“It looks pretty chill out there. I think we can open the garage.” He looks back at me for approval, but all I feel is the same panic that seared down my spine last night when a reporter wanted to talk to me.
Before I can get a real answer to come out of my mouth, Jake blows me off completely, hopping from the stool and slapping his palm on the garage door button. My legs lock instinctually and my eyes scan our driveway as it comes into view, but Jake seems to be right. Two media trucks are parked about twelve feet off the end of our driveway in such a way that the view of our garage is pretty well blocked from the others. It’s also lunch hour on a Sunday. I breathe out in relief.
“I’ve got all afternoon. What do you say we open this baby up and see what we’re dealing with?” Sudden tension crawls back into my chest at my friend’s offer.
“I don’t know. It’s Sunday, and I’ve got an essay to finish, and—”
“Don’t pussy out on me. You know you finished that essay already. You’re just afraid.”
He’s right. I don’t like things that I don’t automatically know how to do. I shirk off trying anything new. I won’t even stray on the menu at Tommy’s, sticking strictly to hot dogs and never once trying the Italian beef.
“Fine, we can look under the hood or whatever,” I mutter like a petulant child, dragging my body forward to join my friend at the front of the Bronco—my Bronco. A gift from my dad’s grave, from my mom and grandfather’s hearts. All I can think about is how I wish it wasn’t mine.
“You’re gonna need this.” My grandfather joins us in the garage, heading right toward me. He stops to press my dad’s notebook against my bicep.
“Thanks,” I say, taking it in my palm.
He winks at me when I glance up to meet his gaze.
“Your dad was always meticulous about his tools, so I imagine everything you need is in those cabinets.” He nods toward the far wall of the garage, to the dusty metal doors that haven’t been opened in a year, at least.
Jake walks over to crack the doors open, and I wonder if he somehow knows I can’t bring myself to do it. Those tools are one more part of my dad that I never got to know. He used them years before I was in the picture, and the times he broke them out while I was alive were few and far between, and usually to repair broken things around the house.
“Wow. Talk about a labeling freak,” my friend says.
Grandpa chuckles, seeming to know what Jake is referring to. Curious, I walk over and peer over his shoulder to find the familiar handwriting on strips of white tape lined across peg boards and various drawers of hardware. I’d bet that every size is exactly where it should be.
“Yo, this reminds me of your chemistry labs. Nerds don’t fall far from the tree.” My friend gently pokes me with his elbow into my gut. I rub the spot and breathe out a laugh. He’s right. I did get my dad’s penchant for over-organization.
I’m not sure what makes me turn—perhaps it’s my grandfather’s lack of response to Jake’s needling—but when I do, I see what has him tongue-tied.
Eleanor looks like a ghost, her skin pale and eyes sunk deep in their wells. She reminds me of my mom in the days after my dad died, spent from crying and void of light. Eleanor leans against the frame of the garage entry like a lost dog desperate for food and shelter but terrified to trust any hand willing to feed it. My eyes blink wildly as I scan the scene behind her, expecting to see flashes from cameras and reporters scrambling to fire up their mics to get a sound bite from one of the Trombleys. Nobody seems to have seen her cross the street. Perhaps they don’t care, or are biding their time to make sure any interview they get with her really counts.
“H- Uhm, hi.” I gulp. I’d probably react this way under any circumstance that brought Eleanor Trombley into my garage, but the experience over the last thirty-six hours has my grandfather temporarily lost for words too.
“Hey.” Her voice is weak and raspy, that of a girl who probably hasn’t slept since she was up all night partying after homecoming two days ago.
“Hi.” I repeat my initial response, a little clearer. It sounds as lame as it did the first time. I’m not sure whether I should smile or wear a somber expression. Should I give her condolences? Apologize, or offer to help out? Those are things people say in circumstances like this. Should I—
“How are you doing, Elle?”
Of course, Jake knows her better than I do. I sink back on my heels and dip my hands into the pockets of my jeans.
She
