Page 10
“Who are you talking to?” Lacey asks, cupping her hands around her mouth. “Are you praying?”
I roll down the window. “Praying? Who, me? To sky daddy? In this economy? Umm, no. I was…” Come to think of it, who was I talking to? My initial thought is to say the universe, but that’d be a lie.
That shakiness in my voice mixed with sadness masquerading as anger or resentment or some sick combination of both, can only mean one thing. If my lips were capable of speaking the truth I prefer to bottle up, I’d tell her I was talking to her brother in the hopes that wherever he is, he’d hear me and come back to me. At this rate, if he truly is dead, I’d accept it only if his ghost could properly haunt me. At least then I could see him, instead of whatever weird melancholic limbo of mourning this has been for the past two decades.
“No one.” I go with the easiest response, courtesy of a little white lie, and roll the window back up. I go to open the driver door to get out, but Lacey pushes it closed with her knee. “Aggressive much?”
She ignores me, keeping her knee in place with such force my one attempt at reopening the door dies on impact—even as she reaches her hands up to the roof of my car to retrieve a bag with Ron’s Burger Shack logo on it and a holder with two sodas.
“I’m coming in.” She walks around the passenger side door, letting herself in. “Here you go, I got you a crisp, slutty, and full-of-aspartame Diet Coke, your favorite.”
Oh, sweet mother of all that is good in this fucked-up world. Finally, a sliver of hope. “Perfect. Thanks, Lace.”
“No problem. Oh, and I ordered your usual, of course.” She lifts her soda cup, tilting it toward mine. “But first let’s do a birthday cheers.”
“With Diet Coke? Not to sound high maintenance or anything, but it’s my birthday, shouldn’t we be cheering with champagne or at minimum a splash of rum in these Diet Cokes?”
“We’re in a car and both have to drive our respective cars to leave here,” she says, deadpan as can be and completely correct. “And didn’t your endocrinologist tell you to lay off sugar and alcohol until you get your insulin resistance under control? So you shouldn’t be wanting to drink right now anyway.” Thanks, PMOS. “Besides, this is tradition.”
My head has been lodged so far up my ass lately that I almost forgot. Every Friday the thirteenth since Rennix has been gone we have met here since it was his favorite day no matter what month it fell on and Ron’s Burger Shack is—was—our favorite.
“Fair.” We do our cheers, demolish our food, savor our crisp extra-large cups of chemicals, and catch up listening to my playlist I so creatively named The Good Days, consisting of My Chemical Romance, Avril Lavigne, and about two dozen other bands and artists I still play in heavy rotation. For a whole fifteen or so minutes it feels like healing is around the corner. I can practically taste it.
“Rennix left you something.”
Well, so much for that.
As she hands me an envelope, the only thing I can taste is the bile I just swallowed down since healing apparently is not in the cards for me.
“I have no clue what’s…”
I almost jump out of my skin when the Jaws theme song sounds at full volume from Lacey’s phone. She rolls her eyes and scoffs. “Ahh, hold on.” She accepts the call with the completely opposite tone she’s been talking to me. “Is anyone bleeding? … Hurt? … Dead or dying? … No? … Ah okay, excellent. Now that we got that out of the way, why are you bothering me? I told you unless someone is hurt, dead, or dying, leave me alone.” She doesn’t wait for a response and hangs up.
“Everything okay?”
She swats her hand in the air. “Oh yeah. Mark just doesn’t know his ass from his elbow when I’m not home. It’s like he has amnesia and doesn’t know how to function.”
“That’s funny.”
“No. It’s fucking annoying is what it is. Anyway, like I told you the other day, my mom is downsizing and selling the house and when she was emptying Rennix’s room, she stumbled across that, and considering it has your name on it, I thought you should have it.”
I give the sealed envelope a quick squeeze, surprised by the weight of it. Whatever is inside feels hard.
“I know how much you meant to each other. I’m sure whatever is inside, it’s important that you have it.”
“Mhm.” I gulp the rest of my soda down, really wishing there was rum in it. I’ve never felt so curious and scared at the same time.
I don’t have to think of anything to say to change the subject. The two more calls from Lacey’s husband saying her youngest is refusing the bottle has her already halfway out of the car in a hurry.
“I’m sorry, Nat, but Ellie is on a hunger strike and my tits are so fucking engorged I’m afraid I’m going to burst with milk and out in tears if I don’t go.”
In no position to argue with that, I blow her an air-kiss and let her go on her way so she doesn’t explode in any capacity.
Now all that’s left of this anticlimactic birthday is me and this envelope I’m hoping has TUMS in it with the heartburn my loaded burger was so kind to give me. I debate ripping it off like a Band-Aid and opening it now, however, the chances of whatever is inside will likely make my heartburn worse, so the new plan is: buy some TUMS, drive to Memoria Games—as per my personal Friday the thirteenth tradition—then open this miscellaneous, totally-not-creepy envelope with my name scribbled on it.
I know Rennix didn’t have the best penmanship from what I can remember, but I had to squint to see if it said my name or was a quick sketch of the Millennium Falcon.
It’s telling that the envelope scares me more than going to Memoria Games, considering it’s been abandoned for almost as long as Rennix has been gone and has been the source of many haunted rumors. Not that any of that deters me. I’ve always fancied myself to be like Lydia Deetz, finding comfort in things that most would consider strange and unusual. As long as there are no reptiles, I’m good.
