When We Were Strangers Read online

  Also by Alex Richards

  Accidental

  For Harvey, my ninja in training

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Acknowledgments

  CHAPTER 1

  The house aches with silence.

  All I can do is stand there until I remember to lock the front door behind me, dropping my keys on the console table and inching through the darkness. Numbly, I climb the stairs, fingers tickling plaster walls to remind me that I still have nerve endings. That I can still feel.

  Mom stayed behind at the hospital. She needed to deal with insurance and morgue and cremation stuff. Things you wish could be put off but can’t. While she handled it, she insisted that I come home. To rest, to shower, to get the hospital stench off my skin. Maybe I’ll burn my clothes too, but when I walk past my parents’ bedroom door, I completely lose track of all purpose.

  A thousand seconds tick by.

  Because I guess this is it. This is what the rest of my life is going to be, walking into a house with no wisecracking, slipper-wearing, grunge rock–loving dad. No. Dad. But their bedroom is still full of his smell, his things, and right now I need to be close to what’s left of him. I push the door open and tiptoe across the carpet and into my parents’ bed. Which is weird, maybe? Hiding under their covers at seventeen? I curl up on a dead man’s pillow anyway. The memory foam still smells of him. Still remembers him. Cedar and sunblock. It spins my heart into a long, thin thread.

  For a while I lie here, sobs avalanching off me in the darkness. Crying’s never been my thing, and now I remember why. It’s brutal to convulse like this, ache like this, all while I’m trying to catalog the past fifteen hours. The fact that I woke up with a dad. Said goodbye to him from behind the Pop-Tart between my teeth. Drove to school thinking about how it was T-minus five days till summer vacation. Physics, calculus. My English teacher doling out summer reading syllabi. Right around seventh period, that is when a pain so sharp and vicious crept up my father’s left arm. Blue eyes bulging while his chest cramped. Keeling over. An unexpected heart attack called in by a terrified receptionist.

  Mom was in hysterics when I got to the hospital, dousing me in our new misery like a bucket of water. Together we sat in the waiting room for three hours. Hands intertwined, forming a closeness we hadn’t had for years. We didn’t talk or move or breathe. But in the end, it was the end. Just like on TV, the way weary surgeons slink into the waiting room to deliver bad news, the doctor’s eyes apologizing before their lips. Because not even miracle hands could save him.

  My tears soak clean through Dad’s pillow.

  I shudder and stretch, feet banging against something hard and unexpected at the foot of the bed. When I sit up, my head throbs, dehydration tugging at my temples. The lights are still off but my eyes have adjusted, aided by a waning moon through the skylight. Dad’s suitcase, that’s what I kicked. Which is weird because he didn’t say anything about a trip, although his accounting firm would occasionally send him to regional conferences.

  I force myself off the bed, reaching for the lamp on Dad’s nightstand, click-click-clicking the switch till light stings my eyes and the room feels real. I want to cry all over again but I force a swallow, hauling the suitcase toward me. I’ve barely unzipped it when I spot an even bigger suitcase on the floor. And then a garment bag and a box by the door.

  Hold on, what?

  With skinny breath and weak fingers, I reach for Dad’s dresser, sliding open the drawers, one by one. Empty, empty, empty. My eyes ping-pong around the room. His bathrobe missing from the hook behind the door; no bird-watching books or laundry pile or mounds of electronics. The room wobbles as I soak in its lopsidedness. Mom’s late-for-work clutter, rumpled clothes and coffee mugs and stacks of half-read novels. The only traces left are of her, nothing of him. I choke on my own spit when it hits me.

  Holy shit—was my dad moving out?

  I’m still gasping, rubbing swollen eyes, trying to steady my breath while my brain tornadoes inside my head. Because, I know you’re not supposed to jump to conclusions, especially when you’re in the throes of grief or whatever . . . ​but give me a break. He packed everything. My dad was leaving us. There is no other explanation.

  And I’m finding out now. Like this.

