yeah, why not?”

  “It’s Wednesday.”

  Luke looked at the smiling middle-aged woman on the screen. And he kept looking at her until her image was replaced by a pie chart of statistics. He thought of the pills his mother took—of the orange cups lined up in the cabinet in her bathroom. He knew nothing about medicine, but any one of them, with their clinical, unpronounceable names, had to be stronger than Advil. Right?

  I…never…saw…it…coming.

  When Dr. Gambir was done talking, the screen went dark, and Principal Michaels thanked him and announced a new crisis hotline that any student could call at any time, day or night.

  The fifth-period bell rang, and a thousand teenagers stood up at once.

  “Well, I don’t know about you, but I feel a lot less like killing myself,” said Scarlett. But Luke was already gone. He sidestepped and dodged his way through his classmates and found Mr. Butler.

  “What’s up, Luke?”

  “I think I need to go,” he said.

  “What? Are you sick?”

  “No. I just need to leave, just for a little while. Like, half an hour. Tops.”

  “Where do you need to go? You’re in school.”

  “I have lunch fifth period, then study hall. I won’t miss anything.”

  “You’re a junior, Luke. Only seniors can leave campus on free periods. Them’s the rules at Shawshank.”

  “Yeah, I know. But—”

  “What’s the deal?” said Mr. Butler. He looked around, then leaned in. “What’s going on?”

  Luke looked back at the screen, now blank. “It’s my Mom.”

  “What about her? Something wrong?”

  “I just think I need to check on her.”

  Mr. Butler looked at his watch. He wasn’t just Luke’s teacher. He was more than that, and he got it. “You sure?” he said.

  “No,” said Luke. “I don’t know. That’s the thing. I just have a bad feeling.”

  Mr. Butler sighed, trying to decide. And then he said, “Okay, go.”

  28

  It was an eleven-minute bike ride from school to Luke’s house. As he pedaled up Charles Street, he imagined her dead.

  Dead dead. Gone. Eyes open, lifeless, staring up at the ceiling. In the bathtub, maybe, the water spilling over the lip and pooling in slo-mo. Or possibly sprawled out on the floor in some flowing outfit, like he imagined Juliet would be.

  He hopped the curb next to the mailbox and skidded to a stop in the driveway. Then he leaned his bike against the Jeep’s fender.

  When he opened the door, he knew right away that she wasn’t dead.

  Everything was fine. Better than fine, actually.

  Sunlight shone through the windows, and the entryway felt airier than it had in months. He set his backpack down next to the stairs and took in the smell of food cooking, which he followed into the shockingly clean kitchen. A casserole of some sort was bubbling in the oven. Above that, lined up on the countertop, a dozen chocolate chip cookies sat cooling on a rack.

  “Holy shit.” He touched one. It was warm and soft.

  “Luke?” Her voice came from the bedroom. “Luke, is that you?”

  “Hey, Mom. Yeah, it’s me.”

  “What’re you doing home? Are you okay?”

  The truth was ridiculous, so he said, “Mr. Butler let me leave for my free periods. I had two in a row.”

  “Well, that was nice. Come in here for a second, would you? I wanna get your opinion on something.”

  Her voice had a tone he hadn’t heard in a long time. Bright and vivid even, fully alive. On his way to her bedroom, he passed his dad’s study. Well, former study. It still looked odd, all hastily emptied, like someone had grabbed shit at random during a fire. Some left-behind office supplies were strewn across his desk, along with a few shards of broken glass from the ship in a bottle his mom nuked a few weeks ago.

  “I was gonna surprise you with dinner,” she said. “You spoiled it.” She stood in the middle of her bedroom in workout shorts and a T-shirt. An exercise video played on the flat-screen.

  “Sorry. But it smells great.”

  “You used to love it when you were a kid, remember? Cheesy chicken casserole.”

  “Right. Yeah. Um, awesome.” The bedroom, like the kitchen, was sparkling and orderly. “You cleaned.”

  She laughed. “Yeah. I got tired of the drabness. Drabness is contagious. We needed some lightness in here.”

  “It’s…awesome.” He realiz
ed this was the second time he’d paused before saying “awesome.” It made him sound suspicious, which, of course, he was. “You did all of this today?”

