“—if I hadn’t called 911 on him,” he continues doggedly, his eyes dark with anguish, “if I had just kept walking, Rowan, then your father would never have been there that day, and Jesus Christ, he’d probably still be alive.”
“Oh,” I say in a very small, faraway voice as his words sink in, and then the world pulls away.
Chapter 62
I don’t faint or go hysterical, nothing like that, but for a second my senses shut down and everything disappears, recedes, and there is nothing but white noise inside me, surrounding me, and I can’t even see—
“Rowan?”
“No,” I say, coming back fast and pushing it away, far away, because it’s too terrible a thought. “No, Eli.” I’m sweating; every single cell in my body is on fire because I cannot believe for one second that something as simple as a phone call could have been the beginning of the end for my father. A phone call that didn’t save anyone, anyway. “Don’t say it again.”
“I won’t,” he says, resting his elbows back on his knees and staring at the ground.
I don’t know what to do, what to say. The sun is almost down, the overpass shrouded in shadows, but I stare at it anyway, willing myself to see it, to look until my eyes burn. I’ve spent months hurting, pining, lost in an emotional maelstrom I couldn’t control, months hating myself for cutting school that day, Corey for jumping, the news for making a big deal out of it, the brass for persecuting my father, the haters for their vicious comments, Nadia for her whole happy family, Mrs. Thomas for her ignorance, the pain, the loss, my life, just hating, hating, hating . . .
All because one sad, desperate man chose this overpass while Eli was walking his dog and my father was bringing me home.
It just can’t be that simple and that random.
Can it, God? Can it?
“Do you want me to leave?” Eli says in a husky voice. “I’ll understand if you do.”
I turn my head, slowly, and meet his miserable gaze. Do I want him to leave? Do I want to send away the one guy who actually understands what I’m going through, the first one who’s ever gone out of his way to tell me the truth even though I might hate him for it? Do I want to throw away all that could possibly be for us in the future simply because the universe tilted and a strange and terrible assortment of random pieces clicked into place?
I cut school in my father’s patrol area and got caught.
Payton chose that weekend to leave Sammy with his father.
Corey picked that first beautiful, sunny day to end his misery and his son’s life.
Eli, new to town, walked his dog straight into the hornet’s nest and, trying to save lives, called the police.
My father responded, and the rest . . .
Is done, and cannot ever be changed.
“No,” I say, and look back at Eli. “Stay.”
Grief Journal
Did you hear that, Dad?
Eli blames himself for your dying.
I blame myself.
I bet that if I asked, Mom, Grandma, Grandpa, Vinnie and even the aunts would find reasons to blame themselves, too.
So are we all really guilty of failing you, or is this claiming responsibility just a part of punishing ourselves for surviving when you didn’t? Is it real? Did we all miss chances to help you, or did we do the best we could at the time, and it’s only stupid, cruel hindsight that insists on showing us the choices we didn’t think to make?
And what about you? What’s your responsibility in all of this?
Isn’t it funny that if you had lived, there’d be no guilt, wondering or punishment?
If you had lived what we did to try to get you through would have been right, and we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.
Well, this monologue.
I really wish it was a dialogue.
Chapter 63
“So.” Eli pulls a pack of cigarettes from his T-shirt pocket, wedges one in his mouth and lights it. “Do you hate me?” He offers me one, but I still have the two I took from my mother, so he lights one of those for me.
I blow a smoke ring and watch as it expands, thinning, fading, wavering, until it breaks and floats away. “No. I don’t hate you.”
“Good.” He doesn’t ask for more, only blows a series of mini rings that drift around us like widening bubbles, blurring and finally merging into one great cloud that drifts off into the night.
“And it wasn’t your fault,” I add, watching it go. “You did the right thing.” All those stars up there, shining so bright, and so many already dead. “I mean that.”
The warm breeze sweeps across my skin and rustles the leaves. Lightning bugs flash and somewhere nearby, a bird warbles a soft, sleepy-sounding whisper song.
