Five Minutes More (3 page)

People keep trying to get me to have something, but I can't eat. I don't know how anybody can eat anything. I can't swallow. I think if I did actually eat anything, it would just fall off the back of my tongue into emptiness.

A couple of women from Mom's office have taken over the kitchen. I see people hugging my mother, saying things that are supposed to be comforting, but aren't—not to me. I wander between the kitchen and the living room, always moving so I won't have to talk to anyone. I hear pieces of conversations; it's like switching between channels on a
TV.

“...I think he's left her fairly well off. He must have gotten something when his own father died.”

“...had every right. She was married to him first.”

“...couldn't do anything with his face.”

Suddenly I can't stand it anymore. Not for five minutes. Not for one minute. No one's looking at me. With my back to the kitchen door, I turn the knob and slip through into the porch.

An old sweater of my dad's is hanging on a hook by the outside door. His boots sit on a fold of newspaper underneath. One points straight ahead, the other off to one side, as though he had just been beamed out of them. I pull the sweater over my head. The bottom edge hits the middle of my thighs, and the sleeves hang below the ends of my fingers. I wrap my arms around my shoulders, close my eyes and bury my face in the crook of an elbow, breathing in his scent caught in the itchy brown wool. I pretend that it's him hugging me, and for a moment everything is the way that it was. Everything is all right.

I decide to give God another chance.
It's not supposed to be like
this
, I tell him in my head.
Please. Make it the way it was
.

I wait for a moment and then open my eyes. I can hear everyone inside. Nothing's different.

It's stopped raining. I walk down behind the house, through the trees, to where the rock wall marks the end of our yard. The leaves are slippery under my feet. I kick at a small pile of them. They make a soggy sound and one big oak leaf sticks to the toe of my shoe. The two maples still hold most of their leaves. But they've already turned scarlet and bright buttery yellow. I know in a few days they'll be on the ground too.

I brush off a spot on the top of the wall and sit down. The stone is damp and its coldness pushes through the sweater and my skirt, but right now that's better than being in the house.

I pull out Marissa's note, tear open the envelope and read what she's written. She's sorry. Everyone's sorry. I fold the envelope and the paper in half and put them back in my pocket.

After a while I hear someone coming. I can't get away from people today. I think about jumping over the wall, but my shoes wouldn't be up to that. Then I see it's Brendan. I forgot all about him.

“I was looking for you,” he says, stopping in front of me.

“I just had to get out for a little while. I needed...air. All those people, all that food. I couldn't breathe.”

“Why didn't you come get me?”

I didn't even think about Brendan. I just wanted to get out. But I can't say that. “I didn't know where you were,” I say. That much is true.

He puts his arm around me, and I put my head on his shoulder with my cheek against the smooth fabric of his suit jacket. “How can people eat?” I ask him. “How can they stand there and say how bad they feel and shovel in potato salad at the same time?”

He shrugs. “I don't know. Maybe they don't know what else to do.”

“It's like one of those dreams where nothing makes sense. You know it's a dream, but you can't wake up.”

“Yeah. I know it doesn't seem real. Your dad was a good driver.”

My heart is pounding so hard I think for sure Brendan will hear it. I haven't told him. Every time I start to tell him what the police said, something else comes out of my mouth. And it's not really a lie because maybe they're wrong. Maybe it was just an accident.

Brendan pulls me against him and wraps both arms around me. “It's gonna be all right,” he whispers. He rubs his chin against the top of my hair.

No, it isn't, but how can he understand that? How can anybody?

I mumble something. I have no idea what, but it can't have been too weird because Brendan just gives me another hug. I press harder into his arms and try to get some of his warmth into me.

“Hey, you're shaking.” He touches my face. “Jeez, D'Arcy, you're freezing. C'mon. You'll be sick if you stay out here much longer. You don't have to go back inside. We can sit in the car.”

I look up at him. I see the way he's holding his mouth, how muscles in his jaw pop out because he's grinding his back teeth. He wants everybody to be happy all the time.

“It's okay,” I say. “I should go in.”

“You sure?”

“I'm sure.”

Brendan walks me back to the house. His parents are by their car across the street, talking to another couple.

“You better go,” I say.

“I don't have to.”

I love him, but I don't want to watch him worry about me. I pull the cuffs of my dad's sweater down over my fingers. “I'm really tired. It's okay. You go home.”

He studies my face for a moment. “All right. I'll call you later though.” He kisses me quickly on the mouth. “I love you,” he says.

I nod.

In the porch I hang the sweater back on its hook and straighten my father's boots so they're both facing forward. I take a deep breath. I can do this. I just won't think about any of it for now.

Inside, everyone's gone. Mom's in the kitchen, stacking dirty plates on the counter. She half turns when I walk in. “D'Arcy, there you are. Where have you been?”

“I haven't been anywhere. I just went outside for a minute to get some air.”

It's only half a lie, which I guess is better than a whole one. Maybe not to God though. Maybe he keeps track of all the half lies, adds them up, and pretty soon you're in just as much trouble as if you'd been telling whole lies. I don't care if that's how God works. He may not like what I've been doing, but I don't like what he's been doing lately either.

Mom is gathering glasses and cups. “Sit, Mom,” I say, steering her toward the table. I have to do better. “I'll do these.”

“I don't mind,” she says.

“No. Sit. I'm going to put the kettle on and make you a cup of tea.”

“I think there's some left. I can have that.”

