I turn on to River Road just as Old Rupert’s open sign flickers to life. It flutters for a couple seconds, like it’s desperate to fade back to black, but it eventually comes to, shining bright on the otherwise dark street.
The last time I was here this early was probably in college. Back then, Mark would drive me here when I was hungover (or still drunk) so I could eat. I’d order coffee and their breakfast platter—two eggs your way, a choice of bacon or sausage (bacon, duh), hash browns, and a side of toast (wheat)—and he’d order a fruit bowl, which he’d ask to have come out with my food. Sometimes, they’d bring his fruit early, but he’d wait for my food to arrive before he started eating. Over these meals, he’d ask about whatever escapade led to my current state. I’d tell him, and he’d listen, nodding between bites of cantaloupe and grapes, until I was done.
Now that I think about it, I should have asked him how he was doing, but I didn’t. Not that I can remember, at least.
I had planned to get here before Old Rupert’s opened, but I overslept. Last night, Brian and Beth tried to talk to me before I went to bed, but I didn’t want to tell them my plan. They’d talk me out of it or tell me it was a bad idea or that I’d end up in trouble, and, well, I didn’t have a counter argument for that. I still don’t, honestly. I told them I was too drunk, slumped down to the basement, and stared at the ceiling until I fell asleep.
The parking lot’s empty, so I steer the Tesla into a spot near the door. For a second, I consider backing out and parking at the far corner of the lot. Mark always parked there in case someone needed one of the close spots. I told him once that they had spots reserved for those folks, but he said they might be taken when someone needed them, so we always parked at the back. He was a good guy like that.
I push through the diner’s front door, and the bell above it announces my arrival. Lisa’s rolling silverware into napkins, and she’s just grabbed a fork and knife when she sees me. Her eyes widen, and she pauses, holding the silverware in each hand like she’s ready for Thanksgiving dinner. We stay that way for a few seconds, like two animals who have stumbled across one another in the wild, each waiting for the other to strike first. Her, with an unbreakable gaze, weapons at the ready, perched in her home territory. And me, with a worthless arm, a bruised eye, and no idea what I’m doing.
Lisa inhales through her nose, puffing up her chest and raising her shoulders. She sets the fork and knife down on the bar next to her, then pulls her lips into a tight line across her face. She stays that way for a few seconds, then exhales. “What are you doing here?”
Somehow, I hadn’t prepared for this question. I prepared for a lot of them—how are you doing, what’s going on at Mark’s house, how’s the cat—but the obvious one hadn’t hit me.
“Well, uh,” I say, scratching the back of my neck. “I need help.”
Lisa arches her eyebrow. It’s a dramatic thing, looking like a bell curve and making me think that this might not be a good idea after all.
“Will you go to Mark’s funeral with me?” I say, unable to keep it in. The words come out all at once, like they’re rushing past one another in a race to escape. “You’re the only chance I have,” I add. “Kenny and Mark’s dad will let me in if I’m with you.”
She blinks, and it feels like her eyes are closed for minutes. It reminds me of the way she reacted when I asked her to prom. We were in between classes—she was on her way to English, and I was on my way to Algebra II—and standing in the middle of the hall, staring at one another like people do when they’re dating in high school. Lisa’s hair was longer then, and a brighter blonde. She was hugging her textbook to her chest—Voices in American Literature—and when I asked her, she inhaled so heavily that I thought she was going to drop it. She blinked, but it was a flutter, like a bird’s wings or something angelic, and her lips parted and froze for a second before she gave her answer.
“Yes,” she said, smiling. “Absolutely.”
When present day Lisa opens her eyes, she bites her lower lip and rubs her palms on her orange apron. There’s no flutter, no parting of lips as she stares me down—nothing but the clanging of pans in the kitchen and lights from the occasional car driving by.
“What the actual fuck,” she says. The words come out slowly, carefully, like she’s laying some sort of foundation for the rest of our conversation.
“I just need help getting into the funeral.”
Lisa’s eyes go to my cast, bright pink amongst Old Rupert’s white-and-black tiles and faux-marble tabletops. They make their way over each letter Brian wrote, the signature from Beth. She reads these like a code-breaker, scanning the letters and the texture of my cast as if they’ll unlock what’s going on.
She opens her mouth to speak, her pale lips barely parting, then presses them back together and sighs. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
I sit down on a barstool across from her and rest my good arm on the table. The broken one hangs by my side like a square of toilet paper stuck to the bottom of a shoe. “Look,” I tell her, “I get that it’s a stupid thing to ask and that you have no reason to do it. I just don’t know what else to do. Everything you said about how I shouldn’t be a dick and how I need to focus on Mark and his funeral, I get it.” I lug my broken arm up onto the counter, and it bounces a little, sending a dull pain radiating up to my shoulder. “I didn’t get it soon enough,” I add, “but I just want to say goodbye to him, and going to the funeral with you is the best chance I have.”
Lisa scrunches her mouth to one side. “So just give Mark’s dad the cat.”
“I owe a lot of people a lot of things,” I say, “but I owe Mark something I can’t give him. The best I can do is say goodbye, and I don’t understand why I should have to give up Jack to do it. I know S.A.M.—”
“S.A.M.’s done.”
“What?”
She takes a step backward and crosses her arms. “I couldn’t do it anymore. Mark’s dad couldn’t, either. I mean, fuck. You’re a dick, but I never wanted to see you in the hospital.”
“So I’m good?”
“Oh no,” she says. “Kenny will lose his shit if you stroll in there.”
“But you’ll help me, right?”
She nods and leans against the counter. “Fine.” She swallows, and her eyes lock on mine. “But you’re not going to start any shit, okay?”
My eyes widen. The blackened one stings, sending a tear down my cheek that I hope Lisa reads as affection. “Absolutely,” I tell her, nodding. “There won’t be any shit,” I add, crossing my fingers that I can make this work. Aside from giving up Jack, what other choice do I have?