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22B: Fragments

22B: Fragments

"Graham?" I splutter, drowning in relief but swimming in anxiety. "Where's Byron? I need to talk to him. I saw Freya and she said I sh—"

"Kasia, calm the fuck down right now. I need to tell you something and you have to promise me that you're with someone right this second, okay? Kasia," I register the heaviness to his voice, the waver as he speaks, and I am preparing myself for the worst. I think Sienna has come back to the table and is telling Charlie something. Archie is on his police radio: never off the clock, it seems.

"G-Graham? Where's Byron?"

He releases a heavy breath, "Kasia, Byron's dead."

10

"You should move in with us." Mom says to Graham, hands clutching his arm tight, "You're family." Which he is, blood aside. He came to us as Byron's new friend, allergic to peanuts, having watched episodes of SpongeBob that I hadn't got around to yet—and he remains as another son, another brother, another member of a crumbling family.

Graham doesn't think he can impose—as though his eleven years of friendship with Byron mean nothing to us, to him, and he is still a guest who is exempt from washing the dishes or doing housework, quickly erasing his past, his part in our lives. His smile is wan, as he hangs on to my Mom's shoulders, a hug from the son she didn't birth, and the two of them are hanging onto that thin strand of rope, connecting them to this life, reminding them that this is real—as it curls around their throats, around their beings, the new pain in their chest they'll have to get used to. "I'll think about it," he answers finally, a postponed version of saying yes, that he will arrive in his car, bags filled with clothes in the back, baseball memorabilia, memories of Byron that are bursting to be heard and laughed, cried, felt.

Mom pulls away, glassy brown eyes blinking up at him, the connection made from the boy he entered as to the man trying to leave us, like his counterpart has already done. "Just remember to come home soon."

13

Graham comes over with the photograph taken at the end of Byron's first baseball game. He clutches it in his hands, staring at me unsurely, the moment lasting shortly, before I pull him inside and hug him tightly. He shudders out a breath, moving his arms around me to still look at the photograph. I've seen it so many times growing up, the image is burned into my retinas. Byron and Graham are right in the middle, second row, arms wrapped around each other's shoulders, grinning as they try and drag each other down to the ground. Mom had been dismayed that they couldn't have taken at least one picture that wouldn't make her cringe each time she saw it hung on the wall, but both of them together are incapable of doing such things.

"Kas," Graham starts, left hand moving to fist the material of my t-shirt. I begin counting down until Graham finally allows himself to break down. "I miss him."

"It's fine," I interrupt, arms wrapping around his neck, "its fine."

14

When the report appears on TV, a picture of Byron aged 20, all bright eyed and bushy tailed, at Graham's birthday party—where he got absolutely smashed and didn't come back until six the following morning, still drunk—the reality of the situation settles deep within my bones. When the door knocks at exactly 9:17PM, Graham is on the other side, three boxes of pizza on his arm, an uncertain smile on his face. Mom's relief is palpable, and Dad is so grateful that now there is a real reason for him not to stand in the kitchen and cut down on size as one less person will be eating.