The Last Thing You Said Read online

  I keep walking, past the café and the Oasis, through our touristy downtown with its candy store and T-shirt shop and old-fashioned, single-screen movie theater.

  I speed up as I walk past Ben’s house. The house where he grew up with Trixie. The house where I spent so much time—sleepovers and birthdays and special days and ordinary days—like I was part of their family.

  There have been days since when I walk past that house and wish, wish, wish that I were brave enough to stop, to touch the wheels of Trixie’s bike, still hanging on its hooks in the garage, to have tea with Jane, Trixie’s mom. To ask her for the Book of Quotes, the notebook Trixie and I filled with lyrics and quotations and poems.

  Brave enough to talk to Ben, more than the tense, polite things we say to each other when it can’t be avoided. More than the shallow “How’ve you been,” when really I want to reach into his heart and ask him everything.

  He told me once that I could ask him anything, one night last summer before Trixie died—a game we played to keep me from freaking out as we climbed the one hundred thirty steps of the Fire Tower.

  “What’s your middle name?” I asked.

  “Alistair. Didn’t you already know that?” He stood close behind me on the steps, like he’d block me from falling backward.

  I did know. His full name, Bennett Alistair Porter. His birthday, April 11.

  “Were you named for anyone?”

  “Yes. My grandfather’s name is Alistair.”

  “Favorite meal?”

  “Mum’s fish-and-chips.”

  “Favorite candy?”

  “Maple fudge.” I could hear the smile in his words.

  At this, I stumbled a little, and he put his hands on my waist to steady me. I was glad that he was behind me, that he couldn’t see my face, hot with embarrassment and from his touch.

  Now, down the block from the Porters’ house, I sigh with relief that no one was home. I wouldn’t have been brave enough to stop anyway.

  The First Day of Kindergarten

  Once upon a time, there lived a happy little girl named Beatrix, but everyone called her Trixie. Trixie lived with her mum and her dad and her big brother, Ben.

  One day, when Trixie was five years old, she went to kindergarten. She knew all the other children in her class, from church and the park and preschool, except for one little girl with curly brown pigtails. And on that first day of school, Trixie marched right over to the girl with the pigtails and stuck out her hand.

  “Hello, I’m Trixie. What’s your name?” she asked.

  “My name is Lucy,” the little girl said. She was very nervous, even though Trixie smiled at her.

  And that’s when the little girl named Lucy threw up all over Trixie’s shoes.

  Trixie was very nice to Lucy. She called for the teacher and rubbed Lucy’s back and said, “You’re fine. You’re fine.”

  “Trixie,” said their teacher, “please take Lucy to the nurse.”

  The nurse called Lucy’s mother, and Trixie waited with her in the office until her mother arrived.

  “I’m going to call you Lulu,” Trixie said as they sat side by side in yellow plastic chairs.

  “Why?” Lucy asked.

  “Because you look like a Lulu.”

  The next day, Lucy, now called Lulu, wasn’t nervous about kindergarten. Trixie and Lulu built a village with blocks and played kitchen and practiced writing their names. They swung together on the monkey bars. They sat next to each other during snack time. Everywhere that Trixie and Lulu went, everything they touched was left with a fine dusting of silver and gold glitter.

  “Bye, Lulu,” Trixie said at the end of the day. “I can’t wait for us to be friends again tomorrow and the next day and forever.”

  She squeezed Lulu’s hand, and when she let go, Lulu traced the line of glimmering gold across her palm that sealed their friendship forever.

  4 · Ben

  At dinner, Dad talks nonstop.

  “The lake was pretty crowded today, don’t you think, Ben? Beautiful day. The resort’s booked up for the summer already, and most of them want guides, too. Lots of fishing in our future.”

  Fishing is one of the few things we have in common anymore, although it’s not like it used to be. Nothing is. Dad and Uncle John grew up at the resort and know every single inch of Halcyon Lake like the backs of their hands—the widemouth sweet spots and the best weed beds for bluegills. Dad works at the resort during the summer, too, when he’s off from his job teaching earth science at the middle school.

