One Last Thing ✅

twenty-eight things

Abbott wordlessly spins the steering wheel as he takes us through a complicated labyrinth of streets not far from the school. Right, right, left, and right again. Driveways and sidewalks and mailboxes, a neighborhood like any other.

"You know where she lives?" I ask.

He shrugs. "She had a little too much to drink at the staff Christmas party last year, and I volunteered to give her a lift home."

I nod and try to stay still, but it's like this energy is pulsing through every muscle in my body. I'm nervous, I guess, but it's a nervous that I've never felt before. It's the kind of nervous that you know something's drawing near and it's going to be completely awful, but there's nothing you can do about it. Or, you can, you can always turn around, but there really is no choice. You have to do this thing, and it's going to suck.

On a street tucked away within the suburban maze of medium-sized, adorable homes, Abbott rolls to a stop, puts his truck into park, and points at a yellow house with white trim. There's a bed of flowers slightly overgrown with weeds, as though Mrs. Edwards gave up pulling them toward the end of the summer. Maybe she just didn't have time once school started. Maybe she was too engulfed by the pain of her daughter's illness.

A silver SUV is parked in the driveway.

It must belong to her husband, because her car had been smashed beyond recognition. Or, at least, that's what I overheard some kid saying in the hall.

"Are you okay?" Abbott asks, watching my face.

I tear my eyes away for a moment to answer his question.

"I don't know," I reply.

A movement captures my attention. The front door opens. There's a wreath on it with a yellow bow. A little girl emerges, bundled up excessively for what must be sixty degrees outside. She's wearing a cute bucket hat, I guess to cover up her baldness from the chemo. For a moment, she is the only one standing on the front step. She tilts her head up to the sunshine, eyes closed.

She is beautiful.

But then the door opens again, and a man comes out—he must be Mrs. Edwards's husband. He is tall and thin with a full head of dark hair and a big beard. He kind of reminds me of a lumberjack in a weird way. But then he leans down and scoops the tiny girl into his arms, and my heart just absolutely breaks.

They are all they have now.

The two of them.

Survivors.

As we watch, Mr. Edwards and his daughter walk over to the SUV. The man opens one of the rear doors and helps his daughter into the carseat situated inside. He takes a moment to strap her in and then leans closer to her face. I imagine the kiss he plants on her forehead, the whisper that he loves her and that her mother, wherever she is now, does too.

Abbott puts his hand on mine.

"That's enough," I say quietly.

It's hard to explain, but I felt it was necessary to see the aftermath, the consequences of my actions. Until now, I hadn't really understood the pure tragedy of the events that occurred on Friday night.

This scene before me, the man without a wife and the girl without a mother, this was all my doing. And there's no way I can move on until I acknowledge that. My stomach clenches, like there's something inside me rotting and there always has been and what I'm witnessing just confirms it. It's the way I feel whenever one of the little blue envelopes shows up: cursed.

The silver SUV pulls out of the driveway, pausing right next to Abbott's truck before reversing direction and proceeding down the street. I wonder where Mr. Edwards and his daughter are going. To a doctor appointment? To visit Mrs. Edwards's gravesite?

I duck my head and squeeze my eyes shut.

Abbott starts the car.

He says, "I have an idea."