little closer to the house and light it up. Inside, I open my bag and remove the ribbon, the drawing, our construction paper book, and Becca’s half of the necklace. I fetch mine, too. In the family room I catch movement from outside, a flash of pale darting near the glass, disappearing again. Skin? A dress? A plastic bag tumbled by the breeze? Armpits damp, I tiptoe across the room. There’s enough light left outside to make out the edge of the yard, the river beyond, its surface like a sheet of glass today. Nothing and no one else.
The fire has built up nicely, blue and orange flames dancing in the shadows. It’s time to say goodbye to my childhood ghosts. To my guilt. Time to put myself and my life back in order. I feed the ribbon to the fire pit first, closing my eyes as it burns. The book goes second, and although tears are coursing silent tracks, I manage a small smile.
She was alive the whole time!
I hold the drawing for a time, then feed it to the fire as well. The necklaces are cheap metal, but I doubt this blaze is hot enough to melt them. The water behind our house beckons, and feeling much like old Rose in Titanic, I carry them down. Unlike Rose, I can’t bring myself to let go. These I’ll keep, to honor our friendship. I turn back to the house, and there’s someone standing near the fire pit. Not just someone. Becca.
The necklaces fall to the grass. My steps are slow, faltering. I’m not sure what to think or feel. She’s here. At my house. But she’s not smiling. Fear tightens my belly, but I keep moving forward. She’s not frowning, either, just watching me, her face impassive. I stop a few feet away.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hey,” she says. She’s wearing jeans and an old olive drab jacket. Boots with scuffed toes. A battered tan messenger bag slung over one shoulder. I step closer and give her a hug, my vision blurry. I can’t help it. She’s alive. She really is. She smells of old smoke, a hint of mildew, and musky earth, not patchouli, but a scent in a similar vein. At first, she’s stiff and awkward in my arms, then she relaxes and gives a squeeze before we let go.
Wiping my eyes, I say, “I can’t believe it’s you. It’s you and you’re here and … oh my god.” I say, touching the hollow of my throat. “Do you want to go inside? Do you want some wine or water? Or anything?”
“I’d rather stay out here, and no, I don’t want anything.”
“That’s fine. We can— Here, let me pull the lawn chairs closer.”
“Sure, yeah.”
I sit first. She so strongly resembles Lauren, it’s startling. She’s about the same height, but thinner. The angles of her cheekbones are sharper, her chin more pointed. And she looks older than she should. Much older. She drops her bag on the patio and shrugs off her jacket, revealing a faded red long-sleeved Henley. She’s even skinnier than I first thought. And not the healthy-eating-and-consistent-exercise kind. Her collarbones, the tendons on the backs of her hands, speak of ill health, of days without enough food. The firelight reveals weathered skin, a chipped front tooth. I feel a surge of guilt for my own physicality. Limbs made stronger in the gym, skin clearer in the bathroom, belly full of healthy options. Doctors and dentists within easy reach.
“I have so many things I want to ask you,” I say, crossing my ankles under the chair. “I’m not even sure where to start. I guess … how have you been?”
“I’ve had some rough years, you know, but things are starting to work out.” She glances at the house. “Looks like you’re doing okay.”
Guilt rises again. “I’m a psychologist,” I say. “I work with kids, but I guess you know that?” She makes a small sound, but I can’t decipher its meaning. “What about you?” I say, flicking the cuticle of my pinkie with my thumbnail.
“Nothing important. Just a job that pays the rent,” she says, gaze darting from side to side, foot bouncing.
I tuck my hair behind my ears. Lean forward with elbows resting on my thighs. “Why didn’t you call me? Tell me you were okay?”
She shrugs. “Never seemed like the right time.”
She pushes up her sleeves, yanks them back in place, but not before I see the thin tracery of scars patterning her skin. Now I