  I start to pace around the room, sorting more than a day’s worth of memories. The evolution of their silence, occasional fights. Mom whisper-shouting behind closed doors about another woman’s perfume on his clothes. I mean, there was a time I thought divorce . . . ​but it kept not happening. As if a scab formed over their discontent. Which—okay, fine—I rallied around. With half the kids in Santa Fe bouncing from mom’s to dad’s and back again, I’ll admit to wanting them to work through it. Parents don’t always stay married but mine were supposed to. At least, that’s what I wanted. Maybe it’s what Mom wanted too, and now she’s devastated and filling out paperwork at the hospital, crying into a nurse’s arms, thinking she just lost the love of her life, but . . .

  I cringe when it hits me.

  She doesn’t know.

  My poor, wrecked mother must have no idea. There’s no way. We can’t stand each other sometimes, but she wouldn’t intentionally send me home from the hospital alone to find this.

  Jesus, my brain is on fire. Like, what could have pushed him over the edge? Why now? And why did he leave his bags? Was he planning to break the news over dinner? These are excellent enchiladas, Rita. By the way, I’m leaving you. And then what—divorce? The thought of it shouldn’t crush me, but I can’t have the ground pulled out from under me. Not after today.

  Neither can she.

  Pretty soon Mom will be home. She will walk through the front door as I did, exhausted as I was, and stumble up the stairs with the intention of wrapping herself in her dead husband’s sweaters in order to feel him all over her and smell his cedar scent, only . . .

  Silent sobs bend me in half and break my insides. It’s bleak as hell, imagining her finding out this way. As much as I literally cannot stand her naggy, criticizing bullshit, no one deserves this. And, sorry for the realness but, like, what would this truth do to our relationship? Like, if she were to not only be grieving but also reeling from this development? I mean . . .

  She can’t find out. I can’t let her.

  My brain’s not in charge anymore when I walk back over to Dad’s suitcase, silently sliding the zipper so the house won’t hear what I am about to do.

  A stockpile of socks and rolled-up boxer briefs on the left. T-shirts, neatly folded by Mom, stacked perfectly on the right. I run my fingers over the well-worn Pearl Jam shirt on top—the shirt I used to give him shit for because what’s-his-name has such a goat voice when h
e sings, and who listens to grunge anyway? To which Dad would roll his eyes and start singing “Alive” to taunt me.

  Alive. Kind of ironic, but I don’t stop to think about it, instead scooping the stack of shirts into my arms and walking over to the dresser drawers I left open.

  Now comes the real challenge: remembering what goes where. Was it T-shirts on top? Or, no. T-shirts were in the third drawer; underwear on top. And, no, I am not gross or creepy for knowing that. Or, I mean, maybe I am, but I remember it from way back—from when I’d spend sick days under their covers, surrounded by books and soup and Kleenex, watching Mom sigh as she puttered around the house doing everyone’s grunt work rather than going to her office. Groaning as she dumped the laundry basket at the foot of the bed, huffing while she separated, folded, and distributed each item. Underwear in the top drawer, then socks, T-shirts, sweaters, jeans. That’s right. The other suitcase must have the sweaters and jeans, so I zip up the first empty case when I’m done and switch to the next, gentle as I return each garment to its rightful home, careful not to cry too hard or leave stains.

  Evie, what are you doing?

  What the fuck are you doing?

  You can’t do this. It’s not right.

  But I can do it. Am doing it. Driven by a force beyond my control that will not stop until everything. Is. Just. Right.

  When I put the suitcases back in the hallway closet, a warm curl of relief settles inside me. Next, I’ll unpack the garment bag, then the box he left by the door. Books will return to their shelves, gadgets back in their docking stations. Two-piece suits will once again burden the closet rod. Their bedroom will no longer be dizzy and lopsided. It will be whole again. Theirs, again.

  I take one last look around the room—the masterpiece I’ve curated—then finally do what I came home for. I walk into the bathroom and turn on the shower, unpacking Dad’s toiletry kit while I wait for the water to heat up. Then I strip down to nothing, tossing my clothes into the wastebasket like I said I would, even though I’m wearing the only jeans that make me look remotely slim. Because, like, what are skinny jeans when your dad just died and you had to unpack his bags because you don’t want your mom knowing he was about to walk out on you both?

