The Truth About That Summer

ninety-one

A week later, I wake in my old bed in Gram's cottage to the sound of Mom and Dad packing up their things to head back home. Grams voice is offering them drinks for the road. Rolling off the mattress and stretching my arms high above my head, I decide to go downstairs and say goodbye.

That is, until I pass Casey's old door and can't resist the urge to peer inside. Pushing the door open slightly, his smell fills my nostrils and I let out a long sigh. Looking around the room, it's clear Grams has not picked up where I left off. My fingers rapidly tap against my thigh as I stare at the storage boxes I began to fill, the posters still left for me to take off the walls.

Unable to stop myself, knowing Casey deserves this seen through, I walk inside, slowly sinking to a cross-legged position on the floor. I resume stacking old CD's in a half-full box to my left, glancing at the covers of each and every one. Each playlist brings back a memory, each song, a night spent driving around with my brother as he sang too loudly and way off-key.

Before I know it, I'm humming to myself, not well, but still better than Casey could have, the montage in my mind bringing waves of nostalgia along with it.

What song would be Casey's favorite now? Racking my brain for what's currently on the radio, I decide he probably would've stuck with his old 90's playlists. He'd say that music today isn't what it used to be, just like people our parents age do. The thought makes me chuckle.

Finishing up with the CD's, I tape the box up and stand, peering around the room for something else to do. My eyes fall on his photo-wall, the one thing I still haven't been able to take down. The posters were next on the list, the photo-wall... The photo-wall would be nearly impossible to remove. It feels like taking Casey out of this room, out of Grams cottage, completely.

Stepping closer still, I inspect each picture, the happy smiles in them all. My heart tugs painfully at Luke's dimples and my eyes quickly dart away, finding one of Casey's favorites of us instead. I always loved the one of us at the front of our boat when we were little - I twist the engraved pendant around my neck - but Casey liked this one instead. We were little, not even pre-teens yet, and just like Casey loved to protect me, he also loved to tease. In the photo, a Dylan pout stares back at me, ice cream smeared over her nose and chin, a crushed cone on the table in front of her. And Casey grins hugely, a guilty twinkle in his eyes, head tipped back, hands covered in sticky vanilla ice cream. My sticky vanilla ice cream.

I'm thinking about all the things I would give up just to have Casey push an ice cream cone into my face another time, to hear his teasing voice calling me Pickle, to swat him away one more time, when the door to his room swings open.

I turn in time to meet Mom's gaze. She stops abruptly when she sees me. "Dylan," She peers around the room, sadness coming over her features, before settling her sights on me again. "I'm surprised to find you in here."

Turning my back to her, I grab the ice cream photo from the wall and decide to keep it. For the memories, I think to myself, just as I practically hear Casey's voice saying the same thing.

"I should probably finish cleaning it out for Grams." I face Mom again, eyeing her cautiously. After my conversation with Dad, which I assume he filled Mom in on, Mom has been... Less unpleasant. We haven't talked it through and I'm not sure if we ever will. I'm not sure I could forgive her if we did, since she was the mastermind behind it all, anyways.

Still... It would be nice if she showed remorse for what she's done.

She takes slow steps across the room towards me, like I'm an injured animal she's afraid will run from her, before stopping beside me and scanning the photos on the wall. A sad, appreciative sound slips from her lips as her fingers barely trace the photos. Her hand stills over a perfect shot of Casey - he's with Maya, but if you don't look at her, it's just him and his beaming face.