We buried the white box that afternoon.
Under a maple at Wrenfield Hillside.
Jason held my hand the whole time.
His hand was shaking harder than mine.
I thought I knew why.
Jason came home on day fourteen.
Crutches.
A black brace strapped from thigh to shin.
Bandages wrapped around his ribs under his T-shirt.
The four porch steps took him five full minutes.
I held the door.
Scout nearly knocked him over.
Scout had been Ruby’s shadow since she was one.
A big red mutt with a white chest.
Eight years old.
Since the accident, he’d stopped eating.
He slept outside her bedroom door every night.
He whined at nothing.
Jason didn’t come to our bed.
He took the guest room downstairs.
“The stairs,” he said.
“My ribs.”
“I don’t want to keep you up.”
I didn’t argue.
I didn’t want to be touched anyway.
The house went silent.
Not quiet.
Silent.
There’s a difference.
Quiet is a house where someone is sleeping.
Silent is a house where someone never will again.
Ruby’s room stayed exactly as she’d left it.
Her sunflower painting, half-finished, on the desk.
Brushes standing in a jar of cloudy water.
Her stuffed fox lying on its nose beside the bed.
One sock under the bed.
I couldn’t go in.
I couldn’t shut it either.
So I stood in the doorway every morning.
And every night.
Strange things started happening.
Small things.
Things I was too broken to line up.
The back door was unlocked some mornings.
I always locked it.
Always.
Jason’s crutches moved.
From the couch to the kitchen.
From the kitchen to the hall.
He said he was practicing.
Scout disappeared for hours at a time.
He’d come home with burrs in his fur.
Once with a smear of purple on his ear.
I thought it was berry juice.
I didn’t really think at all.
On the ninth day, I drove out to the maple at Wrenfield Hillside.
I sat down on the fresh dirt.
I didn’t bring flowers.
I didn’t bring anything.
Scout came with me.
He wouldn’t lie down.
He paced.