  Mum sets a platter of brownies on the table. Today her blond hair is a perfect wave held back with a headband that matches her light blue blouse. Mum is from London, and she’s got the accent and obsessions with Jane Austen and gardens to go along with it.

  “I spent the morning working up at the cemetery,” Mum says when Dad finally stops rambling. Like she’s gone to the grocery store or the library. A common errand. “A few of the bricks around Mr. Wilson’s garden had come loose, so I fixed those and weeded a bit.”

  Not only has my mother planted a garden for Trixie, she tends to neglected graves, too. She’s gone to the cemetery almost every day since Trixie died, even in winter.

  “You should come with me, Ben,” Mum says. “It would be good for you to help with your sister’s garden. I find that digging in the earth to make room for something beautiful is rather therapeutic.”

  Sure. Sometimes she comes back, her face streaked with dirt and tears, and she drinks cup after cup of tea. Incapable of doing anything else, her energy and emotions used up in the dirt.

  “I’ll stick to fishing,” I say, “but thanks.”

  “I’m with you there, son,” Dad says.

  “Is that right?” I mumble. I can’t remember the last time my dad and I fished together.

  Mum sighs. Dad clears his throat and takes a drink from a bottle of beer. He never used to drink at dinner. Now he keeps the fridge and liquor cabinet stocked. It’s convenient for me when he forgets to lock it.

  “I saw Lucy Meadows up at the resort today,” Dad says. “She’s helping out with Emily this summer.”

  I can barely swallow the last of my hamburger, suddenly dry and tasteless. I take a long drink of water. I don’t say anything.

  I guess I do remember the last time I went out fishing with my dad.

  Of course it was last summer, before Trixie died. Our family and the Meadows family had gone out on the pontoon. Trixie fell asleep in the sun but Lucy fished. She sat next to me on one of the chairs in the bow, propped her feet on the edge of the boat, and waited. She always had more patience than Trix. She reeled in some perch and a nice smallmouth bass.

  “That poor girl,” Mum says.

  That’s something I don’t get about my mother—how she is always so concerned about Lucy, how Lucy’s doing. If it were me, I’d be pissed. I’d be thinking all the time: Lucy is alive but my daughter isn’t.

  Lucy is alive but my sister isn’t. Maybe if I’d paid more attention that day, instead of thinking about Lucy—that she was so close, that her skin was so warm, glistening in the sun—maybe Trixie would be alive.

  Guilt bubbles its way up my throat like acid.

  “How’s Clayton doing at university, Ben?” Mum asks. Her words jar me from my memories.

  “I don’t know,” I say and stand up. “How would I know? I have to go.”

  “What do you mean, how would you know? You should know. Clayton is one of your best friends,” Mum says.

  “Not anymore,” I mumble.

  He started school a couple of weeks after Trixie died. He got out of town and doesn’t come back much. It’s easier this way, for him and for me.

  “Well, what about Lucy? I wish you’d invite her over for dinner sometime. I’d love to see her.”

  “Mum,” I say, the word heavy, like a stone. Like I’d ever invite Lucy over for dinner. God, what do I have to do to get her to stop already? “I really have to go.”

  “
Ben,” she says, “what about Lucy? Will you ask her to dinner?”

  Fuck no, I won’t ask her to dinner.

  Mum’s jaw drops and Dad stands up and I realize then that I said it out loud.

  “Ben, apologize to your mother,” Dad says.

  Now I’m pissed. I’m pissed at myself and at Mum for keeping at me, and I’m pissed at Dad, too, for bringing up Lucy in the first place.

  “Fuck it.” I push back my chair and walk out.

  “Ben,” Mum calls, and there’s pain in her voice.

  “Come back here and—” Dad’s words are cut off by the slam of the door as I go out to the garage.

  5 · Lucy

  Hannah calls me as I walk onto Three Crows Lane from the main road, almost home.

  “Hey, whatcha doing?” she asks. She moved here before school started this year from Mitchell, South Dakota, home of the World’s Only Corn Palace, and has a mellow SoDak twang.

  The walk from town has been warm, the air thick with rain and humidity. I’m out of breath.

