The Beginning of After

for her? So she could go to the prom and not feel guilty about it, because I was there too?
    Maybe a little of both. And maybe the truth didn’t have to matter.
    At home that weekend, our lives seemed to be about always having something to do. There was homework, of course, even though there was a silent understanding that I could be as late with it as I wanted to. Nana started giving me some chores. Vacuum here, Windex there. Nothing heavy, but enough to count as a first baby step toward something. In between, I’d scour Toby’s DVD shelf in the den and find new movies to watch.
    David Kaufman called on Saturday morning to ask if he could come over and see Masher; it had gotten busy with other visitors at the hospital and he needed a break. I heard Nana telling him that he didn’t have to call, that he was welcome whenever he wanted to stop by, and I winced.
    I was out in the back, sweeping the terrace and listening to my iPod, when he showed up. Joe’s obscure band had turned out to be just what I needed. Sorrowful moaning set to music, sad yet sweet and blindly optimistic. I had been listening to it pretty much nonstop since the previous afternoon.
    Nana knocked gently on her side of the big dining room window, and I looked up. She was standing there with David, Masher already at his side. She waved, and he sort-of waved—it was more like a hand flutter—and they retreated away from the glass. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to come in and keep him company. I just kept sweeping.
    Five minutes later she was at the window again. When she finally got my attention, she pointed energetically toward the den, her eyebrows raised. I shook my head no. She nodded yes. I shook my head again and then there she came, out the back door to pull the headphones out of my ears.
    “You go in and say hi to him,” she said, annoyed.
    “You’re the one who said he could come over! You talk to him.”
    “Don’t be silly.”
    “Nana, you don’t understand. We’re not friends. I barely know him anymore.”
    She looked at me and softened, then handed me back my headphones. “I was thinking,” she said, “that maybe you’d need someone to talk to.”
    I paused, turning to glance toward the open back door. “Well, I don’t. At least, not someone who’s basically a stranger. If I wanted to blab to a stranger, I’d go call that Suzie person.”
    For a second, Nana looked like she might force this. It reminded me of when I was younger and she was always trying to nudge me out of my shyness. Go sit with your Great-Aunt Ruth, she hasn’t seen you in so long. Go ask the saleslady if there’s a ladies’ room you can use. But she just smiled, patted me on the shoulder, and went into the house.
    A minute later, David came outside.
    “Hey, Laurel,” he said, looking around the terrace. Masher followed him out and made a beeline toward me, sticking his nose into my crotch.
    I jumped back. David shouted, “Mash! No!” then turned to me. “Sorry. We’ve been trying to get him not to do that since he was a puppy.”
    He didn’t have to know that Masher did it to me all the time and I thought it was hilarious.
    “If it’s any consolation,” said David, “he only does it to people he really likes.”
    “Well . . . who doesn’t?”
    David snorted a laugh, then we fell silent. Big awkward pause. I examined a spot on the ground near his feet.
    Finally, he said: “I’d ask how you were doing, but you probably hate that question even more than I do.”
    I looked up at him. He wasn’t smiling, but the corners of his mouth seemed relaxed and happy.
    “Yes,” was all I said, but I hammered down on the s and he nodded.
    “You should see what it’s like at the hospital. They all want to cure me of something.”
    “It’s pretty ridiculous at school, too,” I added.
    “Ugh! I can only imagine,” he said. A shadow moved across his face and he frowned, seemingly at a spot on the ground near my feet now. “I’m guessing the police told you about my dad.”
    I felt an adrenaline shot of anger rush through me, but swallowed it down.
    “They told my grandmother, so, yeah.”
    “He wasn’t drunk, you know.”
    “Okay,” was all I said. Swallowing again. My heart thudding in my ears.
    “Officially they say he was borderline, but I’ll tell you, I’ve seen him drink a lot more than he did that night and be totally fine. Driving, I mean.”
    “I’m sure,” I said. It felt like no matter what kind of stupid