“He’s lying. His name is Gardian. Even my parents call him that. You can’t believe everything people tell you.”
“He seemed like a nice man,” Mira says. “I’m surprised he would lie.”
“He is a nice man,” I tell her. “But nice people lie too. You should know that by now. Come on. Let’s hurry before we all get thrown out. It’s a habit around here.”
I start up the stairs, noting the grain of the marble that’s been etched in my memory for so long, remembering the pictures I thought I saw in the patterns when I was a child. A horse. A witch. An airplane. I don’t see those pictures anymore, only a blurry swirl of gray and white. The others trail behind, but nevertheless I can hear the gasps from Mira and the whispered comments from Aidan. A few from Seth too.
“This place is huge.”
“Did you see the living room?”
“More like a ballroom.”
“It was a ballroom.”
“All of Hedgebrook could fit in this place.”
“Why would they move?”
“It looks like they moved a long time ago.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Or their housekeeper is lousy.”
“Did you see that cobweb on the chandelier?”
“Shhh. Her parents might be here and hear you.”
“I don’t think anyone’s home. Except that Farrell fellow.”
Mira catches up with me. “Where are we going, Des?”
“I told you. My bedroom.”
We walk down a hallway. Past Mother and Father’s room. Past the nursery. Past the playroom, and we arrive at my door. That is, if it is still my door. If the contents haven’t been thrown out the way the occupant was.
I fear I might crumble or do something else just as embarrassing as I turn the knob and push open the door, but instead just the opposite happens. I am infused with the energy and life the room once held, lifted like a child onto someone’s shoulders. The room is just as it was. Just as I remember it, but better. Not a piece of furniture has been moved. It is a shrine to a child who was supposed to make the world whole.
I cross to the bed, an elaborate canopied affair with wispy sheers as sweet and pink as cotton candy, tied back with pink bows at the posts. I slide my hand over the vermicelli quilted spread, pink roses bordering the edges, not as soft as it once was, stiffer with age, but still beautiful. I sit on the bed and bounce. I laugh. The dust swirls in my eyes again, making them burn and water, and I use the heel of my hand to wipe the tears away.
“This room is very . . . pink,” Seth comments.
“What’s with all the ruffles and bows?” Aidan adds.
“It’s . . . sweet,” Mira says, but the way she says sweet is distasteful, like saccharine sweet. Not-quite-right sweet. Aftertaste sweet. This from a girl with flashy peep-toed platforms and a poodle skirt.
There is nothing wrong with this room. Nothing. But the moment has passed. Now I see it through their eyes. I run across the room to the shelf that once held my Madame Alexander dolls. Gone. I glide my palm over the dusty shelf. Maybe in a moment of guilt, someone thought to pack them away. Or maybe they were discarded when I was. My fingers curl, gathering the shelf dust into my fist. “Seth, do you really believe there’s no such thing as a fair day?”
Seth steps closer to me. “Destiny—”
“Just one day—”
“It’s not—”
“Forget it! It doesn’t matter!” I grab two books from the shelf below and throw them across the room. I grab two more and still more, flinging them everywhere. My bed, the walls, the furniture, glass lamps on tabletops sent sprawling and crashing to the floor.
“Destiny! Stop!” Seth springs on me from behind and holds me so both of my arms are pinned beneath his.
“Let go!” I yell, but he holds tight.
Aidan is pale, looking nervously at the door and the shattered glass. “I think this might be what Mr. Farrell meant by no scenes.”
“Gardian!” I scream. “His name is Gardian!”
“Pipe it, Aidan!” Mira says.
A scene. Yes, that’s what I’m making. And that has never gotten me what I wanted. It only made things worse, then and now. I relax against Seth’s chest, feeling tired and limp, like he is all that is holding me up. He leans close, his breath warm against my neck and ear. “Is it safe to let go?” he whispers. I nod.
His arms loosen and slowly fall away, like he doesn’t quite trust me. Mira steps closer and takes one of my hands in hers. “Des, I’m so sorry. Everyone’s had their fair day but you. You wanted to come see your parents, get some things off your chest, and now you can’t. It’s wrong. It’s just plain wrong. If there were some way—”
“I know where they moved to. It’s not far from here.”
Mira brightens. “Then let’s go.”
