the flowers.
I stood there for a while, waiting for a sense of peace that didn’t come, when someone behind me said, “June?”
I turned around to find myself in that situation everybody hates: I didn’t recognize the guy. Easy on the eyes, though. Had that surfer-dude grown-up look. Thirtyish. Tall but not too tall, sun-kissed blond hair, a strong nose, and a jaw that worked well with it. Jeans and a Billabong T-shirt. “Oh, hi there,” I said, trying to pass off that I knew who he was.
“You probably don’t remember me. I’m Troy Jones. Marissa’s brother.”
“Of course I remember you.”
Okay, maybe not right away. He’d been dressed more formally at the funeral. And his hair had been shorter. Plus I’d met him only long enough to shake his hand.
“I thought it might be you, but I wasn’t sure. Do you come here often?” As soon as he said it, he shook his head. “Boy, did that ever sound like a pickup line. Next thing you know, I’m going to ask what a nice girl like you is doing in a place like this.”
Avoiding the obvious response-visiting your sister who is dead because of me-I said, “If you’re working your way through the lines, I’ll save you time. I’m a Scorpio.”
“Good to know.”
“And to answer your question, no, I don’t come here often. But since today was six months”
“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”
Apparently we then decided to observe a moment of silence, because we stood there not speaking, and just when I was about to make an excuse to leave, he said, “Care to walk around a bit?”
If only I’d dumped the flowers and run when I had the chance. “Sure,” I said, not wanting to be rude. “That’d be nice.”
We headed up a dirt path that wound through the grounds, taking a leisurely pace.
“You’re looking well,” he said, gazing over at me. “You were pretty banged up last time I saw you.”
“Yeah,” I said noncommittally, and to my relief, from there we chatted about nothing of significance-how we’d gotten so much rainfall lately and how dogs bark before earthquakes. He so resembled his sister. It stirred up what I’d tried to stuff deep inside-the shame I wore that was as ugly as if I still had the shiner. I feared if I said too much, he’d be able to see what I’d been able to hide from others for months. That I might look okay on the outside, but inside I was still tender and purple and swollen.
We eventually wound our way back to where we’d started, a short distance from my car. “I’m parked right here,” I said.
He walked me the rest of the way. I had my keys in one hand, my other reaching for the door handle, when he said, “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”
Rats. So close, and yet.
“Of course not.”
“It’s just that you were the last person with Marissa.”
Alarms sounded in my head as he continued, “My parents and I have the details on the accident, but the one thing we can’t figure out is why wasn’t she buckled? She always wore her seat belt. It didn’t make any sense. I hate to bother you with it, but it’s been driving us crazy.”
There you had it. I was going to have to reveal her final moments. Granted, I could say I didn’t know, but that seemed crueler than the truth.
“She was getting a recipe for me from her purse.”
“A recipe?”
“For a taco soup.”
“A recipe.” He ran a hand along the back of his neck. “That’d be my sister.”
His expression was so disappointed that I added, “It sounded quite tasty.”
“I’m sure it did.”
Oh, why didn’t I lie? Tell him that she’d been telling me how she adored her family-especially that brother of hers?
“Sorry it wasn’t something better,” I said lamely.
“It’s okay. I’m not sure what I was expecting. It’s only that ‘” He stuffed his hands in his pockets, leaning against my car. “There’s so much I don’t know-that I never will. That’s what keeps you up at night. It’s not only that you miss them. It’s the regret that you didn’t ask the big questions while they were still here.”
He looked over toward where her grave sat and then continued. “A few weeks before she died, Marissa and I were at my parents’ house for dinner. We were outside, goofing around, playing a little one-on-one. I asked her how her life was different since she’d lost the weight-besides the fact that she could now whup my ass at basketball. She told me she had so many things she wanted to do. And she sounded so excited that I’d asked her what kinds of things. But then my mom called us for dinner, one thing led to another, and I never got around to following up. I mean, what was the big hurry, you know? We had all the time in the world.”
Oh God. My insides bubbled and frothed as he spoke.
Returning the list wouldn’t have been unkind. It was wrong to keep it, especially now that this perfectly nice guy standing in front of me had been grieving all the more because of my selfishness.
“Um actually,” I ventured, not sure what to say, but feeling I had to say something. “There was one more thing. She had a list.” When he didn’t respond right away, I blurted, “Your sister had written a list of things she wanted to do by her twenty-fifth birthday. I have it.”
His eyes shifted to meet mine, and-brrrr-did the temperature just drop fifty degrees? Because the look in them was icier than I could have ever imagined. “You kept it? There was a list and you kept it?”
Well, when he put it that way
“I had to,” I said defensively.
“Why?”
Why indeed? Panic was setting in when, luckily, I thought of a lie so brilliant that it felt as if it were the truth.
“Because I’m completing the list for her.”
The change in his face was like one of those square puzzles where you can move the pieces around to form a picture-it hadn’t settled yet, and since I didn’t know what it was going to be, I kept talking. “I figured since Marissa couldn’t do it for herself, well& it’s only right that it be me. I was the one driving when the accident happened. I feel responsible.”
And there it was: The coldness had melted and was replaced with an expression I couldn’t quite read but I knew that I liked. It lifted me up and floated me skyward. I was no longer June Parker, accidental murderess and borderline slacker. I was the sort of woman who’d find a list of uncompleted dreams and take it upon herself to get the job done. I fucking rocked.
“That’s so amazing,” he managed to say, and then to my horror he added, “Do you have the list with you? Can you show it to me?”
“It’s at home,” I replied hurriedly. “And I’m afraid you’d be disappointed to see it. There’s not much crossed off what with her birthday still being months away.” July 12, I remembered from her tombstone. Less than six months left to go. “In fact, if we could not make a big deal out of this, I’d be grateful. I’m nervous enough about it. I’d rather keep things to myself right now, if you don’t mind.”
“I understand.” He nodded. “No problem.”
I made a show of glancing at my watch and then said, “I’d better get going.”
“Sure.”
As I got into my car, he pulled out his wallet and fished through it. He handed me a business card. “Call me if there’s anything I can do to help. Anything at all.”
It occurred to me there was something he could do. “It’d probably be helpful for me to know more about Marissa. I don’t want to bother you too much. Maybe you could send me her old yearbooks or photo albums? Anything that might shed light on what might have motivated her to write the things on the list that she did.”
He agreed without hesitation, and I gave him my business card before driving away, the blood pumping through my veins so wildly that I suspected I must be visibly throbbing.
I was going to do this. I was going to complete the items on Marissa Jones’s list. If I couldn’t make something out of my own life, at least I’d make something out of hers.
For the first time in a long time-since the accident and even before-I felt a surge of an emotion so unfamiliar, it took me the entire drive home to figure out what it was.
Hope.
