22B: Fragments

"Graham?" I splutter, drowning in relief but swimming in anxiety. "Where's Byron? I need to talk to him. I saw Freya and she said I sh—"

"Kasia, calm the fuck down right now. I need to tell you something and you have to promise me that you're with someone right this second, okay? Kasia," I register the heaviness to his voice, the waver as he speaks, and I am preparing myself for the worst. I think Sienna has come back to the table and is telling Charlie something. Archie is on his police radio: never off the clock, it seems.

"G-Graham? Where's Byron?"

He releases a heavy breath, "Kasia, Byron's dead."

10

"You should move in with us." Mom says to Graham, hands clutching his arm tight, "You're family." Which he is, blood aside. He came to us as Byron's new friend, allergic to peanuts, having watched episodes of SpongeBob that I hadn't got around to yet—and he remains as another son, another brother, another member of a crumbling family.

Graham doesn't think he can impose—as though his eleven years of friendship with Byron mean nothing to us, to him, and he is still a guest who is exempt from washing the dishes or doing housework, quickly erasing his past, his part in our lives. His smile is wan, as he hangs on to my Mom's shoulders, a hug from the son she didn't birth, and the two of them are hanging onto that thin strand of rope, connecting them to this life, reminding them that this is real—as it curls around their throats, around their beings, the new pain in their chest they'll have to get used to. "I'll think about it," he answers finally, a postponed version of saying yes, that he will arrive in his car, bags filled with clothes in the back, baseball memorabilia, memories of Byron that are bursting to be heard and laughed, cried, felt.

Mom pulls away, glassy brown eyes blinking up at him, the connection made from the boy he entered as to the man trying to leave us, like his counterpart has already done. "Just remember to come home soon."

13

Graham comes over with the photograph taken at the end of Byron's first baseball game. He clutches it in his hands, staring at me unsurely, the moment lasting shortly, before I pull him inside and hug him tightly. He shudders out a breath, moving his arms around me to still look at the photograph. I've seen it so many times growing up, the image is burned into my retinas. Byron and Graham are right in the middle, second row, arms wrapped around each other's shoulders, grinning as they try and drag each other down to the ground. Mom had been dismayed that they couldn't have taken at least one picture that wouldn't make her cringe each time she saw it hung on the wall, but both of them together are incapable of doing such things.

"Kas," Graham starts, left hand moving to fist the material of my t-shirt. I begin counting down until Graham finally allows himself to break down. "I miss him."

"It's fine," I interrupt, arms wrapping around his neck, "its fine."

14

When the report appears on TV, a picture of Byron aged 20, all bright eyed and bushy tailed, at Graham's birthday party—where he got absolutely smashed and didn't come back until six the following morning, still drunk—the reality of the situation settles deep within my bones. When the door knocks at exactly 9:17PM, Graham is on the other side, three boxes of pizza on his arm, an uncertain smile on his face. Mom's relief is palpable, and Dad is so grateful that now there is a real reason for him not to stand in the kitchen and cut down on size as one less person will be eating.

"I bought you all your favourites," Graham tells us, passing out the boxes. Mom listened to Dad's pleas and gave us a night off from watching E! though I don't think that Worlds Strongest Man is much better evening television. "Hawaiian for Tracey, meat feast for Jonah, half and half pepperoni and Hawaiian for Kasia, I have pepperoni." The last order is unspoken, words that aren't heard but we can fill in the gaps for Byron, his own special custom order of barbeque sauce, jalapenos, pineapple and pepperoni.

Mom lets this continue for the first week, pizza boxes piling up for the recycling. Dad enjoys the break from healthy meals, and I'm just glad that Graham hasn't taken to holing himself up in that house of his. However, on the second week, Mom switches back to healthy salads, low fat and low carbs to make up for all the time she's missed. Dad joins her in this decision, this time with no complaints of all the taste they're missing out on with the omission of red meat from their diet. I expect her to ask me to give up the pizza, too, but she doesn't, and she allows for Graham and me to eat in my room. Two pizzas where there used to be three, silence where Byron used to speak.