  “Just getting home,” I say.

  “Did you see Ben today?” She smacks her lips. “Mwah, mwah!”

  We’ve become friends during the school year, and I’ve tried and tried to explain about Ben without explaining too much. But she won’t give up. I don’t answer.

  “So that’s a yes, then. Was he wearing that gray ringer T-shirt? He looks so totally hot in that. Well, in anything, really, although I’d rather see him without a shirt.”

  “God, Hannah,” I say. “Stop already.”

  “Whatever. We both know you’re totally in love with him, Lucille. Give in to your feelings.”

  If only it were that easy.

  If only she would stop saying things like that.

  “Whatever,” she says again. “You were supposed to call me when you were done babysitting. Remember? Movie night.”

  “Oh. Sorry, long day. Too many distractions.”

  “I’ll bet. What time should I pick you up? The movie starts in, like, forty-five minutes. Are you ready or what?”

  “I’m almost home. Give me fifteen minutes to shower, and I’ll meet you out front.”

  I’m surprised to see Dad’s truck in the driveway. He’s been pulling a lot of weekend shifts at the plant. The driveway splits off to the right to our neighbors’ house, the Clarks’, and next to their old brown Buick is a car I’ve never seen before. A silver Volvo—sleek, urban, out of place.

  “Dad?” I call as I open the front door, but there’s no answer. I run up the stairs and pull a fresh T-shirt and skirt from a laundry basket on the floor and take a quick shower, not bothering to wash my hair. There isn’t time to blow-dry it so it won’t frizz. I twist it into a messy bun and secure it with a clip.

  As I sort through a porcelain dish of earrings to find a matching pair, I nearly tip over the framed photo next to it—a picture Ben took of Trixie and me at Canal Park in Duluth last summer, laughing and squinting into the sun, the Aerial Lift Bridge behind us.

  I touch my fingers to the photo.

  Both of those girls are gone.

  Tucked into the corner of the frame is the memorial card from her funeral. I pick it up and open it to the George Bernard Shaw quote inside: Life is no “brief candle” for me. It is a sort of splendid torch which I have got hold of for the moment, and I want to make it burn as brightly as possible.

  It was the first quote Trixie wrote in our Book of Quotes, followed by song lyrics and movie quotes and funny things we said—her handwriting large and loopy, mine small, careful.

  I walk downstairs and step out onto the deck, looking for my dad. He’s in the backyard, down the hill at our lakeside patio with the Clarks and two people I don’t know—a tall woman in a flowing peasant skirt and a boy who’s even taller.

  Dad sees me, waves, and starts up the hill, motioning for me to come down. I meet him halfway.

  “Where’ve you been? Come meet the Stanfords.”

  “Who are the Stanfords?”

  “The renters.”

  “The renters?”

  “Yeah, Betty and Ron are spending the summer in Canada at their daughter’s, remember? And they’re renting out their house.”

  “Oh, right.” I remember Betty mentioning something about that the last time she brought over a plate of cookies. Ron and Betty are like an extra set of grandparents. Betty loves her baked goods and we benefit from it.

  “Her son’s about your age, I think,” Dad says as we walk toward the patio.

  I squint as we get closer. The boy—the cute boy—stands at the fire pit. His shaggy blond hair sticks out in several directions. He’s wearing baggy black cargo shorts and a Dr Pepper T-shirt torn at the hem. He pulls a hand out of his pocket and raises it in a wave.

  Betty pulls me into a hug. Her gray-haired head comes up to about my shoulders and she always smells like cinnamon rolls. “Hello, Luce,” she says, her Canadian ooo long and bottomless. “These are the Stanfords. They’re staying at our place this summer.”

  The woman in the peasant skirt reaches out her hand. Her skin is soft, and her long fingers are covered with silver and black rings. She smells earthy.

  “Lucy, such a pleasure. I’m Shay and this is my son, Simon.”

  Dr Pepper—Simon—grins and raises his eyebrows.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Mrs. Stanford is an artist,” Ron says.

  “That’s Ms. Stanford,” the woman says, “but please call me Shay.”