“The sooner the better,” Aidan says. “Before Mr. Far”—he shoots a furtive glance my way—“I mean, before Mr. Gardian sees this mess.”
Seth nods toward the door. “Let’s go.” But as Aidan and Mira tiptoe out, he hangs back, holding my arm.
“Des, about what I said. Back there. You know, about checking in to planet Earth, and the nuts stuff. I don’t think you’re nuts. Really. I was just scared. And maybe a little angry. But, yes, I think there are days that are something like fair. Where things add up the way they should. Where the good guys win. One whole day could be that way. Why not? Maybe it’s just us making it that way. You know, trying harder or something. Or maybe it’s something else that we don’t understand, like the Hugh Williams thing. Weird stuff that we can’t explain. Maybe everything doesn’t have to be explained. But from the minute I got in the car with you this morning, I knew the day was different. That it was going to be one of those once-in-a-lifetime days.” He pulls me closer. “And I’m not trying to be smooth and say the things you want to hear. I’m being honest with you. Today is one of those kind of days. Your parents need to hear what you have to say. Maybe it could change things—”
“I can’t do this, Seth. I can’t. I can’t do it. You don’t understand. I was wrong about everything. We need to go back. Just like you said. We need to go back. We need—”
“Des, we’ve come this far. Don’t back down now.” He grabs both of my arms and holds me steady. “We’ll be with you.”
33
WE’VE COME THIS FAR.
So far. But the place we’ve traveled to is not a safe place. It’s not just a place on a map but a place buried deep in my past. An angry place, and a shameful one. A place that no one could lead me to before this day. Why do I push everyone away? Seth asks that like he is the first one. How can anyone expect a child to know that answer? It’s like asking why you eat or breathe. You do it because you always have. You do it to survive. How could a seven-year-old know? But it didn’t keep them from asking.
This far.
A road trip got me here. A road trip that wasn’t meant to happen. But somehow it did. Because I made it happen, as Seth says? Or because of a visiting teacher in a garden? Or a calendar page dropped into a waste can? But the road trip isn’t over. I still have farther to travel. You can do it, Des. Can I? Will my parents finally hear me? Could they possibly listen? Is it that kind of day? A once-in-a-lifetime sort of day? Can I make time rewind and play itself out differently? Four of us. Me. Seth. Mira. Aidan. Four. The unholy number. Or the whole number. Which is it?
Seth quietly gathers up Lucky, and we head out. Down the drive. Down the road. Past thick stands of birch, their leaves shivering in the breeze. Past the gate and stone lions. Two? Three? Four? Which is it? We are moving too fast to count. I stop trying. Silence and the air of a late October day gallop past us. The car stops and idles at Ravenwood. I point to the right before Seth can ask.
Ravenwood curves and quickly opens up to a patchwork of hills, vistas, and emptiness.
“Pretty hills,” Mira says, breaking the silence. The hills are brown.
“I don’t see any hou
ses,” Aidan observes.
No houses. Only empty brown hills that all belong to me. We reach the end of Ravenwood, and I point to the left. Seth turns without comment.
Only a short distance down the road, we come to the beginning of a low stone wall and then an ornate gate, green with weather and age. These landmarks I remember.
“Here,” I say.
The road climbs up a hill. The highest hill in Langdon. The engine revs.
You can do this, Destiny.
But I never could before. Why now? I ruffle the petals of the flowers in my lap, and brush the peacock feather against my cheek. So soft. Baby soft. Like a whisper. Give Mama a nice good-bye. Give your brother a kiss. The road narrows and zigzags back and forth, edged by plateaus that are dotted with stony memorials, clustered together like families.
“Where the—”
“Quiet, Aidan. Please,” I whisper. I hear music. Music I have shut out all these years but that still clings to the hills and always will. Mother’s favorite song. The lullaby she loves and struggled to learn on the piano, but now it is played by bagpipes. Long wispy notes. Lingering. Rolling over the hills like fog, hiding between the stones, circling around and around all these years waiting for me.
Seth clears his throat. “Is this—”
“All the way to the top,” I say.
We arrive at the crest. A hundred yards off, another landmark, a crooked oak.
“Here,” I tell him. “Park here. We have to walk the rest of the way.”
