I smiled at him and turned to look out the window, trying hard to stop myself from shivering, even with the heat turned way up. I was finally doing this, and I was petrified.

Route 12 had always been one of my favorite roads. It was lined with woods on either side, and often, we'd spy deer wandering just yards from the pavement. This is what my family saw, I reminded myself, even though it was all stark and spindly now; back in the spring this landscape was thick, lush. Maybe Toby was looking out the window at these exact trees in the last few minutes he was alive. What were my parents talking about and thinking about as they pa.s.sed that spot, and that spot, and that one?

We drove for another minute or so. Just enough time for a car to pick up too much momentum, for someone to get lost in conversation or his own thoughts and not watch the speedometer.

"I think it's right up around this bend," said David, and he began to slow down. I could see, now, that this was where a person could forget about the sharpness of the curve, and the traffic light not too far beyond it, and slam on the brakes. I looked at the northbound lane, and thought of how another person might lose control and let their car go over the double yellow line and make someone swerve off the road to avoid them.

"What if we can't find it?" I asked.

"We'll get close enough," he said confidently, determined. When we saw the traffic light up in the distance, I scanned the road but wasn't sure what I was looking for. I guess I just expected to know.

David pulled the car into the breakdown lane and we sat there, listening to the gusty breath of the dashboard heater. It was almost midnight, and there weren't many cars on the road.

I peered out the window but it all looked unremarkable, until David said, "There. Look."

I followed his gaze to a speed limit sign about twenty yards ahead of us. It had a thick purple ribbon wrapped around it, which even in the dark looked faded and old. Then I remembered Nana telling me that there'd been a little makeshift memorial at the accident scene for several weeks after, with people bringing candles and flowers. Toby's cla.s.smates left notes, which the police eventually collected and gave to Nana. Who then put them in his dresser, unread.

"You think that's it?" I asked.

"Yes," he said. He got out of the car, so I did too. And the first thing I saw was how the side of the road sloped down steeply here, several hundred feet, before leveling out into woods.

The ditch where my family had actually died. I had to catch my breath when I saw it, and realized it wasn't at all what I'd pictured. I wasn't sure what I'd been afraid of for so long, and just being there made me feel stronger.

David walked to the edge of the slope and looked down, his face blank. He pulled an object out of his front jeans pocket, kissed it, and threw it as far as he could. I couldn't see what it was.

Was there something I was supposed to do or say, standing here above this place? All I could think was, Now I've seen it, and I owed them that. It was like a favor I'd just returned.

And then, unexpectedly, I started to feel glad I was there.

I hadn't visited my family's graves since the funeral. There wouldn't be anything there until April, the one-year anniversary, because Nana was sticking to Jewish tradition in the headstone department. And it didn't feel like I needed to go anywhere to be with them. They were still in every inch of s.p.a.ce at our house, around our house, and every other place I went.

But this was where they had gone away. It was where it had all changed. A place where I could say everything, or nothing at all.

It suddenly seemed enough for me to say, silently in my head, I just love you all so much.

David came over to where I stood, and kicked at a pebble. "That's done."

"I'm freezing," I said.

Everything else was too big for words.

We got back into the car, which thankfully he'd kept running, so the warmth was a sweet relief. David put his hands on the wheel but did nothing else. We sat there, looking out at the charcoal gray sky through the windshield.

"When we told my dad that Mom's gone . . . ," he said. "Seeing him deal with that, so new and everything . . . it was like the past eight months never happened for me. It was like losing her all over again."

I reached out, unafraid, and touched his hair. He didn't look at me, but he didn't stop me as I started to stroke it. "Your mom was cool," I said.

David nodded. "You wouldn't know it from looking at her, but she was. I only see that now, of course. She got me. She put up with a lot of stuff that most moms wouldn't, to make up for what Dad was doing."

I pulled my hand away involuntarily. "What was he doing?"

I must have sounded really nervous because David laughed. "Nothing like that, nothing you'd see in a TV movie or something. He just didn't like me, and he wasn't afraid to show it. Although he did hit me once and I got a big bruise, right here." He touched the corner of one eye, and I remembered David showing up at school with a shiner, telling people he'd gotten into a fight at a party.

"I deserved it," he continued. "We were both drunk and I totally provoked him. Nice, huh? Real sweet suburban family. I guess he got an involuntary rehab with this whole thing."

We were quiet for a moment and then I asked him, "So you think you'll stay?"

It wasn't about Mr. Kaufman. It was about me. I was ready to admit that I wanted David near me. It was one thing I now knew I wanted for myself; maybe I should tell him that.