I begin missing the taste of normal food. The sound of Byron's laugh as he listens to me nag at him for peeling off the pepperoni and starting a pile on the lid of the box before he begins eating his pizza. Of Graham telling the both of us to stop with the yapping and start eating before the food gets cold, though he will join in on our debate of the correct way to eat pizza, with me adamantly arguing that the whole conversation is moot as there is only one way to eat pizza properly. My objections will be drowned out as Graham and Byron laugh at me, under the pretence that my horizons haven't travelled far enough to know, a load of pompous crap to make them sound smarter.

That doesn't happen. Graham and I begin talking of funeral plans, of things Byron would have wanted to happen after. The reality is that the only after Byron had ever considered was after Freya, after a baseball match, after a prank, after a moment of living; not after death.

15

The trashcan is overflowing with used tissues. It doesn't stop Mom from discarding another one, wrapped up in her dressing gown, sitting around the kitchen table. Dad has made all four of us a cup of coffee for the early morning, though Mom has discarded it for her favoured iced-tea, which remains, almost full in front of her. She wrings her hands, bitten down nails, flushed skin, blinking back tears at the severity of the situation.

Dad's hand is on hers, wrapped up tight. Graham keeps clenching his left fist, his right hand a welcome weight on my shoulder. "It states here in his will," the solicitor says, all dressed in black, hair brushed back in a sharp chignon, pinched face, harsh lines, a walking advertisement of death itself, barely looking in my parents direction before reading off the cream coloured paper in front of her. Byron's death certificate sits in the middle of the table, I can barely bring myself to look at it. "That all $2,300 in savings is to be put aside for Kasia Dakota Andrews for when she attends college. The half of the house that was in his ownership is to be given to the other owner, Graham Salvat. His car is to be given to Kasia, also."

Once she's left, Mom breathes a sigh of relief. I'm prepared to tell her that she can have the money, all of it, but she must sense what I'm about to do, as she interrupts me, throat hoarse, voice small, "It's your money, Kasia. Byron . . . your future is what's important, Kas."

15

Funeral planning begins soon after, the word carrying with it a heavy weight and foul taste. Mom refuses to call it for what it is, and we follow her example by not saying the f-word. The first line of duty is to address the elephant in the room, as Dad draws a thick black line that we're forbidden to cross, "We're not prohibiting anyone from attending," he says, "Byron would have wanted the place filled with people who knew him. The biggest ego boost possible. We're celebrating his life, and everyone should be able to do that together."

"Kasia," Dad begins, "is there anything you want added?"

"We should have a rock song playing—as he's carried in. His best friends should do it—Graham, Ricky, Hilton, you, Uncle Matthew."

"What about the sixth person?"

"No one else is touching him. We'll manage with five."

16

Mom is fearful to put the news on, scared that the way they talk of Byron may be an inaccurate representation. When Dad asks her what she's so afraid of, she says, "I know exactly what my son was like. I don't want him painted as some sort of saint who could do no wrong. I don't want him lumped with every other person his age as—irresponsible or stupid. My son," she pauses, talking passionately to Dad in hushed whispers, "My son is not a statistic."

The first and only time the news plays in our house, it's an accidental occurrence as Dad got the remote stuck when channel surfing. As he jabs his thumb down on the faulty button, Mom stares, gapes as we are told of city-wide parties and vigils of people paying their respects for Byron. BYRON ANDREWS—MISSED is the headline, and my tears are real, my smile watery, my laugh is in disbelief as I look at Mom and we realise that Byron isn't just our hero.

