Elizabeth Scott - Between Here and Forever

—but Tess saw her and just … snapped. She went over to the fridge, opened it, took out the Crock-Pot of meatbal s Mom had made for a week’s worth of dinners featuring them, and went outside.

The next thing I knew, Claire was yel ing and Dad had raced outside, Mom right behind him. Tess was just standing there, the Crock-Pot lying on the ground and her hands ful of squelched meat, red sauce al over them. It’s the only time I ever remember Tess acting angry where there was a chance someone outside the house could see her. No one else did but me, my parents … and Claire.

She didn’t walk by our house after that until Tess had left for col ege.

But that had been the only time Tess had been “dramatic” in the sense I’m thinking Eli means. I mean, Tess could get quiet or mean sometimes, but then, she put so much pressure on herself. It’s like when she freaked out about her grades and how she wasn’t valedictorian during the last half of her senior year and went to that stupid admissions counselor.

I was glad Claire was out of school then, so pregnant—and though she’s never said it, I think so tired of Tess ruining her life—that she’d dropped out and ended up getting her GED later. Claire was the only person Tess ever—

She was the only person Tess was ever truly cruel to.

But I think that was about Tess being … wel , Tess. She could be judgmental. Like with guys, for instance. She always found something wrong with them—always. They weren’t nice enough, or were immature, or got haircuts she didn’t like. And maybe, after years of people doing whatever Tess wanted, Claire got together with Rick after Tess said she shouldn’t, and Tess couldn’t forgive her for that.

I head home when the ferry docks, exhausted and exhilarated by everything that’s happened … by Eli. Seeing him, talking to him, and by him saying I shine—and then I stop in the driveway, shocked.

Beth is here.

Mom and Dad are with her, are standing by her car looking perfectly polite—they are both so good at it, and Tess got al of that skil —but I can tel from the way Dad has his hands shoved in his pockets that he’s not happy. Mom isn’t either, because she’s picking at the nail polish on her pinkie finger while she nods at whatever Beth is saying.

Beth is here, and now that I’m not looking at Mom and Dad, I see boxes in her car.

Beth has brought Tess’s stuff back.

“Hey,” I say, riding up to Beth’s car and making sure my bike hits it when I get off. “What’s going on?”

“Beth stopped by,” Mom says, al casual and calm except for the polish she’s shredding off her fingernails.

“Oh,” I say, and turn to Beth, pretending I don’t see the boxes. “You’re going with my parents to see Tess? That’s great.”

“I was actual y tel ing your parents that I saw Tess—and you—the other day,” Beth says. “And that I’m living with someone else now, and she needs to be able to move her stuff in. So, I’ve—wel , I’ve brought Tess’s things back for you.”

“For her,” I say. “Tess’s stil here, Beth. You’ve seen her, remember?”

Beth must have a little bit of a heart after al , because she pales at that.

“I’ve seen her,” she says, her voice quiet. “And I—it breaks my heart. Tess was so vibrant, so beautiful. I thought she’d grow into who she was, but now—” She breaks off, turns to my parents. “We’d already decided we … we didn’t want to be roommates anymore. I don’t know if she told you that or not.”

“I—we didn’t know,” Mom says, and Beth says, “I’m sorry.”

“Right,” I mutter, and Mom shoots me a quick, warning look.

I ignore it.

“You just want to forget about her,” I say to Beth even as Mom shoots me another look and Dad puts a hand on my shoulder, trying to comfort and quiet me. “But how can you forget about your best friend?”

“Abby, enough,” Mom says. “Go inside.”

“What? Beth dropping off Tess’s stuff like Tess is gone when she isn’t is okay with you?”

“Abby,” Dad says. “Go.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Beth says to me, and then looks at my parents. “God, no wonder Tess was so screwed up. If you two had—”

“Stop. You’re saying things you know nothing about,” Dad says, his voice very soft but very angry, and then he looks at me. “Abby, this is the last time I’m saying this. Go. Inside. Now.”

Okay, then.

I go inside and watch my parents and Beth unload four boxes from Beth’s car. That’s it. Al of Tess’s things fit into four boxes.

Four boxes, and now Tess is lying silent in a hospital bed. She deserves more than that. She deserves her life back.

I bang open the front door and head back outside, but it’s too late to tel Beth off one last time because she’s backing down our driveway and onto the street. It looks like she’s wiping her eyes, but if she’s that sad for real, she could have stayed, could have gone to see Tess.

She could have not boxed al her stuff up and brought it here like Tess’s already gone.

“Wel ,” Mom says, looking at the boxes. “I guess we’d better take these in. I didn’t—there’s only four of them, Dave. She’s twenty and I—how can this be her whole life?”

“Katie,” Dad says, helplessness in his voice, and pul s her to him. “These are just things. Her life was so much more than this.”

Is. I wait for Mom to correct him.

But she doesn’t. She just stands there, leaning against him.

“Is,” I final y say, and watch Dad blink at me. “Her life is more than whatever is in these boxes.” And then I grab one and take it upstairs.

When I come back down, they haven’t picked up any of the others, but they are waiting for me.

“Abby, I don’t know if you’ve real y thought about what we’ve told you about Tess,” Mom says. “There’s a chance she could come back, but it’s smal , and her brain is—there’s been damage. If Tess does wake up, she won’t be the same.”

“She’l stil be Tess,” I say. “She’l stil be your daughter, won’t she?”

I grab another box and take it upstairs. Mom and Dad don’t fol ow and when I look out at them from the upstairs hal way window they are talking, Dad’s bright hair shining like Tess’s.

At least they’re talking again. They don’t look happy, though.

I wish Tess was here. She’d know how to get Mom and Dad inside. What to say to turn them toward her and away from those last boxes.

I can’t do it, though. I just watch them and wish I could make everything better. I thought I could but now—

Now I’m not so sure.

last night, with Beth and my parents’ reaction to her, and what they said to me, I’m not sure visiting Tess wil do any good.

I don’t think I’m reaching her.

I’m not sure I ever did.

I’m also not sure I should see Eli anymore. I’m starting to get ideas—I’m starting to wish, to want—and I don’t need that.

I figure I’l spend the afternoon watching television, but as I’m walking home, everyone I pass—the mailman shoving an envelope labeled DO NOT

BEND into a mailbox, the woman who used to be the office manager at the plant before she retired and Mom got the job, and two no-longer-little kids Tess used to babysit—ask about her.

They al tel me they’re thinking about her. That they miss her. That nothing’s the same without her smiling face, or “sparkling” eyes, or that she made the best hot chocolate.

I go home, but only to grab money for the ferry. Tess is everywhere and always wil be, so why fight it?

I get to the hospital later than usual, of course. I figure Eli wil be gone, but instead he’s sitting by the bike rack, fingers twitching away on his crossed legs.