The Hidden Memory of Objects Read online

  My phone beeped. I fished it out of my bag to find two new messages. One was from Elena. It read: Can’t believe I’m so far away. Thinking of you. Good vibes from Texas.

  I thought about all the things I wanted to tell her, all the things I couldn’t fit into a text. I wrote, If you’re not over here in fifteen minutes, you can find a new best friend.

  Seconds later, her response: You’ve been saying that since the fifth grade. I breathed a little easier. Obscure Ferris Bueller’s Day Off reference identified and answered. Infinitely more comforting than a funeral hall full of sympathetic looks.

  The other text was from Nathan. No message, just a link to a YouTube video. I hesitated, my finger hovering over the phone. Then I took a breath and clicked the link.

  The video that came up was titled “You Are My Sunshine.” Posted by a user called TwoRedCents, it had racked up 305 views—hardly viral, but not a secret, either. The video started, and I gasped when I saw myself, sitting next to Tyler on his bed. His guitar rested on my lap, and he positioned my fingers on the strings.

  “Okay, so this is A,” he said. Then he moved my fingers. “Here’s D.” He moved my fingers again. “E. And back to A. Now you start singing, and I’ll tell you when to switch.”

  I gripped the phone a little tighter. This had been shot almost two years ago, right after all the crap Elena went through in eighth grade. The crap that made moving away seem like the best thing that could possibly happen to her. The morning after she’d left, Tyler had dragged me out of my room and declared I needed to learn to play guitar. That’s how we got along best: me learning and him teaching.

  In the video—ugh, I still had my awful eighth-grade bangs—I strummed the guitar a few times, then started singing softly, staring at my fingers. “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me—”

  “Now D,” Tyler said.

  I grimaced as I tried to twist my fingers into the new position. Tyler helped me, laughing. “When it starts to sound like actual music,” he said, “you’ll know you’re getting somewhere.”

  I began to sing again. The video cut to another lesson, but the same point in the song. I was incrementally better. As the song continued, the video progressed in a kind of time lapse of me mastering some basic chords. Now and then, the song was interrupted by short scenes of me and Tyler doing other things: thumb wrestling, eating potato chips, looking at our phones. By the end of the song, I wasn’t half bad. We sang the final words together: “Please don’t take my sunshine away.”

  “Awesome,” Tyler said, and the video ended.

  My chest ached so hard that I rubbed it with one hand. That was Tyler as I’d always known him. Whatever the police or the medical examiner said, he wasn’t a figment of my imagination. But how did the boy in this video turn into the boy in Detective Johnson’s police report? And how had I not even noticed? Dad and Nathan seemed as shocked as I was. But maybe Mom knew something. And maybe she could help me figure out how the hell I was supposed to deal with it.

  As I was forwarding the video to Elena, I heard three quick knocks at the door. “Miss Brown?” The funeral-home gestapo had found me. “The service is beginning.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  I looked around the room. Mom would notice if I didn’t put on lipstick, at the very least. I dug through her makeup bag and came up with a tube of bright red. Carmine—a perfect match for the color of Nathan’s bow tie. I opened the tube and considered wearing it like an invitation, a flipped middle finger, a badge of courage. But when the knocks at the door sounded again, I shoved it back in the bag and looked for something a little more brown.

  CHAPTER 2

  AFTER THE SERVICE, I WAS TRAPPED IN THE HORROR of something called the condolence line. Another funeral-home euphemism. The reality of the experience called to mind the way they used to press witches to death by adding rock after rock to a board on their chests. There I stood, with everyone else’s heartbreak piled on top of me, rock after rock, when I could hardly bear the weight of my own. My head buzzed with unshed tears, and I fought to keep my breathing steady.

