The cold months thawed.
Outside, trees that had been brittle and breaking were now full of leaves. The fluttering each time a breeze came through sounded like a collective sigh of relief at having survived another winter.
Ian sat in his car and watched from the corner as yellow bulldozers and cranes knocked down the elementary school. Walls were crushed; bricks crumbled and tumbled down. The crane nudged the room that was once his third-grade classroom—that place where he had handed back a graded paper to Emilia and she had smiled at him—and pushed it to the ground.
Stay away from Emilia DeJesus, his mother had warned him.
But I didn’t. I loved you. And you loved me.
He had gotten to kiss Emilia DeJesus. And he knew her, I did know you, he thought. Even if he didn’t. He knew how she was always thinking of something and what her back felt like under his hand. How she’d tuck her hair back, and how she’d relax a little when she thought no one was looking at her. The feel of her breath and her voice in his ear.
The rhythmic clanking of the machinery surrounded him and he watched. He’d been watching every day, but today was the day those metal teeth clamped into their old classroom. And he saw the large bird on the wall. For a few seconds, he saw it clearly, its enormous wings lifted to the sky, the sun shining on it before it, too, was cut away.
Emilia.
It was Tomás who’d taken him to the room days after the funeral. He’d told Ian he had to show him something. So they got in Ian’s car, and Tomás told him to drive to the school.
I know Emilia would’ve wanted you to see it, Tomás told him as they drove. Their shoes scraped on each step as they walked upstairs, and then echoed in the hallway as they walked toward the room. He saw the way Tomás braced himself before he opened the door. Ian did the same, but even then he was unprepared.
The paper birds. The walls that looked iridescent. The mural with Emilia’s face. Ian’s eyes filled with tears and he took a deep breath before he walked to her.
He saw the picture of them as little kids and his heart crumbled in his chest.
He touched the heart she’d drawn around them and sobbed. He’d only loved one girl in his life. Emilia DeJesus. And now she was gone.
When did you do all this? he whispered.
She didn’t answer, only that smile he’d never see again, that seemed now to hold back so many things.
He stood there a long time, searching for answers in that picture. A clue, some indication of why, but found none.
Finally, he walked away and looked around at all the items that decorated the room. The squirrel, broken bowls that had been glued together, striped salt and pepper shakers, a pair of kiddie boots, a bird skeleton Tomás held carefully in his hands.
Ian walked to the window.
He stepped closer and stared at the tree outside.
This is the last thing you saw.
He could feel Tomás’s gaze on him. He reached out and touched the glass, and then he looked down.
He tried not to imagine her on the ground. But his mind conjured it up anyway.
He did not want to think of the force with which her body hit the concrete. The sharp, deafening sound of the crack of her skull. He did not want to think of the fluids that were excreted, the arms and legs at odd angles. He closed his eyes, but still, he saw her.
He was crying, saying her name, over and over, but didn’t realize it until he felt Tomás’s hand on his shoulder. Until he heard him crying, too.
She didn’t mean to, I know she didn’t, Tomás managed.
Ian nodded. He knew she didn’t. He remembered the way she looked the last time he saw her alive. I’ll call you later, she’d said to him.
I know, Ian said. She’d turned and looked at him at the platform. She had blown him a kiss. She never would have given him that hope if she intended to never see him again. She knew he would be waiting by the phone, waiting for her call that night. She wouldn’t have him wait if she never meant to call. Would she?
Over the weeks it was he and Tomás who cleared the room. Took all the precious things Emilia had so carefully placed in there. Neither of them could stand for all those items she cared about so much to be crushed by a bulldozer. All of it fit in just a couple of boxes. Ian knew Tomás would someday take them out, look for clues in each item.
When they were done, only the mural remained. And the pictures of Emilia and her family. He and Tomás stood in front of the photos.
Let’s go, Tomás said. He turned around and left the room.
Ian didn’t feel like he had any right, but he knew Tomás would want them later. So he unpinned them from the wall, put them on top of the items in the box he was carrying, and followed Tomás down the stairs.
Ian watched the crane tear into the school. The only comfort he had was that Emilia’s face was not being crushed in that rubble. If he hadn’t taken the pictures down, he wouldn’t trust himself not to rush and climb over the rubble now to find them.
Stay away from Emilia DeJesus.
The words felt so near and real, as if he were eight years old again, standing in the kitchen, and his mother had just uttered them.
He thought he couldn’t cry anymore; he’d cried so much these last few months. So he was taken aback by how more sadness and pain swelled up inside him again, so quickly, so completely.
He wiped away fresh tears. He knew he’d feel this way for a long time, maybe the rest of his life.
But I didn’t stay away from you, Emilia. And god, I’m so fucking mad at you. Why didn’t you let us help you? Why didn’t we figure out a way to help you? I’m so fucking mad at us. But I’m glad I didn’t stay away.
He wiped away the hot tears that kept sliding down his face, and after a while, he took a deep breath and tried to collect himself.
He had somewhere to be.
Ian put his car in drive and made a U-turn, the screeching barely slicing through the sound of heavy machinery. He imagined Emilia next to him. What she’d say if she were here.
Looks so small, doesn’t it?
It does.
I wonder what they’ll do with it now.
Ian shook his head, drove to the other side of town, where Anthony was waiting. His cousin had come back for him.
A week leave, man. Let’s get out of here awhile. A small road trip.
He was glad Anthony hadn’t asked Jane to come along. He couldn’t see a couple holding hands without thinking of Emilia. The thought of not being here—of not being home—felt like a relief, maybe, from picturing every moment they’d had together each time he looked toward her bedroom window, or seeing her just ahead every time he turned down a block. He thought about highways and gas stations and miles and miles of road ahead.
What if it were you and me instead? he thought as Emilia’s face filled his mind.
He wondered if he’d always wonder what if. And if every moment would feel like a strange version of what was because of what wasn’t.
Ian rolled down the window, letting the warm air dry his tears as he drove faster, away from the school, Emilia’s ghost now next to him.
I can’t believe it’s really gone. Her voice rang in his ears.
“Me neither,” he answered. So much was gone.
He reached over, felt for her hand, and touched only air.