  “So,” my dad says in a big voice, “Shay asked if it would be okay if she could work down here at the patio since there’s only the dock next door. That’s okay with you, right, Luce? Let’s take a quick tour of the yard and the lakeshore before you folks get on the road.”

  Excuse me? She wants to use our patio as an art studio? Our patio, with its starburst pavers and fire pit and comfy Adirondack chairs, is where I go to escape, where I can think about Trixie and cry without anyone bothering me.

  I shake my head. “Wish I could join you,” I say in a false, cheerful voice. “Hannah’s picking me up in a few minutes.”

  “Well, such a pleasure to meet you.” Shay puts her hand on my arm. “I’m so looking forward to getting to know you better this summer.”

  The Clarks, my dad, and Shay turn to go down to the beach, but Simon stays behind.

  He’s definitely cute.

  He’s staring at me.

  I’m having trouble looking away, my eyes locked on his intense green ones. Why is he staring at me?

  Dr Pepper smiles. “Your place is really nice.”

  “Thanks . . . well, um, I should go,” I say, but I don’t move. I stand there and look up at him, and when he grins at me, I can’t help it. I smile back.

  “Have fun,” he says.

  “Did you know there’s no period in Dr?” I ask, still not moving.

  “What?” His eyes narrow in confusion.

  I point at his shirt. “Dr Pepper. No period in Dr. We learned about it in history. The period was dropped in the 1950s, but I can’t remember why.”

  He doesn’t say anything, and I can feel my cheeks flame. Why do I have to be such a dork? No period in Dr Pepper. Honestly.

  He’s still smiling, though, and then he says, “You know, I wasn’t really sure how I felt about leaving my friends for the summer and living up here in the middle of nowhere. Now that I’ve met you, things are definitely looking up.”

  “Uhh.” Good one.

  “I like you,” he says. “You’re spunky.”

  No one’s ever called me spunky before.

  “I really have to go. My friend’ll be here soon and—”

  “I’ll keep you company while you wait,” he says.

  I bite back a smile.

  We walk around the front of the house and sit on the porch steps. I pull out my cell phone. Hannah should be here by now. I’ll give her five minutes before I call her to make sure she’s okay.

  Simon’s sitting close, close enou
gh that I can feel the heat from his pale arms, covered with fine blond hairs. His fingers are long, some smudged blue and black.

  Why am I inspecting his fingers?

  I look up. The smile hasn’t left his face. He smells good, like oil paints and something spicy, a hint of cologne.

  “What are you up to tonight?” His voice is warm and friendly.

  “Movie.”

  “There’s a theater in town?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “We may be a small town, but we do have a movie theater.”

  “Thank God,” he says. “How many screens?”

  “One.”

  He laughs, and I like the sound of it. “Seriously?”

  “The theater was built in 1919. It’s kind of a big deal.”

  “Cool. What’s playing?”

  I shrug. I have no idea. It doesn’t matter, really. It’s what we do on Saturday nights. “There are a couple of theaters down in Brainerd, too, if you need more variety.”

  “I don’t know,” he says slowly. “I have a feeling I won’t be too bored this summer.”

  I hear the crunch of gravel as Hannah pulls into the driveway. I stand up. “She’s here.”

  He stands up, too, and whistles as Hannah parks her mom’s old Lexus in front of the garage. “Nice wheels.”

  “Well, thanks for keeping me company.” I wave at him as I get into the car. He waves back.

  Hannah grins at me. “Who’s the hottie?”

  My cheeks go red. “Betty and Ron are renting out their house this summer.”

  “To that guy?”

  “Yeah, and his mom.”

  “Does he have a name?”

  “Simon.”

  “Simon,” she says, like she’s trying it out. “Simon the Renter.”

  “Simon the Renter.” I try it out, too.

  “He’s cute.”

  I shrug. “He’s nice.”

  “Oh, girl, you are going to have fun this summer!”

  Everything’s fun for Hannah. Trixie was the same way.

  I’m more realistic.

  “Yes,” I say, “I’m sure I’ll have lots of time to hang out with Simon the Renter when I’m not working my two jobs.”

  “You never know.”