  “Yep. Never underestimate the power of a triple-shot caramel macchiato. I put my head down and let ’er rip.”

  “And you made cookies?”

  “Well, they’re the ones from Graul’s that come in the tube. I just laid the dough out in little globs on the tray. No biggie.”

  “Yeah, but still.”

  “Anyway,” she said. “Your opinion. I need it.”

  “Okay. On what?”

  She held up one finger and disappeared into her closet. “Okay,” she said. “I did some shopping this weekend. Scored some new dresses.” She came out in something with blue and white stripes. “What do you think?”

  He took an involuntary step backward. The fabric revealed the shape of her hips, and maybe half an inch of cleavage. “Shit. Mom?”

  She laughed. “Is that good? Is swearing good?”

  “You look different.”

  “And I’m gonna do something with my hair, too. Sort of a spiky thing. I need to frame my face better.”

  “Right.”

  “Do you like the colors? I feel like the stripes are flattering.”

  “It’s great.”

  “Okay, but how does it compare to these?” She went into her closet again. When she came back, she held three other dresses on fancy hangers. A red one, a black one, and one with a print. She looked at him, waiting.

  “Is that snakeskin?”

  “Well, not really. It’s just a design. Is there one you like better than the others?”

  Luke looked at the dresses. He had no idea. Not a clue. Who was this woman? “Maybe the red one?” he said. “Red is good.”

  “I agree,” she said.

  “Are you, like, going somewhere? Do you have plans?”

  “No,” she said. “Well, nothing specific. Not yet. I just thought, Why not make myself available for plans? I’ve been wallowing. I’ve been watching my own feel-sorry flick over and over.”

  “You’ve been watching what?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “Never mind. Your father is gone, Luke, and he’s not coming back. I just thought it was time to make some changes. He got to make changes. Why not me?”

  “Yeah,” he said, even though what he wanted to say was, So…you’re not going to kill yourself, then? I can cross that off the list of things I need to worry about?

  “The red, then? It’s your favorite?” She held it up to herself.

  In seventeen years of being alive, he’d never assessed his mother like this. “Yeah,” he said.

  “Me too. Which is great, because I got some shoes to go with it. And they’re perfect.”

  “Can I have some of those cookies?” he asked. “Or are they for dessert?”

  “Sure. Why not?” She set the dresses on her bed. “Oh, and I have some bad news.”

  “What?”

  “Your dad called this morning. He’s in New York for the rest of the week. He can’t make your driving lesson.”

  Luke bit the inside of his lip, pissed at himself for being surprised. “Is he there for work? Or is he with…”

  She told him she wasn’t sure, but he could tell she was lying.

  “I wish I could teach you how, honey. But I’ve never driven a stick in my life.”

  “I know,” he said. “It’s not your fault. I’m glad you’re feeling better, Mom.”

  “Luke?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s just gonna be us now. We need to get used to that.”

  “I already am,” he said.

  “Ellen and Luke,” she said. “You and me against the world.”

  29

  When Mitch pulled into the driveway the next evening, the kids hopped off their boosters, and they all got out of the car.

  “You seriously need to do something about those wood boards, Dad,” said Jude.

  “Yeah, Daddy,” said Emily. “They’re spiky. And they’re broken.”

  They’d whined the whole way home from aftercare about the pieces of bed frame poking up between their heads. They weren’t wrong per se. There were few good arguments for driving around with jagged planks in your car, but Mitch had a strict personal policy against showing weakness in front of his children, like how the government doesn’t negotiate with terrorists.

  “It’s on my list, guys,” he said. “Get your backpacks.”

  They pulled their book bags out of the back seat, along with the typical armfuls of take-home papers and art projects.

  “What’s that noise?” asked Emily.

  They heard a rev, a grind, and then a screech. A combination of sounds like a dying animal.

  Jude pointed next door. “Look. There it is.”

  He was right. Luke was in his driveway, sitting in his Jeep again. The sound they’d heard was him stalling the engine. Through the rolled-up window, Mitch heard a muffled “Fucking, fucking fuck!”

  “Oh,” said Mitch. “Well, that’s not good.”

  “He said eff three times, Daddy,” said Emily.

