Strange but True by John Searles

too late now.
    What’s done is done.
    Behind her, Philip clears his throat. Maybe, she thinks, maybe he stayed behind because he wants to believe me after all. She glances at his pale, angular face in the rearview mirror. It seems odd to her how little he resembles his brother. Unlike Melissa and her sister, somehow Philip and Ronnie had managed to inherit the exact opposite genes from their parents. Ronnie had his mother’s wide eyes, his father’s broad shoulders and olive skin, whereas Philip has his father’s squinty eyes, his mother’s slumped posture and pasty complexion. Still, there is a kindness about him that reminds Melissa of Ronnie, a familiar compassion in his weary eyes.
    â€œSorry about her,” Philip says in a gentle, reed-thin voice, which is yet another distinction from Ronnie, who sounds, or used to sound, like a DJ on drive-time radio.
    A memory surges up in her mind then of Ronnie pleading with her in that rushed voice on prom night. Come on, Missy. Don’t be pissed. I didn’t mean to mess up our plans . As quickly as the memory comes, Melissa forces it back down. She doesn’t want to think of all the time she wasted being angry at him in those final hours of his life, no thanks to Chaz. She removes her hands from beneath the steering wheel and rubs the spot on her shoulder where Charlene jabbed her. It feels as though she has been stung by a bee, or maybe an entire swarm. But she is used to pain—in fact, she has come to crave it. “I understand why your mother’s upset. I know how difficult it must be to accept what I’m saying.”
    â€œDifficult is hardly the word. Melissa, it’s—”
    â€œDo you still have Ronnie’s old Mercedes?” If he is going to tell her again that it’s not possible, she doesn’t want to hear it.
    â€œI guess. I haven’t been in the garage since I moved home. But I doubt my mother got rid of it. The woman treats his retainer like it’s a museum relic. She keeps everything of Ronnie’s. I mean, everything.”
    So do I, Melissa thinks as she stares straight ahead at the Chases’ garage. On the other side of those three red doors, the 1979 cream-colored 300 DSL Ronnie bought with his father’s credit card from a used-car lot rests quietly like a game-show prize waiting to be revealed. Melissa pictures Mrs. Chase going out there each week and starting the engine to keep it from dying the way she must have to do. She imagines her sitting in the leather seat where Ronnie used to sit, sliding Ronnie’s silver key into the ignition, placing her foot on the pedal where Ronnie used to place his. It is just not fair, Melissa thinks. None of it is fair. “We were supposed to take that car to the prom instead of renting a limo,” she says out loud without really meaning to. She has a habit of this, though normally no one is around to hear except Mr. and Mrs. Erwin, whom she spends so much time with that she thinks of them less as landlords and more like surrogate parents. Melissa doesn’t know how she would get by without them.
    â€œWhat did you say?” Philip asks.
    â€œI said, we were supposed to take that car to the prom instead of renting a limo.”
    â€œSo why didn’t you?”
    â€œIt was Chaz’s big idea.”
    â€œChaz,” Philip says, and Melissa thinks she detects a tone of disgust in his voice, which he quickly confirms. “I never understood why Ronnie hung out with that guy. I couldn’t stand him.”
    â€œYeah, well, me neither.”
    She stifles a yawn. This conversation, this night, these last nine months, have left her exhausted. She feels as though she could put her head against the steering wheel and sleep for years without waking. It is only a matter of time, she figures, until Philip brings the conversation back to the baby, so she braces herself for another round of accusations and questions. But he keeps