I made my way down the nearest aisle. This big open space didn’t have the weight and solemnity of the original sanctuary, the one where Eli and I had been baptized. Decorated in dark colors and plush fabrics—all chosen with an eye toward how they would appear on the television broadcast—the auditorium lacked the brightness and life, for lack of better words, that existed in traditional church buildings.
Even still, the silence in here was familiar, a sense of waiting. Not a presence, exactly, but an immediacy and awareness that didn’t exist elsewhere. Like a place and a moment in time when you were supposed to pay attention, to be here and not caught up in stats or pitching strategies for next week’s game.
But unlike during my last visit to church, the urge to flee did not strike this time. Maybe I’d changed. Or maybe just having a purpose helped. “The man’s family and neighbors are too frightened of the Pharisees and possible repercussions to testify otherwise. So what exactly is Jesus telling us here?”
My dad stopped, then mumbled, “Leave a pause.” He bent his head down to scrawl a note on the pages in front of him.
“We have a saying, ‘Seeing is believing,’ ” he continued. “But the truth is, we will always encounter doubters, those who are put on our path to test us. Seeing is not the same thing as understanding. The blind man understood and believed, even before Jesus restored his sight. But our doubters, our detractors, will always find reasons to see but not understand.”
When I reached the gap between the first row of seats and the stage, my dad caught sight of the motion.
He lifted his hand to block the spotlight. “Jace?” He left the lectern, heading to the edge of the stage, concern creasing his forehead. “What are you doing here? Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine.” I stuffed my hands in my pockets. “I just need to talk to you about something.”
“Oh.” He frowned at me. “Your face looks worse than your mother said.”
So they had at least spoken. That was good. I guess.
“If this is about the fight you were in”—he looked at me pointedly, letting me know that my bullshit about a fall wasn’t flying with him—“you’ll have to wait. I need to finish here and then I have to go back to the hospital. Mr. Thompson’s daughter is flying in. After that, I have to call the Underhills back.”
Crap. I forgot. Caleb’s parents came here sometimes. They were members, even if they weren’t regulars.
“I was defending someone else,” I said. “Doesn’t that matter?”
My dad held up a hand, dismissing my words as he turned back to the lectern. “Your job is to set a good example. How many times have we told you that?”
“Yeah, but, Dad, how far does that go?” I asked. “Am I supposed to let Caleb say and do whatever he wants, no matter who gets hurt?”
He sighed. “You’re twisting my words, Jacob, and I don’t have time—”
“Or is being a good example only more important when it comes to defending Thera Catoulus? If it was someone else, would it have been okay then?”
He faced me. “I told you to stay away from her,” he said, pointing a finger at me.
“I know,” I said. “Because you don’t want me to mess up the deal.”
“Jacob, I’ve already explained to you why this is important—”
“More important than doing the right thing?” I asked. “Dad, please. I’m trying to understand this, I really am, but—”
“It’s a complicated situation, and you only think you know everything,” he said, looking past me like I didn’t exist. Then he stalked back to the lectern and gathered up his pages.
Anger flickered to life in me. I moved to the edge of the stage, laying my hands flat on the floor of it. “Did you know? About Mr. Hauer? What they’re doing?”
His hands, busy rearranging pages, stilled, and my heart sank. “Riverwoods made the Catouluses a fair offer and they turned it down. What the city chooses to do of its own accord—”
“Bullshit,” I said.
He lurched forward at me, and it took effort for me not to jump back. “You have no idea!” he shouted. “No idea what’s at stake!”
“But you’re trying to fix something by breaking something else, and that’s not right. We’re supposed to look out for the people who need help. Isn’t that the point of being here, being part of the church? Feed the hungry, house the homeless?” I asked, waving a hand at the Riverwoods symbol hanging behind him.
“Jacob,” he said, his jaw muscles tense and jumping beneath his skin. “Now is not the time to—”
“You can still stop this. You can talk to the city council, and keep them from taking—”
“You’re always in your own little world,” he said, shaking his head. “Nothing matters to Jace except Jace.”
