Page 69 of The Last Thing You Said

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.