He turned and smiled at me, and took the hand that had just been petting his hair. "I don't know, Laurel. It felt really good to go." Then his smile disappeared, and he looked very serious. "I think you should try it."

I didn't get it at first, but then I did. "You mean Yale."

"Yale, or anywhere else that's not here. Which equals your life. Versus not Yale or anywhere else that's not here, which equals sitting here in this car at this place, in, you know, a metaphorical sense, indefinitely."

I did get that one. I could see that.

I watched a pickup truck speed by us. Then a few seconds later, a minivan. It was amazing how fast it seemed they were going, with us standing so still.

"Can you make this car move again, like, quickly?" I asked.

David's smile came back. "I sure can."

He put the car in gear and pulled slowly back onto the road, where up ahead of us the light had just turned green. It seemed strange yet perfect to me that within a second-less than a second-we were farther down the route to Freezy's than our families had gotten that night back in April.

We were continuing on.

Epilogue.

It wasn't quite noon yet, but the bench had already grown warm in the late August sun. I looked over at Meg, who was leaning back with her eyes closed, soaking in the rays as they splashed down on us.

"Pretty soon this will be gone," she said. I knew she was talking about the heat, but I also took it to mean her and me, sitting together on the main street of our hometown, surrounded by things we'd known forever.

Although the bench officially fit three people, we had scooted to either end so that neither of us was leaning on the plaque on the back of the bench. It read: IN LOVING MEMORY OF OUR FRIENDS AND NEIGHBORS.

MICHAEL MEISNER.

DEBORAH MEISNER.

TOBY MEISNER.

I had to hand it to Andie Stokes and Hannah Lindstrom; it was simple and tasteful and I was glad, so very glad, that they'd done it. We'd had an unveiling ceremony for the bench in April, just a few days after the anniversary of the accident. Almost a hundred people showed up, and I stood with Nana and Meg, listening as Andie gave a lovely speech thanking everyone for their donations.

She had asked me to say something, but all I could do was step up to the microphone and say, "Thank you," in a shaky voice.

I'd hugged Andie tight afterward, even though our friendship-if that's what it ever was-had faded. I didn't even mind that the newspaper was taking pictures of us.

Mr. Churchwell had been there and I'd hugged him, too; it was a quick, barely touching one. I still thought he was a huge dork, but now that I knew all he'd ever tried to do was his job, I didn't mind giving him something back.

Suzie had also come. She stood far away and looked sadly out of place, wearing black among all the spring colors. I hadn't had a session with her in more than a month, although we left it that I would call as soon as I needed to talk. But I hadn't needed to. At one point during Andie's speech, my eyes met Suzie's and we smiled at each other. I knew I had a lot to thank her for.

And Joe. Who stood with a couple of his friends near the front, where I could see him. After that day in the driveway, we'd gone back to a quick, painful nod-and-hi greeting whenever we pa.s.sed each other at school. There was something about the way Joe's shoulders hunched when this happened, the way his bangs swept over his eyes as he looked away first, that still pierced me.

At the ceremony, I'd glimpsed Eve showing up late and moving her way into the middle of the crowd, blending in perfectly.

So to me, the bench was not just about my mom and dad and Toby, but also about that day, when I was able to measure how far I'd come by looking at the people who had helped me get there.

And it was in front of the Village Deli, as I'd suggested. Which was convenient, because Meg and I had come today to buy sandwiches for my trip.

I was leaving at one o'clock sharp for the drive to Ithaca. Freshman orientation at Cornell started the next day. Cornell, where I could take pre-veterinary courses and art courses, and see what further down the road looked like. Cornell, which was a place I could picture myself when I visited the campus with Nana, which was close enough to come home if I needed to but far enough to make me think twice about it. Cornell, which in the end was my choice, and not my father's.

"So, how soon can I come visit?" Meg asked now, her eyes still closed to the sun. "I hear Cornell guys are much hotter than Wesleyan guys." She and Gavin had come to what we thought was a very wise "Let's stay close but officially break up because we want to fool around with college people" decision.

"Any time, you know that. You don't even have to call first. Just show up at my dorm with a sleeping bag."

Meg smiled and then opened her eyes to look at me. She had to shield her face in a strange salute to do it. "I'll take you up on that. I don't want us to become one of those friendships that fizzles out after high school."

I lowered my sungla.s.ses to look at her. "I don't think that could possibly be possible even in the strangest depths of possibility. You know that, right?"

"Yes," said Meg, smiling. "I do know that."

