37 · Ben
I’m raking the weeds off the swimming beach after lunch when Dad corners me.
“When you’re done there,” he says, “we’ve got to level off the dock down by Bear.”
“Sure,” I tell him. I don’t look up from the wet sand of the shoreline, but I’m glad for the distraction. I’ve been thinking about Lucy again. I’ve been thinking about her since I saw her and her boyfriend when I was at the drugstore the other day. I’ve been thinking about her all summer, to be honest.
It’s hot today, and I’d rather be out on the lake fishing than doing all this resort maintenance. At least I’ll be able to stand in the lake and cool off when we work on the dock.
“And don’t forget,” Dad continues, “tonight we’re taking Mum out to the Twenty-Seven Club for her birthday.”
“Yep.”
He’s quiet for a minute; I can feel his eyes on me. Then: “You think you can sober up long enough to take your mother out for a nice dinner?”
I snap my head up and glare at him. “You think you can?”
Dad shakes his head. “What has gotten into you, Ben? Be angry at me, I don’t care. But don’t take this—whatever this is—out on your mum. She doesn’t deserve it.”
“Whatever this is?”
He waves his hand in front of me. “Your attitude. You think you’re the only one in this family who’s hurting? Jesus, Ben, think about somebody other than yourself for once.”
He turns and walks up the hill. He’s right, I know he’s right. I’ve been a selfish bastard since Trixie died, but I don’t know how else to handle it. I can’t deal with it the way they want me to. Put fresh flowers in Trixie’s room. Pray for her soul on Sundays. Shit, I can’t even do what Lucy does when she sits up at Trixie’s grave, talking to her, leaving her candy. I guess being an asshole is the only way.
Toward the end of my shift, I go up to the lodge, where Emily is sitting at the counter with a glass of milk and a piece of fudge. I recognize the green tissue paper it rests on.
“Whatcha got there, Emily?” I ask.
“Lucy bought me fudge,” she says. “It’s maple. Want to try some?”
A few seconds pass before I can bring myself to answer. Something inside of me tightens when I think of the pieces of fudge Lucy used to leave for me on Saturday mornings.
I never thanked her.
For one crazy second, I think that once Emily’s done with the fudge, I’ll offer to throw away the tissue. Instead, I’ll slip it into my pocket and keep it there like Lucy keeps the agate I gave her.
And then I snap out of it.
“That’s great,” I tell her. When she’s finished, I take the green wrapper, crumple it in my fist, and throw it in the trash.
• • •
The Twenty-Seven Club is this old supper club out on County Road 27, Mum’s favorite restaurant for surf and turf. The wide bank of windows overlooks Story Lake on one side and the golf course on the other. Dad reserved a table on the lake side, a huge bouquet of gerbera daisies, her favorite flower, in the center.
“Welcome to the Twenty-Seven Club, where the only thing we overlook is Story Lake,” the hostess says. We’ve heard it a million times. She hands us menus, even though we all order the same thing every time.
“Lovely flowers,” Mum says.
After the hostess has left with our drink orders, Bess, one of the owners, steps over to our table. “Haven’t seen you folks in a while. How are you, dear?” she says to Mum, a look of pity crossing her face.
God, even here. We can’t get away from it, almost a year later.
“Just fine,” Mum says. “My boys are treating me to a lovely dinner for my birthday. And it’s just lovely to see you, Bess.”
Mum’s anxious; I can tell by the way she said lovely so many times.
Saturday nights at the supper club were a big deal when Trixie and I were younger—we’d dress up in our church clothes and act like grown-ups, clinking our water goblets together and saying cheers in British accents like Mum, over and over.
A couple of years ago I noticed that the tables were scuffed, the upholstery sticky, the famous line about overlooking Story Lake worn out. The magic of the supper club faded. And that’s how I feel tonight, with my faded, sad parents across the table from me, the seat next to me where Trixie should be, empty.
We order—surf and turf for both Mum and Dad and a rack of ribs for me. Trix always ordered the Twenty-Seven Shrimp Special and brought the leftovers home to share.
Mum folds her hands in front of her on the table and leans forward.
“How are things going with Dana?” she asks.
My eyebrows shoot up. “Why?”
“Well,” Mum says, “she seems like a nice girl. And you’ve been seeing her for a few months. Is it serious?”
“Does it matter? I graduate next year and then—” I pause.
“And then?” Dad prompts.
“I suppose I’ll go to college. We’ll break up then, if we’re still together . . . I don’t understand why you’re asking me this.”
Mum sighs.
“Ben, we’re worried about you,” Dad says.
Here we go.
“What is there to be worried about?” I have a feeling I know what’s coming.
Mum looks at Dad like this is some big secret or something. Or maybe because she’s thinking he has the same problem.
