One Small Thing

His dark eyes flare with annoyance. He presses his hands to his sides as if he’s trying to restrain himself from grabbing me again. Then he exhales in a long, steady rush. “I want to talk about Rachel.”

I pretend to be unfazed, but the sound of her name leaving his lips does affect me. It makes me sick that my sister dated this guy for nearly a year.

“Did you hear me?” he demands when I remain silent.

I coolly meet his aggravated eyes. “Yes, I heard you.”

His brow furrows. “I said I want to talk about Rachel.”

“I don’t care,” I answer with a big fake smile.

Fluttering my fingers in an equally fake, cheerful wave, I spin away from him and get on the bus.

* * *

Dad is waiting for me when I get home. It doesn’t come as a surprise, since he’d already informed me last night that, from now on, he’ll be leaving the hardware store at three o’clock every day so he’s home when I get back from school. His part-time workers must be thrilled for the extra hours. Me? Not so thrilled.

“You can do your homework in the dining room,” he tells me after I kick off my shoes in the mudroom. Rachel’s section of the bench, as always, is pristine.

“My laptop’s in my room,” I mutter.

“No, I already brought it downstairs for you. I’m getting an early start on dinner, so I’d like for you to work in the dining room.”

He says it graciously, as if he’s actually giving me the option. “Why, so you can watch me from the kitchen to make sure I don’t escape?”

“Yes,” he says flatly.

I gape at his stiff back as he disappears into the kitchen. Wow. I cannot believe my father. What’s happened to him?

“This is ridiculous,” I yell after him. “I’m going to be gone in less than a year!”

I’m leaving this house and this town and every hateful person in it even if it means not going to college. I can’t take another four years of this.

I drag my unhappy ass to the dining room table. The numbers and letters on the page swim in front of me. I can’t focus. The television is on in the kitchen. Dad’s clinking pans against the stove burners. Morgan barks. I look up to catch a flash of black as he streaks across the yard.

Uh-oh. He must’ve gotten loose. I throw my pencil onto the notebook and stand up.

Dad appears in the entryway, a dish towel thrown over his shoulder. “Where are you going?”

“Outside.” Morgan’s tail bumps against Rachel’s swing, sending the wooden seat swaying.

Dad follows my gaze. “That fool dog.” He snatches the towel off his shoulder and squeezes it between his big hands, likely imagining the fabric is Morgan’s neck.

“Wait!” I hold out a restraining hand. “Mrs. Rennick will catch him.”

“They shouldn’t have gotten that damn dog in the first place. He’s not around and she’s got no control over that animal.” He reaches for the latch.

I throw myself against the door. “Morgan’s a sweet dog. He’s not doing any harm.”

“He’s going to knock Rachel’s swing down.”

“So you can rehang it. What does it matter?” I dig my heels in. I’m not letting Dad out of this house if he’s going to hurt Morgan. We’ve really spiraled out of control over Rachel’s death if a dog knocking down her swing is going to cause this much trauma.

I’m no match for my dad, though. He shoves me out of the way with one sweep of his hand and heads for the garage. I’m torn between chasing after him and helping Mrs. Rennick catch Morgan. I choose Morgan and Mrs. R.

“This dog!” Mrs. Rennick cries as I race toward her. The big mutt runs around the tree, sending the swing careening in one direction and then the other.

I wince when the wooden seat strikes the tree trunk. “You go that way and I’ll go this way,” I tell Mrs. R, pointing to the opposite direction.

“Okay.”

We separate and try to corral Morgan between us. He, of course, thinks that we’re engaged in a wonderful game and darts just out of reach.

A piercing whistle fills the air. It startles Morgan into a momentary stillness and I leap on top of him. Mrs. Rennick throws me the leash. I quickly affix it to Morgan’s collar and hand him over to his frazzled owner.

