“I packed the dryer. I’ve just been towel drying,” my mom says behind me.
“That’s fine,” I say, scrunching the ends of my hair until the dripping stops. I turn to face her, and she reaches up to my face, holding her hand to my cheek, and I close my eyes because I don’t want to pull away. But I’m still so angry. “When do the movers come?”
“Tuesday,” she says, her hand still there. It’s making my face feel hot. “We meant well, Rowe.” And just hearing her say that starts a new chain reaction through my bloodstream. I breathe in long and deeply, forcing the boiling inside back down to a simmer.
“I know,” I say, but it comes out cold. I can’t say it any other way. I know they meant well. Everyone meant well. But it doesn’t make me forgive them, not yet. I still can’t forgive myself. “I need to go to his house.”
“I know,” my mom says. We stand there in this face-off for several seconds, and in that time, I play out everything I’m walking into—so I’m prepared for it, prepared for everything I’m about to feel. “They’re expecting you. I’ll take you when you’re ready.”
My mom leaves, and I spend the next few minutes putting on eyeliner and lip-gloss, and then twist my hair up into a clip. I look like that girl…the one from two years ago who used to get dropped off at Josh’s house for movie night. It feels right to go there looking like this.
My dad doesn’t talk, but he comes along for the car ride with my mom and me. We pull up to the Andersons’ home; I notice the For Sale sign planted in the yard, and it makes my eyes tear up again. I remind myself to breathe, just breathe, and then I put my hand to the car door, still not convinced if I can do this. “Do you want me to go in with you?” Mom asks.
“No, I’m okay,” I croak. One last inhale, and I pull the handle and step to the curb. Everything here looks the same—the same black door with the gold handle, the same bench sitting off to the side, and the same pillows stitched with owls on the front. I can almost visualize Josh sitting there, pulling his cleats from his feet and banging them together to get out the chunks of dirt.
The door opens before I ring the bell, and Josh’s mom, Patty, is smiling softly. Not the happy kind, but the understanding kind—the kind full of words without speaking. She’s older, even though it’s only been four months or so since I last saw her, she’s wearing years on her body and face. Everything about her is tired.
“Rowe, it’s so good to see you,” she says, and seeing her glassy eyes make mine sting as well. I step into her arms, and she hugs me tightly, her hand gripping the back of my neck. “Come on in,” she says, holding a hand up to my parents who are still out in the driveway. She doesn’t ask if they want to come in too. There’s no need. Everyone knows what I’m here for.
I follow Patty to the kitchen where she has a plate of cookies and a glass of milk already prepared. She always had snacks for me—even when I came to visit when Josh was under their care. She pushes the plate at me, and I pull a cookie into my hand, not really hungry, but not wanting to be rude.
“I didn’t know,” I start, and I can feel the burn in my eyes instantly, so I suck in trying to keep it together. “I would have come. I would have been here. But I didn’t know.”
I put the cookie down on the table and look down to my lap; Patty reaches across the table and puts her hand on mine. “I know you would have, sweetheart. I know,” she says, just holding her hand there for a few minutes while I sob softly.
“Where’s Mr. Anderson?” I ask, doing my best not to notice the small things that are familiar around me. This place is more familiar than my own home at this point.
“He had to work. He sends his hellos though. He’s sorry he didn’t get to see you,” she says, and I nod in response.
“Was it…I don’t know…fast? I mean, that’s stupid…” I fumble through my words, and the more I talk the more my gut hurts. “I guess I mean, did he suffer? At the end?”
“No, Rowe,” she says, the faint smile coming back to her lips, and I know she’s being honest. “He went in his sleep. He had been failing for months. It was his time.”
I nod again and look back to my lap, doing my best to swallow the lump choking my throat. I reach for the milk and take a sip, then pick up my cookie again, breaking off a small piece and eating it. Like everything else, it’s familiar, and it floods my mind with a dozen more memories, so I put it back down.