Stand by Me

The first day of school is a week after Kristina’s funeral. The day before that, Kristina’s mom calls me. “Hello, Reagan,” she says, her voice monotonous, like she’s reading off a script. “I just wanted you to know that today we’re going through Kristina’s room, and if you’d like to come over and take some things of hers, you’re more than welcome to.”

I’m speechless for a moment. “Okay,” I say finally. “Sure.”

“We figured . . . .” Mrs. Brennan draws in a breath, “we figured she would want you to go first.”

I smile a little, because yeah, she definitely would, because it means me finding all of the things she wouldn’t want her family seeing and taking them. “I’ll be right there,” I say before I hang up.

Rachel lets me in when I knock on the door. “Go on up,” she tells me, handing me a plastic bag. “You’ve got an hour. We won’t disturb you.” It all sounds so official, the way they’re handling this. Like they’re trying to keep as much emotion away from her death as they can.

I nod and go upstairs, down the hall, and to the left, where the door is closed tightly. I put my hand on the doorknob before taking a deep breath. Everything is going too fast. I only have an hour. Slowly, I open the door.

I’m not quite sure what I expected. Her room looks the same as it always did, empty, like she’s just gone out somewhere. Only it’s empty for real this time.

Kristina’s family is pretty wealthy, so her room is a decent size. We never spent a lot of time in it, though, preferring to either be at my house or just somewhere else altogether. It was always neat to begin with, but this time it’s too neat. Something is missing.

And then I figure it out: she began cleaning everything out before she died, almost like she was trying to make the job easier for us. The pictures that used to be all over the walls are taken down, the various trophies and medals from the sports we did as kids are put away. I walk in a little further and almost trip over four boxes that are on the ground in front of me.

I look closer and see they all have names on them, written in Kristina’s handwriting. MOM, says one. DAD, says another. RACHEL, says the smallest. And on the biggest one by far, REAGAN.

I feel my chest tighten, and I’m tempted to cut the boxes open immediately and see what’s inside, but I don’t. Instead, I carefully move the others onto the bed and leave mine on the floor before going to her closet.

All of her clothes are neatly hung up. For a second, I wonder what they’ll do with all of them. Then I realize that they’ll probably sell them, give them away to someone else. For reasons I can’t explain, that makes me panic. I know I can’t take all of them, but there are some that I just won’t let anyone else have.

At first, I just start frantically stuffing anything I can grab inside the bag, not even bothering to fold them. But then I start to rationalize, and a voice in my head that sounds suspiciously like her whispers, Get rid of everything first.

She’s right. I reluctantly put down the bag and go snooping around her room. For some reason, it’s not painful yet. I know I’m probably still in shock, that none of this has fully sunk in yet, but part of me is still angry at myself. I’ve seen the Lifetime movies. This is not how I’m supposed to feel.

I find her purse that has her wallet, keys, some receipts, makeup, and a lighter in it. I take some trophies and some posters. I can’t find anything else, so I start on the clothes, except this time I fold everything neatly, so more will fit into the bag. I wasn’t as skinny as Kristina was, so I only take a few of her pants, but I make up for it by claiming almost all of her jackets, sweatshirts, and t-shirts. I throw in a few pair of shoes and some old beanies and scarves before trying to find her favorite sunglasses. I’m looking and looking, but they’re nowhere to be seen. I look under her bed, in her desk, through her clothing drawers, inside her bookshelf, but they’re not there.

I’m getting more and more frustrated, because I only have so much time left, but I really want to find those sunglasses. And now I just really, really wish Kristina were here so she could tell me where they are, or better yet, so I wouldn’t have to be here at all.

Finally, I let out a grunt of anger and kick the box in front of me. It’s hard, and hurts my toe. It occurs to me that maybe they’re in one of the boxes. I think about opening mine first, but then decide to open the other three instead, just to see what’s inside.

Inside her parents’ boxes, there’s just some old baby clothes, a few books, and some jewelry they gave her for her birthdays or Christmas that I know she never wore. In Rachel’s, there’s some clothes of hers that Kristina must’ve borrowed. Nothing else. None of it feels sentimental, and that makes me wonder what’s in mine.

I shut the boxes, stuff a few more shirts inside my plastic bag, grab my own box, and then head out. I shut the lights off and close the door behind me, but not before taking it in, since this will probably be the last time I’m ever in Kristina’s room again.

“Finished?” Mrs. Brennan asks as I walk past her. I nod, and she nods back at me. “Good-bye, Reagan.”