“I’m so sorry, Dave,” our neighbor apologizes as Dad strides forward, a screwdriver sticking out of his front pocket and a ladder hoisted over his shoulder. Morgan strains under Mrs. Rennick’s grip. “Morgan got loose again.”

He gives her a terse nod at the obvious statement but doesn’t stop walking until he reaches Rachel’s swing.

“I, ah, better get home. I’m sorry again.”

Dad still doesn’t respond, instead focusing on setting up the ladder.

“It’s fine,” I say, trying to cover for my father’s uncharacteristic rudeness. As a local small business owner, he’s usually super nice to everyone. “Bye-bye, Morgan.” I give the doggy a wave. He wags his tail happily, oblivious to the tension in the air.

“Call me if there’s a problem,” Mrs. Rennick says, although I’m not sure if she’s directing that to me or my dad.

I answer again, “Sure thing, Mrs. R.”

She gives me a finger wave before hauling Morgan away. Dad climbs down off the ladder only seconds later with the wooden seat in his hands, the rope over his shoulder.

“I should’ve taken this down years ago. It’s a miracle there isn’t more damage.” He inspects the planks that are worn from the years of exposure to the Midwestern weather.

“It’s just a swing, Dad.” Rachel’s not here. She only swings in our memories.

“It’s not just a swing, Lizzie. It’s her swing.”

I give in. From long experience, I know arguing with Dad about anything is a futile endeavor. Instead, I offer a hand. “I can carry that. Where do you want it? The garage?”

He shakes his head and tucks the seat under his arm, and still manages to fold the ladder closed. “I’ll put it in the den.”

That’s healthy.

I trail behind, frustrated and more than a little hurt that I’m not good enough to handle the swing. Back in the house, Dad disappears for a second to place the holy swing in his study. My parents are like dragons, hoarding Rachel’s things like they’re rare treasures.

They need therapy—that’s becoming more and more obvious to me. I stopped suggesting it a long time ago, but after everything that’s happened lately, I think I need to bring up the subject again. Maybe Ms. Tannenhauf can help me stage an intervention. Or I can see if my old grief counselor can stop by the house for an ambush therapy session.

Either way, my parents need help. They can’t keep doing this to us.

My stuff on the dining room table mocks me. There’s nowhere for me to go in this house.

“When am I getting my door back?” I ask as Dad reappears on his way to the kitchen.

“When you show yourself to be trustworthy.”

“I’m not doing anything bad. I’m not drinking. I’m not doing drugs. I’m not sleeping around. I’m just trying to enjoy my last year of school.”

“You were at parties. You were with drug dealers. You have repeatedly disobeyed us.” He picks up the knife and resumes his dinner preparations.

“Because your rules are ridiculous!” I have the urge to stomp my feet like I did when I was five.

“I know you think I’m going overboard with you, but I’m trying to protect you,” he insists. “I wish you’d understand. The security measures, making sure you don’t have contact with filth, the tracking. This is all for your own good. What kind of dad would I be if I didn’t protect my little girl?”

“But, Dad, this isn’t protecting me. This is smothering me. What happened with Rachel was an accident. It could happen to anyone, no matter where they are. You can’t pr

event bad things from happening.”

“I can do my best,” he says grimly. “I wouldn’t be able to look myself in the mirror if something happened to you, too. This isn’t about Rachel. This is about you and how much we want you to be safe. Now, go finish your homework.”

With that, he continues chopping. Denial. He’s in total denial.

Gritting my teeth, I go back to the dining room and try to concentrate on my homework. For the next few minutes, the only sound from the kitchen is the tap-tap of Dad’s knife hitting the cutting board, until it’s finally broken by the chirp of his phone.

“Hello?” comes Dad’s brisk response.

I strain to hear what he’s saying but only make out the low murmur of his voice.

A moment later, he walks into the dining room, tucking the phone in his pocket. “Let’s go for a drive,” he suggests.

A drive? “Seriously? I just tried having a real conversation with you and you dismissed me. Now you want to go for a drive?”

