Truest (23 page)

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said; then he sat up rather suddenly, the blanket falling off of him. “I thought . . . We should probably go.” The hair on his forehead was curling a little from sweat, his bare chest pale in the darkness. He stared toward one of the belfry windows, listening to the sound of the sirens fade behind the rhythm of the rain.

With one hand, I held the blanket against my chest as I sat up beside him; I leaned in close and whispered against the flesh behind his ear, “Did I not just remind you that summer is almost over, Hart?” I placed my palm against his chest.

“Well, when you put it that way . . . ,” he said, grinning, and pressed his mouth to mine as we fell back against the mattress.

We woke up the next morning when the sun had half risen on a town that smelled clean and raw like damp soil and earthworms and the yellow cress that grew in the sidewalk cracks.

“Oh shit,” said Silas, sitting up and reaching for his clothes. “We're going to be in trouble.” He checked his phone. “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. I missed like fifty calls from my parents. Wake up, West! Get dressed.” He stood up quickly and hopped
around, trying to pull his jeans up. “Your dad is never going to let us hang out again. Ever.”

“I won't let that happen,” I said sleepily, snuggling into the blanket and grinning at the way his hair stood up in the back. I felt drugged with the events of the night before. My body felt sore in the most perfect way.

“You won't have a choice if your dad murders me in the next ten minutes.”

I frowned from my spot on the mattress. “Just go home. I can take care of my parents.”

Silas shook his head firmly and pulled on his shirt. “No way. I'm not making you face the firing squad alone.”

“They probably haven't even realized I'm gone.”

Now dressed, he rejoined me on the mattress and kissed my forehead. “They will if my parents called yours,” he said.

We argued the entire way down the four flights, but when we walked across the wet parking lot toward my house, my dad was on the front steps, waiting, watching. My eyes went wide, and I smoothed out my shirt—Laurel's shirt. Silas reached for my hand and held on tight. My dad started to walk toward us.

“Pastor Beck,” Silas said, “I know this—”

“Silas, get in the car,” my dad said.

“
Dad!
” I said, ready to lie, a little surprised at just how ready I was. “Relax. We fell asleep.”

“Pastor Beck—” Silas started again.

“Just get in the car, Silas. I'll drive you.”

“Dad!”

“Look,” my dad said, and his voice was strange, “there's been an accident. Get in the car, Silas. I'll tell you about it while we drive.”

Silas's hand went suddenly slack, dropping mine; his face was stark white. “What?” he asked. “What hap—”

“In the car.”

This time Silas obeyed. Dad said, “Go talk to Mom,” then ducked into the driver's seat, Silas looking terrified. I was left in the driveway, a sense of dread gnawing at my stomach as the summer truly ended.

I kept Silas's gaze as they backed out of the driveway, then stormed into the house, shouting for my mom, my blood pounding. She was sitting at the kitchen table, staring at it but not seeing it. “Mom?” I asked, panted.

She looked up, her eyes full of sorrow. She said, “West . . .” and the strength left my legs as I knew—
knew
—it was Laurel.

Instead of helping me up, my mom knelt down beside me on the floor and put her arms around me. “Shhh, West.”

“What happened?” I gasped.

“Shhh,” Mom said again, pressing her face into the back of my neck.

“
Tell
me,” I insisted. “Is she—?”

“She's in the hospital.”

She was alive. Laurel was
alive.

“It's not good though, honey,” my mom said softly. “The car—or truck, I guess it was—went through the guards and over the bridge. Around two o'clock this morning. It was—well, obviously, there was an impact. They're worried about head trauma.”

“Was Whit with her?”

“No, it was just Laurel.”

“Is she awake?”

“I don't know many details,” she confessed.

I shrugged her off me and stood up, starting to pace. “I need to see her. I need to see Silas. I'll call Whit; he can drive.”

Mom was still kneeling on the floor. “West,” she said. Without looking up, she shook her head—just the tiniest bit, almost unnoticeable.

Suddenly fatigued and void of emotions, I slumped onto the couch. It was like being underwater—everything muted except my own heartbeat. I vaguely heard Shea and Libby come into the room and Mom tell them to go back upstairs.

The next few hours were strangely dreamlike. I lay on the couch with my head in my mother's lap, drifting in and out of sleep while she stroked my hair. Whenever I'd wake up, I'd have a vague feeling that it was better to be sleeping, so I'd allow—or force—myself back into an unconscious state.

Around dinnertime, when my body finally refused sleep and my stomach started growling, I sat up on the couch beside my mom.

“It's okay to cry, honey,” she said. “You don't have to be strong.”

“She'll be okay,” I said and believed it. The words felt sturdy; it made me feel strong to say them. I could picture it now: Laurel with bruises, a few broken bones. She'd need casts
and maybe PT, but who cared about that? Whit would buy forget-me-nots and bring them to her hospital room, and we'd all be giddy with relief.

