Page 20 of Fragments of the Lost
“At least the game was good,” he said.
“I’ll have to take your word for it,” I said. “I think I missedit.”
I felt his shoulders shake in laughter. “You didn’t watch any of it?”
I laughed. “I really didn’t.”
“Travesty, really. Not even the double play down the third-base line to end the game?”
I looked up at him. “Not even that. I’m scared to admit this around you, but I’m kind of sick of baseball.” I’d been subjected to the world of Julian’s games my whole life, listening to game prep the night before and then rehashing it in the days after. Julian’s a pitcher, so it wasn’t just the outcome that had to be discussed, but the choices, the game strategy. God forbid he lost, and then I’d also have to listen to the intentions and errors and never-ending second-guessing. I had only been there today because Caleb was going, because Hailey was going, because I wanted to sayI skipped school, took the train into the city, caught a ball game, no big deal.
“I figured you liked baseball. I mean, I’ve seen you at hundreds of games.” It was true, we were a baseball family to the core—but it wasn’t because I loved it; I’d come into it by default. Julian was a great baseball player. My parents were great baseball parents. My mom, unofficial team parent; my dad, cooking for team get-togethers; both of them, driving Julian all over the place for years, to tournaments, clinics, and games. And I would accompany them everywhere. There was always a role for me too—scorekeeper, stat keeper, burger flipper, navigator. But it was Julian’s world, and I was just a part of it.
“Yes, turns out at this point I know too much. I’ve seen it all.”
Max opened his mouth in feigned shock. “Jessamyn Whitworth, you have never been so wrong. There are infinite possibilities, with infinite outcomes. An infinite number of potential variables in every game. It’salwaysexciting.”
I rolled my eyes, laughing at his unrestrained excitement. But while we waited for the next train, I listened as Max recounted the game. I saw it play out in my head, thinking that maybe I would’ve enjoyed watching it. I didn’t notice the change in scenery as we boarded the next train, changed lines, or as I let him drag me through the crowd. All the while leaning closer to hear him over the voices in the car. I didn’t notice the missed call that came through. Not until we got off at Penn Station, and found Caleb and Hailey, Stan and Craig, all gathered in a circle, staring at their phones.
Caleb gave Max a look when we returned. Max gave one right back, a small shake of his head. I didn’t hear what Caleb said. But I did hear Max. “You just left her there,” he said.
—
I feel those words again. Feel them even stronger.
The birthday card I gave him is below the tickets, even though it was in the summer, months after our trip to the city.
None of this is in the right order. It usually looks like chaos, but it’s really an organized chaos. It took a little while to understand that about Caleb—the system in the disorder. And unless he was looking for something frantically, I know: I am not the first person in this room.
The ticking of the clock grows louder in the silence.
Everything changes.
A shadow passes underneath the closed door behind me, but then it’s gone, and I’m not sure whether I imagined it.
I look over my shoulder again, staring at the darkness underneath the blue door, holding my breath. As if I am not alone after all.
I hear Caleb’s clock ticking on the wall beside the window, and I’m frozen, staring at the closed door. It’s noon, and I’m starving, and the hunger is doing something to my mind, making me imagine things that do not matter. That are not true.
The room, then and now, was always stocked with some sort of food. As if descending two flights of steps was too great a trek to undertake for a quick snack. I check those shelves now and find a bag of peanuts, like from a ball game, and a box of Chex Mix, which is mostly empty.
Both go into the garbage can under his desk.
There, behind a stack of books, I see his familiar stash: mini-boxes from a cereal variety pack, still in the plastic, that he would tip into his mouth like a one-bite snack. Three of eight boxes remain.
My fingers tremble, maybe from the hunger. I pick up the Pops, my favorite. He used to save me this one from the variety pack, even though it was his favorite, too.
The Pops were always mine, and my heart breaks, seeing the box here, still waiting. I open the top, tip the box over and pour the cereal into my mouth. The coating is syrupy sweet; the resulting thirst, endless. I can see the bottom of the bag inside. There will never be enough. Never another of these left behind.
Caleb also used to bring extra snacks to school on test days, saying he needed it for his brain, to focus. He convinced his teachers that a bag of chips was the difference between success and failure, and somehow got away with it. The only place they didn’t let it slide was the library, so he had to get a little more creative there.
The gap under the doorway is dark, and I hear no footsteps below. I pull the door open, and the creak catches me off guard. A warmer gust of air filters in from below. Keeping my hands on the walls, like Caleb would do, I make my way down the steps, pausing at the closed bedroom door on the second floor. I place my ear to Mia’s door, but hear no one inside. I knock faintly and call, “Mia?” but get no response.
My hand grabs the knob, and I turn it just slightly, just so I can feel that it isn’t locked, that I could open it if I wantedto.
“Eve?” I call.
I hear only the ticking clock, from below this time. The grandfather clock in the living room, an old narrow tower that no longer chimes, just makes a dull buzzing that you only hear if you’re standing right beside it, like the sound mechanism is broken.
