Only If You’re Lucky

The morning crawls by in a sluggish daze: sugary casseroles and Christmas carols running on repeat as I unwrap my gifts. I feign delight over a new set of plaid pajamas, a sterling silver charm bracelet I’ll probably never wear. My mother unwraps her annual perfume—my father, a stack of books he always picks out himself—then I throw on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt before making the walk down to Eliza’s.

It’s a quick journey, just a handful of houses between us, and as I round the bend to the Jeffersons’ driveway, I can’t help but notice how empty it looks. Not just the yard, all the old flowers long-since dead, but the house itself, too. None of the regular decorations are cluttering up the porch; there are no candles flickering in the windows or wreaths hanging from hooks on the door. Mrs. Jefferson always used to set up an inflatable Nativity scene on the lawn, something my own mother chastised as tacky whenever we drove around the neighborhood to look at the lights, though I know I can’t blame them for not feeling festive this year.

Finally, I reach the front and push my finger into the bell, waiting impatiently as I hear the sound of footsteps approaching on the other side.

“Margot.”

The door swings open and I try my best to conceal the surprise, though I’m sure it’s apparent all across my face. Eliza’s father is barely recognizable beneath the tuft of a newly grown beard, wiry hair peppered with gray. His skin is still a deep, dark tan, but there are more wrinkles now, too. Fine creases where it used to be smooth and bags that didn’t exist before hanging heavy beneath his eyes.

“Hi, Mr. Jefferson.”

“Thank you for coming,” he says, opening the door wider, ushering me in. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas to you.”

I step in closer and let him wrap me in a hug, the sour smell of body odor tickling my nostrils. Then I pull away, glancing around the living room. Noticing how different the interior looks, too, like all the blood has been sucked from the place.

“Where’s Mrs. Jefferson?”

“Running errands,” he says, leading me into the kitchen. I smell brewing coffee, burnt bacon, and watch as he turns toward the cabinet, opening it up to grab a couple mugs.

“On Christmas?”

He’s quiet, his arms suspended in the air until his shoulders slouch just slightly.

“Today isn’t easy for her,” he says at last, still not facing me. “She needed some space.”

I walk up behind him and grab the mugs from his hands, gesturing for him to take a seat. He smiles, grateful, and I pour enough coffee for the both of us before sliding into the chair beside him. It vaguely reminds me of that night after the funeral, the two of us sitting on the porch in silence. His whiskey dwindling while I stared into the distance, telling him things that were meant to be secret.

“How’s school?” he asks at last, ringing his hands around the mug.

“Fine. I liked my classes last semester.”

“Still majoring in English?”

I nod, taking a sip of my coffee, even though it’s scalding.

“Good for you,” he says. “You’ve always been good at that.”

“My mom isn’t too happy about it.”

“Well, she’s not the one getting a degree, is she?”

I smile, remembering with a surge of warmth why I liked being here so much. Eliza and me sitting at this very table, doing our homework while Mr. Jefferson picked up a poem I wrote. Reading it quietly with a nod of approval.

“You have a real gift,” he had said. My own dad, on the other hand, had muttered something about iambic pentameter being useless in the real world.

“She told me they’re bulldozing the old school,” I say now.

I eye him carefully, trying to gauge his reaction. I wasn’t planning on bringing that up, but at the same time, maybe it’ll be good for him. I get the distinct feeling that Mr. Jefferson doesn’t talk about it much. That if I didn’t bring it up myself, we’d never actually acknowledge the reason why I’m here, alone, sitting in Eliza’s spot on Christmas morning.

“Yeah,” he says at last, rubbing one hand against the back of his neck. “It’s been wrapped in caution tape ever since—well, you know. But it doesn’t stop kids from sneaking in.”

“Still?”

“Oh, yeah. They think they’re invincible at that age. Just like she did.”

“At least it won’t happen again,” I offer, and he shrugs.

“I guess the town finally decided it was time. There’s talk of some kind of memorial going up in its place. A public park and a tree. Some kind of plaque.”

“That’s great.”

He smiles at me, but it doesn’t make it to his eyes.

“Have you made any friends at Rutledge?”

I hesitate, picking at my cuticle. I know Eliza’s parents want me to be happy, but at the same time, I don’t want them to think of her as replaceable. I don’t want them to remember all those scenes of the two of us together—reading on her bed, painting our nails on the bathroom floor, lying horizontal on the dock, day after day, giggling about nothing—and suddenly find her ripped out of all of them, another face and body superimposed on top. I almost wonder if it would have been a comfort to them seeing how lost I was last year; knowing that I could hardly bring myself to leave my room, eat a proper meal. Peel myself from bed without first thinking of her.

“A few,” I say at last. “Nobody as good as Eliza.”

Mr. Jefferson smiles as he grabs my hand and squeezes it, hard.

“Do you mind if I go upstairs?” I ask, returning his gaze. There’s something about being here, back in this house, that makes me suddenly desperate to stick my fingers into all of it, reacquaint myself with every single corner. Every last smell. Especially after the uneasiness of my own home, my own bed, I long to feel the familiar comfort of her room. My safe haven for so many years.

“It’s just … I haven’t been in her room since the last time,” I say. “I want to see what you’ve done with it.”

“It’s exactly the same,” Mr. Jefferson says, leaning back. “I’ve barely been inside since. But go ahead, take all the time you need.”

I thank him and excuse myself, making my way into the living room, then the foyer, noticing the lack of tree in the corner and the nonexistent stockings that should be hanging above the fireplace. A trail of goose bumps erupts down my arms when I see those double doors swung open again, yawning wide like the night of the break-in. A cool marsh breeze leaking into the house and the almost imperceptible flutter of wind in the curtains.