  Exactly.

  In the shower, my hospital stink turns hibiscus; salty cheeks surrender to Neutrogena foam.

  Any minute now, my devastated mother will walk into the wreckage, standing there silently, afraid to turn on the lights. Forgetting our usual frustration, she and I will curl up together on her too-big bed. We’ll weep and mourn and curse, and our hearts will be broken. But at least hers won’t be destroyed. That, I have made sure of.

  CHAPTER 2

  You’ll never eat so good as you do after the death of a loved one.

  Casseroles. Baked goods. Frigging crudité platters.

  The last of about twenty grieving guests finally stumbles out of our bereavement cave—aka Dad’s funeral reception, aka home—and I unleash my flesh from a pair of control top pantyhose, exhaling for the first time in hours, maybe even days. A wave of Dad-less-ness bobs up my throat, tugging at my chest. I choke it down, navigating through a sea of disinfectant because those who did not bring salad brought sponges and all-purpose cleaner. Our house gleams like a Clorox ad. Which is weird, after the way it morphed into a maze of used tissues and junk mail over the past week. Tonight, it looks like a home again, even if it doesn’t feel like one.

  I drop-kick my balled-up tights toward the laundry room, following the smell of bleach and despair into the kitchen. The white tile floor is almost reflective. I poke my head through the swinging door where Mom is hunched over the dining table, eyes lost in a glass of Chardonnay. Juana Lujan—aka our only remaining guest, aka my best friend—stands at the counter, quietly unpacking containers from our favorite Mexican joint. As if we need more food. Apparently, not even besties are impervious to the lure of edible condolences.

  “Evie, good timing.” Juana drops a cylindrical mound of tinfoil at the empty spot across from Mom and pats the chair. “Take a seat, babe. My mom ordered all this stuff from Baja—­before she saw the truckload of food people brought over today. Anyway, it’s your favorite. If you’re hungry.”

  “Better have extra cheese,” I mutter, forcing a smile.

  Juana forces a laugh.

  Mom forces an inhale.

  Force is the only thing driving us at this point.

  Before anyone’s taken a bite, our giant calico, Lips, jumps up on the table and makes herself the centerpiece. The name is short for Ellipsoid, some geometric math term Dad chose after we brought her home from the shelter. It seemed cool enough at the time, until Dad started drilling calculus into me in ninth grade, insisting that my future depended on it. Except, look where math got him: an overworked CPA, dead of a heart attack before forty. Thanks but no thanks.

  So, yeah. I call her Lips, for short.

  “Mrs. P, how about a soft taco—just a little one?” Juana, way more polite than I’m used to, rests a Styrofoam container on the table in front of Mom. “You were so busy being a hostess, I didn’t see you eat all day.”

  Mom looks down at the dainty row of bean-filled tacos and blinks. She’s been on pretty much a liquid diet for the past week. Coffee till noon, wine till bedtime. Today’s no different; it just happens to be the day she buried her husband. Her smile masks a wince. “Looks delicious, Juana. I’ll have some in a bit,” she says, nudging Lips back onto the floor.

  “You sure?”

  Her eyes settle more comfortably back onto her wineglass.

  Steam clings to my face as I unwrap the foil on my carne adovada burrito. The moisture absorbs some of my gloom, coating the numb and broken haze that ferried us to the cemetery and back home to a crowd of mourners. It’s a relief to see our house empty again.

  Maybe to set an example, I dunk a tortilla chip into the guacamole and crunch extra loudly. “Thanks, JJ. This is way better than that crap-ass lasagna Mrs. Conrad tried to stuff down my throat earlier.”

  My eyes flit over to Mom. To see if crap-ass (or dissing our elderly neighbor) is going to elicit the usual scolding. Her brown eyes are corroded though, lips in a gravitational pull toward her heart. Honestly, I don’t even think she’s listening.