16

Dad begins cooking again on a Sunday. The kitchen isn't a place to be avoided anymore. And when Graham appears, too, still firm in his decision that he doesn't feel like now is the right time to move in, though he's spent every day since we found out in this house, grieving with us—with a fresh bottle of Sunny D, he realises the slip up. Dad is quick to put his apologies out, assuring him that it's habit, it's going to take some getting used to, and we're not angry at him for still expecting his best friend, his brother to come trudging downstairs, scratching at his stomach and ordering us all to be quiet because it's a Sunday and everyone should just shut their goddamn mouths.

Graham sits down at the table, barely believing a word coming out of my Dad's mouth. The Sunny D is put into the fridge, like always, years' worth of routines too ingrained to be erased in the span of two weeks. Dad stays whistling in the kitchen, and I realise we're all pretending the empty seat around the table doesn't exist.

17

The first time I leave the house, it's to get Byron's—now mine—car. It's still parked up in the drive at the house Graham is now living in all by himself. The bachelor pad for two must feel hollow with only him there now to continue their legacy. The condition is dire, but I fall in love with it immediately. The dark blue Toyota, with black tyre rims, an embarrassing dent on the back bumper, and an apple scented air freshener hanging from the rear view mirror is now mine to take home and remember Byron by.

"I was with him when he bought it," Graham tells me, hand on the lid, watching as I settle myself into the driver's seat. I have to move the seat forward and adjust how far it leans back, before I place my hands on the steering wheel. The only thing I can think is that Byron drove this car, the music blasting, him singing along crudely, an odd fascination with the scent of apples. I'm eager for Graham to fill in the blanks for the day where I only remember this pulling into the drive at home, Byron getting out, grinning, because he'd just bought his first car, before Graham.

"We'd just watched Transformers—and he wanted a yellow Camaro. He forgot that yellow is—was his least favourite colour." I roll my eyes at this, all too familiar with Byron's obsession to take aspects of films and try to apply them to his normal life, the most notable thing when he set about taking a day off to become Ferris Bueller—he didn't take too kindly to the reminder that Ferris doesn't even exist but is a figment of Cameron's imagination. "He decided on this one because it has all of its original parts. C'mon then, Kas, start it up."

The keys have been kept in the glovebox, along with scratched CD's, papers covered in Graham's chicken-scratch excuse of handwriting, and receipts from fast food joints. The one and only keyring is for the logo of Sunny D, and my laugh borders on watery, blinking back tears I was barely aware I could still produce. Graham's smile is encouraging from where he has moved to stand, arms crossed on the open window, waiting patiently for me to pull myself together. We're both as equally pleased when the car starts up with no complaint, Graham more than I, as he'd been worried that Byron had let it run dry as he had a bad habit of doing.

I like this, I let Graham know, the simple fact that we're able to think about Byron and laugh unlike the two weeks I have spent crying back at home. Graham thinks it must have something to do with the sun being out, a real life sense of pathetic fallacy, and I demand to know where he learnt such terms, Math major that he is. I like this, I think, hands gripping the steering wheel driving back home. I like remembering and not crying.

17

"You have to leave sometime, Kas," is the only thing Graham says to me. He keeps repeating this statement: from forcing me to dress appropriately to leave the house, through the entirety of the car journey whenever I asked where we'd be going, and now, as he guides me into a window seat at Dev's Diner. Graham's patience has dwindled out watching me waste away in my own personal hovel of grief, knowing it's not doing me any better to hide behind doors and neglect the life I should be living.

I flinch as Gabi approaches the table, a look I hate on her face—pity so clear to see I turn to look out of the window. Graham squeezes my hand in assurance, ordering for the both of us and adding with a low murmur that we'd appreciate a bit of privacy for the meantime. This is why I wanted to stay hidden, Graham knows this, because I wanted to be shielded from all of the looks and the whispers, things I don't need because all I want to think about it Byron during happier times, not marred or weighed down with the indecency of his death.

"This is good for you," Graham assures me, "don't lock yourself away, Kas." I gulp back my tears and a scathing retort, choosing to focus on the menu we've already ordered from.