“Ben, it seems like you’re having a tough summer,” she says. “A tough year since—since your sister died.” There’s a pause. “We know about the drinking.”
“The drinking,” I repeat. I look at Dad. He’s not saying anything. He’s letting Mum do all the dirty work.
“Yes, and we’re worried that you’re driving, too, after. Have you done that?”
I want to lie. I want to tell her that I’d never be so stupid, not after they lost one child. I would hate for them to lose me, too, for something as irresponsible as driving drunk.
I can’t lie to her, so I don’t answer.
“Ben?” Dad says. “Mum asked you a question.”
“Well, I usually stay at Guthrie’s,” I say. It’s the truth. I usually do.
“That’s your answer?” Dad says.
“What about the times you don’t stay at Guthrie’s?” Mum asks. “Sweetheart, you’re not in trouble—we just want the truth. We want to help you. You need to make better decisions.”
“Maybe once or twice.” I take a drink of my Coke and wish I had some whiskey for it. I wave my hand toward Dad’s glass. “You planning on driving after that beer?”
“Don’t get smart with me,” Dad says. “This is about you and your underage drinking.”
“Tom,” Mum says, and puts her hand on his arm. “We all need to find ways to deal with this, Ben. Some days are better than others. Some days I feel like I can’t even get out of bed, I miss her so much. And I’m glad you have Guthrie and your fishing to help you. But I think you’ve made some poor choices.”
“Fine. I won’t drink and drive.” I don’t tell them I won’t drink, though, and I hope that’s enough. I want this to end.
Mum sighs and gives Dad that look again.
“There’s something else,” Dad says.
Our server sets down our plates, and I’m glad for the break in this pointless conversation. What else could they possibly have to say to me? I’m not going to stop drinking because they’re worried about me. And I can’t believe that hypocrite sitting across from me.
“Well?” I ask. No sense in prolonging this. I pick up one of the ribs, covered in thick homemade barbecue sauce.
“Ben, we want to talk to you about Lulu,” Mum says.
I drop the rib, my appetite gone in an instant. “What?”
Mum takes a sip from her water goblet and then dabs at the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “Ben, did something happen between you two? Did you get into some sort of argument after Trixie died?”
“What?” I say again.
“She doesn’t come to the house anymore. She barely says two words to us anytime she sees us. Today I saw her and Emily leaving the library, and when I waved at them, she pretended not to see me.”
Dad jumps in. “And I’ve seen how the two of you are at the resort. You can barely stand to be in the same room.”
“What happened?” Mum reaches across the table for my hand, and her tone is so gentle, so concerned, that it almost breaks me.
“Nothing happened.” This is one of those moments that calls for anything but the truth. “She was Trixie’s friend, not mine.”
They don’t need to know what I did, what I said.
Dad clears his throat. “But we see that things—like your drinking—have gotten worse since school ended and you’ve—you’ve been around Lucy more.”
I suck in a breath.
“And then—after Lucy went missing—” Mum starts, but I cut her off.
“She didn’t go missing. She went to South Dakota. Big difference.” I don’t know why I say it.
“You’ve been so angry all summer, Ben,” Mum says in her soothing voice. “And with Trixie’s anniversary coming up—” Her voice breaks into a sob. “We miss Lulu, too, Ben, and we can’t help but wonder if something happened between the two of you that has—well, has kept her away from us. We’d love to see her again.”
Shit.
It’s all I can do not to get up and walk away. I could do it. It’s only five or six miles to Guthrie’s house.
But it’s Mum’s birthday. I won’t. Not today.
I’ve got to figure out a way to get them to stop talking. I couldn’t lie to her about the drinking, but I lied to her when I said nothing happened between Lucy and me. I can lie to her again.
“I’ll talk to her.” The lie slips out, and it’s surprisingly easy to keep going with it. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it, whatever it is.”
Mum looks at me for a long time and tears pool in her eyes. She knows I’m lying. “Promise me, Ben. She lost her best friend.”
Fuckall, she can’t ask me to promise.
“Why are you so worried about Lucy?” I can’t mask my anger. “So we’re not friends anymore. Let it go!”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Now the tears slip down her cheeks. “What if it had been Lucy instead of Trixie? How would Trixie have felt?”
Now I do it. I push away from the table. I don’t want to listen to this anymore.
“Ben.” Dad’s voice is low, quiet. “Don’t.”
I take a deep breath. I won’t. I won’t do this to Mum on her birthday, at the Twenty-Seven Club, where we’ve had so many good times as a family. I sit back down.
“I’m sorry, Mum.” I look down at my plate of food.
“And the drinking?” Mum says. “Please. I don’t know what I’ll do if something happens to you, too.”
I nod. It’s the best I can do. I’m all out of promises.