  “Or those fish cakes. With the raisins?” Juana shudders. “I don’t know who brought ’em, but—nope.”

  The kitchen goes quiet with the subtle stench of ammonia and Hatch green chiles.

  “So . . . ​how was the rest of school?” I ask, even though I already know because Juana texted me hourly. Four days’ worth of Chavez Academy micro-debriefs. Exams were already over when IT happened, and nobody cares that I skipped a few days of bullshit classes. I mean, they care. They all care. Our house is suffocating in declarations of sympathy and healing; voice mails from the school guidance counselor offering, well, guidance.

  Juana flashes me a funny look and my eyes practically invert, desperate to make conversation. “Any newsworthy pranks?” I ask pointedly. “Farm animals let loose on the quad?”

  She takes the bait and cackles. “Oh my God, can you imagine? If a herd of goats rampaged the final assembly? God, I would seriously die laughing.”

  The room goes ice-cold. Juana tries to swallow her words, but it’s too late. Death puns blare like sirens lately. Whether Mom is dying for a glass of wine or I’m scared to death of answering yet another pity phone call. Now the idea of high school high jinx is about as funny as the heart attack that took the life of Victor Elias Parker.

  But I swallow. Offer a small smile. “So, not even any TPing of lockers, huh? How disappointing.”

  “People still do that sort of thing?” Mom says, a sort of vacancy replacing her usual hint of judgment. “Rearranging furniture and TPing? It sounds so old-fashioned.”

  In a daze, she rises from the table with her suddenly empty wineglass and takes it to the refill station—aka the makeshift funeral bar, aka our kitchen island. She’s still wearing a soft bl
ack blouse, but we clearly had the same idea in the bottoms department. Her pencil skirt has been replaced with Juicy sweats, various hues of which she’s been wearing since the dental office gave her bereavement leave. Today’s are a sunburn pink that bring out the Hershey’s Kiss color of her hair. She refills her glass and looks at the clock. It’s almost 7 p.m., almost time to crawl into bed and erase another day.

  “There’s a party tonight.” Juana breaks the silence, her voice on eggshells. “Up at the ski basin? Pilar and Oola are throwing it but all the seniors are going. Which means us, now.” She taps my shoulder with the back of her fork after licking it clean. Gross. “So, party? Que viva? You in?”

  “I’m not really in a partying mood.”

  “Yeah, but . . .” She drifts off, swallowing her plea.

  Which almost pains me. The old Juana wouldn’t back down so easily. She’d roll her eyes and swear and tell me to get out of my funk because we are going to that party and she is not taking no for an answer, and then she’d look for a slutty top in my abundantly non-slutty closet because I have enough cleavage as it is without actively advertising more of it. But that was before. This is now. This is mourning.

  “At least think about it.” She tucks her long, black hair behind her ears and scrapes the last forkful of pinto beans into her mouth.

  I force a lopsided smile, my eyes drifting back to Mom as she lights a cigarette. Smoke creates a wicked spell around her. She flicks a bit of ash into a chipped saucer because we don’t actually have a real ashtray because she hasn’t really been a smoker since before I was born. The Marlboro thing is a post-death transgression, and apparently she no longer cares about giving her only child secondhand lung cancer.

  But I get it—I’d probably bum one if I liked the taste. Anything to help navigate this Everest of grief I can’t stop climbing. Both of us scrambling against the tide, unsure how to process our insurmountable loss. But, like, in such wildly different ways. We’re both devastated, but I’m not used to seeing someone so organized lose her shit so aimlessly. It’s hard to look at her without thinking about the part I played in it. My suitcase wizardry. Juana knows—I had to tell someone—but leaving Mom in the dark has only added thorns to my guilt. I keep playing it back in my mind. Picturing myself in their bedroom, mind spinning, heart cracking, convincing myself that what I was doing was for the best. With Dad dead, I chose to be her knight in shining armor. But was it gallant, what I did? Would the honorable thing have been to lay out the full deck? If she knew he was leaving, maybe foresight could have balanced out her heartache.