The Truth About That Summer

seventy-four

Our bellies full from dinner, pizza that he picked up on his way over, and Grams settled into the sofa with her favorite show, Luke and I sit together on the floor at the foot of Casey's bed.

We haven't said a word for the past ten minutes, both of us quietly peering around the room, the things left behind, untouched for years.

Well, Luke is looking around - a layer of thin dust coating everything even though I know Grams tries to keep it clean. It's just what happens when no one uses a space anymore.

I'm mostly staring at my torn cuticles, reminding myself how to breathe every few seconds when I suddenly realize I've held my breath for too long.

But every inhale burns with another memory, each breath tearing my chest apart. It smells so much like Casey in here, there's no escaping it.

It's everything, everything, everything. Casey, Casey, Casey.

The thought of ripping through this room, ruining that - that perfect memorial of him, makes me want to scream. My chest rises and falls quicker and quicker.

Casey Casey Casey.

As if he can read my mind, Luke rests his hand on mine, squeezing tightly as our interlocked fingers settle on my thigh.

"How're you doing?" He whispers.

All I can do is nod my head. What I'm nodding to convey, I don't really know. I'm not OK. Not OK at all.

But I'm here, I'm not running away. I want to scream until my throat burns and cry until my eyes dry out, but I haven't left yet.

His thumb draws soothing fingers over the back of my hand. "We can start tomorrow."

"No." I say then, hurt pounding against my rib cage with every heartbeat, "No, I want to do this." Sort of a half-truth. "For Casey, at least." The whole truth.

Luke squeezes my hand again, a soft, somber, encouraging smile on his lips. "Let's do it, then. You tell me what to do. And tomorrow, once we've gone through some of this, I'll take you surfing after work. Okay?"

I nod frantically, hanging onto his words. Surfing with Luke, tomorrow after work. After I get through this.

Feeling his eyes on me, I scan the room.

If I get through this.

Posters are still plastered to the walls, strings and strings and strings of photos hung with push-pins criss-crossed over them in haphazard patterns. Photos of our young, smiling faces that hurt to look at.

Clothes, clean in a laundry basket by his desk chair, a few shirts strewn over the desk itself, like he was choosing an outfit before he left for the party that night. My heart thumps painfully knowing that's exactly what he was doing. He'd planned on putting it all away again when he was home.

A surfboard hangs on its rack on the far wall. I know several skateboards are stacked under the bed. So are his shoes - more pairs of sneakers than anyone ever needed, all in pristine condition still. Where I always hated sneakers, Casey collected them just as fervently as his photos.

His TV and gaming consoles sit atop his dresser, an extra controller discarded on the floor. Games to be resumed later, the fact that there will be a later to play them just a given.

There's a whooshing in my ears as I take it all in, the pieces of my brother that I have left. It all feels like the wrong place to start.

Where do you begin deconstructing someone else's life?

My fingers tremble in Luke's and my throat tightens.

"Dyl?" His voice is patient, his fingers grounding as he rubs circles into my skin. "How about we start with the clothes? Maybe get it all taken out, sorted and washed and... and then we can put it into boxes once it's clean? To save or... or to donate, or something?"