Seth stops the car and turns off the engine. No one moves.
“Come on, boys,” Mira finally says. “You heard her. Let’s walk.”
I step out and head toward the crooked oak, one of its branches split away by a long-ago lightning storm. A low iron fence comes into view, its curly grillwork an odd contrast to the barren landscape. The gate swings back and forth in the wind, the squeaking hinges swirling with the music already in my head. The others follow close behind.
I stop at the gate. Seth stops on one side of me, Mira and Aidan on the other. Within the small fenced area, the grass still holds a hint of green, like the warmth of the occupants keeps winter at bay. I look at the chiseled stones, the granite as new and cold now as it was ten years ago. Ten years ago today. Father’s stone first, then Mother’s, and finally Gavin’s. Baby Gavin’s. Forever their baby.
“This is where my family is now.”
No one speaks. I am not sure they even breathe. Just like those on the other side of the gate.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”
Still no answer.
“I couldn’t,” I add.
Seth takes a step forward, squeezing past me, through the gate, stepping into the world of Mother, Father, and Gavin. Mira and Aidan follow him. I stand behind the gate, a boundary I have never crossed, looking through the spaces of their backs, arms, and elbows, looking at my past etched in stone and letters and dates. Permanent dates that don’t change. Real. It hasn’t changed. I couldn’t change anything. This day couldn’t change anything either.
“You weren’t abandoned,” Seth whispers. “You were left behind.”
Exactly. And all the denying, counting, and retracing of steps can’t undo it. It can only add up to what it is—as Seth said, left behind. Pain twists in my chest like a knife. I whisper Seth’s words. “Left behind.” The knife twists deeper. It feels good. Necessary. Deserved.
“Oh, my God,” Mira whispers. “Today is the day they died. All of them.”
“October 19.” Aidan’s voice is uneven.
“On your birthday,” Seth says. I see the back of his head gently shaking.
Mira gasps. “And your mother’s too. She died on her birthday.”
“You were only seven?”
The wind plucks at the branches of the oak. The gate squeaks. The bagpipes play. Music that played so long ago and has waited for me in these hollows, hills, and stones. Music that, for a seven-year-old, was frightening and loud, and yet now as I listen, it is as soft and hesitant as a tear trickling down a cheek. I turn my head to the side, trying to catch every note. I wonder what trick of time and perspective has made the music change.
Seth reaches forward as if to touch Father’s stone, but then pulls back. He shakes his head more vigorously. “What are the chances?”
“A million to one, at least,” I answer. “But it’s bound to happen to someone. That’s the Law of Truly Large Numbers, right?”
Aidan turns to face me. “Destiny. . . .” I have never quite seen anyone’s face look the way his does right now, chiseled and frozen, like it might break if he moves one more centimeter. Mira and Seth turn to face me too, all of them on one side of a boundary and me on the other, just like that day.
“I watched them get on the plane. They were late because of me, you know? I refused to say good-bye. I made a terrible fuss—”
“Des, you were only seven—”
“They finally had to leave without a good-bye from me. That’s all Mother wanted. After they left, I ran to the window. I was going to wave. I really was. I was looking for Mother and Father in the passenger windows. But just as the plane started pulling out, an incoming plane lost an engine and veered into them. I saw it all. The flash. The explosion. Everything. All the chances stacked up in the worst possible way.”
Seth steps closer to me. “You could have told us, Destiny.”
I laugh. “How? This is the first time I’ve admitted it to myself. I always thought—” I close my eyes. Hope. It was desperate hope. Obsessive hope. Irrational hope. But hope. The only hope I had. A chance to be redeemed from the unthinkable and the unforgivable. And if chances could stack up one way, given enough time, maybe they could stack up the other way too.
But not this time. I open my eyes.
Mira sobs. Aidan holds her.
I feel calm. Disconnected. Like I am a thousand miles away, writing it all out on pink stationery, a distant numbness that keeps me safe and has always kept me safe. Tuck it away, Destiny. Put it in your bottom drawer. No one will ever know. But now they do. I look at Mira, her tears flowing, and my numb shell prickles away. I inhale a quick sharp breath, like it is my first. My fingers tremble.
Seth steps forward and takes my hand. “Maybe now’s the time?”