I had a bowl of soup and some saltines and was feeling better on the whole when my dad came back home.

My stomach hollowed when I saw his face, worn and somber, in need of a shave.

“Kerry?” my mom said, reaching out to grip my arm.

He just shook his head.

“You're lying!” I accused, standing up and wrenching my arm away from my mom. “You're a liar.”

“West. She was semilucid in the ambulance but not once she got to the hospital. She—she held on for a little while . . . till Silas got there. She died about an hour later.”

“Stop it!” I shouted, putting my hands over my ears. “You're lying!”

No. This wasn't right. It couldn't be real.

“I picked up Glen from the airport this afternoon. The family is together at their house. Arty and Lillian are there, along with Teresa's sister's family. Listen, West, it's important for you to give the Harts some space right now,” he said. “I'm sure you're worried about Silas and feel sad about Laurel, but you need to just let them grieve as a family. And Sgt. Kirkwood wants to talk to you.”

“Me? What for? I didn't—I wasn't—”

“It's okay,” Dad reassured me. “You're not in trouble. No
one's in trouble. He's just trying to get the whole story. What are you doing?”

I'd moved swiftly to grab the car keys off the breakfast bar and was now at the door. “I need to talk to Silas.”

“The Harts need some space,” he repeated, walking toward me.

“
You
just came from there,” I accused.

“I'm their pastor,” he said, setting his hand against the door.

As if that would stop me.

“I'm his
girlfriend
,” I said, yanking the door open and pushing past him.

“West—”

But I was gone.

I headed for Heaton Ridge, calling Silas on my way over; he didn't answer on the first try, so I called again, and again, and finally on the fourth call, he picked up. “Are you okay?” I asked, realizing what a dumb question that was as soon as it left my mouth.

“No,” he said. His voice was small.

“I'm on my way over,” I offered, as if that would somehow make things better, as if I had a rescue packed away like a physical object on my person. “Be there in a few minutes.”

“I'll come out to your car.”

“Okay.” The sound of his voice shattered me.

Just drive
, I told myself, refusing to look into the ravine as I crossed the bridge.
Just drive.

The driveway was filled with cars. I let the car idle on the street, my nerves all jangly as I waited for him to come outside, and when he did, he looked so defeated, my throat caught. He was still wearing yesterday's shirt, his hair messy, unshowered, my sweat still on his skin. It drove into my gut like a linebacker: Laurel was dead.

I turned the car off, stepped out. I hugged him, but it was one-sided, as if he was allowing it. “Do you want to go somewhere?” I said. “The lake? We can talk?”

“I really should stick around here for now,” he said, his voice so flat it didn't even sound like him. “My parents, they don't want me to go anywhere.”

“Let's sit on your porch,” I said. My legs felt like they might give out under me.

We sat down on the swing where Silas had first described solipsism syndrome to me. Now he sat there slumped in the seat, making his long legs look even longer. “I . . . I don't know what to say,” I admitted. Just twenty-four hours ago, I'd been getting ready for the street dance. Here in this house. With Laurel. An image of her eyes flashed in my mind—all that glitter, golden brown like a fawn.

“There are no skid marks,” he said.

“Huh?” I asked, confused.

“Skid marks,” he repeated. “There are none.” Seeing I still wasn't catching on, he prodded my shoe with his toe. He whispered, “Are you gonna make me say it, West?”

There are no skid marks.

No skid marks.

And suddenly I realized what he meant. The bridge. The bridge over the river to Heaton Ridge. If it had been an accident, she'd have hit the brakes. There would be marks on the bridge. “You mean . . . you mean, you think she meant to go over?” I whispered. “Silas,
no
.”

“There's no note,” he said, his chin trembling despite his set jaw. “I looked before anyone else—her room, I mean. Tore through everything. First thing I did when I got home. There's a note to Whit inside a notebook, but it's more of a love letter than anything else.”

“Silas, she wouldn't have. It was just a—just an accident. She'd been drinking. It was raining. The brakes on the truck weren't great. You know that.”

“The paramedics said she was talking in the ambulance. Babbling. Semilucid. She kept saying she was sure. Sure about
what
—about her decision? To end things?”

“
No
,” I said. “No. If anything, the opposite! Like on the beach—the jealous palm. She was
sure
.”

His face changed again, from anger to grief. “I should have been there,” he whispered, staring blankly at the porch floor. “This is my fault.”

“
No
,” I said again. “It's
not
. Don't say that.”

“It is,” he said, and he squeezed his eyes shut tight. “It
is
! I should have been there to drive her home. Should have looked
harder for that doll. Should have pushed her more—or less—or . . . I don't know. I should have—should have been there.”

The lake was visible from his front porch, between two of the neighbors' houses on the other side of the street. The swans were the only ones out there today, four of them, gliding like specters over the water, barely leaving a ripple in their wakes. It felt like a year since summer had been here, since young swimmers had played in the lake, since kids had sat sunning themselves on the beach across these waters. We'd had communion with Laurel there only days before, and it felt like a lifetime ago.

