My sister Allison arrived home the night before the memorial, surprising me at breakfast the next morning. She wrapped me in a hug when she saw me. “I’ll be right by your side for the funeral.”
“It’s not a funeral,” I corrected her. “It’s a memorial, a candlelight vigil.” I still didn’t know what I would say.
Speak from your heart, Lee had said. But what was in my heart?
All day I paged through photos on my phone for inspiration. I clutched the pool party photo of us for so long the edges warped with my sweat. By the time my parents drove us to the town center, my thoughts were elusive and vague. I prayed the right words would come to me when my name was called.
A small crowd was gathered around the white-canopied gazebo on the green in front of the town hall. A couple of girls on the cheerleading squad were handing out candles with small paper cones to catch the melting wax. We stood off to one side as the group swelled. It didn’t take long for the green to be filled with people, young and old, from all areas of Nate’s life, but I didn’t see Lee.
Just as the sun began to set, Reverend Platt from Nate’s church stepped up to the gazebo. A large man who looked like an ex-boxer, he held no microphone but even without one, his booming voice carried across the green, welcoming everyone. He nodded to the girls with the cones, a signal for them to light their candles and walk among the crowd, passing the flame from one person to another. Soon there was a blanket of flickering lights, as if the stars had tumbled from the heavens and landed on the town green.
“Friends,” the reverend said. “We are here to honor one of the finest young men this town has ever produced.” His grin was genial, despite the sad occasion. “Everyone in Roseburg knew Nate Bingham. He touched so many lives.”
I heard a few sniffles and some whispers around us as the pastor went on. He reminded us that this was a celebration of who Nate was and what he had done with his brief life, not a time to mourn.
I saw Mr. Bingham standing at the back of the gazebo with the twins and Scotty. He looked resigned to the memorial and to being in front of all of these people. I felt sorry for him being all alone up there—first Nate was gone and now his wife. My mother had told me earlier that Mrs. Bingham had refused to come back from Honduras for the service. She wasn’t ready to even consider the possibility her son could be dead until all efforts to find him had been exhausted. When I’d told Mom I agreed with Mrs. Bingham, she’d shaken her head sadly and replied, “A memorial is for others. They need to be given permission to move on.”
Others, I thought. But not me. Not yet.
A few moments later, Mr. Z brought a blowup of Nate’s yearbook photo on an easel. I heard a collective gasp from the crowd. This memorial suddenly became very real.
One by one, Mr. Z called the names of people who wanted to share memories of Nate. Some were poignant and sweet, while others were funny: Brad Bingham’s story of Nate teaching him how to fish was far more hilarious than he’d let on at the meeting. Before I knew it, my name was called, and there was a smattering of encouragement from my friends and family. I felt my heart leap to my throat.
The words I’d written down earlier in the day utterly escaped me. My gaze swept the green as I tried desperately to think of something to tell these people about my boyfriend. He was the love of my life, I wanted to say. He was my soul mate. He was the first boy I ever kissed.
The only boy I ever kissed.
I opened my mouth to say something, anything. Nothing came out but a jumbled mess. “Nate . . . my . . .”
Speak from your heart. Lee’s words had been effortless. He’d expressed his sorrow so completely, so easily. How could I not? Did I not love Nate enough?
I glanced over my shoulder at the photo of Nate and heard my breath catch. He was gone. He was really and truly gone. I reached into my purse, and my fingers gripped the edge of the photo. It soothed me but only briefly.
“Nate . . . made me a better person. He made me more important than I was.” They were Lee’s words, but they were echoes of my own thoughts too.
And I stopped. That was all I could say, all that I had in me. I stood and swayed, feeling my knees getting weak underneath me. As my father helped me down from the gazebo, I couldn’t help but think that I’d been a disappointment. I hadn’t honored Nate. I hadn’t done what others had. They’d spoken from their hearts. They’d revealed their personal stories. But I—who’d known him the best—had nothing to say. Nothing that was mine.
At home I went straight up to my bedroom, flinging off Allison’s black dress and heels as I went. I emptied my purse on my desk and found the photo of Nate and me. I stared hard at my image. Why couldn’t you find something to say? Why didn’t you tell them all how you felt?
When I turned on my phone, I saw four text messages from Haley appear, but I didn’t have the energy to read or respond to them.
And then, as I was holding the phone, another one came in: who is this?
I glanced at the number. It was from Lee. Huh?
I quickly texted him back: it’s Meredith
I don’t know any Meredith
Shaking my head, I typed again: Middie
Yoko? Why r u texting me?
Me? I wasn’t . . . ! My fingers tapped the tiny keys. U textd me
And then I added, im not yoko
No response. I waited, staring at the screen.
Nothing.
Nothing? What the hell? I finished dressing, washed my face, and tied back my hair—and then, nearly half an hour later, a new text came in:
Why did u use my words
My mouth opened. Why . . . I stammered an answer in my head. I—I—I didn’t mean to . . . and just as I realized what his comment meant, the phone rang and I snatched it up. “You were there,” I said to Lee. “You were at the service.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“Yes, you were. Or else you wouldn’t know what I said.”
“So you did use my words.”
“So you did attend the service.”
Silence.
“Why didn’t you come up?”
“Not my thing.”
“But why—”
“Meredith, stop talking.”
I was so shocked by the request, which came so matter-of-factly, that I stopped. Not for the first time did I wonder why Nate and Lee were such close friends. Nate was kind and sweet and would never tell me or anyone else to shut up. I crawled across my bed and lay down, resting my head between two pillows.
Lee’s voice was slightly muffled. “You got home okay.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m glad. You . . .” He said something else, but I couldn’t hear it.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing,” he said quickly. “Good night.”
Good night? What? “Wait. . . .”
“What?”
“You were his best friend. Tell me—tell me what you did together.”
There was a pause.
“We liked hanging out. He liked doing shit with me.” Lee’s tone was clipped. “Couldn’t you say the same thing?”
“Yeah.”
His voice softened. “Then why didn’t you?”
“I . . . I don’t know.” I laughed once, embarrassed. “Your words were better than mine.”
“We loved Nate. Nate loved us. For different reasons,” he said. “He was a pretty funny guy, you know?”
“Funny?” I’d never thought of my boyfriend as funny necessarily. He smiled and laughed, but usually other people were telling the jokes.
“He’d call me up in the middle of the night,” Lee said with a chuckle. “Just wanting to drive somewhere. Stop someplace random for a burger or whatever. He liked to be . . . What word did he use? Oh yeah. Spontaneous.”
Spontaneous? Nate was a careful planner of all things: class schedules, workout routines, life.
“We had some good times, Nate and me,” Lee said quietly. “I’ll miss him.”
He ended the call without another word.
I’ll miss him too, I thought as tears filled my eyes. I wondered if Lee cried too. I scrolled through my messages and found his very first one to me:
breathe
I turned over onto my back and stared up at the ceiling.
And did as recommended.