7

NOW

Maxie closed her eyes and submerged herself in the warmth of her bath. She felt calm under the water, suspended in nothing, surrounded by emptiness. She held her breath, relaxed her muscles, concentrated on the silence.

'Wanna know something?' Van whispers. They're sixteen years old, lying side by side on the grass of Van's backyard. They'd just climbed out of the pool and now dried off under the afternoon sun.

'Yeah', Maxie replies. 'What?'

'Sometimes I jump in the pool and swim to the bottom. I stay down there as long as I can, hoping that if I stay long enough, when I come up again, I'll be somewhere else. Some place better.'

'Have you ever stayed long enough?' Maxie asks.

After a short pause, Van shakes her head. 'No,' she finally murmurs. 'Never.'

Maxie never stayed long enough, either. She never stopped trying, though.

Isaac's apartment lacked personality. The walls were white and completely void of any photos or decorations. All of the furniture—nothing more than two couches, a coffee table, and a small entertainment center—were black and plain. There were no books, no art, nothing personal at all.

Not overtly, anyway.

Maxie knew that tucked away beneath his pillow were a pair of her panties. They bring me good dreams. And beside his bed, hidden under papers in the nightstand drawer, was a small box filled with flower seeds, one for each time they made love. One day we'll plant them all in a garden that everyone can see. She knew that the left side of the closet was dedicated her belongings. So you'll never have to leave, if you don't want to. And taped to the inside of the bathroom medicine cabinet, where Isaac looked every morning when he brushed his teeth, was a photo of her with the words, 'who do you love?' scribbled on the bottom. This way, I'll never forget.

She only wished, as she pulled the picture off of the cabinet door, that that were true. She stuffed the picture in her bag with the rest of her belongings. She cleansed the refrigerator of all the leftovers that remained. She washed her scent out of his sheets. She erased all traces of herself from the apartment. When he returned to it, he would never know she'd ever stepped foot inside.

But even after she'd gotten everything, she didn't leave. She sat on the couch with her legs pulled up to her chest, peered around the place, and cried. How many times had they sat on that couched together? Watched movies on that television? Made love on that floor?

Suddenly, she heard the knob of the front door shuffle. She froze in panic as it opened. Jenny appeared. "Ah," Jenny said, stepping inside and closing the door behind her. "How did I know I would find you here?"

Maxie sighed and stood. "I was just leaving, actually."

"Did you come to get rid of the evidence?" she asked.

Without replying, Maxie looked down at her hand, at the shimmering diamond ring on her finger. She pulled it off and gave it to Jenny. "Will you put this away for me?" she asked.

Jenny examined the ring for a moment, then looked back up at Maxie, bewildered. "He gave you this?"

"I should go."

"Maximilienne—"

"Can we just forget that I was here?"

"No!" Jenny said sharply, taking Maxie by the arm. She was surprisingly strong for a woman in her sixties. "What you're doing right now isn't fair. It isn't fair to you, and it isn't fair to him." She led Maxie back to the couch and gently prodded her to sit. "If you're doing it for the sake of your own guilt, you're being selfish. But I don't think that's it. You just honestly think this is the right thing."

Maxie opened her mouth to reply, and then shut it again. Her face burned red, tears blurred her vision. She dropped her head in her hands and began to sob. "I just feel so cornered," she said. "I can't do anything without someone getting hurt. No matter what I do, someone gets hurt. Except this. If I don't tell him the truth, no one gets hurt."

"No one but you."

Maxie said nothing. Jenny opened her arms and took Maxie into her embrace. She slowly rocked back and forth, patting her back. "Why don't you make yourself happy?"

She shook her head. "I can't... I just... How am I supposed to choose between them? Van is my best friend. She's my sister. She's the only person who's always been there, the one person who hasn't left me. How can I lose her? And Isaac..." She let out a heavy sigh. "I love him so much," she admitted, pulling back. "I love him so much I can literally feel it inside of me, Jenny. This is killing me. I feel like I'm the one who's dying. There just is no right decision."

"So which is worse? Hurting Van? Or Isaac?"

Maxie shook her head. "I've already hurt Isaac. He shouldn't have been there that night, do you understand that? If it weren't for me, he wouldn't be laying in a hospital right now. But he'll heal. He can start over, he'll never have to know what we did. And he won't miss me, because he doesn't even remember." She had to pause as her voice broke on the last word. "He won't ever be hurt because of me again. And Van doesn't have to suffer, either."

"But you have to suffer."

