I Was Here Read Free

now we should empty it out and bring everything . . .”
     Her voice catches.
    “Home,” Joe finishes for her.
    It takes me a second to realize what they want, what they’re asking me. And at first
     I’m relieved because it means I don’t have to fess up that I didn’t know what Meg
     was contemplating. That the one time in her life
she
might’ve needed
me
, I failed her. But then, the weight of what they’re asking skids and crashes in my
     stomach. Which isn’t to say I won’t do it. I will. Of course I will.
    “You want me to pack up her things?” I say.
    They nod. I nod back. It’s the least I can do.
    “After your classes end, of course,” Sue says.
    Officially, my classes end next month. Unofficially, they did the day I got Meg’s
     email. I’ve got Fs now. Or incompletes. The distinction hardly seems to matter.
    “And if you can get the time off work.” This from Joe.
    He says it respectfully, as if I have an important job. I clean houses. The people
     I work for, like everyone in this town, know about Meg, and they’ve all been very
     nice, telling me to take all the time I need. But empty hours to contemplate Meg aren’t
     what I need.
    “I can go whenever,” I say. “Tomorrow if you want.”
    “She didn’t have very much. You can take the car,” Joe says. Joe and Sue have one
     car, and it’s like a NASA expedition how they plot out their days so Sue can drop
     Joe off at work and get Scottie to school and get herself to work and then scoop them
     all back up again at the end of the day. On weekends, it’s more of the same, doing
     the grocery shopping and all the errands there’s no time for during the week. I don’t
     have a car. Occasionally, very occasionally, Tricia lets me use hers.
    “Why don’t I take the bus? She doesn’t have that much. Didn’t.”
    Joe and Sue look relieved. “We’ll pay for your bus tickets. You can ship any extra
     boxes UPS,” Joe says.
    “And you don’t have to bring everything back.” Sue pauses. “Just the important things.”
    I nod. They look so grateful that I have to look away. The trip is nothing: a three-day
     errand. A day to get there, a day to pack, a day to get home. It’s the kind of thing
     Meg would’ve offered to do without having to be asked first.

4
    Every so often, I’ll read some hopeful article about how Tacoma is gentrifying so
     much that it’s rivaling Seattle. But when my bus pulls in to the deserted downtown,
     it all feels kind of desperate, like it’s trying too hard and failing. Sort of like
     some of Tricia’s friends from the bar, fifty-year-old women who wear miniskirts and
     platforms and makeup but aren’t fooling anyone.
Mutton disguised as lamb
is how the guys in our town describe them.
    When Meg left, I promised I’d come visit once a month, but I wound up coming only
     one time, last October. I’d bought a ticket to Tacoma, but when the bus pulled into
     Seattle, Meg was waiting at the station. She’d had this idea we’d spend the day roaming
     Capitol Hill, have dinner at some hole-in-the-wall dumpling place in Chinatown, and
     go out to see a band play in Belltown—all the things we’d talked about doing when
     we moved here together. She was so hyped about the plan; I couldn’t quite tell if
     the day was her idea of a sales pitch, or a consolation prize.
    Either way, it was a bust. The weather was rainy and cold, whereas back home it had
     been clear and cold. Another reason not to move to Seattle, I told myself. And none
     of the places we visited—the vintage clothing shops and comic book stores and coffeehouses—seemed
     as cool as I’d thought they would be. At least that’s what I told Meg.
    “Sorry,” she said. Not sarcastically, but sincerely, as though Seattle’s shortcomings
     were her fault.
    It was a lie, though. Seattle was great. Even with the rotten weather, I’d have loved
     living here. But I’m sure I’d have loved living in New York or Tahiti or a million