Daisy heaves a giant sigh and flops over onto her side.
“I smoke too many of these things,” Eli says finally, glancing down at the smoldering cigarette and then at me. “Want to quit?”
“I have another one left,” I say, rubbing my thumb across a patch of rough paint on the bench seat. My father planned on painting it again this year, a deep, striking blue instead of the old barn-red that clashes with the copper beech leaves, but—
“Hold on.” He tweezes his pack from his T-shirt pocket, flips the top and glances inside. “I have three. How about when this pack’s done we are, too?”
I glance over to see if he’s joking. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah, why not? How long have you been smoking?”
I shrug and flick my ashes. “Not that long.”
“Did you start after your dad died?” he says.
“Is it obvious?” I say dryly.
“Yeah, that’s when I started, too,” he says, leaning back and stretching his legs out in front of him. “Smoking and a mess of other stuff. You know, trying to make it all disappear. I just couldn’t deal, so why not self-destruct?” He snorts. “He would have been so pissed if he knew. Disappointed in me, too. That one’s the worst.”
Yes, it is. “Do you think they do know?” I ask, watching him. “I mean, do you think they can still see us?”
He tips his head back, staring up into the dark tree branches. “I guess it depends on what you believe.”
“What do you believe?” I say, tucking my leg up beneath me and shifting to face him.
“What do I believe.” He flicks his hair back and searches my face. “Honestly?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Honestly.”
He takes a drag off his cigarette and exhales, long and slow. “I think my dad’s still looking out for me.”
“Do you?” I say wistfully. “I wish I did. I mean I wish I knew for sure he was.” I flick my ashes. “He didn’t leave a note, Eli. I mean he planned his own death and he still didn’t leave one. They gave my mother all his personal possessions from inside the Blazer afterward and we looked on his phone, all the laptops and in his desk, and nothing.” I gaze out at the overpass, throat tight. “I don’t get that at all. Didn’t he care? Wasn’t he sad about leaving us? How could he just go forever without saying good-bye?”
“I don’t know.” Eli slides an arm around me and when my tears finally slow he says, “He had to be hurting bad by then, being in a constant, twenty-four/seven battle with himself or with the depression, however you want to think of it. He fought the good fight though, didn’t he?”
“But he lost,” I say brokenly.
“But before he lost, he protected and served, and fought for his life with honor and valor for as long as he could, don’t you think?” The question is solemn, powerful and different than anything anyone’s ever asked me.
Protect. Serve. Honor. Valor.
My father.
“Yes,” I say, and the sweeping pain is fierce, welcome. “He was like that my whole life, and oh my God, Eli, he tried so hard to stay.” The hot tears well and flow again, rising from somewhere deep and untapped. “He was hanging on for dear life and I didn’t even know it.”
“Maybe he didn’t want you to.” His voi
ce is gentle, careful, as if he knows from experience what a delicate minefield talking about dead fathers can be. “Maybe he was trying to protect you from getting hurt.”
“Well it didn’t work, did it?” I say, wiping the tears from my cheeks. “This is nothing but hurt.” And then I shake my head and sit up, suddenly impatient with myself. “Sorry. Sometimes it’s like, two steps forward, three steps back. There are just so many pieces left that I don’t understand and who knows, maybe that’s the point. Maybe I never will. Maybe I’m just supposed to accept it and move on.”
“Maybe,” he says after a long, silent moment. “You know what my father used to say when I was having a really hard time with something?” His mouth curves into a small, reminiscent smile. “He said it exactly the same way every time, too. Used to kill me. You don’t have to have all the answers right now. Don’t worry, they’ll come. All you have to do is just keep breathing and everything will work itself out. Just keep breathing.” His smile widens. “So there you go. I’m passing it on to you.”
“Well, thank you.” I can’t help smiling back. “So that’s the answer to making it through, huh? Just keep breathing?”