She shrugged. "I've been suffering, anyway." She rose to her feet again. "You won't tell him, right?"

"Well, it isn't my place," she said reluctantly. "But Maximilienne, you need to let this out. For the sake of everyone."

"For the sake of everyone," she said, getting to her feet. "I'm keeping it in."

"And what if he remembers? Then what?"

"The doctors say the damage to his brain is most likely permanent. They said he'll probably never remember."

"But what if he does?"

Maxie shrugged weakly. "He won't."

Jenny stood and followed her to the door. "You forgot these," she said. "I found them when I stopped by earlier, tucked away in Isaac's pillowcase. Did you know he hides keepsakes there?"

Maxie looked down at what Jenny was offering her. She immediately recognized the pictures, but didn't take them. "Just throw them away," she said.

"Maybe that's what you are," Jenny said. "A keepsake. Tucked away in some corner of his mind for safekeeping. He'll find you when he needs you, Maxie. Have you ever thought of that?"

"Just throw the pictures away, Jenny. Please."

"And you're just going to walk out of here with nothing?"

With a sigh, Maxie reached into her pocket and withdrew a tiny, gold lock pendent. "Almost nothing," she said, showing it to Jenny.

Jenny exhaled a tortured breath. Looking up at Maxie again, she asked, "What hasn't he given you?"

"I can't think of a single thing," Maxie said. Shaking her head, she repeated, "Just throw away the pictures, Jenny."

 

THEN

Maxie sat on the living room floor, her knee propped up for easy access to her foot as she drew colorful shapes and doodles on her skin with a marker. Her hand jumped, streaking a green line up her leg when the sound of knocking made her body jolt. "Who is it?" she called.

"Isaac," the voice from the hallway replied.

She gasped.

Isaac? It couldn't be. She must have heard wrong. Yet there it was again, the abrupt palpitation of her heart. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she went to the door. "Who?"

"Maximilienne," he said.

The butterflies in her stomach took flight. She exhaled, placed her hand against her chest to calm her heart. "Van isn't home," she called.

"I know," he replied.

Silence fell between them, thicker than even the door. He knew. He knew? Then why was he there? What did he want? Biting down on her bottom lip, Maxie unlocked the door and pulled it open. When she set eyes on Isaac, she forgot to breathe.

He looked down at her with confident eyes and a sure smile. "Hi," she said, unable to raise her eyes any higher than his chin.

"Bonsoir," he said, nodding.

Grinning, she finally met his eyes. Her stomach flipped. His face was marvelous. After a moment or so, she realized she'd stop smiling, and now she just stared at him in awe, her mouth hanging slightly open. Blinking out of her daze, she shook her head and looked away. "What are you doing here?" she asked.

"I came to get something."

Maxie's looked up at him again, skeptically. "What?"

"Something I need."

Raising an eyebrow, she stepped aside so he could enter. He went in and stopped just a few feet away from her to peer around. "Smells good," he said. "Are you cooking?"

"Not anymore," she replied. "I had beef stew in the slow cooker. It's cooling now."

Isaac's eyes moved over her. They stopped on her foot, which was covered in marker. "Okay. Well, I'll just get what I came for."

"Alright," Maxie said, not moving from the spot where she stood.

Isaac went into the Van's room, shut the door behind him, and sat down on the bed. Exhaling, he picked up the picture of Van and Maxie that Van kept at her bedside. He'd never gotten a chance to really look at it before that moment, so he took his time staring at it, committing every detail of Maxie's smile, eyes, hair, and skin to his memory. Then he sat the picture back down, stood, and made his way out of the room.

Maxie still stood in the same spot by the door, only now she was wearing knee-high socks and her hair was pulled back. Her chest rose and her eyes lit up as Isaac emerged from the room. He liked that. He was glad she couldn't hide what he so often felt when she was in proximity of him.

"Should I tell Van you stopped by?"

"You don't need to," he replied.

She nodded. He didn't leave. "You should have left your hair down," he said.

Her hand went to her ponytail. "Oh, yeah. No. It's a mess right now, I have to wash it—"

"I like it."

She smiled. "Well, Van usually doesn't get home until around five or six in the morning, but if you'd like, you can stay for dinner. I was just about to eat."

He smiled. "I may never leave if you keep feeding me."

Promise? she wanted to ask, but instead blushed and looked away. "You can just have a seat. I'll make you a plate."

"Thank you," he said, sitting down at the table. His eyes never left her as she hurried around the kitchen, rinsing their utensils, filling their glasses, setting their places, piling food onto their plates. He didn't look away until she set his dinner down before him. "Dig in."