“We can have that conversation in the car, then.” He pauses. “We’ll talk about the door.”

I know he’s manipulating me. I know it, but I let it happen anyway.

“Where are we going?” I ask as I buckle into the passenger seat.

“I need to pick up your mother from the office. Her car’s in the shop until tomorrow morning.”

“This isn’t the way to Mom’s office,” I point out.

“We’re making a small detour.”

“Where?”

“You’ll see.”

The cryptic response is a joke, because it doesn’t take long to figure it out. When the road gets wider and the houses grow larger, I immediately know who called.

“Jeff and I are not on good terms,” I inform my dad.

He nods easily, as if he’s heard this before. “He said you two had a falling-out.”

“So why are you taking me to his house?”

“Because he has a box of Rachel’s things and he asked if you’d be willing to come over and go through it with him.”

“He asked you, not me. Don’t you think I should have a say in the matter?” I ask curtly.

“No, because I agree with Jeff. Sharing your memories of Rachel will help repair the rift.”

Jeff is so fucking disgusting. Using my dead sister to gain the sympathy and support of my father? I’m going to punch him when I see him. The box is probably as real as the story he’d told Dad about building an arbor in the backyard.

“Why are you so in love with him? He’s a jerk.”

“He’s a good boy,” Dad disagrees. “He loved your sister with all his heart.”

“Did he? Because he treats Scarlett like she’s a piece of garbage.” I know Dad’s not going to turn the car around, so I might as well use the opportunity to let Jeff know that he can’t go on mistreating my friend like this.

But Dad flat out ignores the accusation. “He told me that you’ve been unhappy with how he’s tried to protect you from that Donnelly boy.”

“Oh, I’m sure. Did he also tell you that he pulled the fire alarm at school and tried to pin it on Chase? Or how he’s constantly nagging Scarlett about what she wears and how she acts?”

“I’m sure you’re exaggerating. He’s looked out for you since he got back. He’s defended your actions to us,” Dad says with a sigh, as if that makes Jeff both an idiot and a saint.

He pulls up to the front of Jeff’s huge house.

I’m tempted to run down the lane and over to Mayor Stanton’s house instead. It’s just a few blocks away—we passed it on our way here, but I’m sure that Jeff would narc on me. He’s probably in his living room, peeking behind some curtain. I don’t even understand why he wants to talk to me.

“Go on now. I’ll be back in an hour.”

With a final mutinous look in Dad’s direction, I force myself to get out of the car. I trudge to the door and ring the bell.

Jeff’s mom answers.

“Lizzie!” She gathers me against her chest in a warm hug.

Awkwardly, I hug her back. I’ve never said more than two words to Jeff’s mom. Hell, I don’t even know her first name.

She draws back, cupping my shoulders. “You’re looking more and more like your sister.”

There’s a faint resemblance between Rachel and me. We have the same dark blond hair and brown eyes, but Rachel was taller and thinner than me. We certainly don’t look enough alike for Jeff’s mom to act like I’m some long-lost daughter arriving home after thirty days at sea.

“Hi, Mrs. Corsen. Apparently, Jeff has a box of stuff to give me?” I say woodenly.

“He’s downstairs in the game room.” She clasps her hands together happily. “I’m so glad that you two are together. I know some people will think it’s odd, but I feel like your shared grief brought you closer. Isn’t that right?”

“Together?” My eyebrows scrunch together in confusion. What the hell is Jeff telling his parents?

“Jeffrey was so lost after Rachel died,” she says, her tone finally losing some of its cheer. “He just lost control. That’s why he had to go to England, you know?”

This is something I didn’t know. Something I feel is important, which is why I act like I know what she’s talking about. “Yeah, he said he found himself,” I lie.

“I hope so. Goodness, I hope so. After the incident with Debbie’s son, I was so worried, but he hasn’t gotten into any fights since he’s been back. And everyone’s been so good to him since he returned.”