“Yeah,” he says. “And it’s working, isn’t it?”
Amazingly, it is.
Chapter 64
“Hey, Daisy never showed you her trick,” Eli says suddenly, as if he just remembered, as if it’s important that she does it right now, before he leaves, before she goes in for her transplant and possibly never comes out again. “Want to see it?”
“Sure.”
“Hey, Daze.” He leans over and taps the dog. “Semper Fi.”
Tongue lolling, Daisy sticks her paw into his hand.
“Yay,” I say, clapping, and for a second we’re so normal I want to cry.
“Good girl,” he says, releasing her.
Daisy thumps her tail.
“So what does that mean again?” I say, leaning over and scratching the top of her head.
“Semper Fidelis.” His expression turns serious. “Always faithful. It’s the Marine Corps motto.”
“It’s beautiful,” I say softly.
“They mean it,” he says, glancing at his watch and grimacing. “Ten o’clock. I’m gonna have to get going soon. I still have to finish packing, make sure all my paperwork is in order and get Daisy’s stuff set up for the vet tech.”
“What time is your flight?” I say, rising along with him.
“Eight thirty,” he says. “I have to be at the airport by what, six in the morning?”
“That’s early.” I gaze up at him, wanting to wish him luck, to tell him I’m so glad to see him again even if it is thanks to Payton and that I’ll be thinking of him, Rosie and Daisy, to call or text me if he wants to talk, if things go wrong or right, something, anything to forge some kind of solid connection again before he goes. “Eli . . . I really, really hope everything goes okay.”
“This is the easy part,” he says, sighing and gazing down at Daisy.
“Well, if the vet tech can’t come and you need somebody to walk her, just let me know, okay? I’m serious.”
“I will.” He says he still has my contact info but I don’t have his, so I pull out my phone, and punch it in. “Good deal,” he says when I finish. “Thanks, Row.” His dark gaze searches my face, softens into a sweet look I recognize and a smile that goes straight to my heart. “Don’t let me forget to thank Payton for this.” He reaches out and smoothes a strand of hair back from my eyes, his fingers lingering a moment on my cheek. “You’re sure you don’t hate me?”
It takes me a second to figure out what he means and when I do I feel a brief pang, a lightning-quick wish that he didn’t remind me. He must see it on my face because his smile turns questioning, and, mad at myself for not being able to just let it go already, I say, “No, I could never hate you. God, just the opposite. It’s just . . .”
“You have a boyfriend?” he asks abruptly, his hand falling back to his side.
“No,” I say, and stifle the crazy desire to laugh. “But . . . you’ve had over a year since your father died to figure things out, Eli. I’ve only had three months and I’m still dealing with it.”
He doesn’t say anything, just watches me.
“I mean sometimes I just start crying,” I say earnestly, spreading my hands. “I can’t help it. And my thoughts are all over the place and I already told you how bad I feel about the whole no-suicide-note thing. And look what I did to you before at Payton’s. You said you were going to Houston and I ran away because in my mind it translated to being left behind again, do you see? I know it doesn’t make sense but there it is. I couldn’t deal with it so I just shut down and walked away. That’s not normal, Eli. Not for me. I’m a very stable person, or at least I was.” I gaze up at him, imploring. “The person I am right now? It’s not the whole, real me. I’m way better than this.”
“It’s okay,” he says, crouching and untying Daisy’s leash. “You don’t have to explain. I understand.”
“Yeah, but . . .” I stop, frustrated, and rub my forehead, because no, I don’t think he does. “I’m afraid I’m going to mess this up again, Eli, and I really don’t want to.”
“Row,” he says, straightening and taking a step toward me.
“I mean we had the best night ever back in May and then bam, the next morning he’s dead and what was that, some kind of punishment for being too happy?” I spread my hands even wider, frantic and near tears. “Do you see what I’m saying? Do you hear what’s coming out of my mouth, Eli? These are the thoughts I have now and they’re not normal. I’m not normal.”
