“Rowe, you know you couldn’t have done anything, right?” Patty asks, tilting her head down to force my gaze up to hers. I shrug, because even though I know I couldn’t have, I feel like I should have tried, or at least been here. “Rowe, my son was gone the day that madman entered the cafeteria. These last two years…while he was here, it wasn’t really him, you know? He was alive, but his mind was gone.”
“But I should have said goodbye,” I say, unable to stop myself from full-on crying now. Patty moves her chair close to mine and pulls me into her arms, her hand rubbing up and down my back while I convulse into huge sobs. “He died, and he thinks I forgot him. That I didn’t love him. ”
“No, don’t you for once ever think that, Rowe,” she says, squeezing me tighter. “I’m convinced, the last thing my son remembers is that last day here on earth with you—talking about summer, and the end of the school year, and your date that night. I like to believe he died playing that memory over and over in his head, the best memory of his life. He wasn’t even aware of anything after.”
“But I never saw him. I couldn’t do it. I was too…too weak,” I say, rubbing my eyes with my balled-up fists.
“I’m glad, Rowe, because you can have that last memory, too. The same one Josh had. His dad and I, we weren’t as lucky. And if I could have chosen never to have seen my son like that, the way he lived…barely…for the last two years—I would have,” she says, lifting my chin to look at her and taking a soft towel to my cheeks.
“I don’t know,” I say, feeling ashamed for being so afraid.
“I do. I know,” she says, forcing me to keep my eyes on her. She studies me for several seconds, then she stands and reaches for my hand. “Come with me. I have something for you.”
Patty leads me down the hall to Josh’s room, and my anxiety grows with every step we take. “It’s okay,” she says, over her shoulder. “We’ve boxed up his things and the hospital bed is gone. It’s not the same. You’ll be okay.”
I love that she understands, and I hate that she has to understand. She pushes the door open, and the windows are all open, the room sunny and bright. It’s almost a guest room, as if he never lived here at all. She slides the closet door open and kneels to the floor, pulling out a hatbox and bringing it over to the bed. She pats the side next to her, and I come over to sit.
“I saved some things, and everyone has a box. I made one for us, one for Josh’s grandparents, and one for you,” she says, sliding the box to my lap and pulling the lid off, like she knows I won’t be able to on my own. The first thing I see is the picture of Josh smashing cake in my face at the baseball banquet. Betsy took this photo, which makes it even more special, and I can’t help but smile looking at it. I pull it out and set it in the lid, moving on to the next thing. There’s a stack of letters, and I realize they’re all notes that I wrote to Josh—notes that he saved.
“Don’t worry. I didn’t read them,” she says with a gentle laugh. “I wanted to…but I figured there wasn’t really a parental reason to do that now.”
I smile and clutch the papers to my heart, letting a tear slide down my cheek. I set them in the lid with the photo and move on, pulling out the invitation for our homecoming dance, more photos of Josh and me at various baseball games, barbecues and parties, and then finally his old baseball jersey, still dirty from the last time he slid on base. I put everything back inside and close the lid, full-on weeping now, holding the box to my body in a hug.
I mouth thank you, unable to get my voice to work, and Patty pulls me into her arms for another hug. “You’re welcome, Rowe. You’re welcome,” she says, letting me stay right there for as long as I need.
Several minutes later, I finally make my way back outside. I never ask them about moving or putting the house up for sale, and I don’t ask about where Josh is buried. Because everything I need—the things that I need to move forward, but remember—are in this small box.
Once I’m back in the car with my parents, I set the box next to me on the seat, keeping my left palm flat along the lid, just to make sure nothing escapes. When my mom starts driving, I reach forward and put a hand on my dad’s shoulder; he sinks under my touch before reaching for my fingers and squeezing. I hold his hand for the few minutes it takes us to get back home.
Nate
It feels like the first day of school again, even though Ty and I are only coming back for a few days for finals before leaving again. It feels like the first day because it feels like everything from before was a dream. Rowe isn’t here, and I wonder if she’ll come back for her finals.