“No. No fights.” That’s at least true, but I’ve never heard of this incident with Debbie’s son. Debbie’s their housekeeper.

“I should have been paying more attention after Rachel’s accident, but you know how busy we are.” Jeff’s dad is some big insurance executive and spends most of his time in Chicago, but his mom has no job as far as I know. Maybe she’s busy with charity things or whatever really rich women do with their time.

“Teenagers can be sneaky,” I say, wondering what conversation we’re having.

She buys it. “The pills were the least of our concern,” she admits. “It was the anger that was, well, challenging. Apology gifts only go so far.”

“That’s true,” I agree, but inwardly I’m left wondering. What on earth did Jeff do? What anger issues were so serious that he had to be sent to an entirely different country? When I open my mouth to ask, Jeff’s head appears at the top of the stairs.

“Lizzie,” he says.

“Beth,” I remind him frostily.

“Come on. I have something for you.” He grabs my hand and tugs me down the carpeted stairs.

I don’t believe him. Or, at least, I don’t want to believe him, but my feet follow after his. If he does have something of Rachel’s, I don’t want to leave it here. I remember how unhappy she was in the days leading up to her death, how she withdrew from all of us.

That indistinct thought I had before has morphed into a huge concern. Jeff was the reason for her unhappiness. He was the reason she stopped smiling, stopped talking to us. He doesn’t deserve to have any of her things.

“Why didn’t you tell me about it before? It’s been a whole month.”

“I just found it. I forgot I had it.”

He leads me down the stairs. His basement is as big as my house. There’s a full bar and a room filled with hundreds of bottles of wine. I see a pool table and a wall of windows leading out to Jeff’s pool, which is covered for the winter.

We bypass a large sitting area and go into a paneled room with two heavy leather sofas facing each other. At one end is a green felt table. On the walls are pictures of those silly dogs playing cards.

“Have a seat.” He crosses over to a cabinet and tugs open the door. “Want a drink?” He holds up a bottle of vodka.

“Where’s the box?”

“Do you want to have a drink?” He shakes the bottle lightly.

“No. I want the box.”

“Just one drink.”

“It’s four in the afternoon. I don’t want a drink.” I check my watch. Only ten minutes have passed. I have fifty to go. I take a seat on the sofa. “I’ll have a soda.”

“Fine. When did you get to be so uptight?” he grouses but grabs a Sprite for me.

He drops it into my lap and settles in too close. I inch away and check my watch again. Time is moving slower than a turtle.

“Got someplace to go? Your felon boyfriend waiting?” He lifts the bottle of liquor to his lips.

“My dad said he’d be back soon, so you should give me what you have.”

“You still don’t have your wheels back?” He clucks his tongue. “Be nice and I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”

“Okay. Take me to my felon boyfriend’s house.”

Jeff raises the bottle and, for a flash, I think he’s going to hit me. But he tips it to his mouth again. I must’ve imagined it.

“You’re a bitch, you know that?” he says, swiping his hand across his mouth.

“Is that supposed to be an insult?”

“What is it with you girls lately? You’re a bitch and Scarlett’s a slut. You two used to be so good.” He slurs the last bit.

I wave a hand in front of my face to get rid of his booze breath. “Maybe it’s not us girls who have changed.”

“Nah. It’s you. It’s always you bitches changing. You, your sister, Scarlett. More trouble than you’re worth,” he mutters. “You all need some education.”

I have to spend another—I check my watch again—forty minutes listening to Jeff ramble about how terrible women are? I’d rather pour bleach in my ears. “Thanks for your input, but where’s the box?”

“This whole ‘females first’ shit. That’s what’s wrong with this world. Y’all turned into man haters.”

This asshole. There’s obviously no box of Rachel mementos in this basement, or this house. And even if there was, whatever he has of Rachel’s is not important. Just like the swing isn’t important or the preservation of her space in the mudroom isn’t important. Rachel isn’t in any of these things. She lives in the hearts of the people who loved her.