  My mother stood beside me, poised and perfect, every inch the gracious Virginia lady. People always said we looked alike—except for the poise and perfection, I guess. She worked in fundraising for Ford’s Theatre in DC, planning swanky events for even swankier people. I knew she must be on autopilot today, hosting this event she never dreamed she’d have to plan. She greeted every guest with shatterproof politeness. She shook the hands of my classmates’ parents, a power parade of congress members and judges, lobbyists and think tankers. She remembered their names without a single hesitation. How could she be so utterly composed, when I felt two inches from total collapse? I tried to read her expression, but I couldn’t tell whether Dad had told her yet, whether he’d repeated all those things Detective Johnson had said about Tyler.

  Stuck in the line, not willing to look anyone in the eye, I stared at an endless stream of cleavage and neckties and tried to distract myself with a game I called Three Things. For years, I’d been an obsessive gatherer of little objects. My father called me his magpie, always bringing home shiny bits of paper and string. And ever since I could hold a pair of scissors, I’d been cutting up things that appealed to me and arranging them in tiny, intricate collages. The thing about things is: each one has a voice. Every little object has its own special something to say. And when you put them together, the right things in the right way, they tell a story.

  But there are places where scissors and glue are inappropriate. Like the dentist’s chair. English class. Your brother’s funeral. So I came up with Three Things. I look around, wherever I am, and pick out the three objects that best tell the story of that moment, like a living collage. No scissors necessary.

  Three Things from the condolence line at Tyler’s funeral: a girl in a somber black dress and a jeweled Hello Kitty necklace. A photograph, pressed into my mother’s hand by his kindergarten teacher, of Tyler at five years old. My own face, reflected in the gleaming wood and brass of my brother’s coffin.

  Finally the last miserable person came through that long and miserable line. I turned to my mother, desperate to ask her about Tyler, but she was already in motion, grabbing her purse and pulling out a list. “Megan, you and your father are riding home with Mrs. Koss.”

  I struggled for calm. “I really need to talk to you. Right now.”

  She didn’t meet my eye but instead continued to scan the paper in her hand. “At home, I promise. I’m having the flowers donated, and I need to follow up with the staff here. I don’t want you to wait.” She squeezed my father’s shoulder and walked out of the chapel.

  I turned to my father. “Did you tell her? About the detective?”

  Dad held up a hand. “Please don’t talk about that here.” He followed my mother out the door.

  I snapped the head off a white carnation and shredded the petals into my pocket. Raw materials, I thought. For later.

  Mrs. Koss cried the whole way home. She apologized for crying, then cried again, then apologized again, then apologized for apologizing. When she pulled her Volvo wagon into our driveway, Dad’s door was open before the car even stopped moving. “Thank you, Judy, I really . . . ,” he managed, and he made his escape into the house.

  As I climbed out of the backseat, Mrs. Koss rolled down the driver’s window. Her faded blue eyes were rimmed with red, and wisps of dyed blond hair stuck to her cheeks. After her own kids had gone off to college, she had babysat Tyler and me for years, until we were old enough to be home by ourselves after school. She reached out a hand through the open car window, shaky and uncertain, and I hesitated to take it, not wanting to be anchored to her grief. But I did it anyway.

  “If I can help, I’m right across the street. Come find me anytime.”

  I nodded. She held my hand in both of hers now, turning it over and studying it.

  “Are you going to be okay?” I asked.

  “Sweet girl, worryin
g about me.” She pressed my hand to her cheek before letting it go. “I’m praying for you, all right? You don’t have to tell your folks that; I know they don’t go in for that kind of thing. But I wanted you to know.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Now go in there and tell your father I’m sorry. Again.”

  I choked out a laugh. “I think he knows.”

  Mrs. Koss gave a damp wave as she pulled out of the driveway, and I went through the back door into the kitchen. Dad was already sitting on the deck outside, swirling a glass of Scotch in one hand and staring off into the distance. I changed out of my hateful funeral suit and headed for the front porch to wait for Mom.

  I stopped short in the doorway. On the front mat, someone had left a plastic takeout bag. I untied the knot and cracked open the Styrofoam clamshell, releasing the familiar smell of lamb kebab, rice, and grilled tomato. There was even a side of cucumber sauce.