His mouth watered, but he didn't touch his fork until Maxie was sitting down across from him. For a while, they ate in silence. Maxie stared down at her plate, over at the sink, at the front door, at the refrigerator, at anything but Isaac, who gazed at her often.

It wasn't until her food was nearly gone that she spoke. "Isaac," she said. "Van thinks your parents died in a car accident."

He chuckled. "Yeah, that's what I tell everyone."

"Why?"

"Because," he said, swallowing down the last of his food, "my past is one of my weaknesses, Maxie. And if I go around announcing my weaknesses, eventually someone'll try to use them against me."

"Hmm," she said, thoughtfully. "So cynical."

"So are you."

She shook her head. "I'm not."

"You are. The only difference between you and me is the way we hide it. You hide it so well, under your smiles and your passivity. You let everyone believe that you're carefree and content."

She smiled. "I am carefree and content." Lowering her eyes, she said, "Of course, I have my moments. But you need to trust someone, Isaac," she said.

"Who do you trust?" He smirked. "Van?"

She pushed her plate back and leaned forward, propping her elbows up on the table and resting her chin in her hands. "Will you tell me about your parents?"

He, too, pushed his plate back and leaned toward her. "What would you like to know?"

"Do you miss them?"

He nodded. "My mother, yes."

"Were you two close?"

He sighed and contemplated. "We were close," he said carefully, "because we needed each other. We were all we had."

"Why did he kill her?" she asked, her voice just above a whisper.

"Because after years of putting up with his shit, she was finally going to leave him. My father was never a constant in my life. I can't remember him ever being around for more than a couple years at a time. He'd leave us without a word, sometimes for days, sometimes for years, and then just show up again, broke and alone and miserable. He only ever stayed until he got himself together, and then he was off again.

"Then, when I was ten, we went to France to visit some of our relatives. She met a man there, a boxer." He paused and the corners of his lips turned up into a small, wistful smile. "I liked him a lot. He's the one that introduced me to the world of underground fight clubs and mixed martial arts. And he made my mom happier than I'd ever seen her. We ended up staying in France for three years. They got engaged. We came back to the States only to tie up all our loose ends, and then we were going to move back for good. To Paris."

He stopped speaking, dropped his eyes. There was so much emotion in his face, more than she'd ever seen before. He was always so impassive, always so guarded. She imagined his insides were overflowing with pent up anger, sadness, frustration, unspoken words, uncried tears. She had a nagging urge to get up and go to him, wrap her arms around him, reassure him.

Of course, she remained in her seat.

"We rented out our house. We got rid of everything we didn't need, shipped the few things we wanted to keep back to France. And then, the weekend before we were due to leave, I went to spend the weekend in Ohio, with my aunt."

"You have an aunt in Ohio?"

He nodded. "We don't speak too often."

She wanted to ask why, but she had a feeling that was a story in itself, so instead she said, "Oh. Well, go on."

"The day I came back to New York, I hadn't spoken to my mom at all. In fact, I hadn't spoken to her since the morning before. And then, she didn't pick me up from the bus station. I had to catch a cab home. When I got in the house, the smell was the first thing that got to me."

It hits him like a truck.

No, like something bigger, and harder, and meaner, and angrier than a truck. The smell. The rancid smell of decay surrounds him, envelopes him, disarms him. He slaps his arm over his face as the odor finds its way up his nose and down his throat. It grips his stomach and he gags. Where is his mother? Doesn't she smell that?

'Mom!' he yells, struggling not to heave as the air touches his mouth and tongue. When he gets no reply, he makes his way across the living room. 'Mom! What the hell..?'

Still, no reply. As he turns down the hallway, he freezes. The entire carpet outside of his mother's bedroom door is stained brown with dried blood. Panic seizes him by the gut, momentarily paralyzes him. Then his heart jumps and he rushes forward. 'Mom!' he screams, throwing her door open.

Isaac shut his eyes.

Maxie waited, holding her breath. She knew what he found behind the door. But then what? What did he do? How did he take it?

He opened his eyes, blinked, and met Maxie's stare. "Her entire carpet was covered in blood. Her sheets, the walls, everything. The knife he used was sticking out of the wall. She was lying on her stomach when I found her, halfway under the bed. The police said she'd been trying to get away from him."

Maxie gasped. "Where was he?" she asked, her voice small.

"In the bathroom. Dead," he said lightly. "He shot himself." Maxie's hands flew to her mouth. A bitter, humorless chuckle escaped him. "He stabbed her over and over, and let her die slow, and then he fucking shot himself in the head. Quick and easy."

