It’s late evening by the time we get home from services. Eleanor wanted to ride with her sister, which I completely understand. I still wanted her with me, though. I want to fix things somehow, to make it all hurt a little less. But I don’t know how to do that. I feel as if I’m back at the very beginning with her, unsure of my words and my actions. I don’t know exactly who I’m supposed to be around her, or rather, what version of me she needs most. I don’t think I actually have versions.
I’ve been sitting in the Bronco in the garage for the last hour sorting through these pictures, trying to find a way to weave them into a story. Not only Addy’s story, but Eleanor’s too. And I need to give that story a happy ending.
“You thinking of moving into that thing now that you’ve got it running?” My mom stands with one foot in the house and the other in the garage.
“It’s not really a live-in kinda comfortable,” I say.
She chuckles and moves toward the passenger side, letting the door to the house fall shut behind her.
“Oh, I know. Your dad took me camping in that thing a few times. We basically lived in it for weekends at a time. And it was . . . tight.” She arches her back to one side, cracking it.
“Wanna join me?” I glance down at the empty passenger seat.
“I thought you’d never ask.” Mom pulls the handle and lifts herself up into the seat. She slams the door shut at her side and breathes out a heavy sigh as she leans back then forward to touch the familiar dashboard.
“My God, the memories in this thing,” she says through a fond smile. Her eyes trace the windshield’s surface then travel down to the console. She reaches forward to push a few buttons, ejecting a cassette tape from the dated stereo deck.
“What the hell is that?” I tease. I know what cassettes are. Grandpa has a box full in his closet, though when his current player quits working, I’m not sure he’ll have a way to play them.
She slaps my arm then hands the cassette to me for a better look. It reads KARA’S FAVORITE SONGS.
“Dad made you a mix tape?” I quirk a brow as she takes it back from me, eyeing it fondly.
“He sure did. There are a lot of great songs on this thing. Lots of mod stuff, like The Cure.” I swear she’s traveling back to her teenage years before my eyes.
“You want me to turn the key and we can give it a listen?” I offer.
“Oh, no. I’m pretty sure that thing will just eat it. You can’t sit in a storage lot for twenty years without wear and tear, and I’m pretty sure Kara’s Favorite Songs are not meant to be played on a cassette anymore.”
“You mean because you’re old?” I joke.
She smacks my arm again, playfully, because she knows I’m teasing.
“What are you going to do with that?” She glances down to the photos I’ve pulled out to rest on my thighs for inspiration. I look down at them and we both take in the faces and memories that aren’t ours but that we deeply understand.
“I’m going to build Eleanor some courage with them . . . I guess.” I lift my gaze and look to my mom, expecting her to be as baffled by how as I am. Instead, she nods with an assuredness I haven’t seen in her eyes in quite a while.
“You’ll figure it out,” she says, pulling the handle at her side and slipping out of the Bronco. She shuts the door and leans in through the window.
“I hope so,” I answer. I look back down at the photos as she walks to the front of the garage. A few seconds pass before she reaches in again, this time dropping my dad’s notebook in her empty seat. “Here’s another guy who built someone some courage, ya know.”
I blink from the book to her face and she winks before turning and heading back inside. I pull the book into my lap and prop it open on a random page against the steering wheel. If ever the universe was talking to me—my dad is talking to me—it’s right now. Right there in the middle of a step-by-step instruction on how to replace the weird-ass vintage headlights is a line from KARA’S FAVORITE SONGS mixtape. I can almost guarantee it’s The Cure. He wrote “Friday I’m in Love.”
“Yeah, Dad. I really, really am,” I say, feeling in my soul that somewhere, he is listening.
Twenty-Two
It took me two full days to make something I felt was up to the challenge. There was a bit of a learning curve with the software, and I had to borrow a lot of things from school, along with some help from the digital media teacher, who I’m pretty sure did not like me when I took his class my freshman year.
The good news is Mr. Luvello loves Eleanor. Basically, everyone loves Eleanor. And that love has been the key to creating this miracle that amounts to two minutes and forty-seven seconds of video. Now, I just need to persuade Elle to watch it.
I ring the Trombley bell and ready myself for her dad to appear at the door. He’s usually the one who answers when I come over. He’s handling the closure and the loss a little easier than his wife, but neither of them come out much. I think this video might be good for all of them. Either that or it’s going to be terrible. I’m sort of prepared for things to go either way.
“Jonah, hey. Come on in,” Mr. Trombley says, opening their front door wide for me to step inside.
“She’s still upstairs. Hasn’t been down much today, but she did eat,”