We reached toward each other at the same exact moment-how often does that happen?-and hugged. I smelled her shampoo and the chocolate that still lingered on her breath. Or maybe it was mine. We'd just shared a Hershey bar as our good-bye feast.

Meg's parents' divorce was happening, and everyone seemed okay with it now. Mrs. Dill was dating someone; Meg pretended it grossed her out, but I knew she was proud of her mother for getting out there. She'd started speaking to her dad again too-at my urging. They went out for dinner every week, and Meg would call me afterward and say something like, "I understand a little more about what happened there."

We didn't compare the way we each had to mourn our families' pasts. It wasn't about one being better or worse than the other. We would always be different, but somehow we'd silently agreed to just be there for each other.

"We should get going," Meg said now, while we were still hugging. "Nana will be pacing around the house."

I nodded but didn't let her go right away-just one more second-and then we headed back to her car with our sandwiches.

To say the Volvo was packed would not be doing the situation justice. It was so jammed with stuff, with each box and bag and item fitted carefully together like a jigsaw puzzle, that I wasn't convinced we'd be able to get anything out. It surprised me how many things I needed to start college with, and how many things from home I just had to have with me at school.

I'd gotten good at sorting through all the stuff. On New Year's Day, Nana had proposed that every weekend, we fill two boxes with items that belonged to my parents or Toby. Some boxes would go in the attic-things we wanted to keep or couldn't make a decision about yet-and some would get donated to a charity that needed them. With each piece of clothing, each book, each souvenir pen or rain boot or tube of mascara, we tried to call up a memory to wrap it in. Every time I sealed up a box with clear plastic tape, I felt more free.

Then it was my turn. Packing my life into boxes and labeling them, I realized that even though as a family we'd take yearly vacations, most of my stuff had never gone anywhere before. I was almost excited for the twenty pairs of shoes I was taking on their first real adventure.

Meg pulled her car into my driveway, behind the Volvo, and looked at the wall of c.r.a.p visible through the rear window.

"Wow," she just said. "You beat me."

We watched Nana open the front door and wave to us, then point to her watch.

"Looks like your flight attendant is ready for takeoff," said Meg.

"Tray tables up and seat backs in the upright position," I said, opening the car door. I waved my Village Deli bag at Nana. "All set!"

All set. Like it was that simple. But then again, why couldn't it be?

I leaned back into the car. "Are you getting out?" I asked Meg.

She shook her head. "I can't stand long good-byes, you know that. We already had our paws all over each other. Consider yourself sent off."

"Fair enough," I said.

"So, adios," said Meg, biting her lip.

"Hasta la vista." I started to close the door, then stopped. "And oh, by the way. I love you."

Meg sniffled now, unable to hide her tears anymore. "I love you, too. Now get out of town."

She backed down the driveway and I watched her, not waving. When she was gone, Nana came out of the house and put her arm around me. "Everything's in the car?" she asked.

"It is now," I said, opening the front door of the Volvo and putting the sandwich bag inside.

"Then how about one last bathroom trip and we're on the road?"

I looked at her, with her gigantic, round sungla.s.ses and her "driving clothes," a velour tracksuit and white sneakers. It was one of many outfits she'd bought for Hilton Head. She'd be leaving for the fall and winter in just a few weeks.

"Yeah, good idea," I said. I didn't have to go, but I was glad for a few minutes in the house before we left.

I walked through the living room, did a lap around the kitchen, a dip into the den. Was I supposed to be feeling something specific here? I'd lived in this house my whole life. I was coming back, of course. Then I realized, it wasn't the house I needed to say good-bye to. It was just this time, this state of being.

I went upstairs and did a quick search of my room to make sure I hadn't forgotten anything. Nana had made my bed, and I thought, It could be months before I lift back these covers again.

A quick peek into Toby's old room. It was empty of cats now; I'd found good homes for all of them and sometimes got emails from their people, with pictures.

I opened the door to my parents' room and looked at the bed, and had a flashback to a morning many years earlier, when we were leaving to go camping, and Toby and I were so fired up we had to wake our parents. "Let's. .h.i.t the road before it hits us first!" we yelled, jumping on the bed, throwing one of my dad's favorite expressions at him.

I went back downstairs and looked out the window.

There was David.

He sat on the patio, Masher's head in his lap, talking on his cell phone. I opened the sliding gla.s.s door and he turned around to look at me.

"Hey," I whispered, "we have to leave in a few minutes."

He nodded and said, "Okay, thank you," into the phone, then flipped it shut. "Sorry about that, it was Dr. Ireland."

"Is your dad all right?"