“You have a real gift,” he had said. My own dad, on the other hand, had muttered something about iambic pentameter being useless in the real world.
“She told me they’re bulldozing the old school,” I say now.
I eye him carefully, trying to gauge his reaction. I wasn’t planning on bringing that up, but at the same time, maybe it’ll be good for him. I get the distinct feeling that Mr. Jefferson doesn’t talk about it much. That if I didn’t bring it up myself, we’d never actually acknowledge the reason why I’m here, alone, sitting in Eliza’s spot on Christmas morning.
“Yeah,” he says at last, rubbing one hand against the back of his neck. “It’s been wrapped in caution tape ever since—well, you know. But it doesn’t stop kids from sneaking in.”
“Still?”
“Oh, yeah. They think they’re invincible at that age. Just like she did.”
“At least it won’t happen again,” I offer, and he shrugs.
“I guess the town finally decided it was time. There’s talk of some kind of memorial going up in its place. A public park and a tree. Some kind of plaque.”
“That’s great.”
He smiles at me, but it doesn’t make it to his eyes.
“Have you made any friends at Rutledge?”
I hesitate, picking at my cuticle. I know Eliza’s parents want me to be happy, but at the same time, I don’t want them to think of her as replaceable. I don’t want them to remember all those scenes of the two of us together—reading on her bed, painting our nails on the bathroom floor, lying horizontal on the dock, day after day, giggling about nothing—and suddenly find her ripped out of all of them, another face and body superimposed on top. I almost wonder if it would have been a comfort to them seeing how lost I was last year; knowing that I could hardly bring myself to leave my room, eat a proper meal. Peel myself from bed without first thinking of her.
“A few,” I say at last. “Nobody as good as Eliza.”
Mr. Jefferson smiles as he grabs my hand and squeezes it, hard.
“Do you mind if I go upstairs?” I ask, returning his gaze. There’s something about being here, back in this house, that makes me suddenly desperate to stick my fingers into all of it, reacquaint myself with every single corner. Every last smell. Especially after the uneasiness of my own home, my own bed, I long to feel the familiar comfort of her room. My safe haven for so many years.
“It’s just … I haven’t been in her room since the last time,” I say. “I want to see what you’ve done with it.”
“It’s exactly the same,” Mr. Jefferson says, leaning back. “I’ve barely been inside since. But go ahead, take all the time you need.”
I thank him and excuse myself, making my way into the living room, then the foyer, noticing the lack of tree in the corner and the nonexistent stockings that should be hanging above the fireplace. A trail of goose bumps erupts down my arms when I see those double doors swung open again, yawning wide like the night of the break-in. A cool marsh breeze leaking into the house and the almost imperceptible flutter of wind in the curtains.
I approach the stairs and ascend them slowly, imagining Levi’s calloused hands gripping this same railing. Wondering if Mr. Jefferson knows he’s at Rutledge now, too. Walking the halls his daughter should have walked; living the life she dreamed of first. I move farther down the hall, my eyes skimming over the collage of family portraits, Eliza’s school pictures, the Jeffersons’ wedding photo. They look so young there, high school sweethearts married just after they turned eighteen. Sometimes I wonder if that’s why Eliza felt such a strong pull to Levi. I wonder if she looked at her parents—in love from the start, together for so long—and wanted the same thing for herself, no matter who it was with.
I shrug the thought away, turning into her bedroom next and flipping on the light.
Mr. Jefferson was right: it’s exactly the same. A shrine to Eliza just like my own parents had preserved my room for me, all her old things situated in all the same places as if they’ve been waiting for her to walk back in. I roam around the edges, taking in all the same posters. The empty glass on her side table and the permanent water ring stained into the wood. The kiss of her lipstick still stuck to the rim. I look over at the giant corkboard next, cluttered up with pictures, the bare spot still right in the middle.
The window by her bed, curtains pulled open the way they always were.