Page 21 of The Last Thing You Said

I’ve been pinning quotes for a long time and I’ve got a crick in my neck. I reach up one hand to rub away some of the tension. I find one last quote: It’s a good day to have a good day, swirling script over a photo of a lake.

Trixie was wrong.

12 · Ben

Dana wanted to go to the movies tonight. We see every damn movie that comes to town. There’s got to be something else we could do. We could drive over to Cloud 9, the campground outside of town, and play some mini-golf or hit the Lazy River. We could hike up to the Fire Tower and drink beer high above the treetops. We could go out on the boat, have a bonfire at Guthrie’s. Anything but sit in that stifling, musty movie theater again.

I lied and told Dana I needed to stay home to help my dad tonight, but I don’t think she bought it.

After dinner, I head upstairs to my room and flop down on the bed. I stand up and pace, I go to the window and watch the summer world of Halcyon Lake drift by.

Drifting.

I turn away from the window and bang my leg into the corner of my desk. The desk where Lucy used to leave fudge for me. The desk is covered with stones and equipment—agates, a rock tumbler, sandpaper, a shallow dish with white, chalky rings of evaporated water. All this stuff used to be my dad’s, and I was so proud when he said I was old enough for it. That was fourth grade. I wanted to be like him—the fishing, the rocks. For a while I even thought I’d teach earth science, too.

I pick up an agate from a small pile on the desk. An agate in the rough—one I’d found on a beach up the North Shore Scenic Drive along Lake Superior last summer but haven’t polished. It’s coarse and uneven and pitted on one side, so different from the beautiful striping and colors of the opposite side. It’s got a lot of potential. They say it’s worth more this way, uncut, in its natural state, but I’ve always liked the shine and design of the polished stones, the cabochons.

I gave Lucy an agate on that North Shore trip. I wonder if she kept it or if she tossed it aside, put it in a box of sentimental garbage. Years from now she’ll pull the box out from under her bed, covered with dust, and wonder about the agate, where it came from.

I used to have the patience for polishing stones. I used to want to make something smooth and dynamic out of something dull and misshapen, but I haven’t worked on any rocks since Trixie died. I’ve left everything the way it was, like Mum has left Trixie’s bedroom.

I balance a few rocks into a small stack, careful to keep it from tumbling over. It reminds me of an inuksuk. Dad told us about them on our first trip to Duluth years ago when we saw a couple along the side of the road. They’re stone structures that the Inuit used as guideposts, to mark good hunting or fishing, to give direction—practical reasons, but spiritual ones, too, Dad said, as memorials or to mark a place of respect. Last summer, that last trip before Trixie died, we saw at least fifty of them at one of the rocky beaches.

My tower is irregular, off balance, but the clink of the stones as I stack them is like a balm on my soul. I’ve created something.

But unlike an inuksuk, these rocks don’t tell me which direction to go.

I sweep my hand across the stack and the stones crash to the desk.

13 · Lucy

Monday, my day off. I sleep in, then throw on shorts and a ratty Halcyon Lake Hawks hockey T-shirt, and get to work cleaning the house, something that falls on me a lot more now that Mom and Dad are both working longer hours. I’ve got a pretty good routine down, starting at the loft at the top of our log home and working my way down, the kitchen last.

I’ve just finished vacuuming the living room when I look through the sliding glass door and see Shay Stanford down at the lake. She and Simon have been here a couple of days. Simon and I have texted a few times, but I haven’t been home much, and I’m nervous about seeing him again. Nervous and excited.

Shay stands with her hands on her hips, looking out over the lake, the sunlight a bright, rippling streak across the water. The trees are starting to fill out in a brilliant green, and the air is thick with the scent of lilac and lily of the valley.

Any other time, I’d stop what I was doing and walk down to take it in, to sit in my favorite chair on the patio and let myself get lost in the cool, fresh breeze.

I can’t do that now. Shay has set up her easel and sketch pads and what looks like a tackle box, the cover open, art supplies spilling across the table. When she turns back from the lake, the smile on her face is wide and as bright as the sunlight on the water.

That’s got to be worth more than fifty bucks a week.

I open up the bank of living room windows, make a quick round of the bookshelves and tables with a dust rag, and move on to the kitchen.

The kitchen doesn’t see a lot of use these days, not with Mom at the restaurant all the time. It doesn’t take long for me to load and start the dishwasher, wipe down the countertops, and go through the stack of mail. When I’m finished, I take a glass of water out to the deck, lean over the railing, and watch Shay again. I wonder where Simon is, what he’s doing.

I don’t have to wonder very long. When I turn to go back into the house a few minutes later, Simon Stanford is standing at the fireplace, a framed photograph in his hand.

He’s here. My heart jumps a little, but my glance quickly moves to the mantel above the fireplace. I know the exact photo he’s taken down.

The four of us—me and Clay, Ben and Trixie—on the dock in front of the Porters’ pontoon, two months before Trixie died. Ben stands in between me and Trixie, his arms over our shoulders. He’s wearing jeans and a green T-shirt. But he’s not looking in the direction of the camera. He’s looking at me.

It’s my favorite picture of all of us.

The last picture.

“Put that down,” I snap, and I walk across the room and snatch the frame out of Simon’s hands.