I approach the stairs and ascend them slowly, imagining Levi’s calloused hands gripping this same railing. Wondering if Mr. Jefferson knows he’s at Rutledge now, too. Walking the halls his daughter should have walked; living the life she dreamed of first. I move farther down the hall, my eyes skimming over the collage of family portraits, Eliza’s school pictures, the Jeffersons’ wedding photo. They look so young there, high school sweethearts married just after they turned eighteen. Sometimes I wonder if that’s why Eliza felt such a strong pull to Levi. I wonder if she looked at her parents—in love from the start, together for so long—and wanted the same thing for herself, no matter who it was with.

I shrug the thought away, turning into her bedroom next and flipping on the light.

Mr. Jefferson was right: it’s exactly the same. A shrine to Eliza just like my own parents had preserved my room for me, all her old things situated in all the same places as if they’ve been waiting for her to walk back in. I roam around the edges, taking in all the same posters. The empty glass on her side table and the permanent water ring stained into the wood. The kiss of her lipstick still stuck to the rim. I look over at the giant corkboard next, cluttered up with pictures, the bare spot still right in the middle.

The window by her bed, curtains pulled open the way they always were.

I can hear her voice now, dipped into a whisper, the same way she always materializes when the memories of her become too much. I can see the swing of her legs in my peripheral vision; the flick of her eyes darting outside.

That flash of excitement as she chewed on her pencil, tugged twice on her hair.

“I think he watches me. I think he’s out there right now.”

I walk toward her dresser next, opening the drawers before I can think twice, resisting the urge to pull something out and inhale it deeply. Wrap it around my shoulders and call it mine. Instead, I let my fingers trail across the clothes still folded neatly inside, skirting the edges, feeling the fabric, until they brush against something different, rougher.

Paper, I realize. A torn-open envelope shoved deep in the back.

I glance over my shoulder, toward her open door, then back to the dresser, grabbing the envelope and pulling it out from between two sweaters. It’s thick, bulky, and I stick my fingers inside, eyes widening as I pull out a stack of cash.

“What is this?” I whisper, my thumb flipping through the bills. There’s several thousand dollars in here, easily, every bill a hundred.

I shove the money back inside and close the flap, flipping the envelope around. It’s addressed to a place I don’t recognize—a place in Fairfield, North Carolina—with no return address at all.

I eye it carefully, trying to figure out who it might be from, who was meant to receive it. Why Eliza had it stuffed in the back of her dresser like some dirty little secret she didn’t want to reveal. Maybe she found it while she was out one day and decided to keep it, claim it as her own. I wouldn’t put it past her. She once found a solid-gold bracelet in the school parking lot and decided to keep that, too, instead of turn it in and attempt to find its rightful owner.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and open the camera, snapping a picture of the address before tucking the envelope back where it was. I close the dresser and walk next to her desk, an urgent curiosity sweeping over me. I don’t care about the money; I just want answers. Eliza and I didn’t keep things from each other—at least in the beginning we didn’t—but this envelope means something, and I want to know what it is. My eyes skip over her old textbooks, still stacked high in each corner, a smattering of notes and papers leftover from senior year. I find her planner and flip it open, fanning the pages, eyes stinging as the little doodles in pen dance before me like a flipbook. I read through all the old milestones she rendered important enough to note—SAT dates, the last day of school, graduation—and blink back tears when I see she wrote future ones, too. Days that she was apparently excited enough about to write down; days she’d never get to see.

Margot’s birthday. Move into Hines. First day at Rutledge!!

I slap the planner shut with too much force, my eyes watering as I walk to the bed and sit on the edge of it, fingers digging into her comforter.

“Margot, honey, you doing okay?”

I can hear Mr. Jefferson at the base of the stairs and I glance toward the hallway, wiping a rogue tear as it trails down my cheek.

“Fine!” I yell back. “Be down in a second.”

I look down at her bed, the imprint of my hand, the picture of that address burning hot in my pocket. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s graduation money, a gift from a relative she never lived long enough to spend. Maybe it’s her own personal savings stuffed in some random envelope she found; a college fund she was stocking up on, spending money for when we were finally free.

Maybe I’m trying to assign meaning to a truly meaningless thing and the very fact that I’m still sitting here, pulling at my hair in her bedroom the way I always was, sends a sharp sting of irony in my chest. A twinge of embarrassment that I’m still trying so hard to understand her, my best friend. Still attempting to read through the lines of the things she told me, separate the truth from her little white lies—but even then, it was pointless. Even then, Eliza only showed the world the face she wanted it to see: carefree and fearless, bold and brave. Everything else stayed hidden, secret, so I suppose her death should be no different.

I stand up and wipe my fingers beneath my eyes, an attempt to pull myself together, when a hint of movement catches my eye through the window. I start to walk toward it, peering through the glass.

It’s coming from Levi’s bedroom.

His blinds are open—the curtains, too—and I can just barely make out the back of his head as he sits on his bed, arms gesturing like he’s talking to someone just out of view. I never realized how clearly Eliza could see into his room from here, though I guess it makes sense—if he watched her, that means she could have watched him, too—and I lean in closer, a little thrill traveling through my chest at the thought of spying on him like he once spied on us.

This private moment, whatever it is, something secret that I’m not meant to see.

I’m about to force myself to turn around, aware of Mr. Jefferson waiting just downstairs, when whoever Levi is talking to walks into view, pulling my attention back. It takes a few seconds for me to register what I’m seeing, her body coming into focus after a few long blinks: slender arms, that shock of black hair. Curls bouncy and wild as she saunters into the frame and sits down next to him.

Then I watch as Lucy’s long fingers weave their way through his hair, holding him close, his lips on hers as she goes in for a kiss.