I look in his eyes, uncertain, thousands of miles disappearing, my feet feeling the anchor of this spot. “Time for what?”
“You never said good-bye, Des. Maybe you need to.” He tugs on my hand gently, pulling me forward toward the gate, and I finally understand his intention.
“No!”
He stops moving but doesn’t let go. Mira steps forward and takes my other hand, her cheeks still wet with tears. “Destiny. You can tell them. Now.” She whispers, like she is afraid she might disturb Mother and Father and the sleeping baby Gavin. “Tell them. Whatever you want. We’ll stay with you.”
I look past her at the stones. My eyes ache. I need to blink, but I can’t. My lids are frozen open. Tell them? Now? What?
My feet move forward against my will. Or maybe because of it. I don’t know. But I move, like I am floating. One step. Two. Three. At the entrance of the gate. Four. Through it. Five. Mira holding one hand. Seth the other. Six. Seven. The holy number. They let go.
And I face my family.
Mother. Father. And sweet baby Gavin.
Nothing between me and them.
No glass. No airport gates. No time.
Just me. And them.
I step closer on my own. My family. My hand shakes as I reach out, and I steady it on Father’s stone. Steady. Yes. Father was steady. He could lift me high above his head, and I was never afraid. My finger traces the groove of his name. William. Will. I feel his last kiss on my forehead. Warm. His smile trying to prod me from my sulking. I wanted to smile for him. I almost did. My hand skims the top of his marker, and it leads me to the next. Mother’s stone. Caroline. Sable black hair that smelled of roses, silky strands tickling my nose as she held me. A
lways holding me. I touch the date on her stone. October 19. She had only thirty-five years before the day that brought her took her away again.
And Gavin. The shortest time of all. A chubby angel is carved into the top of his stone. I drop to my knees. Gavin. Could he possibly remember me pushing his pram? Singing for him when he cried? I did those things. I reach out and touch the sculpted angel that hovers above him. A baby should never be alone. Was this Mr. Gardian’s touch? He always thought of everything. All these years I didn’t know or thank him. A chubby angel for Gavin. All the things I should have said to Mr. Gardian, to Gavin, to my parents, to everyone, but never did.
Tell them.
I hear Mira’s sniffles. I never cried for them. Like telling and admitting, crying would make it real. It would show acceptance, and some things should not be accepted, but the logic that has sustained me vanished when I stepped through this gate. Here I am. On my knees before three gravestones. My family’s graves. It cannot get any more factual than this. I fall forward on my hands and knees. Tell them. I ease myself down, my face to the earth, sprawling my arms wide, my legs, trying to touch them all. Trying to hold them all. Mira sits down next to me and Seth. Even Aidan. And a noise comes out of my throat. A husky noise, foreign and frightening. Hands tighten on mine. Another on my back. We’ll be with you. The noises string together, like a rattling chain, and my throat jumps again and again. Real. Mother. Father. Gavin. All the things I never said. All the things I wanted to. And finally one word.
“Good-bye.”
Again and again. To each of them. Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye. “I’m sorry I didn’t say good-bye.” Tears mix with soil and grass, my face pressed to the earth, hoping they hear, hoping they know, hoping they understand. Hoping that for one day, one fair, once-in-a-lifetime day, they know that I wanted to say good-bye.
I close my eyes. I float into their world, float through earth, gravel, coffin, and time. I inhabit their space, nestle in like I am there, where I should have been all along—soft, warm, safe—in their world, together, and their perspective becomes mine. I look up and see what they see, earth, stones, sky, branches, and Destiny. Their Destiny. Mother reaching up through soil and time to brush away my hair and coo in my ear. My sweet Destiny, my baby. I never wanted to leave you. Father reaching out and wiping my cheeks. You’re my big girl. You’ll be fine. Baby Gavin reaching, reaching and connecting with my little finger, gripping tight and smiling. Good-bye, they whisper. Good-bye. I see the Destiny they see. No longer seven, afraid, and alone. I am not alone. Today I have touched other hands and other lives. And my family is happy—happy because they know I understand. Happy because they know I will be all right. Happy because now they have been able to say good-bye too. I am theirs, always and forever theirs, and moving on doesn’t mean leaving them behind. My fingers interlace tight with theirs, not wanting to let go. But you must, Mother whispers.