Silas started to shake beside me; I leaned in to hug him again, but he shrugged me off.

“She will never be older than seventeen,” he growled. It was a dangerous sound; in his voice I heard a trace of the night he had lambasted his sister. “Nothing makes any sense,” he said. “She seemed better those last few days than she had all year. Why
now?
”

I pressed my hands against my temples to press out the beginnings of a headache, but also to occupy my hands, which were desperate to touch Silas. I looked out at the lake, at the swans crowding together—a lamentation of swans—and I thought of the swan song:
the most beautiful song a swan sings is the one before it dies.

But hadn't she said to me once that she thought suicide was the most selfish thing a person could do? Yes, she had,
when we were talking about Whit's dad. She couldn't do it on purpose—could she? And yet, I remembered her reflection in her bedroom mirror, her eyes serious as sermons as she said, “While I'm still me.”

Silas was thinking of the same thing: “I feel so guilty, and so pissed. If she meant for it to happen—if she did it on purpose—then I hate her.” He looked at me, and his dark eyes flashed. “If she . . . I hate her, West. I hate her, but I want her here so bad.”

In my mind, on repeat, was the image of Silas, twirling Laurel in their den, her grin like the equator. “I just feel desperate to know the truth—and then I want anything
but
the truth,” he said. “And I want to feel this resolution. She's gone. And it's my fault.” His last words were barely audible.

“Silas, it's not your fault,” I repeated, as I began to understand just what losing Laurel would cost Silas.

“I can't do this right now,” he said.

“Do what right now?”

“This. You and me.”

Panic punctured my heart. “What? What are you saying?”

“If I had been there for Laurel, she'd still be here,” he said. “Not just last night,” he continued. “All summer. I let myself get distracted with you. It was a mistake.” He didn't meet my eye.

It was as if Silas had slapped me. “Distracted? I'm a
distraction?
” I spat out the word, tears pricking at my eyes.

“West, stop. You're not hearing me right.” His eyes were
closed and his head sagging. “I'm just saying—”

“You said it was a mistake.”

“All I'm saying is that I should have been focused on my family—with Dad gone and Laurel so messed up. I didn't mean—” He looked at me a little pleadingly.

But I was stung. “You keep saying it was your fault, but if I'm the one
distracting
you”—I thought of last night, the conflict I'd seen in his eyes—“then you must think it's really
my
fault she's dead.”

He didn't answer.

I climbed out of the swing and tore down the porch stairs. He scrambled down after me, and with those long legs, he caught up to me quickly in the lawn. “West, no, wait!” When I ignored him, he grabbed my shoulder and spun me around. “Listen to me. I'm fucked up right now, do you understand?
Fucked up.
I just want some space to think.”

“You're
supposed
to want
me
!” I roared. I stared hard at him.

Silas was crying.

Everything warred in me: the desire to hold him, to press my lips against his temple and make him feel safe—and the compulsion to fly at him, or to call him a coward.

“You're supposed to want me,” I said again. I felt overcome with my selfishness, that I could say these words at this moment, but I was wild with loss. “I gave up
everything
,” I whispered. “For you.
To
you.”

He lifted his hands to his face but still didn't speak.

And I thought back to June, when I had asked him what he wanted.

It had always been about Laurel. Always.

So I walked away.

Back at the parsonage, I thundered into the house and up the stairs to my bedroom like a guided missile, ignoring the questions. Dad told the family, “Just give her some space.” I closed the door, pressed my back against it as I slid down to the floor. Shame made me want to keep all my secrets, but my guilt made me want to spill everything. I was hiding, but I wanted so badly to race down the stairs, climb into Dad's lap, and tell him the story of my summer and especially of last night.

Shame and sorrow and
space
pulled at me.

It was astonishing: yesterday, it was summer; yesterday, we were dancing.

I threw myself onto my bed. My fingers raked the sheets, their softness like an accusation. If what Silas said was true, then I deserved no comfort.

I was still wearing Laurel's shirt—it smelled like Silas, and the scent stuck to my throat like dust. I struggled out of it and threw it on the floor. Then, wanting to slip out of my
body
, I clawed at myself, leaving scratch marks on my arms and stomach. I thought of his finger making slow, gentle circles. . . .

NO.

The TV was on downstairs, though I couldn't make out
which show. I still half expected—half
hoped
for—footsteps, a hand on the doorknob, a face to peek through the door as it opened.

There was only silence, only space.

On my nightstand, a collection of books. His. A dance theater program. Hers. A photo of all of us, the whole group in thrift-store prom outfits, looking deliberately awkward and trying not to laugh. There is this staggering light in all our faces, at home in our eyes.

In the photo, Laurel's smile is real and true and raw. Everyone is looking at the camera, except for Silas.

He's looking at
me
, affection flashing from him like some kind of holy spark.