  Nathan. It could only be from Nathan. The food in my hands seemed to warm my entire body. My chest unclenched, and some of the tension in my neck melted away. I curled up with the container on our front porch swing and sent a message to Elena.

  This day blows, I wrote.

  God so sorry, came the reply.

  Need to talk? Not just text?

  Because the phone has a feature that allows us to do that.

  I hate talking. Just distract me?

  Are you meeting with the counselor?

  I rolled my eyes. Terrible distraction. You suck at this.

  Talk to the counselor. It helps, trust me.

  Saw her once. She wore two different colors of black at the same time.

  Snob.

  Stop trying to do this alone.

  Go back to see her.

  Sure thing, I wrote. I will absolutely do that.

  We are men of action. Lies do not become us.

  I sent her the poop emoji.

  I watched the video you sent. So sweet!!! Where did you get it?

  New Boy.

  WHAT?

  I went off on him and he brought me food.

  I don’t know what that means, but I like it. Keep him.

  Thinking about it.

  Yes, I know: think first.

  That will be your slogan when you run for office.

  Megan Brown: She Thinks First.

  It’s solid life advice.

  An inspiring philosophy, Elena replied.

  Exactly what you want on your tombstone.

  And with that, the reality of the day came crashing in again. My stomach clenched, and my heart turned to ice.

  Oh my god, she wrote.

  So so so sorry.

  Elena Rodriguez: She Does Not Think First.

  You still there?

  I really do suck at this.

  I set down the takeout container, no longer hungry. It had felt so good to forget, even for a moment, but forgetting made remembering that much worse.

  I paused, wondering whether or not I should tell her.

  They’re saying Tyler died of an overdose, I typed.

  WHAT? WHO?

  The police.

  OMG

  Not Tyler

  How is that possible?

  I don’t know, I sent back, as my mother’s car pulled up in front of the house. But I want to find out. I slipped the phone into my pocket.

  Mom emerged from the car with two reusable shopping bags. She held them up to show me. “Good news. More casseroles.”

  I followed her inside as she brought the bags to the kitchen. “Mom,” I began, “about Tyler—”

  “I saw you on your phone. Was that Elena?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, good.” But the disapproval crept into her body language immediately. Her lips pursed, like they always did when Elena’s name was mentioned.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “She’s still a thousand miles away.”

  Mom sighed. “You know I don’t have a problem with Elena.”

  I managed to hold my tongue. Despite Elena’s wild clothes, her lack of indoor voice, and the fact that she could spout off a passionate rant about absolutely anything, Mom had always liked her. Mom’s real problem was with me, or at least it had been, for that tiny window of time when I’d acted more like Elena and less like the quiet daughter she preferred.

  She opened the freezer, revealing a nearly solid wall of food. “Huh. We should eat these, I guess.”

  But she didn’t move. She stood there with the freezer door open, staring blankly as the cold mist curled around her. In the unforgiving kitchen light, the lines around her eyes cut deep beneath her makeup, and her cheeks looked sunken and hollow. Her brown hair, as stick straight as mine, hung limp around her face, and I could even see a hint of silver creeping in at the roots.

  I started pulling plastic containers and jars out of the bags. “Listen, I don’t know if Dad has talked to you yet, about the detective—” As I turned toward her, a jar slipped from my fingers, hit the floor on its side, and cracked, releasing a slow creep of tomato sauce onto the tile.

  Mom didn’t even flinch; her mind was someplace else. She closed the freezer door and lowered herself onto a barstool. “When you were a baby . . . ,” she began.

  Worst opening line of a story ever, I thought, reaching for a dish towel.

  “You were a holy terror. I mean, you were colicky, you didn’t sleep, you didn’t like tags touching your skin. Sometimes I would think you were crying just to mess with me.” A half smile crossed her face. “Tyler, though, he was easy. Even in elementary school. I used to say to him, ‘Kid, you know it’s not actually your job to make my life easier. You’re allowed to screw up every now and then.’” She shook her head. “But he wouldn’t listen.”