"God, Isaac."

"God?" he said. "You think?" She frowned. He shook his head and smiled a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I don't want you to feel sorry for me, Maximilienne. Not if you don't even feel sorry for yourself."

She heard nothing after he said her name. The only time it had ever sounded so beautiful was when her mother had said it. "Do you ever get lonely?" she asked.

He nodded. "Do you?"

She nodded. "I always have Van and her family. And Alex, too, since recently. But sometimes I just want..." Her voice trailed off, but Isaac understood.

"Sometimes I want that, too."

"And where do you find it?"

"Well, I didn't go back to France after my mom died. I went to Ohio and stayed with my aunt until I graduated high school. Anyway, that's where I find it. Back in Ohio, at Jenny's." Maxie nodded. "What about you? Where do you find it?"

As of lately? she wanted to say. In you. But instead, she shrugged and said nothing.

 

"So you have had food from Europe," Maxie said, clearing the table.

"Of course I have. It's some of the best food I've ever tasted." He went to the bookshelf where her collection of cookbooks was and scanned the selection. "Once, my mother and I rode the train all the way to Italy and stayed the weekend, just to eat at this small diner that made really good ravioli." The memory made him smile to himself.

"I loved Italy."

He nodded. "I loved Italy." He turned to her. "Why don't you ever talk about your trip?"

She shrugged, placing the remainder of the dishes in the sink. "I do."

"No, you don't. Not even to Van."

"How do you know what I talk to Van about?" But she didn't really need him to answer. She already knew. She glared at him, crossing her arms over her chest. "How often do you talk about me to Van?"

"Not often at all," he replied. "However, she talks about you to me nonstop."

With a frustrated sigh, she shook her head. "I don't even want to ask all she's told you."

"I wouldn't know where to start."

"Has she told you about my mother?" He nodded. "And my father?" He nodded. She sucked her teeth, but really, she wasn't surprised. And not upset, either. Maybe because she expected Van to talk. Maybe because it was Isaac who was listening. "Did she tell you about my prom date?" He smiled. "Oh my God," Maxie mumbled, heat creeping up her cheeks.

"Did you really make him cry?"

Maxie slapped her hand over her mouth and laughed. "I wouldn't say he cried. He teared up a little bit."

"And you wore a poufy white dress, denim jacket, and combat boots to her grandmother's funeral?"

"Grammy would have wanted it that way."

"Oh," Isaac said, snapping his fingers. "You have to tell me how you killed her dog playing fetch."

Maxie gasped. "How was I supposed to know the stupid thing would swallow the ball?"

"And her cat?"

"If I would have looked for him any longer in that blizzard, I would have been the one frozen to death!"

For a moment, they simply stood there, frozen in laughter. And then Isaac grew solemn, and stared at the girl before him, tiny in comparison to himself, and flushed, and looking away shyly, and smiling almost giddily. Yes, Van told him a lot, but he knew nothing about her. She was like an open book, written in some foreign language that even he couldn't translate.

He was determined to decipher it.

"Maxie," he said. "Would you mind wasting a good meal on me?"

Her smile faded, her eyes got big. "But if I keep feeding you," she said, "you'll never leave."

 

He didn't leave as she finished cleaning the kitchen, and then they sat in the living room, Isaac in the armchair, Maxie on the sofa. He spoke more of his mother, his time in Europe, his time in Ohio. She listened intently, captivated by his words, his voice, by the movement of his lips, by the images in her mind that his stories provoked.

Not once did he mention Alex. Not once did she mention Van. It wasn't until four in the morning approached that Maxie even thought of her roommate. Standing, she said, "It's getting late. I have class in the morning, I should probably get to bed."

Also rising to his feet, Isaac nodded. "Thank you for dinner. It was delicious."

They made their way to the front door and Maxie pulled it open. "Did you get what you came for?" she asked.

Puzzled, his brows furrowed. "I'm sorry?"

"When you got here, you said you were here to get something. Something you needed." She looked up at his face with those big eyes. Her lips were moist, her hair was out and pushed to one side. She looked tired, yet somehow, revived.

"I got exactly what I needed," he told her, and then left.

When he was gone, she shut the door behind him and finally exhaled. She felt as if she'd been holding her breath all night. For a while, she simply leaned back against the door and reminisced on her night. She replayed his laughter over and over in her mind, shutting her eyes to get a clearer image of his smile. What had he come for? she wondered. And when would he be back? Because that was what she needed.