History Is All You Left Me(36)

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.”

Denise’s face scrunches up, and she looks back and forth between Jackson and me. “I thought you two hated each other.”

Something you said to me once: The world should stop lying to kids because they’re always brutally honest with us.

“Denise!” Ellen scolds.

“Denise, geez,” Russell says.

Her cheeks flush. I hate that she’s embarrassed over this.

“Griffin and I just haven’t had a chance to be friends yet,” Jackson says. I feel like he’s talking down to her a little bit; don’t you? I don’t think he means to, but maybe he hasn’t spent enough time around kids. More importantly, he doesn’t deny her claim. He really thinks I hate him, and even though I don’t want to set him on fire or curse him to die a thousand deaths, I’m not sure he’s wrong.

“Yeah.” That’s the best I got.

Then Ellen forces Denise to get ready for apple pie and playtime with her chatty friend, who is bound to go on and on about typical nine-year-old stuff that she can’t possibly care about anymore. Losing you is going to be her express ticket to adulthood, I bet.

I sit on the couch, fighting away the memories, keeping my eyes off your closed door straight ahead. Russell is sitting on the edge of the piano bench, his face in his hands. I don’t know what to say, so I bring up the routines because talking about normalcy seems, well, normal.

“Yeah. The routines,” Russell growls. “I’m sure Virginia will send El another psychobabble article on the drive over to Mitali’s, and we’ll drop everything to try that out.” He gets up and pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his bathrobe pocket. “Could you let El know I’ll be outside by the car?”

I’ve never seen Russell bounce so quickly. He doesn’t seem to remember or care he’s in a bathrobe.

It’s only a couple of minutes before Ellen and Denise emerge from the bedroom, dressed in new clothes for the playdate. Ellen’s eyes dart around with the same intensity as on those mornings she would drive us to the arcade in New Rock and you were still in the shower. “Where’s Russell?”

Jackson points with his thumb toward the front door. “Stepped out.”

“He said he’ll be by the car,” I add.

If Ellen is trying to mask her annoyance, she’s failing. She takes a deep breath and tosses a ring of keys onto the couch between Jackson and me. “You boys know where everything is. Griffin, you’re welcome to hang around, of course. Jackson, if you step out, don’t forget the keys. We should be back in a couple of hours.”

Denise gives me a hug and Jackson a high five on her way out.

“I won’t hang around long,” I tell Jackson once we’re alone.

“I’m not kicking you out,” Jackson says.

“I know.” I definitely don’t plan on being here when your parents and sister return; it’s just too much on them, you know. “It’s hard being here . . . I don’t know how the hell you’re doing it.”

“Without choice,” Jackson answers.

“Right. It’s good that you were here.” I mean that.

“No way was I going to miss his funeral,” Jackson says.

I get up and go toward your bedroom door. I’m pretty damn aware you won’t be on the other side, hunched over your desk, drafting a rough sketch of a universe you hope to bring to life in an animation. I’m still tempted to knock anyway.

“I haven’t gone inside,” Jackson says.

I turn away from your door. “What? I thought you were sleeping there.”

“Hell no. Would you have been able to?”

I’ve imagined this scenario before and find myself in your bed, always. But I missed being in your room with you long before you died.

“Have you seen his parents in there?”

“Russell a couple times, yeah.”

“Did anyone say they didn’t want you in there?”

Jackson shakes his head.

I turn back to the door and grab the doorknob. “I’m going in. You can do what you want, but I—”

“I’ll go with you,” Jackson says. I feel his fast footsteps on the floor.

He stands to my left, but instead of releasing the doorknob and switching sides, I close the space between me and the door so he’s no longer directly beside me. I’m even closer to you now. I turn the doorknob. Here we are, at the main exhibit of the McIntyre Museum.