Take the Fall(47)

“There, that’s better, isn’t it?” she says.

“It was worse before, leaving everything the way it was.” Mrs. Meyer drops a pair of earrings back inside Gretchen’s jewelry box, her whole body trembling. She clutches her arms to her chest. “Every time I walked by, I expected to see her on the bed, at her computer, hear her talking—”

Her words dissolve and Kirsten goes to comfort her. I squeeze my eyes shut, preserving the memory of what this room used to be for me—the place we had our first slumber party with Aisha and Haley, where I first confided to Gretchen I had never met my dad, where Gretchen whispered to me what it was like to have sex.

When I open my eyes, the air seems different. I’m overwhelmed by a strange sense of relief and all I can think is Mrs. Meyer must be right. When I stood outside her door the night of the funeral, Gretchen’s ghost was lingering. Now, looking around the room, it’s like she’s packed up and gone.

Kirsten takes her mom into the hall, whispering something about a glass of water. I step into the closet, unsure where else to go. In sixth grade Gretchen had the adjoining bedroom converted into one massive wardrobe. It’s about the size of my bedroom, and so organized I used to tease Gretchen that even if she got dressed in the dark she’d still come out perfectly matched. I swing the door until it’s almost shut behind me, shivering when my skin brushes the purple velvet prom dress. It hangs on the back of the door in all its splendor, right where she placed it the day she brought it home. Even after a long day trying on dozens of dresses, when she slipped into this one, there was no question. She was stunning. The bodice is covered with swirling purple feathers that plunged low over her chest and even lower down her back. These gave way to the flowing velvet skirt, which dropped to the floor, interrupted by a side slit that teased up her thigh. The thing seems dark and shapeless draped over a hanger without her. I step away from the dress and turn a slow circle in the center of the room. There’s nothing I want here. Nothing I could take with me and ever actually wear.

Kirsten steps in. “Find anything you like?”

I look away, wondering what she wants me to say. Why I’m really here. I study the shoes, the one thing Gretchen and I couldn’t share. She wore a six and I’m an eight and a half. “Is your mom okay?”

“She’s gone to lie down and read up on essential oils.” Kirsten runs the hem of the purple dress between her fingers. “She feels guilty—I overheard her talking to the therapist. This whole ‘spirit’ thing is about trying to forgive herself.”

I rub my hands over my arms. Despite all the vacations and sleepovers, I’ve never been especially close with Mrs. Meyer. Although, if I’m honest, Gretchen never really was either. Her mom was never negligent, always kind—just preoccupied. Gretchen’s dad, on the other hand, would plan getaways from his job, looking for fun. He was the one who seemed happy to invite me along. But none of that makes Mrs. Meyer’s pain any less real. Imagining my own mother going through this, trying to deal with the unthinkable, makes the beat of my heart feel more and more like an ache.

“How can she even think that? It wasn’t her fault,” I say.

“Lying in bed every night, the same way I do, I guess.”

I stare at my hands. “I guess it’s hard not to rehash the details. Every time I go over it, I think of something I could’ve done different.”

Kirsten sinks to the floor and shakes her head. “At least you’re not the one who got drunk and kissed Gretchen’s boyfriend. I’m the reason she left the party in the first place.”

The pain in her voice catches me off guard. I drop to my knees, but everything I think to say seems stupid.

We sit in silence. I let my eyes wander over the four quadrants arranged by season, and then again by color. Whites and pinks, purples and greens, blacks and blues. Gretchen blamed her freckled complexion as the reason she refused to wear red or yellow.

“What happened that night, Kirsten? I mean, after you guys fought?”

Her lip quivers like she can’t decide whether to curl it up or down. “There’s a rumor going around that I hooked up with some freshman.”

“I heard that . . . is it true?”

“I woke up in the dark alone.” She shrugs. Her gaze is unfocused, staring somewhere into the air in front of her. “I guess it could have happened.”

My blood goes cold. “Kirsten, were you—”

“I was fully clothed. I don’t have reason to think anything actually went down . . . but I really don’t know. Someone at the party offered me a ride home, but I was afraid to face my parents and thought the walk would sober me up.” She closes her eyes. “When I saw the police cars I remember thinking I’d be grounded for life. I don’t remember much else.”

A tear rolls down her cheek. I wipe my own face with my sleeve.

“It doesn’t really matter what happened to me. I just keep thinking I could have helped her if I’d been there. If I hadn’t been so stupid.”

I touch her shoulder. “It sounds like you blacked out.”

“I walked home through the park. I was so drunk. Why didn’t they go after me? I wouldn’t have struggled.”

“Kirsten—” My voice cracks.

She eyes my arm with its fading crosshatched scratches. “At least you fought for your life—I was too wasted to even die.”