18

Mom encourages me to answer the door as it knocks, and I freeze because this—this person on the other side will be a stranger, will be someone who will spout off apologies for the death of Byron, as though their well-wishing will bring him back from the dead, will give me my brother back. My hands shake as I push down on the door handle to open it, and I have to reassure myself with a deep breath that I'm okay, that I can do this, that I can get it together, get it together, get it together.

That line of thought leaves me as I'm attacked with a bouquet of flowers from strangers I've never seen in my entire life. The leading man, a broad-shouldered man wearing a t-shirt decorated with the logo of Byron's college clears his throat, looking severely uncertain—questioning whether even coming here had been a wise decision. "Hi," he begins, blinking back at me because this must be the first time he's ever been in a situation like this, making a trip to the family of someone he knew to wish his sympathies. "We're from," he gestures to the girl beside him, "um—we're friends of Byron's. From college. We—ah—we just wanted to wish our condolences. To you. And your family. Byron—he was a great guy."

I take the flowers with my lips rolled into my mouth, understanding that I am a mess who has no self-control, so close to tears at the slightest provocation. "The funerals next week," I say, feeling as though I've been pushed behind a smokescreen and I'm working on auto-pilot, the only way I know how to react. "You can . . . it's a—it's open. For everyone who knew him."

"You're his sister, right?" The girl asks, and I'm blinking back at eyes as red-rimmed as my own. With a slow nod of my head, her face changes into that look, of pity so clear I flinch at the sharpness of it. "He . . . Byron—he spoke really highly of you."

18

When Caggie calls, I'm confronted with the brunt force of a friendship I was once fighting so hard to keep afloat but had severely neglected. She's kept her distance, understanding that right now I want to be surrounded by my family, and Caggie is my best friend, but she isn't family—not in the way that Graham is, and having her here really wouldn't do much good. She's still kept me updated with school drama—which is still functioning, Byron having graduated years ago—and I'm thankful for the tether connecting me to mundane teenage life I should be leading, a distraction from all of this currently going on.

Caggie doesn't allow for the conversation to be awkward, just like old times, and my smile is wry—scared to be too big in fear that the moment will be over sooner than I'd like. She gossips, fills me in on everything I've missed, passes on messages from more people than I remember ever speaking to—and I lie on my bed, thankful that Caggie understands what I need right now. "Proms in two days," she reminds me, of an event I'd already gone to with Byron, the reminder that mine will be shit proving to be true, "they're doing a tribute. For Devin and Byron. Are—you . . . are you going?"

"I've already got great memories of another prom," I let her know, so grateful that Byron had been insistent enough in his pleading for me to be his date for prom. "I don't want to—I don't want to ruin it by going to another one. You—um, you enjoy yourself. Have a dance with Skylar for me."

18

Byron's funeral is—

It's beautiful.

It's heartfelt.

It's also very Byron.

The rock song plays as he's carried in—Graham, Hilton, Ricky, Uncle Matthew and Dad looks very dapper in their suits, blood orange ties that everyone in a suit is sporting, too—and the picture at the altar is of him, me and Graham at my very first skateboarding tournament. Mom had been hesitant for a picture from so very long ago, but I'd been insistent that we have that picture, for a reminder that Byron isn't alone, has never been alone and we aren't alone now that he's gone.

In keeping with the theme, all of Byron's male friends stay standing at the sides for the entire service—earlier, having to stand by the doors and greet all the guests, I'd been floored by not only the amount of people who turned up, but the fact that it was well over half of his graduating class, the entirety of his baseball team, a few friends he'd made at college, and almost everyone else in the town—and I'm reminded of his and Graham's attempt of patrolling my sixteenth birthday party by becoming bouncers for the night.

Graham and I go halves on the eulogy, and we get a balance of laughter and tears before it becomes overwhelming and I have to go and sit back down. I feel