That stung. I swallowed hard. “Maybe that was true once, but I don’t want to be—”
“You keep trying to bend everyone to your demands instead of the other way around, and it’s going to—”
I laughed, I couldn’t help it. “Are you serious? When was the last time anyone ever bent for me?”
“When you called your brother in the middle of the night and made him pick you up!” he thundered.
The air vanished from my lungs, and I couldn’t breathe for a second. He was right.
He swallowed audibly. “I’m sorry, Jacob. I didn’t mean that. I know it was an accident, and I would never—”
“Eli,” I said dully. “I know you wish he was the one who lived, and if I could do that for you—”
“No!” He sounded horrified. He paced a few steps and then knelt down at the edge of the stage. “Of course not. That’s not it at all.”
I didn’t believe him. How could I? I would have traded everything to have Eli back. Why would my dad be any different?
I should have known better than to come and try to talk him into helping. My dad wouldn’t listen to me. I was the fuck-up, the bad one, and I always would be.
I turned slowly, painfully, feeling every ache and break in my body, and started to walk away.
“I noticed the tires on the Jeep were looking worn,” he called after me.
I stopped.
“Earlier that week. But I was running, trying to get to a meeting on time. Everything was so crazy, and I thought it would slow down as soon as the expansion details were settled.”
I turned to face him.
His shoulders slumped forward, and he looked defeated and weary. “I meant to mention it to you both when I got home, but I was busy and I . . . forgot.” He scrubbed his hands over his face. “I got my son killed because I forgot.” His mouth trembled with emotion, and then tears overflowed.
I rushed back to the stage, my eyes burning.
He reached down and pulled me close, his arms so tight around me that it almost hurt. “I’m so sorry, Jacob. If I’d warned you, told you and Eli to take the Jeep in and get the tires changed, none of this would have happened. You both would have probably been fine. I have to live with that. Not just Eli’s death but the loss in your life, in Sarah’s and your mother’s. . . .” His voice broke. “That can’t all be for nothing.”
That’s when I understood, finally. The expansion plans were his version of a memorial for Eli. “You’re pushing for this because you want it to mean something for Eli? Dad, he wouldn’t want that.”
He released me to sit on the edge of the stage. “This was going to be his future,” my dad said, holding a hand out in a gesture that incorporated the auditorium and the as-yet-unbuilt coffeehouse, community center, and whatever else they had in mind. “He should be remembered.”
“Dad, he was going to try to stop the city,” I said.
My dad stared at me, as if I were speaking gibberish.
“He wasn’t trying to hurt anyone. He found out about what was happening and what Mr. Hauer was trying to do.” I hesitated. “It bothered him. He thought it was wrong.”
My father pushed himself up to his feet, wiping at
his face. “I’m sure that’s what that girl would like you to think, but it’s not true. He would have talked to me about it.”
I exhaled loudly in frustration. “That last night, when we were arguing about who got to take the car, you know what Eli said to me? ‘Not everything is about you.’ ”
My dad sighed. “Jacob, I’m sure he didn’t mean—”
“He didn’t. He wasn’t talking about me, not like that. I just didn’t realize it then. He was scared and angry at himself for not living up to expectations. If it was hard for me always being the screwup, he had it even worse, always trying to be the good one.”
“You’re not a screwup,” my dad began. “But you need to—”
“Just . . . Here, read this.” I pulled Eli’s notes from my back pocket.
After a moment of hesitation, my dad took the paper with the tips of his fingers, as if it might explode if handled too roughly.
“You read it and you tell me you think that all of this is okay. That it’s worth it to ‘bend the rules.’ ” I backed away from the stage.
“Jacob.”
“Read it,” I said, turning and heading up the aisle. “And tell me you still feel the same way. If you do, that’s fine. Thera’s family is going to get a copy too.”