“Yeah, okay,” he says, nodding. “Warning taken. But you do realize that tomorrow I’m flying to Houston to meet with my dog’s sister’s owner to try to convince him to let her donate a kidney in a dangerous operation that may tank and kill both of them, and either way, pass or fail, this whole thing’s costing me upwards of fifteen grand but I don’t care because I think it’s worth it.” He meets my boggled gaze with a shrug and crooked grin. “Come on, does that sound normal to you?”
“No,” I say after a long moment, lips twitching.
“Right. But that’s me since my dad died. I’m not who I was before and you’re probably not gonna be either. How can we? Everything’s changed. We know too much now.”
“Okay,” I say uncertainly, not sure if I’m disturbed or relieved.
“All I’m saying is there are no guarantees. All we can do is try. You’re doing exactly what you’re supposed to. You’re where you need to be.” He parts the copper beech’s leafy branches and motions me out ahead of him. “I’m okay with it if you are. You want to talk, I’ll listen, and if you need a shoulder to cry on, I’ve got two good ones. I’m serious. And who knows, I might be the one taking those three steps backward sometime.” He ducks and follows Daisy out into the moonlight. “So think about what you want and when I get back we’ll work it out. How’s that?”
“Well, what do you want?” I say, and when he looks at me, yes, there it is again, that soft, fragile little flutter of hope against my heart that grows stronger when he opens his arms like all the pain and trouble and worry surrounding us have fallen away, and pulling me to him, he murmurs, “You.”
Chapter 65
I sleep late the next morning and when I wake up, something is off.
I lie there for a moment, puzzled.
The light in the room is rich, golden and slanted differently, but that’s not it.
It’s me.
I feel . . . not as bad.
I wait, cautious, but no.
The crush of sorrow that usually greets me the moment I hit consciousness, when I remember my father’s gone and realize it wasn’t only a bad dream, is still there, but . . .
I don’t know.
I stretch, feeling suddenly luxurious, and then remember something else. Roll over onto my side, fumble my phone off the nightstand and yes, there’s a text from Eli.
Good morning sunsh
ine. Made it to Houston. Miss me yet? :)
Smiling, I snuggle down and pull the quilt up under my chin, dislodging Peach, Plum and their brother Willow, all curled round my feet. They rise, arch, stretch and, when I don’t get up, lie back down and tuck themselves in along the curve of my legs.
It felt good, being with Eli last night. Really good.
I shift onto my side, earning dirty looks from the cats, and curl up, watching scattered dust motes floating in a shaft of rich, golden sunlight.
I will never understand how life can rip your heart out with one hand and then give you a small, warm piece of it back with the other?
How can something so good come from something so terrible?
I don’t know, and thinking about it tarnishes my bright mood, so I snake an arm out from under the covers and look at my watch.
It’s noon.
“Oh my God,” I blurt, throwing back the covers and sending the cats scrambling.
I never sleep this late. Why didn’t my mother wake me up?
“Mom?” I call, padding into the bathroom, peeing and brushing my teeth.
No answer.
Where the heck is she?
“Mom?” I call, thumping down the stairs, the cats romping along beside me. “It’s after twelve. Why didn’t you wake me up?” I stick my head into the living room but the afghan is lying in a rumpled heap and the couch is empty.
Pause in the hallway. “Mom?”
Nothing.
“What the hell?” I say, and, nervous now, walk into the deserted kitchen. “Where are you?” Yesterday’s bags full of nonperishable items still wait on the table and the counters. “Mom?” Too loud in the stillness.
And a sharp, fearful voice inside my head, an immediate echo of past shock and dread, whispers a silent, Oh no, oh God please, not again, please . . .
Because now, in my world, when parents disappear without warning, they don’t come back.
I put a trembling hand on the coffeepot.
Cold.
It’s too quiet.