See You at Harry's(34)

“I was so wrong,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry, Fern.”

The ache in my throat throbs harder, but I don’t cry again. I breathe in the cold air and concentrate on the branches in front of me. The hundreds of needles poking out of each thin stick. I think of all the times Holden and I hid under here, listening to Charlie call out for us. “Holdy and Ferny! Whe-ah ah you!” How we giggled and shushed each other so he wouldn’t find us.

Why didn’t we want him to find us?

My mom said she named me Fern because she knew I was going to be a good friend. That I was the kind of person who would save anyone in trouble. But she was wrong. I couldn’t save anyone. I didn’t even try.

“I wish he knew how much I love him,” I say quietly. “But I was always telling him to leave me alone. What if he thinks I didn’t love him?”

“He knew — knows,” Ran says. He reaches for my hand and holds it gently. “He knows.”

When the sun moves and leaves us in the shade, we both start to shiver.

“I should probably go,” Ran says.

We climb out of the cave and walk back to my yard. The house seems quiet. We both look up at the front door but stay standing outside. Charlie’s tricycle is tipped over next to the garage. I think we notice it at the same time because we both turn away. Usually when Ran goes home, he leaves me with some sort of slogan that matches whatever T-shirt he’s wearing. Today he just looks at me with sad eyes I’ve never seen before.

Help me, I say with my own eyes.

But his say back, I can’t.





THAT NIGHT AT DINNER, my dad tells us about the plans he’s made for the funeral. And Charlie’s ashes. He chokes on the words, but the rest of us are all cried out. We stare at our plates and listen to him, but we don’t answer. My mom is still upstairs. My dad tells us he will get her to come down tomorrow. But I want her now. I want her to be the one to hold me, not Sara. I want her to tell me it’s OK to cry. I want her to show us that she isn’t going to disappear, too.

Instead, my dad has to tell us about funeral plans and ashes and how we’ll have to decide as a family what we’ll do with them. My grandparents’ ashes were scattered in the lake where they both loved to sail when they were young. But where would Charlie’s go? He would be all alone.

And then I remember.

“Doll!” I yell, standing up.

Everyone looks at me like I’m crazy.

“Charlie can’t be . . . He needs Doll! Are we too late, Dad?”

My dad looks totally confused.

“Calm down, Fern. What are you talking about?”

“Charlie and Doll! They should be together!”

Sara and Holden exchange looks. “She’s right,” Sara says.

“Can we get her to him?” The familiar ache in my chest starts to push up my throat again.

“I . . . I don’t know,” my dad says.

“Please! We have to!”

“I’ll try, Fern. I’ll bring her first thing in the morning.”

“Promise! You can’t just try!”

“I promise,” he says quietly.

I feel bad for making him go back to wherever it is he has to go, but I would feel worse if Charlie was alone.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” I say. “But —”

“I know, Fern. It’s OK.”

That really puts an end to dinner, so we all clear our plates and clean up.

I want to sleep in the living room again, but my dad says I need to get a real night’s sleep in my own room. When everyone goes upstairs, I get my backpack from the front closet and bring it to my room.

After brushing my teeth, I step into the dark hallway. No one has turned on the night-light that we keep on outside Charlie’s room. I can see well enough to find it and turn it on. It’s in the shape of Snoopy’s doghouse. It was Sara’s when she was little, then Holden’s, then mine, and finally Charlie’s. A faded Snoopy lies asleep on top. Charlie used to sit on the floor in the hall and pet Snoopy’s belly as he told him to have sweet dreams.

I sit on the floor and touch the plastic. I feel it get warm from the heat of the lightbulb inside.

“Fern?” Sara whispers. I turn. She makes her way to the bathroom. “What are you doing?”

I don’t know.

“Get some sleep,” she says before she disappears inside.

I stand up and look down the hallway. Charlie’s room is on the left; mine is on the right, just beyond. The hallway is so quiet, it echoes in my ears. I’m used to Charlie’s quiet snores or the steady scritch-scratch of his fingers on the wall as he talks himself to sleep, telling Doll stories.

I strain to listen. It’s so quiet, it hurts. I cover my ears and hurry to my dark room. I shut my door, grab my backpack, and pull out the answering machine. I plug it in and crawl into bed, pulling the covers over me and the machine. I turn the volume down as low as it can go, then press play and slowly turn the volume up so I can just barely hear. Hear Charlie. I hold my hand on the speaker and feel his voice gently vibrate against my palm.

“See you at Hawee’s,” he lies happily. I rewind the tape and play the broken promise again. And again. I will never see him again. I will never see his tiny hand waving to me through the glass. Or Doll’s face, bobbing up and down excitedly, as if she’s been waiting for me all day. I let the words fill the empty space inside me that aches and aches. But every time the machine goes quiet, I feel the emptiness open up again. I breathe in and out through my mouth to fill the quiet. In. Out. Over and over. Until I fall asleep.