See You at Harry's(42)

I want to believe him. But I know he’s wrong. Kids suffer because of other people all the time.

“We have to stop blaming,” he says. “All of us.”

I wonder if that means him, too.

“You really don’t think it’s my fault?”

“No. I really don’t.”

“But —”

“It’s hard enough that he’s gone. Trying to blame someone, trying to find a reason why — it won’t change anything.” He gently takes hold of my arm. His hand feels warm and strong. “Look at me,” he says.

I lift my eyes to his.

“I love you. I love our family. If we’re going to survive, we’ve got to stick together. We have to love and support one another.”

But what if they don’t love me back? What if they can’t?

“Do you understand? Do you see how important that is?” His eyes are pleading. And sad.

I nod.

“Thank you.” He looks out across the parking lot toward the restaurant. The delivery truck is parked out back, but you can still see it: Charlie’s giant face smiling at us.

“I suppose we’ll have to paint over that,” he says. “Can’t imagine covering up his face, though.” A tear slips along his jaw.

I move closer to him and lean against him again. He puts his arms around me and holds tight. Thoughts of Charlie swirl between us. Images of Charlie under this table, trying to tie my shoelaces together as I do my homework. As I ignore him.

When my dad finally lets go, he looks around again at the table that was Charlie’s hideout. “I don’t know what Charlie loved so much about playing under here,” he says. “It’s really pretty gross.”

“Charlie didn’t notice that kind of stuff,” I say. I picture his dirty face, his crazy hair. His sticky hands. I smile, and a tiny hint of warmth enters my chest. “He was kind of gross, too.”

My dad looks up at the tabletop roof. “Now I know why his hair was sticky all the time.”

I almost laugh but stop myself.

“It’s OK, Fern. Charlie wouldn’t want you to be so sad.”

But I’ve already swallowed it down.

“Should we go back inside? It’s pretty cold out here.”

I shake my head. “It hurts too much. Hearing those stories.”

“I know.”

“I mean it hurts so much, I can hardly breathe.”

He nods. “I know.”

“I feel like . . . like . . .”

“I know,” he says. “It’s OK. We can stay right here.”

I picture my mom and Sara upstairs in the office, surrounded by their own guilt. And Holden and Gray, sitting at the table listening to all those Charlie stories, looking miserable. But they all have each other. And I guess I have my dad. But what I really want is Charlie.

My dad shifts again and rubs his lower back.

“You can go back in, Dad. I’ll be OK.”

He smiles at me but looks uncertain.

“I promise,” I say. But I think we both know it’s a lie.

“All right,” he says. “I’ll just go back in for a bit, and then we’ll all go home.” He squeezes himself out from under the table, and I listen to his feet slowly crunch through the leaves as he walks away.





WHEN HOLDEN COMES TO GET ME and takes me to the car, everyone is already waiting. I climb in the back and stare out the window. Sara sits in the middle between Holden and me. No one says a word as we drive home. No one asks me to sing to him. No one asks me to make Doll dance. No one reaches for my hand to hold and squeeze. No one whispers, I love you, Ferny.

At home, I go straight to my room and shut the door. I crawl into bed with the answering machine and hold it to my chest. I don’t play it, just hold it. Hold all that I have left.

Eventually I hear everyone come upstairs to get ready for bed. My dad knocks on my door and comes in to say good night. He holds me close and pats my hair as if I’m a little kid. As if I’m . . . I close my eyes and concentrate on his big hand, gently patting me. Soothing me.

“Get some sleep,” he says. “We’ll talk more in the morning.” No one else comes to say good night.

I wait for the house to get quiet before I use the bathroom and brush my teeth. On my way back to my room, I stop in Charlie’s doorway. It’s dark, but I can see that his bed still isn’t made.

I step inside and take a slow, deep breath. The air smells stale but still like Charlie’s room. Like unwashed hair and baby powder, which he loved to coat himself with after his bath.

I feel along the wall and turn on the light. I look at each wall, plastered with crayon drawings. Each piece of furniture. Each toy still on the floor. I pick up one of his books and put it back on his bookcase. When I do, I see a small brass vase on the top shelf. I step closer. I’ve never seen it before. I reach out for it but then pull my hand away.

It’s not a vase. It’s an urn.

It’s Charlie. In that small metal . . . thing.

I think about the answering machine and how it feels like he’s alive in there. Not like this cold metal object on the top of a bookshelf.

I sit on the floor and stare up at it.

“I miss you,” I whisper.

The room is quiet.