It makes me want to run over and kick him, but I don’t. Instead, I stare back until he tosses his cigarette to the ground and saunters inside the shed.
The funeral is over and my father is gone.
Grandma is gone.
Everyone is gone.
And still, even as I turn to follow my mother, I can’t see the grave. Try as I might, I can’t look down. Somewhere deep inside, I won’t let myself remember who is in the hole in the ground.
My thoughts turn to Luke. Is it him?
It can’t be him.
Why would my father return after years of absence to attend a funeral for my boyfriend? And my grandmother? It doesn’t fit.
It’s not Luke.
And yet, when I flip through my spiral-bound substitute for a proper memory again, one truth becomes clear: the darkest memory showed up when he did.
Exhausted from the day and the weight of what’s coming, I gather the photos and cards before me into a neat stack and ease them back inside the manila envelope. I fold down the clasp to hold it shut, replace it inside the desk drawer, and set my notes on my nightstand.
After scooting under the covers, I reread the note I left myself, just to make sure everything’s there. I add a few details about the memory, and a question: How is Luke involved?
The garage door begins to open; my mom is home. Instead of waiting to say good night, I put the note on my nightstand, click off the lamp, and roll to my side, facing the wall.
Two questions volley back and forth in my mind:
Why can’t I remember Luke?
Whose funeral is it?
I’m watching the tennis match with my eyes closed when my mom eeks open my door and whispers, barely audibly, “Good night, sweet London.”
Her words are like a sleeping pill; they instantly relax me.
Soon, the tennis match is over.
It’s love–love.
No resolution.
22
Walking alone from the locker room to the gymnasium, I am lamenting the fact that it’s Thursday. Thursdays are odd-block days: ninety minutes each of my least favorite classes.
No Luke to enjoy.
Then again, no Jamie, either.
I am pondering what to do about Jamie as I lean into the bar across the middle of the massive gym door and set foot onto the gleaming court. It’s loud and alive with squeaking sneakers and shouts and pants, and the sensory overload distracts me to the point that I don’t see it coming.
Before I have time to jump, duck, or even flinch, my thoughts are obliterated by the weight of a massive rubber ball slamming into the right side of my face. The momentum knocks me sideways and then off balance. I trip over my own feet and fall, without even a smidgen of grace, to the ground.
A loud, embarrassing “oof” comes out of my mouth as my hip hits the floor first, followed by my ribs, and then my head. My right ear rings and my cheek tingles and burns at the same time; hand to cheek, I realize that the rubber ball left a pattern on my skin.
I brush the hair that I haven’t had the chance to pull back into a ponytail from my face, then blink once to clear the water from my eyes. With one good ear and only partial vision, I experience the fallout.