The Trouble Is

Chapter 55: Saying Goodbye

It's East's idea to go check out the cross at the lake. Mom says sometimes it helps to symbolically say goodbye, like when people release balloons in the sky. I've seen the news of tragic events like school shootings or bombs in the middle of major cities. People who never even knew the victims leave candles, teddy bears, and pictures. I guess it is one way to publicly mark the moment, to acknowledge that a terrible thing happened there.

I can start to see why the kids wanted to put up something to mark the loss at the lake. It must have been terrible to see it happen and hear the sirens and to maybe even already know that it was too late.

I Googled "roadside memorials." That's as close as I could get to "lakeside memorials" and get results. Apparently roadside memorials are a thing. And, it's not a thing that everyone agrees on. Some places have banned them, and people do question whether they're appropriate. When they are put on public roads, the separation-of-church-and-state groups get all crazy-eyed writing editorials for the local papers. Some states have tried to manage this by opening memorial gardens to remember people killed in roadside accidents. If I died in a car accident, I don't think getting my name on a plaque would really help anyone. It's so disconnected and impersonal. I get that these impromptu tributes mean that someone eventually has to clean all that stuff up, and that could be a problem. Still, I have started to understand the need to at least mark the moment, even if it's only temporary. Maybe even more so if it's temporary.

So, East and I are going to the beach to see for ourselves.

I sit in my usual spot in the middle while East drives, one arm across my shoulders. East went by Katie's house today and asked her mom if there was a scarf or something meaningful to Katie that we might take out to the memorial. There's a brown paper grocery bag in the seat beside me, but I haven't looked to see what's inside. It's a Whole Foods bag, and that likely would have come from our house.

The parking area is a short walk to the beach. East holds the paper bag in one hand, and the other lightly holds mine. We walk slowly and pass the empty chairs and the forgotten tent. I can see my scarf moving a little in the breeze. The colors are faded and the ends are just individual strings, tangled and brittle.

There's a small hill that starts on the outside of the area where everyone has set up the summer beach. I've never really noticed it before, though it's always been there. The grass is tall and unbroken in the setting sun. It's easy to see why this spot was chosen for the memorial. It's a perfect representation of where we would like to go, back to where things are simple and unbroken. It's more noticeable now with the cross standing tall. I kind of thought that Katie's parents would have gotten involved and insisted on something massive and ornate, fortified to stand forever. But I see now that the cross is actually simple and imperfect. It was painted a simple ivory color with some kind of multi-colored round accents.

I stop for a break as we get to the top of the hill. East sits in the grass and pulls me onto his lap. He leans his head next to mine.

"The dots that you see are not just dots," he says. He speaks so softly that I can hear the water rolling in and out, gently erasing any footprints left behind on the beach.

"Those are thumbprints," he says. "I don't know who organized or even how many kids came out here that night, but all that color you see was made by thumbprints from everyone who loved Katie."

We sit there for a while, and I think about how everyone must have felt and what Katie would have thought. The sun starts dropping past the horizon as we get back up and finish the walk to the top.

"Tell me about this place," East says. "Like, what does it mean to you? Why do you think everyone does this lake thing?"

I have to think about that for a bit. The beach has been a local thing since my mom was a kid. It is one of those things that has been around so long that it's never questioned anymore. It just is.

"I don't know what it is to everyone, but for me, it's a place to go during the in between," I say, thinking this through as I speak.

"That's what summer is—the in between each year," I explain. "Time kind of stands still here, at least for the you are a kid, it's all freedom and games and swimming lessons and summer camps. But the older you get, you start to see that idea of lessons and camps fall away.

"So instead of church camp or the park program, there's the beach. It quickly becomes the place where everyone can pause in the rush for grades, test scores, college prep, and volunteering to boost the ever-looming college application. It's the place where we can all, collectively, just breathe. We can be ourselves at the beach, with no worries about the people we are meant to be."

East nods his understanding.

"Makes sense, then, to put this memorial here," he says. "It's a place where everyone managed to come together and just have fun. I think we should all be remembered like that."

We stand like that for a few minutes, watching the water.

"What's in the bag?" I ask as I finally turn and face the cross head-on. It's about my height. I stretch my arms out wide and see that my fingertips align with the ends of the crossbar piece.

"I think your mom helped with this stuff," East says. "She asked me to pick this up at Katie's house and was over there when I went over there.

"She told me you would know what it all means," he says as he reaches into the bag.

The first thing he hands me is one of those little clips Katie used to hang her "photos o' the day." The picture clipped to it is one of us taken on our first day of kindergarten. We had those white tennis shoes and ponytails tied with ribbon. I take the clip and the thumbtack East is holding and pin it to the center of the cross.

I reach in this time and find a patch like you would sew on a jacket or something. It's Katie's lifeguard patch from our freshman year in high school. The matching one is at home on my bulletin board. East pins that one up high. I set Malibu Barbie and Ken at the bottom of the cross, hands held together with the hair tie that was holding my hair two minutes ago.

The rest of the bag goes fast. I paint our initials in bright pink nail polish. I cover the back of the cross with a light coat of spray glitter, making the thumbprints sparkle and shine in the last few minutes of sunlight. We admire that until there's no longer enough light to see the sparkles. And then East reaches into the bag and lifts out a small white gift box. I already know what is inside the box. I have a matching one at home in my top dresser drawer. It's a small gold necklace from our early days. We must have been seven or eight years old. We got them at the county fair that year with my family. Skip stood in line with us while they were made and paid for both of them while we ran back to show Mom.

I remove the necklace from the box, knowing it would be just as tarnished as mine was but still able to feel the letters engraved on the small heart. East wraps his arms around me, and I feel the warmth of his chest against my back. I loop the chain over the cross ever so gently, watching as it settles into place. My tears flow in silent streams of sorrow that know no end. The chain catches the sunlight that pokes through the clouds, and the heart rests just in the middle of the cross so that everyone will be able to read the words "Best friends forever."