  “Shoosh, baby.”

  He didn’t invite the kids to follow him, but they did anyway, because they were kids, and their babysitter swearing in the driveway next door in a dope new Jeep was infinitely more interesting than whatever else they had on their schedules for the rest of that day. When Luke saw them approaching across the yard, he appeared to try to shrink to the point of invisibility.

  Mitch tapped the door. “Hey, dude,” he said.

  Luke rolled the window down. “I hate this car,” he said.

  “Not going well?”

  His knuckles were white against the steering wheel. There was an iPad on the passenger seat, running a YouTube video on how to drive a manual transmission. A man with a British accent was saying, “The friction point is key. When you find it, you’ll most certainly know it.”

  “What’re you doing, Luke?” asked Emily.

  “I think he’s trying to drive,” whispered Jude.

  “Oh. But the car’s not on.”

  “You’re not helping, guys,” said Mitch.

  Luke looked straight ahead. “Can you please tell me what in the hell the friction point is?”

  Mitch loosened his tie and clapped his hands. “All right, kids. Come around. We’re getting in.”

  Emily and Jude were thrilled as they climbed into the small back seat. The khaki-colored interior was clean and cool, and it smelled brand-new. “Do we need our boosters?” asked Jude.

  “Put your seatbelts on, guys. We’re just gonna be in the driveway for a few minutes.” He reached back and helped Emily buckle up.

  “This roof isn’t like a real roof,” she said. “It’s like a pretend roof.”

  “It’s a ragtop, honey,” he said. “It’s all part of the Jeep experience.”

  “Are you sure you want them in here?” asked Luke. “I’m clearly awful at this.”

  “Sure. I trust you, basically.” Mitch turned off the yapping Brit and set the iPad at his feet before belting himself in. “Okay, Luke, where’re we at here? How far have you gotten?”

  “Not very far,” he said. “I can’t make it go. It’s the stupid clutch. It doesn’t work right.” He looked on the verge of tears.

  “How long’ve you been at it?”

  “Half an hour. My dad was supposed to be here, but he’s…” The rest was lost in scowls and teeth grinding.

  Fucking James, Mitch thought. Where the hell are you, you asshole? It didn’t matter, though, of course. All that mattered was that he wasn’t there. Mitch remembered when his own dad taught him how to drive a stick, back in the day. “It’s not as hard as you’re making it, bub,” he’d said. “The car knows what it want
s.”

  “It keeps stalling. I’ve killed it like fifteen times. I’m gonna put it in neutral and push it into a river.”

  “Okay, that’s a little dramatic. Why don’t you fire it up? We’ll give it a go.”

  Luke pressed the clutch in and turned the key. Everything rumbled to a start.

  “Your mom’s good, by the way?” Mitch asked. “Everything okay?” He’d been wondering about her since Luke bolted after the assembly the day before. The kid had looked genuinely spooked.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said. “It’s fine. False alarm. She made cookies.”

  “Cookies?” said Emily.

  “Not now, hon,” said Mitch. “Our buddy Luke here is concentrating. He needs to be totally focused. Okay, now pop it into neutral and let off the clutch for a sec.”

  The Jeep rolled a lazy inch and steadied into an idle.

  “The friction point,” said Mitch. “It’s a cool term, right? Like a book title or something. Kinda angsty. It’s the exact spot when the clutch is out and the engine needs gas. It’s when stuff happens. Every friction point’s different, depending on the car. You just gotta find it, and, when you do, you hit it. That’s the trick to this whole thing.”

  “Okay,” said Luke.

  “Now, put it in gear, then let off the clutch, and let’s see what happens.”

  “It’s gonna stall again. That’s what’s gonna happen.”

  “You’re right. But this time, pay attention to exactly when it stalls. That’s the friction point.”

  Luke lifted his left foot slowly. The Jeep lurched ahead, tossing them all forward against their seatbelts, and then died. A sickly little whine came from the engine.

  “Is it supposed to do that, Daddy?” asked Emily.

  “Um, should we get out?” asked Jude.

  “See, man, right there. That jolt, right before it cut off. Time that. Right when you think it’s about to die, give it some gas.”

  “Okay.”