Sarah Dessen - The Rest of the Story

“Morning,” I heard a voice say. I looked up to see Bailey come into the kitchen in shorts and a red T-shirt that said BLACKWOOD on it, her hair pulled back in a ponytail.

“Morning,” Oxford said. “You working today?”

“At nine,” she replied. She went over to the counter, where she opened a loaf of bread, taking out six slices and dropping them into the toaster before turning it on. “Why?”

“Mimi’s knee is acting up,” he replied, folding down the top part of the sports section.

“Oh, no.” Bailey came over, sliding into the chair beside mine. “How bad is it?”

“Doc says he wants her off her feet for at least a week, but we all know that’s not happening. You want any of the paper?”

“Horoscopes, please.”

He handed her a section as I went back to my own reading about Wallace Camp, 78, who had passed surrounded by loved ones after a long illness. His photo was from his military days.

There was a thunk from upstairs, then the sound of a door opening. Jack yelled, “Can someone put in some toast for me?”

“On it,” Bailey called back.

“Thanks.” The door shut again.

“I can try to trade shifts with someone for tomorrow,” Bailey said, running her finger down the horoscopes before landing on Aries, which was my sign as well. “But it’s late notice for today.”

“Don’t worry about it. We’ll work it out somehow.”

The timer sounded—BING!—and she jumped up, taking a plate from the cupboard and bringing it over to the toaster. As she plucked the pieces out, one by one, the screen door slammed and Mimi came in. Gordon was behind her, in shorts over a bathing suit, a backpack over her shoulders.

“Oxford,” Mimi said, dropping a cordless phone receiver on the table beside him. “Answer this if it rings. I’ve got to take Gordon to camp.”

“Where’s Celeste?”

“Early shift. She left at six.” Mimi looked at me. “Emma, honey, did you eat breakfast?”

“Not yet. I’m fine, though.”

“Let me make you some before the bread’s all gone,” she replied, crossing the kitchen to load the toaster up with slices again. “If the Sergeant’s spending his money on this fancy thing, we should use it.”

The toaster being idle couldn’t have been an issue. By my count we were at eighteen slices now and counting. I asked, “The Sergeant?”

“Trinity’s fiancé,” Oxford explained, not looking up from his own section of the paper. “Deployed right now.”

“Where’s the butter?” Bailey, now peering into the fridge, asked.

“Your sister took it,” Oxford told her.

Bailey sighed. “Trinity! Bring back the butter!”

“I’m getting dressed,” her sister replied. “You can come get it.”

“Honey, I’ve got to take Gordon to camp!” Mimi yelled in the direction of the hallway, starting the toaster again. “So you’ll be starting on your own today.”

“Are you serious ?” Trinity replied. “I’m huge. I can’t even bend down to get under the beds.”

Mimi exhaled, looking at the ceiling. “We’ll talk about it when I get back. Gordon, come on.”

“Trinity!” Bailey yelled as they left, the door again slamming behind them. “I need the butter.”

“I told you, I’m getting dressed. Damn!”

“You two stop yelling, before you chase me out of my own kitchen again,” Oxford warned.

“Fine,” Bailey said, ripping a paper towel off the roll and folding two slices up inside it. “I’ll eat it dry on the way to work. If I choke to death on the way, you’ll know who to blame.”

With that, she was gone, the door banging again behind her. A beat later, the toaster popped up: BING! Oxford reached over, extracting the slices and dropping them on the plate Mimi had left for this purpose. Then he put it on the table between us, taking one before looking at me.

“You want butter?”

I smiled. “Nope.”

“Wise move,” he said, and went back to his paper.

The two obits read, I pulled over the horoscopes to read Aries for myself. Apparently, Bailey and I were both going to savor something delicious in the day ahead. My thoughts drifted back to Trinity, who was coming back down the hallway, dressed now in shorts and a tie-dye, carrying the butter. She went straight to the toaster, loading it up again with what I could not help but notice was the last of the bread. Suddenly Celeste’s frustration the day before made sense.

“Here,” she announced, dropping the butter in front of me, as if I’d been the one demanding it. I didn’t say anything, instead just picking up my dry toast and taking a pointed bite. I was pretty sure she didn’t notice. “Is Bailey going to come clean today?”

“She’s got to work,” Oxford replied.

Trinity’s expression, already sour, grew more so. “Great. So it’ll just be me turning over four rooms before check-in.”

Oxford did not reply to this. I said, “I can help you, if you want.”

“You?” She narrowed her eyes, as if I was so small she couldn’t see me otherwise. “You’re on vacation.”

This stung, for some reason. “Not really.”

“Well, tell it to Mimi. That’s what she said.”

Oxford glanced at her, then me. I thought he was about to say something, but was glad when he didn’t.

BING! went the toaster, six slices popping up. Trinity retrieved them before bringing them to the table on a paper towel. She reached across me for a knife, which she then used to briskly butter each slice, the scraping sound hard to ignore.

“I’m late,” Jack, also in a BLACKWOOD T-shirt, said as he came down the stairs. “Is there any—”

Wordlessly, Trinity picked up two pieces of buttered toast, holding them over her head. As Jack passed, he grabbed them. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“We’re short a cleaner,” Oxford said as he started for the door. “Mimi’s knee. Ask Roo if he wants some hours.”

“Will do,” Jack said, heading for the door. “Thanks for the toast.”

“Thank the Sergeant,” she replied. “He’s the one who bought that huge thing.”

I looked at the toaster, remembering how my dad had remarked that it was new. Apparently, there was a military aspect to it as well. In this house, even the appliances were complicated.

“Trinity?” I heard Mimi yell from outside. “Best get started on those rooms.”

In response, Trinity sighed loudly enough I literally felt a breeze from her direction. Then she pushed back her chair, grabbing a piece of toast. Oxford said, “Mimi’s got no business cleaning. Her knee can’t take it.”

“I’m pregnant ,” she replied unnecessarily. But she got to her feet, yelling outside to Mimi, “Coming!”

As she left, I looked at the table. Only three pieces of toast remained. On the counter, the bread bag, defeated, was crumpled into a ball. The clock on the stove said 8:58 a.m.

I stood up, carrying my plate over to the sink, which was again full of dishes. They don’t want your help, I told myself, even as the urge hit, then grew, to start washing them. But I rinsed only my cup, putting it on the (empty) dish rack as Oxford grabbed a final slice of toast and the phone, taking both with him as he left. After so much noise and commotion, the house felt so still suddenly, with only me in it and the whole day ahead. What do you do when no one wants you to do anything? I wasn’t sure. But I did put the butter away.

It’s so boring, oh my God. I mean, I’m happy Grandpa’s ok. But I am so sick of hospital cafeteria food and trying to keep my brothers quiet.

It was late morning now, and I’d finally heard from Bridget. Her grandfather was recovering in the hospital, the boys were driving her nuts, and there was nothing to do in Ohio. These were the headlines.