I touch the pot. “You can't drink that. It's cold. Besides, it's the hard stuff.” She almost manages a smile.

I fill the kettle and set it on a back burner. When I turn she's on her feet again, picking up crumpled napkins from the table. “Mom, I'll do that in a minute. C'mon, sit. Please?” I toss the napkins in the trash. “Take a break, okay?”

“I just want to get the kitchen cleaned up.”

“I'll do it.”

“All right. All right. I don't want to argue.” She sits, slumping against the chair back.

“Where's Claire?” I ask.

Mom rests one elbow on the table and pulls her fingers through her hair. I notice how thin her face seems, how her cheekbones—which I didn't inherit and have always longed for—seem about to poke through the skin. “She's lying down.”

She looks at me as though she expects me to say something. I bite my tongue. Literally. Claire will be gone tomorrow anyway.

I finish stacking the dishes and cram the last of the garbage into the bag. Then I make peppermint tea. While it steeps, I wash and dry a cup. I can feel my mother's eyes on me.

“What about you, D'Arcy? Are you all right?” she asks.

“I'm okay,” I say as I hand her the tea. Another half lie, if anyone's counting. She presses both hands around the cup as though she's trying to draw its heat into her fingers. Her whole body seems to sag over the table.

I turn back to the sink. “Where's the car?” I ask.

“It's still across the street in the Keefers' driveway. I'll go get it in a minute.”

“No.” I have to stop and swallow because the words suddenly stick in my throat. “I mean Dad's car. Where is it?”

“The police still have it.”

Keep going
. “So they're still...investigating?”

“Yes...” She pulls a hand back through her hair. “Maybe. I don't know.”

I keep rinsing cups under the hot water. “I think it was an accident. I really do.”

It's a long time before my mother says anything. “Sometimes you don't get the answers you're looking for,” she says. She gets up, comes behind me and squeezes my shoulders. “I'm sorry. Sometimes there aren't any answers.”

The door to Claire's room is open. I catch sight of a photograph lying on the end of the bed. Water's running in the bathroom. One step and suddenly, somehow, I'm in the room.

In the picture a little blond girl is riding on the shoulders of a man. There's ice cream or something all over her face. They're both laughing, heads together, squinting into the sun as the wind blows their hair.

My father. And Claire.

I look at the picture again. They look...happy. I never really thought about my dad being happy in another life. I never thought about him playing with Claire, carrying
her on his shoulders. I never really thought of Claire as a little girl.

Something squirms inside me. I drop the picture back on the bed, slip into the hall and go to my own room.

12:26.

I can't sleep. The streetlight shines through the window, outlining the panes on the floor in weird, orange-pink light, like some special effect in a horror movie.

I roll over onto my back and listen to the creaks and snaps the house makes as it settles down for the night.

I was seven when we moved here. Back then the whole house scared me. It seemed so old, full of groans and squeaks and other strange noises. In the living room the wall-paper had come loose in long strips that always seemed to be moving, reaching out for me. Chunks of plaster would suddenly drop from the ceilings. And the backyard was an overgrown hunting ground for the neighborhood cats. But Dad turned fixing up this place into an adventure. He'd tell me stories about a mouse named Xavier who'd been packed by mistake in a tea chest and ended up at our house.

12:36.

I still can't sleep. My mind refuses to shut off. It keeps going places I have to pull it back from. I take slow deep breaths, trying to trick my brain into dozing off.

12:43.

If I take any more deep breaths I'm going to pass out. My stomach makes a sound like there's someone inside moaning, half starved, for food. I can't remember if I ate any supper.

I creep downstairs, placing each foot carefully, avoiding all the squeaky places on the stairs. I don't want to wake up my mom. I don't want to wake up Claire.

And then I hear voices. My heart begins to pound in double time. I listen. It's my mother. And Claire.

I press myself against the wall and move through the dining room to the living room doorway. I don't know why I'm hiding. The French doors are partly open. I lean around the doorframe and take a quick look through the closest pane of glass.

Mom is curled in the corner of the sofa, in a circle of light from a nearby lamp. She's wearing the plaid housecoat I gave her last Christmas. Claire is sitting in the wing chair, in a silky pink-flowered robe, perfect posture as usual.

“...just makes more sense to do it now,” Claire is saying.

Mom seems to be looking beyond Claire. I lean a bit closer to the open doors to catch her voice.

“We just had your father's funeral today,” she says. “I haven't been able to think beyond that. I'm not even sure about all the details of his will.” She sounds very tired.

“The tea set belonged to my great-grandmother. I know my father would want me to have it. And as for the pearl necklace, you know that it's always stayed in the family.”

“You're not the only person in the family.”

“I don't think a teenager would have much use for a string of pearls.”

“D'Arcy isn't going to be a teenager forever.”

“In other words, you want everything for your child.”

My dad's only been gone for a few days, and already they're fighting over his things.

“She's your sister, Claire,” Mom says. “I'm not trying to cheat you out of anything, but I will not allow you to take things from this house until I know what your father wanted. I'll see that anything that's been left to you is sent. I wouldn't want you to have to make another trip.”

“You're being unreasonable, Leah. My father—”

My mother's head snaps up. She's looking directly at Claire now. “
My husband
is dead. I'm entitled to be somewhat unreasonable.” There is silence.

Claire's voice is low, and I almost miss that she's started talking. “And what kind of a wife were you, Leah? Didn't you notice what was going on with him or did you just not care? My father killed himself. Did you even try to help him?”