Maybe doing the right thing would win out, or maybe my dad’s need to save face would force him to take action. Either way, I wasn’t giving up without a fight. Not anymore.
EPILOGUE
* * *
THE GRASS ON ELI’S grave, barely poking through the dark mound of soil, was that pale, early spring green.
I stood well back from the fragile growth with Thera, on the existing lawn of the cemetery.
The late April afternoon sun was bright. It made the lilies that someone, probably Leah, had left glow a brilliant white, and it glinted off the shiny flecks in the granite of Eli’s grave marker.
ELIJAH DAVID PALMER
SON, BROTHER, FRIEND
“Thanks for coming with me,” I said to Thera. “I know you’ve got a lot going on with moving.” A Riverwoods member, after hearing her story, had offered his rental property to Thera and her mom.
Thera threaded her fingers through mine. “It’ll wait,” she said. She gave my hand an encouraging squeeze and then let go.
I took a deep breath, then stepped forward to the edge of the new grass.
“So, um, hey, Eli.” I stuffed my hands deeper into my pockets, feeling both foolish and the absurd need to get the words right. “I’m sorry it took me so long to come here. I wasn’t ready.”
Before, I’d needed to avoid any sign of Eli’s death to keep from drowning in the questions, fears, and loss. I still had those things, but now I understood better that everyone else did too. And Eli’s grave was a marker of someone who’d gone, but it was not all that was left of him.
“Dad isn’t mad at you, if you’re wondering. He was surprised, but I think he understood. And when he saw what Mr. Hauer had said to you . . .” My voice took on a sharpened edge. “Mr. Hauer isn’t on the church council anymore. He resigned. I don’t know if that was his idea or Dad’s. But I’m glad. And Dad got the church council to give Thera and her mom a better offer.”
I studied the line of dirt dividing Eli’s plot from the ground where I was standing, like that doorway in the dream I’d had about him. “I wish you’d told me. I wish you could have talked to me about it. I wish I’d been the type of brother you could have come to with that kind of stuff.” I swallowed hard over the lump in my throat, blinking back tears. “I know it’s too late now, but I’m trying.”
Thera moved to stand beside me and took my hand again.
I swiped at my eyes with the back of my free hand. “I gave Leah your Bible and the pictures I found in your room. She’s still having a hard time, I think.”
She’d burst into tears when I gave her the Bible and pictures, and then she’d hugged me.
“Leah helped us, Thera and me, with your yearbook page. She had lots of pictures I’d never seen. You wearing her Easter hat was my personal favorite.” I shook my head with a laugh. “E, what were you thinking?”
I shifted my weight from foot to foot. The cast was finally off, but my leg ached when I stood for too long.
“The quotes were Thera’s idea,” I said, pulling her closer to me and wrapping my arm around her waist. She’d suggested that we get people to submit stories or facts about Eli—funny, sad, or touching. So his page was a half dozen carefully selected photos and then lots of quotes.
He liked the toothpaste cap on. (I helped Sarah with that one.)
Eli made sure I had enough to eat on our debate team trip.
He was a ruthless Scrabble player.
Eli cared when no one else did.
He hated it when you messed with his organizational system. I once flipped all the folders in his locker the wrong way to see how long it would take him to notice. The answer is: milliseconds.
Eli was the other half of me, in more ways than I realized. And I miss him.
Everyone loved the page. My mom had a copy made and framed. And pulling all of it together for a tribute sort of helped me, too, made me feel like I was doing something to honor Eli instead of just missing him.
As I stood there, I tried to think about anything and everything I would want Eli to know—how much better Sarah was doing with therapy, how my parents were talking about going too, how it looked like my former teammates might be headed to state without me and I didn’t really mind because that felt like a lifetime ago—but it was all too much and not enough at the same time.
“Are we still going to meet up with Zach this afternoon?” Thera asked eventually, after I’d been quiet for a while.
