Mr. Carlin stood at his daughter's door a moment before knocking, savoring the silence at her doorway. He knew he should be more worried, and should bring up Spencer's sudden disinterest in music, in talking on the phone, and anything else that might make noise. But it was late; he was tired; and having cleaned the dishes to the chaos of Glen playing Guitar Hero, the silence was nothing short of a gift. Unconsciously pressing closer to the closed door, his shifting weight caused the floor to creak, and so he knocked.
"Come in," he heard Spencer say, and so he opened the door. A half formed prayer of relief sounded in his head, a wordless thanks at seeing his daughter in a position other than curled up on her side or wedged in a corner with her nose buried in a photo album. She sat at the foot of her bed, chin resting on her knees, surrounded by stacks of paper, folders, and the rest of the contents of her bookshelf and desk drawers.
"I don't know whether to tell you you're too late for spring cleaning or too early, but I'm pretty sure your timing is off," he said, sitting down on the bed.
"Very funny, dad," she said, and he took pride in the smile that almost made it to her eyes.
"You're the funny one. I think it's hysterical that you're in here cleaning when I've never seen your room messy a day in your life."
"That's only because cleaning is better than doing homework. Besides, I'm not cleaning, I'm organizing. I couldn't even close my drawers they were so full. Look at all the junk I'm throwing away," Spencer said, pointing to a half filled trash bag propped up behind her door.
"So all these stacks of paper are…"
Spencer shrugged, her chin still resting on her knees. "Old essays, report cards, notes from friends. Stuff I'm not sure I should keep anymore."
Looking more closely at the papers, Mr. Carlin saw an entire stack of papers, more crumpled than the rest, covered in a bold handwriting that stood out from his daughter's. The top page, signed by Ashley, was covered by doodles in the margin so large that at points they covered the words of the note.
"Well, why do you think you should keep them?" he asked, watching her shoulders slump.
"If I haven't thrown it away yet, it means it meant something when I got it. And if it meant something then, shouldn't it mean something now?" she asked.
"Should it?" he asked.
"Can you please just answer the question instead of asking one?" Spencer asked, long used to her father's methods. Normally she'd play along, even slightly enjoy the process of discovering her thoughts on her own. But not tonight, she told herself, looking closely at her father's face to make sure she hadn't hurt his feeling. She just wasn't in the mood.
"Fine, have it your way," he said, smiling to make sure she knew it really was fine. "Saving old school work is fine- I know you kids get a kick out of seeing my old report cards- but you don't need to keep it in your desk. Maybe put it in your closet, if there's room, or I can take it. Notes from friends- well, that's up to you."
Spencer nodded, then grabbed an empty file folder and began filling it with old school work. She continued to work without speaking, placing her old work on the highest shelf of her closet and beginning to put her books back on their shelves.
"Why don't you play some music?" asked Mr. Carlin. "It'll drown out Glen's singing."
"I don't mind it," Spencer said, and meant to say more but then couldn't find the words so just smiled and kept cleaning. How do you tell your father, she wondered, that you can't listen to music anymore because every single song you own reminds you of Ashley? She imagined telling him, imagined opening her mouth and explaining how lonely she was. She imagined the words she'd use to talk about how much she missed Ashley, how missing Ashley was making missing Clay worse. She pictured the look on his face as she imagined telling him about what happened on prom night before the shooting, and how disappointed he'd be to know that she was still worried about all the drama even after everything. Thinking about her father's face made her think of Clay's face, twisted and grimaced like he was squinting into the light of the morgue, squinting like he was going to wake up and she quickly closed her eyes, forcing out the image.
"Spencer?" asked Mr. Carlin, wanting to allow her to come to him on her own but frustrated at not being able to do more.
"Yeah- sorry. Spaced out. I don't mind Glen playing- reminds me that he's still here, you know?" Spencer said, meeting her dad's eyes and hoping he just let it go.
He nodded, and she assumed that he believed her, even though he had never once failed to catch one of her lies, even though he could always tell. They were quiet together for a few more minutes, Spencer cleaning up all of the piles off the floor save the one with Ashley's note on top. Mr. Carlin watched how she avoided it, watched how she even avoided touching it with her feet as she walked around the room and wished she'd just talk. But she didn't and so they rested in the silence that didn't seem quite so restful anymore.
The sound of Mrs. Carlin's car pulling up the driveway interrupted the quiet and Mr. Carlin got up from the bed to go reheat his wife's dinner. "You should come down in a bit to say hi to your mom," he said, as he stood in the doorway.
Spencer smiled at him, nodded, and he left her to her room. When she heard the door click shut she returned to the foot of the bed and sat on the floor, wrapping her arms around her legs and staring at the pile of papers. Closing first one eye, then the other, she watched as the pile of Ashley's notes wavered back and forth, back and forth, dancing their way through her vision without ever going anywhere. Closing her eyes and resting her forehead on her knees, Spencer reached into her pocket, pulled out her cell phone, and dialed Ashely's cell.
As the phone finally stopped ringing and went to voicemail, Spencer hung up and threw her phone on the pile of letters. After biting her nails and staring at the whole mess for a few more minutes, she got up, put her phone back in her pocket, and shoved the pile of papers straight back into the drawer she'd pulled them out of before running out of the room to go see her family. Some other time, she told herself as she pounded down the stairs. She'd deal with it later.