“Good-bye,” I say. And that’s it. In those Lifetime movies, the best friend always has a long heart-to-heart with the dead girl’s mom, one that ends up with them tearfully hugging and becoming unlikely friends, bonded by someone who no longer exists. Not Mrs. Brennan and me. I doubt she and I will ever even see each other again, much less speak.

When I get home, Chris is sitting on the couch, watching ESPN. He’s still in his work clothes; he’s a businessman of some sort, but I never bothered to figure out what exactly it is that he does. All I know is that he used to be a mechanic because he loved (and still loves) cars, but once he got stuck with me he had to quit and find something with a higher paying salary. I’m surprised that he’s here, at any rate.

“Hey,” he says, not taking his eyes off of the TV.

“What are you doing here?” I say instead.

“Meeting got out early. Nice to see you too,” he scoffs. He finally looks at me. “What’s with the stuff?”

“They’re cleaning out her room soon, so they asked me to go first.”

“Ah.” He nods. “How’d that go?”

I shrug. For us, this is a lengthy conversation, so I walk past him and go into my room, shutting the door tightly behind me. Not that Chris would try to come in anyway. I put the bag of clothes on the floor before setting the box on my bed. It’s taped shut. Chris confiscated all the sharp objects in my room after Kristina died in some dumb attempt to make sure I wouldn’t try to pull something similar.

I find a pencil on my desk and successfully poke a hole in the tape, sticking my finger inside and tearing the rest of it off. Holding my breath, I open the box.

Inside, I find a bunch of CDs and records, a few succulents, some of her favorite books, a lot of unused gift cards (that makes me smile), a huge wad of pictures, her laptop, her favorite t-shirt, and - on top of everything - those fucking sunglasses.

There’s also a folded-up piece of paper. A note. It’s got my name written on it. I don’t even bother to open it, just reading my name over and over, marveling at her neat, careful handwriting. My handwriting isn't bad, but Kristina’s was always near-perfect, even when she was just writing shorthand. I decide not to open it now, despite the curiosity burning my insides. I’m afraid to find out what it says, or worse - what it won’t say.

I turn my attention to the pictures. Some of them are really old: pictures of Kristina and I from middle school, with our cringe-worthy haircuts and too much eye makeup. It's funny, because any other time they'd be embarrassing, but now I just wish I could go back to those times. There’s also recent ones, including the last picture we ever took together a few weeks ago. We’re sitting outside somewhere and we’re both smiling. For last pictures, it’s not a bad one. I put it in the back of the pile, feeling the ache in my chest deepen.

The one after that is from sophomore year, when Chris had reluctantly taken Kristina and me to the town’s yearly Fall Festival. There were corn mazes, bobbing for apples, hayrides, and pumpkin carving contests.

In the picture, the three of us are standing in the middle of the pumpkin patch. Chris has his arm around both of us and we’re all smiling. We look like a family.

I don’t know how long I look at the pictures, going through each of them and studying every single detail so I can remember them forever, but the next thing I know, Chris is calling, “Reagan, it’s time for dinner.”

“I’m not hungry,” I call back, swallowing the lump in my throat. I hear him start to come up the stairs and I sigh. I really don’t feel like talking to him.

“You’ve eaten hardly anything these past few weeks, and you have school tomorrow. You need to have something.”

With a jolt, I remember that I do indeed start school in the morning. My senior year. It’ll be the first time in a long time I’ll go to school without Kristina. Thinking about it makes me nauseous and now I definitely don’t want anything to eat.

Reluctantly, I go downstairs and see that Chris has made chicken parmesan, my favorite food. He hardly ever makes it, so I know he’s doing it to try and be nice, which just makes me uncomfortable. I sit down and allow him to serve me a piece.

“Are you ready to go tomorrow?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“You sure? I can call the school. They know what happened; if you need another week off I can have them send your work here.”

“It’s fine,” I say tensely. “I’ll go.” The truth is, I can’t be here anymore. I need to be with other people for once, to have a planned schedule so I can’t think about Kristina. Chris eyes me suspiciously but doesn’t push the matter. I can tell he’s secretly relieved that I’m going to school. I’ll be in a structured environment, a place where he doesn’t have to think about me or what I’m doing. The idea of me moping around the house by myself for another week both annoys and unsettles him.

“Okay,” he says finally. He looks at my plate. “Are you going to finish your chicken, or what?” I’ve taken maybe three bites of it.

“No.”

He looks irritated. “C’mon, Reagan. I made this for you, the least you could do is eat it so it doesn’t go to waste.”

Wordlessly, I push my plate over to him. He squints at me, but eventually takes the chicken and puts it with his own nearly-finished piece. I put my plate in the dishwasher and go upstairs.

That night, I don’t sleep. But that’s old news.