“Yeah.” I knew what she was trying gently to say: we would be late if we didn’t leave soon. I was trying to find common ground with Zach and a couple of my other team friends, now that we no longer had baseball in common. Part of that was getting them to accept that Thera and I were together for real. It was a work in progress, but Thera was willing to try and the guys were slowly coming around to it.
Tonight, we were meeting Zach and Audrey and Derek and Lacey for pizza.
“It’s hard to say good-bye,” I said to Thera, dashing a hand under my eyes. “You know?”
“It’s not good-bye. It’s never really good-bye.” She squeezed my hand tightly.
I stood there for a long moment in silence, feeling there was something else to say. Or maybe there was too much, and that was the problem.
“We’re doing okay. We’d be better with you here, but I know that’s not . . .” My voice broke, and I looked up at the sky, a perfect cloudless blue, until I get could my emotions in check to finish saying what I needed to say.
“I miss you,” I said finally to Eli. “Every day for the rest of my life, however long that is. And I’m looking forward to seeing you again.” I still didn’t know what I believed for sure, but the words were both a closing and an expression of my deepest hope.
And that seemed exactly right.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
* * *
I grew up in a house where Sunday school lessons and Star Trek episodes were equally common discussion points. I owe an enormous debt to my dad, Pastor Stephen Barnes, for patiently listening to all my questions about churches, theology, and faith, both then and now. Thank you for always encouraging us to think as well as believe. (Also, I took lots of liberties with this story, as one does with fiction, so any blame belongs with me.)
Becky Douthitt, one of my college BFFs and a fellow PK, held my hand through this process all but literally. She read multiple ugly drafts, spent hours on the phone with me, and listened while I bounced (sometimes crazy) ideas off of her. To be a PK is to be a member of a unique club—whether we’re angels or hell spawn—and I wanted to make sure I was doing it justice. Beck, thank you for your support on this and everything since we were eighteen. Love you!
Linnea Sinclair is the very best critique pa
rtner who has EVER existed. She read every one of these chapters multiple times and sometimes on ridiculous timelines while I frantically revised and rewrote. She also came to visit when I was beyond stressed about how to fix this book. She and her husband took me to the beach and bought me French pastries. See? BEST EVER.
Christian Trimmer, my brilliant and very patient editor. We’ve worked together for years(!) on multiple books about ghosts and aliens. I never dreamed that writing about something I’d actually experienced (growing up in the church) would be so much harder. Thank you for giving me the chance to tell this story and for guiding me through the forest I couldn’t see because of all the trees.
Suzie Townsend, my tireless and wise agent, thank you. Words cannot express how much I appreciate your calm confidence and expertise. I’m so incredibly grateful to have you as my advocate.
Amy Bland and Kimberly Damitz read early drafts, gave me feedback, and—this was huge—kept my spirits up during revisions. Thank you! I treasure our dinners together.
It takes a whole host of people to keep an author balanced and (mostly) sane. These are the people who feed me, remind me to laugh, make me leave the house occasionally, and still deem me a friend (or a family member in good standing) even after I’ve vanished down the rabbit hole for months: my patient husband, Greg Klemstein; my sister, Susan Barnes; my mom, Judy Barnes; Age, Dana, and Quinn Tabion; Ed, Deb, Lauren, and Eric Brown; and Michael, Jess, Grace, and Josh Barnes. My knitting club, particularly our fearless leader, Teagan A. My Starbucks community, especially Connie and Bud, and the baristas, Kiley, Sean, Jake, Caroline, Sharon, and both Sarahs. Thank you so much. I’m so grateful.
For This Life Only is the seventh young adult novel by STACEY KADE, and her most personal. As the daughter of a pastor, she spent innumerable hours reading hymnal dedications, chasing her siblings through the fellowship hall, and playing dots on the back of a bulletin. Stacey’s other YA books include the Ghost and the Goth trilogy and the Project Paper Doll series. She lives in a suburb of Chicago with her husband and two retired racing greyhounds. Find her on Twitter (@staceykade), Instagram (@authorstaceykade), and her website, staceykade.com.