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He stands in front of the door, waiting to be buzzed in without having even looked at the intercom. So I guess he was used to getting let in when he stayed here in February. I press 2B for him while he bounces up and down. He’s either warming himself up or really has to pee, not that he would’ve said so during our completely silent walk over here.
“Who is it?” Ellen calls down through the speaker.
Jackson answers for himself and adds my name. Ellen buzzes us in.
“I wasn’t actually planning on going up,” I tell Jackson. “I just wanted to walk you back.”
“Don’t you want to see everyone?”
“Of course I do, especially Denise. But, I don’t know, I want to respect their grieving period too and not move in on their space.” I’ve thought about this a lot, but I never planned on telling Jackson, the ghost who’s haunting your home right now. “I didn’t mean that as a shot against you. I know your options were pretty limited, especially with your friends back home this week.”
“Can I be honest with you?” Jackson says. He moves deeper into the lobby, avoiding the chill that keeps creeping in through the front door. “It’d be nice to have you up there with me, even just for a few minutes.”
He’s a puzzle piece that does
n’t fit. And he knows it.
I can only imagine your face if I said no to Jackson right now; I’m sure it would look a lot like the face you made the last time I saw you. But I don’t want to think about that; forget I brought it up. That’s taboo.
“Let’s go up,” I tell Jackson.
I barely register Jackson thanking me. Up the staircase we go toward your apartment, and I don’t want to be here; it’s too soon. It will always be too soon. Time doesn’t heal all wounds. We both know that’s bullshit; it comes from people who have nothing comforting or original to say. But I wonder if others keep up with this lie because they don’t want to speak the harsh truth. The wound never closes and the pain remains, always piercing, always burning, always suffocating, always bleeding.
Ellen greets us at the door. She isn’t waving with her fingers like usual. It might have something to do with how it isn’t you and me returning from a movie, but instead two boys who love you. “Good morning.”
“Morning,” Jackson says, slipping past her.
“Morning, Ellen.” I step inside, hugging her once she closes the door. She hugs me back; it’s the first time we’ve held each other since losing you. In this one hug I no longer feel like she is disappointed in me for breaking up with you, that she still sees me as her other son. In that instant, I’m glad I let Jackson convince me to be here.
Ellen takes me by the arm. “Let me make you boys some iced tea.”
I’ll say it long after the zombie pirates have won: anyone who rejects your mother’s iced tea—even during winter—hates happiness. I follow her into the kitchen and everything looks the same, except for the addition of a round table by the window. Jackson sits first. I grab four glasses—an extra for Denise—to distract myself from trying to figure out what happened to the old (perfectly fine) table, and wondering if this new one has been here for so long that Ellen wouldn’t even consider it new anymore. I sit beside Jackson, and Ellen begins her routine, slicing fresh lemons for us.
“Theo would’ve wanted all of this, right?” Ellen says quietly. “Did you have a good evening?”
“It was good,” Jackson says.
I don’t know what else to add. I hear the tinkle of piano keys off in the living room. “That Denise playing?”
“Should be.” Ellen peeks into the next room while stirring the iced tea. “Good, Russell is with her. My sister forwarded some article to me on Wednesday or Tuesday . . . the days are scrambled; it doesn’t matter. She sent me an article about distracting children from their grief by forcing them to stick to their routines.” She pours us iced tea. “It’s worth a shot.”
“Totally.” My routines calm me down when they’re not turning me inside out.
Ellen checks her watch. “We’re taking her to her friend Mitali’s house in a little bit.” Without another word, she ducks out into the living room.
I remember Mitali. She’s the fast-talker. Your parents hosted that detective birthday party for her, years ago. Mitali and Denise and a bunch of other girls whose names even I don’t remember insisted on being called “grown-up detectives” instead of “kid detectives” and took it way too seriously, but we played along. You were the murder victim in the living room, surrounded by “yellow crime scene tape”—cough, party streamers, cough—until you got up for a water break while they were investigating their latest clue in Denise’s bedroom. Big mistake. Mitali rushed out and said you were cheating. The best part: she accused me of being a bad doctor for being wrong about your being dead. I wish you were cheating at death this time, too.
I down the iced tea and place my glass in the sink. Jackson and I follow Ellen into the living room. On the couch are folded blankets and a pillow. Maybe staying in your bed was too much, and Jackson camped out there. I don’t ask him.
Ellen crouches beside Denise, who is sitting on the piano bench with Russell, and grabs her hand in both of hers. “We have to head out in a bit. Mitali’s father said he’s making the apple pie you love. Do you want help pick out something cute to wear?”
“I can dress myself,” Denise says. Her voice is flat. She pulls her hands out of your mother’s, swings off the bench, sees me, turns away, and returns for a double take and her eyes widen. “Griffin!” She charges toward me and hugs me around my waist; I don’t think I fully registered at the funeral how freaking big she’s getting.
“What’s up, Dee?”
“What are you doing here?”
The answer is awkward, but I owe it to your sister to tell the truth. “Jackson stayed over at my house last night, and I walked him back over here.”