  She knew.

  I moved to the barstool next to her, tomato sauce still dripping from the towel in my hand. “Mom, did you have any idea? Did you notice anything weird going on with him?”

  Her face hardened. “Nothing weird was going on with him.”

  “Um, did Dad not tell you? The detective said—”

  “Your father told me what the detective said.” Mom clasped her hands in front of her. Despite her bland expression, I could see her fingers clench, her knuckles whiten. “But it’s obviously some kind of mistake.”

  I leaned back, taking a moment to consider what to say next. “Mom, they did tests. They got results. I think it’s pretty unlikely they made a mistake.”

  She stood and tugged her clothes firmly into place. “Those are preliminary results. I’m sure the final report will show that no drugs were involved, because what happened—” Her voice caught in her throat, and she took a slow breath to steady herself. “What happened to Tyler was a tragic accident.”

  “Mom, can’t we at least talk about this?”

  She shook her head. I could see her careful facade splintering now, like cracks spiderwebbed in broken glass. She was holding the pieces together by force of will, but I thought the smallest tap might shatter her. “I don’t need to talk about it,” she said. “Tyler was a good boy. There’s no way this was anything but an accident.”

  I wished I could agree with her, if only to make her feel better. But what would happen when the police stormed in here in four weeks with their final reports and their scientific certainties and broke my mother into a thousand pieces? “We can’t pretend this isn’t happening,” I said. “Don’t you want to know the truth?”

  For an instant, she cracked. Tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks. “The truth is . . . he’s gone, Megan,” she said. “Nothing will ever change that. And nothing will ever bring him back.”

  I wanted to go to her, to close my eyes and curl into her lap like I did when I was small, to cry myself safe in the citrusy smell of her perfume. But when I took a step toward her, her hands flew up defensively, and she stepped away from me.

  Like a blow to the chest, it knocked the wind right out of me. I’m not gone, Mom, I thought. I’m right here. What about me?

&nb
sp; I bent down and scooped up the jar of pasta sauce, throwing the whole mess, dish towel and all, in the trash. “You should eat something,” I said, and I walked out of the kitchen.

  I went to Tyler’s room, because that’s where I always went when I needed help. My feet took me straight to his door, and I had to force myself not to knock. Instead, I rested my hand against the wood. I could so clearly picture him whipping the door open and leaning on the doorframe.

  “You’ve got sad face,” he’d say. “Go away. I’m not your therapist.”

  “But Elena’s halfway across the country.”

  “So make new friends.”

  “I don’t need new friends,” I’d say. “I have you.”

  He’d groan. He’d roll his eyes. And he’d let me in. Every time.

  Except this one.

  I took a deep breath and opened the door, but I froze before I could take a single step. Gone were the piles of dirty clothes and the chaos of cables and headphones. The carpet was visible, and it even had vacuum cleaner tracks in it. Mom must have done this, somewhere in the obsessive cleaning and organizing stage of grief. I stepped into the room, feeling like a trespasser in a place I didn’t belong. What was Mom thinking? Was she going to turn Tyler’s room into a shrine, keep everything exactly as he’d left it? Minus the mess, of course.

  It was a terrible thought. I did a quick calculation of how much longer I had to live in this house: two more years before college, and then all those summers and Christmases. I was not going to live in the Tyler Brown Memorial Museum.

  And which Tyler Brown was she memorializing, anyway? Some guy who didn’t just play varsity baseball and get named Best All-Around Senior, but was also neat and clean and always took out the trash? It was like whitewashing an already-white picket fence. This spotless room did not belong to the brother I remembered. And it sure as hell didn’t belong to that other Tyler, the one Detective Johnson had described, the kid who OD’d in an abandoned building forty-five minutes from home.