9 · Lucy
I wake up late Sunday morning, Mother’s Day, to a quiet house. Dad’s on the porch with a cup of coffee and the local paper.
“Where’s Mom?” I ask. “Aren’t we taking her out for lunch?”
He doesn’t look up. “Nope. She’s at the restaurant. Someone called in sick. She wants to know if you’ll go in early.”
I pinch my lips together. “I sort of had plans—uh, before my shift.”
He puts his index finger on the newspaper to hold his place and looks up at me. “What kind of plans?”
“Well, I thought I’d stop at the cemetery for a few minutes.”
He gives me a look that’s a cross between worried and resigned. “Why are you always going up there, Luce?” His voice is soft, so quiet I have to strain to hear.
“I go once a month, Dad, not always. I miss her, okay?” The words rush out of me.
I used to go always. I used to go every day. Sometimes twice a day those first few weeks.
“Does it help?” he asks.
No, it doesn’t help. Not really.
When I don’t answer, he says, “I’ll give you a lift when you’re ready.”
• • •
On the way to town, Dad doesn’t let up. “I wish you’d get some new friends, Lucy.”
“I have friends, Dad. Hannah is my friend.”
“She’s too loud.”
I roll my eyes and change the subject. “So why did you tell Shay Stanford she could work down at our patio?”
Dad shrugs. “I worked out a deal with Ron and Betty. Fifty bucks a week. We could use the extra cash.”
My stomach flips—I hate talking about money. I look at my dad. He needs a shave, his cheeks are hollow and there are dark circles under his eyes. He works at a plant that manufactures aluminum docks and boat lifts, but our lift sits empty. He sold the boat months ago, even though he’s been working double shifts and overtime. My uncle Daniel says we can borrow his boat anytime, but I can’t remember the last time Dad got out on the lake. Clayton’s tuition is expensive; costs of restaurant supplies have shot up. I know money’s tight.
When I don’t say anything, he continues. “You’ll be so busy this summer, you probably won’t even notice.”
Dad drops me off at the church. As he drives away my cell phone rings—the James Bond theme song. Clay.
“Hey,” he says.
“How’s the studying going?” I ask.
“Studying. Right. Good.” He sounds ragged and rough, like he’s got ashes in his mouth.
“Are you hungover? It’s two in the afternoon!”
He laughs. “Maybe a little bit.”
“I thought you were coming home for Mother’s Day. Guess you had a change of plans?”
“Yeah. I have a final Monday morning, so, you know, I’ve got to study.”
“Doesn’t sound like you were studying last night.”
Clayton laughs. “Oh, I was studying. Studying the Bud Light and the bootay.”
Seriously?
“Hey, did you know that Ron and Betty rented out their house this summer—”
Clayton interrupts. “Yeah, yeah, Dad told me. Listen, you gotta do me a favor. You gotta tell Mom and Dad that I’m not coming home this summer.”
“What?”
“Yeah, me and a couple of buddies are subleasing this guy’s house. Total party house. Just for the summer.”
“Since when?”
“Since a few days ago.”
“I’m pretty sure Mom’s counting on you to help out at the restaurant.”
“Yeah, that’s not gonna happen. Besides, I sort of have to do some makeup work for this class I screwed up in, so I figured I would get caught up and party, too. Best of both worlds.”
“Best of both worlds for you, maybe.”
“What’s the big deal? Why do you care if I come home or not?”
“I don’t. It’s just—” But I do care. Everything’s different. Trixie’s gone, Ben’s gone, my first summer without them. No Betty and Ron, no pans of brownies and plates of peanut butter cookies. I can’t be without Clay, too. I can’t have any more different. I take a deep breath.
“You’ll be fine, Lucy. You’ll tell them for me, right?”
“Why should I?”
“Come on, help me out. I want to have fun this summer. I don’t want to work at the restaurant.”
“Oh, it’s fine for me but not for you?”
“That’s right. Looking out for number one.”
“As usual,” I spit. “Tell them yourself.”
I pull the phone away from my ear and hit end as I walk across the cemetery.
Trixie’s grave is on the side farthest from the church, close to a small cluster of silver maple trees. Her headstone is red granite, small and simple. Her name, the dates, Beloved Daughter and Sister.
Trixie’s mother, Jane, has planted flowers, the earth damp where it’s recently been watered. She’s been here today. This is her first Mother’s Day without Trixie.
At the foot of Trixie’s grave is a small stone bench with cherubs carved into the legs. I sit and face the headstone.
“Hey, Trix.” That’s how I always begin.
And then I talk.
I talk about Emily and how excited I am to be her nanny this summer, even though I’m not all that excited about cleaning the cabins and hauling trash around. I tell her about my phone call with Clay, about Hannah and Dustin and the movie last night and how it still feels weird to go to the movies without her.
I tell her about the Clarks and the renters and Simon and his Dr Pepper T-shirt. “And, um, he’s pretty cute,” I say. “What do you think? Should I go for it with Simon the Renter?”
I move from the bench to kneel close to the headstone. I stroke my fingers over the tops of the marigolds.
“I’ve been seeing Ben around a lot lately. I’m worried about him, Trix. He’s always so angry. He won’t talk to me. I mean . . . I know it’s hard for him without you. I get that. He misses you. But what I don’t understand is why he had to take it out on me. Why did he push me away? Why did he say those terrible things?”
Trixie doesn’t answer.
Only one person can answer those questions.
“I’m trying to be brave, Trixie,” I whisper. “It was a lot easier when you were around to remind me.”
I stand and brush grass from my knees. I reach into my pocket for a root beer barrel, twist the cellophane wrapper open, and place it on top of Trixie’s headstone. I leave her a piece of candy from Sweet Pea’s every time I visit, and every time I come back, it’s gone. Root beer barrels, cinnamon disks, butterscotches, jawbreakers. All her favorites. I like to think she’s enjoying the candy, even though it’s probably taken by a raccoon or squirrel.
“I’m going to ask him,” I say. “The next time I see him, I’m going to walk right up to him and ask him why he pushed me out of his life.” I bring two fingers to my lips and then touch them to the top of the gravestone. “Later, Trix. I miss you.”
I turn. My breath catches when I see Ben standing on the front steps of the church, leaning over the railing. He’s watching me and he looks so sad. I wonder how long he’s been there and if he could have possibly heard anything I said to Trixie.
I drop my eyes and walk down to the street. My brilliant plan to confront him, to get my answers, is crushed into the grass beneath every footfall.